Rorie Gill; or The Hunter's Moon. A Ballad.
This Ballad, commemorative of the death of the celebrated Rorie Gill, who, from his many depredations, is with great propriety styled the Robin Hood of Galloway, was first suggested to me in the following accidental and rather interesting manner:
Having once occasion to travel from Newton-Stewart to Dalmellington, I resolved, instead of taking the circuitous road by Newgalloway, to pass over the mountains of Minnigaff, and through the savage scenery leading to Loch Doon, which for nearly thirty miles, is the most desolate and unfrequented track in Scotland. But before reaching the Mirrock side, I became enveloped in an exceedingly dense mist, which, as it prevented me from seeing to the distance of even a yard around, would certainly have compelled me to have lodged for the night with the wild birds of some neighbouring rock, had not the barking of a shepherd's dog at length enabled me to reach its master's cot on the farm of, —— where I was kindly received, and hospitably entertained until my departure on the following morning. The family in this place consisted of a very old man and woman, with their son, who was a widower, and several of his children. During the evening I was much amused by the old people relating wonderful stories of Ghosts and witches, every incident of which they religiously believed, although on other subjects, considering their remote situation, they were possessed of much general knowledge. They both were particularly fond of ancient poetry, and the old man recited the greater part of the Cherrie and the Slae, the scene of which is pointed out with great accuracy in the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright. The old woman also sung several old songs; but that which most particularly arrested my attention, was the tradition of the Hunter's Moon, as she termed it, the particulars of which, she said, she had been familiar with from her infancy. She informed me also, that several old people of her acquaintance in the vale of Deuch, near to Carsephairn, possessed the very same story, and would confirm her statement should I incline to inquire concerning it. I before had often heard of Rorie Gill, as a once famous character in Galloway, but had not, until now, been made acquainted with any particulars of his legendary history. It was therefore with no small pleasure that I listened to my old informant's details, which that they might not in future escape me, I shortly afterwards embodied in the following stanzas:—
Rorie Gill.
little villains oft submit to fate,
That great ones may enjoy the world in state.
Garth
Is rising the highest hills aboon:
Loud is the flap of the eagle's wing
As she starts from her rock by the mountain spring,
While echo carries o'er glen and brake
The howl of the fox by Naberrie's lake.
Sluggards are sleeping; but we must ride,
For winter comes, and it cries—provide!
Bugleman! sound the rallying call,
For ready to mount are the troopers all,
Who, in defiance of danger, still
Have followed the fortunes of Rorie Gill.
And wash it down with the rosy wine.—
My merry men, too, love wine,—and why?
Should they not quaff it as well as I!
Yet break we never the orphan's bread,
Nor bring down woe on the widow's head;
We pass without harming the child of care,
Nor wish we industry's meed to share;
We only take from the lordly Thane
What honesty deems ill-gotten gain;
And even, his foeman's blood to spill
Was ne'er the desire of Rorie Gill.
We sacked the fortlet of Fairly fair;
And whilst the bells of Kilwinning rung,
And the monks their latest vespers sung,
We filched the gold of that holy shrine,
And drunk their health in their sacred wine;
And piously, too, ere we rode away,
We forced the Abbot for us to pray;
Then, ere the breeze of the morning blew
From roe, in her lair, the cold clear dew,
Behind us vanished Terenzean hill,
And safe in his mountains was Rorie Gill.
Paid with the jewels of Dervorguil;
Yestreen, from Kenmure merrily, we
Fast galloped to Castle Kennedy;
The currach we launched, we sailed the pond,
We pillaged the Castle, and stript the ground,—
This night from Cruggleton we must bring
The stud of the Gallovidian king.
This golden spur once glanced on his heel;
His was this baldric of burnished steel—,
And long ere morn, my merry men will
Bring his best gelding to Rorie Gill.
That raised the echo among the rocks:
Oh! It was the searching bloodhound’s yell,
And tramping of horsemen down the dell,
And the shouts of many a forrester brave;—
Ha! Now they reach the robber’s cave.
And ere the guard, with his bugle’s sound,
Can warn his merry men lurking round,
Knockmains brave lord, who gallantly sped
Baldoon’s huge adder—his country’s dread—
Explores the robber’s cave at will,
And springs unlooked for on Rorie Gill.—
The guard they hung on a lofty thorn,
His pitying chieftain's wrath arose—
He burst his bonds, and he sprung from his foes:
But again they caught him; and thence away
They bore him in haste to Kildorcan brae.
No Justice Ayre was called, to ordain
If his life should be spared, or straightway ta'en;—
On earth, to make up his peace with Heaven,
An hour he asked, but it was not given;
And long ere his men could rise on the hill,
Stiff hanged on a wuddy was on Rorie Gill.
That ever gear hunting went by night.
Lamented he was, though far and near
The country long he had kept in fear,
And down at night, from the blasted tree
By his merrymen carried away was he,
And where bridle-roads on the mountains meet,
They laid him, without a winding-sheet,
Save the heathery-turf that wrapt his breast,
And left him, with tears, to his long long rest.
There oft the wanderer stops to see
The big cairn raised to his memory;
And many bosoms with awe yet thrill
To hear of the deeds of Rorie Gill.
Source
- Joseph Train, in John Nicholson's Historical and Traditional Tales in Prose and Verse, Connected with the South of Scotland (1843), pp. 415-419