Lammikin: A tale of Balwearie- Boucher 1899
The Kingdom of Fife: Its Ballads and Legends
By Robert Boucher, 1899
Lammikin: A tale of Balwearie.
Over all this hazy realm is spread
A halo of sad memories of the dead;
Of mournful love-tales—of old tragedies,
Filling the heart with pity, and the eyes
With tears at bare remembrance.
— Voices from the Mountains.
HEREIN is summed up the true essence of the ancient ballads. Some are arrayed in the most gorgeous attire of chivalrous valour and princely courtesy, and exhibit a touching spirit of a love that is deathless, which goes straight to the heart of a minstrel-loving people; some, on the other hand, are tarnished and deformed by churlishness and treachery. To this latter class belongs the popular ballad of Lammikin. "Narrowing itself into the intense interest of the deepest tragedy," it is one of those which open the floodgates of the affections, and very feelingly indeed it must have appealed to the impulses and understandings of the unlettered people to whom, long ago, it was chanted by our rustic minstrels.
There are many versions of the ballad. Many, too, are the names under which is known the revengeful and blood-thirsty hero of the story—Lammerlinkin, Lammikin, Lamkin, Lankin, Linkin, and Belinkin, all of them apparently corruptions and abbreviations of Lambert Linkin. Motherwell supposes that Lambert may have acquired the epithet "Linkin" from the secrecy and' address with which he insinuated himself into the notable strength that plays so important a part in the story. Without doubt he is the cruellest, most heathenish monster—the grand Gorgon, in short, of Scottish minstrelsy. In the nursery, under the titles of Bold Rankin and Balcanquhal, he holds just such a place as Richard Cceur de Lion or Malek-Rei did in the minds of petulant Saracen children.
The narrative opens in all the nakedness of ancient simplicity, and this artlessness of expression which pervades the ballad stamps it with the seal of an unquestionable antiquity. One kind word and one only can the minstrel ascribe to Lammikin: he was "as guid a mason as ever hewed a stane"—thus far and no further did his goodness extend.
He biggit up Lord Wearie's Castle,
But payment he gat nane.
The ballad does not enlighten us as to Lord Wearie's reasons for refusing to pay the good workman his wages. It could not be that the work had been carelessly and badly done. Perhaps the Baron's estate was a famishing one, and his Lordship on that account was not, though appearances might probably mislead us, rolling in untold wealth. Another version of the story, in fact, hints that this really was the case, and makes Lord Wearie say in reply to the mason's urgent demands—
"I canna pay you, Lammikin,
Unless I sell my lands;
and that," he added in an undertone, "is what I'm not to do." We can imagine Linkin's chagrin and indignation—Courts thena-days were a nullity—when he was told he would receive nothing for all his expense and labour. Far be it from us to condemn him if he cherished resentment; but, unfortunately, shortness of temper and a far-reaching vengeful nature were the strong points of Lammikin's character.
"Gin ye winna gie me my guerdon, Lord,
Gin ye winna gie me my hire,
This gude castle, sae stately, built,
I shall gar rock, wi' fire.
"Gin ye winna gie me my wages, Lord,
Ye shall hae cause to rue."
And syne he brewed a black revenge,
And syne he vowed a vow.
In this wrathful frame of mind Lammikin went home—to Doune, where, it seems, his headquarters were. Days passed by. The days lengthened into weeks, and the weeks into months; still the old revengeful flame burned and burned more fiercely, for revenge is sweetened with the keeping. But now the day of reckoning draws nigh. The master-mason has not forgotten that Lord Wearie's castle is doomed to destruction, and by him, too. Ah! no. Time has but whetted his appetite. In the meantime the slumbers of the lady of the mansion have been disturbed by frightful dreams: and one morning, just as the hounds are preparing to follow their master to the greenwood, she hurries down to the courtyard, and, with tears streaming down her pallid cheeks, beseeches the proud Baron to forego the sport for that day.
"Oh, byde at hame, my gude Lord Wearie,
I weird you byde at hame;
Gang nae to this day's hunting,
An leave me a' alane.
Yae nicht, yae nicht I dreamt my bower
O' red, red blude was fu';
Gin ye gang to this black hunting,
Ye shall hae cause to rue."
The nobleman laughed at his wife's fearfulness. "Havers! my winsome dame," he exclaimed; "wha looks to dreams? Awa' wi' thy fears—there's nothing to cause ye alarm." And then he imprinted kisses on the blanched cheek to wile away the starting tears. By this the retainers have got beyond the castle walls, and Lord Wearie, bidding his lady-love a fond adieu, and altogether heedless of her gloomy forebodings, hastens in their wake to the greenwood, while the sorrowful and apprehensive matron, after first causing all the doors and windows of the fortress to be securely fastened, withdrew to "her painted bower" to dream the dreary hours away. But alas! her precautions were futile; bolted doors and barred windows will little avail when treachery runs loose.
They steekit doors, they steekit yetts,
Close to the cheek and chin;
They steekit them a' but a wee wicket,
And—Lammikin crap in!
Within the castle there was a traitress. Lady Wearie's maid was "a fause limmer," who had laid a plot with Lammikin to betray her mistress. It may not be very far wrong to suppose that, during the erection of the stronghold, there had been incidental scenes of love-making between the nurse and the mason, and that, too, her ladyship had discountenanced them. At any rate the maid is much more than the scoundrel's abettor in the horrible tragedy which marks the fulfilment of his vow. Each wishes the other a friendly good-morning, and straightway proceed to their hellish work. But first Lammikin—for man is the more careful of criminals—makes sure that he is treading on safe ground.
"Where are the lads o' this castle?"
Said the Lammikin.
"They're a' wi' Lord Wearie, hunting,"
Said the fause nourice to him.
"Whaur are the lasses o' this castle?"
Said the Lammikin.
"They're a' oot at the washing,"
Said the fause nourice to him.
"But Where's the ladie o' this house J"
Said the Lammikin.
"Oh! she's in her bower, sewing,"
Said the fause nourice to him.
Doors and windows barred and bolted, Linkin is quite at a loss to know how he may reach the lady's boudoir. Where the man fails, however, the woman's wit prevails, and instantly unravels the difficulty. In the cradle at their feet lies the young heir of the castle—
The only bairn Lord Wearie audits,
and the nurse, with savage delight, whispers in the avenger's ears, "Stab the babe to the heart wi' a silver bodkin." Even Lammikin's flesh creeps at the murderous idea, and he says, "That would be a pity,"—to which the maid replies, "Pity! 'twould be nae pity at a', man." And the fiendish counsel of the woman overcame the man's scruples —if he had any. In a twinkling his vengeful purpose, implacable ever, is changed, yet not softened. More and more inhuman is the bent of the iniquitous villain. By fire he had designed to cancel Lord Wearie's debt—he shall now wreak his vengeance by blood, by the blood of the innocents.
Lammikin nipped the bonnie babe,
While the fause nourice sang;
Lammikin nipped the bonnie babe,
Till high the red blude sprang.
The tragedy deepens. While Linkin rocks the cradle—not tenderly, nor, you may sure, out of kindness or love, and the false nurse lullabies, the shrill agonising cry of the infant pierces the precincts of the lady's bower, and adown the sides and tores, or knobs, of the cradle runs the crimson flood. At the same time the child's tormentors strain their ears to catch the faintest sound. Ere long a door upstairs is opened, and a plaintive voice is heard demanding what is the matter with the boy.
"Oh! still my bairn, nourice,
Oh! still him if ye can."
''He will not still, dear ladie,
For a' his father's lan'."
"Oh! gentle nourice, still my bairn,
Oh! still him wi' the keys."
"He will not still, fair ladie,
Let me do what I please."
"Oh ! still my bairn, gude nourioe,
Oh ! still him wi' the knife."
"He will not still, dear mistress mine,
Giu I'd lay down my life."
"Oh! still my bairn, gude nourice,
Oh! still him wi' the kame."
"He will not still, dear ladie,
Till his daddy comes hame."
"Sweet nourice! loud cries my bairn;
Oh ! still him wi' the bell."
"He will not still, dear ladie,
Till ye come down yersell."
Thus imperiously commanded, Lady Wearie was loth to go downstairs, but as the screams of the infant showed no signs of abatement, nothing was left to her but to obey. Soon her footsteps are heard descending—a moment more and she beholds such a scene as makes her heart forget to beat. With one bold dramatic dash the minstrel pictures the denouement. Rarely anywhere do we find so much subject-matter suggested in a single stanza as in the four lines which follow. Their nudity of language, their powerful suggestiveness and impressiveness, bring out all the horror of the crisis :—
The first step she steppit,
She steppit on a stane;
The next step she steppit,
She met—the Lammikin.
And when she saw the red, red blude,
A loud shriek shrieked she—
"Oh! monster, monster, spare my child,
Wha never skaithed thee!
"Oh! spare, if in your bluidy breast
Abides not heart o' stane;
Oh! spare, and ye shall hae o' gowd
That ye can carry hame!"
"I carena for your gowd," he said;
"I carena for your fee;
I hae been wrangit by your lord,
Black vengeance ye shall dree."
A murderous gleam speaks out from the villain's eyes. Mean, despicably mean is he besides, and he taunts the hapless lady with her utter helplessness. No serfs has she to guard her halls, no trusty spearmen to lay down their lives for her—all have gone to the greenwood, which re-echoes ever and anon with the sounds of hound and horn as the huntsmen follow the fallow-deer. Alone and unprotected thus is she, and Lammikin gloats with diabolical glee over the power with which the circumstances have invested him. To fuel the torture he turns to the nurse and mockingly asks—"Will I kill her, or let her be?" "Kill her!" quoth the heartless vixen—the gude, the kind, the gentle, the sweet nourice of the ballad. "Kill her! She was never gude to me. Kill her! and ye'll be laird o' the castle, and I'll be ladie."
The betrayed baroness upbraids her treacherous dependant and hopelessly appeals to her.
"Oh! nourice, wanted ye your meat!
Or wanted ye your fee?
Or wanted ye for anything
A fair ladie could gie?"
"I wanted for nae meat, ladie;
I wanted for nae fee;
But I wanted for a hantle
A fair ladie could gie."
Then Lammikin drew his red, red sword,
And sharp'd it on a stane;
And through and through that fair ladie
The cauld, cauld steel is gane.
All this time the nobleman out in the greenwood is ill at ease. In the midst of the chase he bethinks him of his lady-love's dreams, and, just as coming events cast their shadows before, a peculiar incident—strange to say—brings back the prophetic warning with tenfold force to his mind. The rings upon his fingers burst ominously in twain—a mishap which the superstitiously inclined believe heralds the near approach of some dreadful calamity, much the same as a woman, when she takes off her rings, on the finger becoming inflamed, imagines that ill-luck will assuredly follow. We do not vouch for the veracity of these assertions any further than that many, even in this enlightened age, entertain such superstitious ideas.
Deep in the mind of Lord Wearie the incident rooted itself. "I wish a' may be weel," he groans aloud, "wi' my ladie at hame," for just then a ghastly vision flits before him and will not go away—a vision in which he seems to see "his sweet bairn's blude sprinkled on a stane." So strong indeed does the conviction become that, there and then, he sounds the horn for returning home. Alas! how sad a home-coming! What a sight met his gaze! Frantically the Baron hurried through his castle halls.
And mair he looked, and dule he saw
On the door at the 'trance—
Spots o' his dear ladie's blude
Shining like a lance.
"There's blude in my nursery,
There's blude in my ha',
There's blude in my ladie's bower,
And that's warst o' a'."
With a true but horrible mixture of concomitant circumstances are portrayed the closing scenes of the terrible tragedy. Outside the castle walls the birds were singing their evening hymns, filling the air with wondrous melody. Ere this, however, Lammikin had decamped, leaving the nurse to explain matters as best she could. How she accounted for the awful crime we are not told—enough it is to know that the punishment was made to suit the crime. On one of the trees, the self-same trees on which the feathered songsters trilled forth their merry lays, a erected, and there "the fause limmer" met her
Oh, sweet, sweet sang the birdie
Upon the bough sae hie,
But little cared fause nourioe for that,
For it was her gallows-tree.
Another version of the ballad says that she was burnt under the grate. Nor did the arch-monster escape. No mercy had he shown to others, and none was he to receive himself. A fearful retribution awaited him, the ruthless murderer, the killer of the innocent and the helpless—a penalty meet for his outrageous iniquities. With vengeance steeling their hearts and strengthening their arms, Lord Wearie and his men scoured all the surrounding country for the infernal fiend. Near Doune they ran the villain to earth. Tortures unspeakable he was subjected to, as was the custom of the times—
They carried him a' airts o' wind,
And ineikle pain had he;
At last, before Lord Wenrie's gate,
They hanged him on a tree.