To strew the holly's leaves o'er Harden's bier;
But none was found above the minstrel's tomb,
Emblem of peace, to bid the daisy bloom:
He, nameless as the race from which he sprung,
Sav'd other names, and left his own unsung.

on

Continuing, we pass Roberton, nestling amongst fir trees, with its Parish Church by the roadside. Then passing Greenbank, we hold up a steep hill, and get out on to the moor and the heather. For a while nothing but a wide expanse of heathery sheep land is to be seen, then, as we top the crest of a hill we see beneath us Alemoor Loch covering a considerable area in the valley. A shepherd's house on the far side is the only habitation in view, and, though everything is cheerful looking to-day in the bright sunshine, one can easily imagine that in certain lights it must be eerie enough; not to speak of the blood-thirsty water kelpie that was believed to have its haunts here; and when the storm sweeps down the valley, and the sad wail floats o'er the lake, the scene must be such as to try the hearts of men. At the top of the loch we cross the Ale burn-here in its infancy-and the road winds up the valley. Rounding a corner we see Bellendean standing up on the left. This was the usual rendezvous of the Scotts. Borderers will remember that Bellenden! Bellenden!" was their gathering cry. A short distance further on we cross the boundary and enter Selkirkshire. Here I met an old shepherd with whom I had a crack. He spoke in the highest terms of his landlord, the Duke of Buccleuch. "Yin o' the very best," he said. This testimony is general in the Borders. He had a large store of stories. A Laird, he said, was one day speaking to one of his tenants, and complaining that a certain piece of ground would grow nothing."Man," said the tenant, "plant Factors on it. They'll grow." He pointed out to me a shorter way through the hills, which, he said, would cut out all round by the Buccleuchs; but I told him I particularly wished to see Buccleuch. "Oh," he said, "then ye maun juist gang on," apparently with some sort of pity in his heart that a man should be so foolish.

A motor car came tooting along the road, which made the old man jump quickly on to the heather. It would surprise me, he said, to know how many motors came past there to be such an ootbye place. "What wad oor grandfaithers hae said if they had seen a thing like that rinnin' alang the road? Hech! they wad hae gaen awae to bed." He admitted they were a great invention, though he "aye likit to gie them plenty room. The only thing is, they juist gang ower fast." "Bit," he added, we leeve in a fast age."

"

On the roadside here is the lonely Schoolhouse of Redfordgreen, and then there is a long stretch until we reach Clearburn shepherd's house standing at the water-shed. The streams now flow to the Ettrick, and the road descends rapidly. In a few minutes we see down in the hollow on our left the farms of Easter and Wester Buccleuch, with the Rankleburn flowing between them. Near the former is the site of the Castle of Buccleuch. According to the tradition recorded by Stachells, it was in this glen that the buck was slain by the Galloway huntsman, to the great admiration of King Kenneth III., who at once designated him "John Scott of Buccleuch." From him, says

Stachells, sprang the great Ducal family. Other historians tell a different tale, but at least it is from this lonely valley that the family takes its title.

At this point I left the road and took the rough track up the side of the Rankleburn, determined to see what was to be seen at the site of Buccleuch Kirk. I kept on up the burn side until I came to Phenzhopehaugh shepherd's house, from which I was directed further on. The site is now occupied by an irregularly shaped sheep-bield, overgrown with nettles, standing at the junction of the Kirk burn with the Rankleburn, and under the shelter of the Kirk Hill. Nothing indicates what it has been, and no house is visible. Yet, we are told, this was once a populous glen, and here, where we are standing, stood the Kirk or Chapel, with surrounding Gods acre, where are buried the early progenitors of the House of Buccleuch. Sir Walter Scott made an expedition to the place, accompanied by the Ettrick Shepherd and Willie Laidlaw, to see if they could discover the blue marble font which it was reported lay amongst the ruins, and from which the heirs of Buccleuch were said to have been baptised. After some time they unearthed something covered over with soil and rust. Sir Walter seized it and declared it was an old helmet; but Laidlaw, scraping it out, said it was nothing but the half of an old buisting pot. Sir Water, suppressing a smile, strode away declaring that they had just ridden all the way to see that there was nothing to be seen. The remark still applies. I made my way down again to the road, the diversion having cost me nearly two hours.

From Buccleuch, the road, following the Rankleburn down the valley for about two miles, is easy walking and very beautiful. Son we reach Cacrabank House and policies, and enter the valley of the Ettrick-which also "boasts the name of Scott." Over in front of us as we cross the val ley, we see half way up the opposite hillside the ruins of Tushielaw Tower. The most famous, or infamous, owner of that Tower was one Adam Scott. He called himself "King of the Borders," but others named him "King of the Thieves." King James V., in his punitive expedition against such disturbers of the peace, surprised him one morning in the Tower, and took him prisoner. He was conveyed to Edinburgh where he was tried, condemned, and executed-his head being spiked on the Tolbooth prison gate.

We now cross Ettrick Water, and keeping up past Tushielaw Inn, take the road to the left that leads over to Yarrow. For some three miles the road winds uphill-a heavy pull for us, but rejoicing to the hearts of the cyclists coming in the opposite direction, of whom we met twelve or fifteen sweeping past on free-wheels. Then we dip down to the Altrieve road. Then uphill again for about a mile, and then a steep descent carries us into the Yarrow Valley. Before us lies St Mary's Loch, with "Tibbie Shiel's" Inn at its head, and the Ettrick Shepherd seated on his pedestal watching over the scene. It is now 5.30, walking is beginning to drag and hunger beginning to assert itself. We are relieved, therefore, when, on enquiring, we are told they can put us up for the night -though they have just the one bed free. In due sequence we have had a refreshing wash-up, got our feet into slippers, and done ample justice to the excellent meal set before us. Anon we rest

in the comfortable sitting-room watching the gently lipping waters of the lake in the gathering twilight; or lounging in the easy-chair beside the peat fire we ruminate on what we have seen. "Oh, loved and lone St Mary's! Thou indeed Art rich in solemn, sad, sweet memories." III.

Monday morning was again bright. By 9.15 I was on the road, and at first, with the wind in my back and a level surface, had easy walking. The road leads along the side of the Lowes Loch, glittering in the morning light. In front, towards the left, is Peat Hill, with Riskenhope at its foot. In a glen up there young James Renwick preached one of his last sermons before his martrydom in the Grassmarket, Edinburgh, at the age of 26.

and untrue. To which Hogg replied, with some temper, that it was a devilish deal truer than 'Old Mortality.""

In about three-quarters of an hour we come to a steep gradient at the top of which is the march fence dividing Selkirkshire from Dumfriesshire. On one side of the fence the waters thread their course to the German Ocean, and on the other to the Solway. Just inside the boundary, but hidden till we come close to it is Birkhill shepherd's houseonce an Inn. "Jenny o' Birkhill" was a famous hostess here. She was a woman of pluck, as she had need to be in such a lonely place. The story is told, and may well be repeated, that one day a tramp, seeing there was no one about but a woman, became threatening in his demands for money, and put his foot inside the door to pre

The whole district around here is reminiscent of the Covenanters, and their struggle for freedom of conscience. At the top of the Loch is Chapelhope, with the moss-covered foundations of the ancient Rodono Chapel (or perhaps the Chapel of St Lawrence). A school now takes its place here. The chief scenes of Hogg's story "The Brownie of Bodesbeck," are laid at Chapelhope. After the story was published the Shepherd went down to Abbotsford to hear what Sir Walter had to say about it. Scott, however, was not quite complimentary. In particular, he said, that as a picture of the Royalist party it was distorted, prejudiced,

vent it being closed. "Come in," said Jenny, opening the door. As soon as he was inside she banged the door shut and, seizing an axe from the rafters, she asked, "Did onybody see ye come in? "No," said the man, beginning to rue what he had done. "Then," said Jenny, raising the axe, "Diel a ane will see ye gae oot." The man beseeched her to spare him, and when she opened the door he bolted as fast as his legs could carry him.

We are now at the top of Moffatdale, The Moffat water comes down on our right, and the road makes a steep descent to the Tail Burn. On reach

ing the bottom of the hill I decided to make a detour round by Loch Skeen. So, scrambling over the giant's grave, I set my face to the steep, hazardous path that climbs up the side of Bran Law. The Tail Burn, with its famous waterfall, the Grey Mare's Tail," rushing over a precipice three hundred feet high, was foaming down beneath me on my left. Looking at it from below it presented a beautiful, snowy appearance, but when half way up the hill I turned to take breath, the scene below me was anything but inviting. I quickly set off again, and keeping my eye on the gravely, slippery path, pegged on as quickly and carefully as I could. It was with a deep sigh of relief that I reached the top. Turning round and looking back I saw by what a dizzy, fearful way I had come. A false step would almost certainly be fatal. So, at least, it appeared to me, not being a mountaineer, but simply a pedestrian. When at all damp the ascent must be impossible.

Following now the course of the Tail Burn, which, like a true Border burn, "canna' rin without a turn," I zigzagged and stumbled on over peat hags, and stones, and heather for more than half a mile. Then I suddenly came upon the Loch. There behind the Mid Craig, and with the sheer, scarred, black side of Loch Craig Head on the opposite side was dark Loch Skeen. The name is the first that occurs to the mind-the only poss.ble name. Surrounded by hills and precipices, the whole surface around you rough, hillocky and black, the scene is savage to a degree-a desolation. The silence and solitude is awful. The dimensions of this mountain tarn are: -Length, 1,100 yards; breadth, 400 yards; depth, unknown. and it stands 1,000 feet above sea level. The water is dark, or at least appears so, and the shore is rugged and rocky.

Turning from the Loch I recommenced my scramble over the peat hags, and taking a long, slanting line round the side of White Coomb, I reached the road again a little above Polmoody. The diversion cost me two hours and very sore ankles. Passing Polmoody, standing in a beautiful part of the vale, we have on the right a succession of fine rugged hills, and on the left rises Bodesbeck Law, with the farm down in the valley. According to the Fairy Tale, one of the last of the Brownies had taken up his abode here, and he worked so hard that Bodesbeck became the most prosperous farm in the district. He took his food as pleased himself, ate always very frugally, and desired no recompense for his labour. The farmer, however, at a time when work was exceptionally heavy, taking pity on the Brownie, left a good meal of bread and milk outside for him. This attention gave dire offence to the Brownie, who left the place at once crying, "Ca', Brownie, ra', a' the luck o' Bodesbeck away to Leithen ha'." He never returned, and the luck of Bodesbeck departed with him. Such is the tale.

it

Passing Roundstonefoot School we approach wooded country, and soon reach Craigieburn. This of course, reminds us of Burns and Jean Lorimer ("Chloris "). Jean's father was a farmer and publican at Craigieburn, and Burns, when at Moffat, used to come out, it is said, to speak a good word for his fellow Exciseman, John Gillespie, whose fancy had been caught by Jean's witching smiles. This courting by proxy proved in

vain, for the "Lassie wi' the lint white locks" ran away, at the age of eighteen, with an English farmer who had recently come to the district, and they were married at Gretna Green. But to marry in haste, they say, leads to repentance at leisure. The farmer was insolvent at the time of the marriage, in a few weeks the crash came, and he cleared out leaving creditors and young wife in the lurch. The Lorimers afterwards removed to Kemnis Hill, where Burns continued his friendship with them.

Another couple of miles brings us down into Moffat, sequestered in the valley of the Annan. To-day, however, is a holiday in the burgh, so we do not see it at its best. However, after a neal for which we are ready, we stroll around and see its more noteworthy buildings. Then we rest in the sun in its beautiful ornamental park. Later we take train to Beattock, where we join the Edinburgh express, which carries us swiftly away from the fair land through which we have wandered. The present pleasure is past, but in the memory, as Wordsworth would say, there remains life and food for future years.

ADAM SCOTT.

THE LAND OF SONG AND STORY.

I LOVE the mountains and the vales
Where morning mists are creeping,
Where nodding castles tell their tales
Of clansmen soundly sleeping.
And ever on the rising swell

Borne o'er the heath and corrie,
It sings the land I love so well,
The land of song and story.

I hear the tramp of armed men,
I hear the martyrs moaning;
The clash of swords adown the glen,
The love-song in the loaning.
I see the reivers at their post,
With laurels proud and gory,
Defending still, a gallant host,
The land of song and story.
In every tuft of heather yet

I see the proud plumes gleaming;
From every peel with freedom lit,
I see the banners streaming.
Each deep-dug moat and emerald mound
Proclaim the doughty foray;

And shattered walls and towers resound
The land of song and story.

With jealous care we'll guard her nam
While freedom smiles upon her,
Revere her worth and spotless fame,
Her sterling power and honour.
Unfurl her banner to the sky,
To wave in all its glory,
Till every Scotsman turns his eye
To the land of song and story.
The hazel banks with mirth attuned
May lure the pensive lover;
The homely cots where peace is found
Here bards may tune their harps ag: t.
'Mid classic scenes so hoary,
May tempt the aimless rover.
With mirth and music cheer the swain.
In the land of song and story.
BLUE

"ALLAN'S FAIRY DEAN."

NDER the woody fold of the hill, the landscape broadens into an open green country. Hill streams course down the tiny dales with babble and song, as they skirt cot and farm town on their way to the brimming river. For a mile and more the vagabonds wander as they list, until their banks grow steeper, and the vale narrows to the confluence of the wan waters above the Tower of Langshaw.

Allan takes up the tale of glamourie as it hurries past the trinity of stone and lime that history has called the three towers of Langshaw, Colmslie, and Glendearg. Occupying commanding sites adjacent to each other and the stream, they embody a unique example of mutual protection, and something of the picturesque centuries in their story. But with the necessity has disappeared their "raison d'etre." Gone are the Cairncrosses, and the Borthwicks, and their names are but a parchment memory.

The legend "Ichabod" is written plainly in the decay which has settled on the roofless towers. Rank grass and nettles have claimed the courtyard and the buttery: the stillness is relieved only by the chirp of the birds as they build undisturbed in the chimneys.

It is

At Langshaw a scrap of Latin carved over the doorway of Mellerstain's shooting lodge serves the purposes of crest and epitaph. a modern wish--"Utinam hanc etiam veris impleam amicis." Nature has also left its symbol in the strangely twisted and gnarled elm, a cripple on stakes, which in the crown still shows green from season to season. delightful rose garden lies sweetly to the sun under the wall of the tower, forming a notable contrast of cultivation and neglect.

A

The blue smoke from the cottage chimney at the garden foot rises slowly on the still air. while a vision of past and present rustles in the labyrinths of fancy. In the stillness one hears voices. The Wizard of the North compels our attention, and we saunter to Glendearg.

Scott has thrown a glamour over the period in "The Monastery," which, with all its extravagancies, still tells the story of the upper vale in convincing tones. Whether the White Lady of Avenel rose from the well of Allan it matters little. The well is not to be found. Nor has the glen of Corrie-nanShian any real location.

"The Good Neighbours," or as the Celts love to call the fairies, "Daoine Shie," or men

The novelist, however, is true to his metier in resurrecting feudal glories. We expect nothing less than a vivid representation of "lairds and leddies," jackmen and cavaliers. And we realise the pageant in his fascinating pages.

Julian of Avenel and Christie o' the Clinthill are as real in thought and speech as any of their type. The rude hospitality of Dame Glendinning agrees well with the crude manners of the age. Halbert and Edward, her two sons, suggest comparison with the family life of the Corsican Brothers in their island home

Sir Piercie Shafton, the cavalierly ambassador, bores the Glendinnings with his highfalutin talk at table, but finds a foil in Father Eustace, who visits the Tower in his pastoral capacity, and has an adventure with spirits on his homeward journey.

Mary Avenel, of delicate beauty; Mysie Happer, plump and rosy; and Tibb Tacket, wide-mouthed and garrulous, present a trinity of diverse types which at once lends piquancy and local colour to the tale. A duel is seen to

be inevitable if by nothing else than Halbert's love of his late father's broadsword.

Sir

Piercie Shafton falls, Halbert flees to seek his fortune elsewhere, but Piercie is weirdly resurrected and consequently charged with the murder of the missing Halbert, of whose destination he knows nothing.

It is supremely fascinating if somewhat unreal, but let no one search for the fairy grave or the Tower of Avenel by the lonely lake— their locus is in the author's fancy.

Let us now follow the stream as it rattles down the gorge of Glendearg. Careless alike

of spectre and cavalier. Over the red-lipped glen hangs the deep shade of the high hills. Rowan and broom glow red and yellow on its banks. The dyke-ends, moss-tipped and sodcapped, hide themselves in the lush grass and tall meadow-sweet on the water's edge. Blackbirds carol to their mates and thrushes chant an andante in the willow.

Accompanied by song, the brown water wanders into the prettiest glade in the southland Borders. Through the dell it throws off its haste to linger in the shade of portly oaks and elms. Wan lights flicker on the mosstufted bridges. The green sward is the haunt of elfin kind. Puck, Pease-blossom and Mustard seed sport in airy fancy as they run mischievous errands for His Majesty Bottom, the Weaver, who sits ensconced in vonder oak. Snug, the joiner; Flute, the bellows-mender ; and Snout, the tinker, are holding a little symposium with their compeers, Starveling and Quince.

The twilight of Nature and of fancy mingle and usher in the gambols of spirit-land. Imprisoned airs, fanned by the unbrageous arms of many giants in the green wood recoil on the brows and ear, and echo the voice of Bottom in his four-parts fanciful of "the tyrant, the lover, the lady, the lion." "He will roar that it shall do any man's heart good to hear him." Snug objects to the roaring, but Bottom will oblige, and will roar you an' 'twere any nightingale!"

Now, he is in martial array, and orders Cobweb to get his weapon in hand, “kill a redhipt bumble bee on the top of a thistle," and bring him the honey bag!

Again, the dell reverberates with sardonie laughter as Puck, who plays upon his dupes, then drives his sarcasm home in superb raillery as he shouts, "Lord, what fools these mortals be."

Poetry and Nature in this shady dell have awakened with an infinite gaiety and delicacy the loftiest flights of fancy. Yet the charm is all but incomunicable. As James Hogg sings when Kilmeny had been to Fairyland:

"For Kilmeny had beine scho kend nocht quhair, And Kilmeny had seine quhat scho culde not declayre."

Nor shall we ever know what Kilmeny could not tell till the harmony of nature and humanity is accomplished.

"The land of vision it would seime, And still ane everlasting dreime

How deep is that silence 'tis we musicians know."

But the darkness deepens: the dews are already jewelling the gossamer bridges which spiders spin from tree to tree. A shimmer of delicate blue reflects from the silken strands as the dying light falls on them for an instant, then vanishes. Maybe a fairy wedding is in progress. A slight breeze has sprung up from the open glade; the hare-bells, dew-spangled, are even now tinkling Love's Serenade at the tree-foot. Sunrise will reveal a pageant of dew-bediamonded gossamer in a setting of lucious green while once more Allan will play with the sportive sunbeams which herald the dawn of day.