Poem, in NISBET’S Heraldry, vol. ii.

We have anticipated the course of time to mention Bucklaw’s recovery and fate, that we might not interrupt the detail of events which succeeded the funeral of the unfortunate Lucy Ashton.  This melancholy ceremony was performed in the misty dawn of an autumnal morning, with such moderate attendance and ceremony as could not possibly be dispensed with.  A very few of the nearest relations attended her body to the same churchyard to which she had so lately been led as a bride, with as little free will, perhaps, as could be now testified by her lifeless and passive remains.  An aisle adjacent to the church had been fitted up by Sir William Ashton as a family cemetery; and here, in a coffin bearing neither name nor date, were consigned to dust the remains of what was once lovely, beautiful, and innocent, though exasperated to frenzy by a long tract of unremitting persecution.

While the mourners were busy in the vault, the three village hags, who, notwithstanding the unwonted earliness of the hour, had snuffed the carrion like vultures, were seated on the “through-stane,” and engaged in their wonted unhallowed conference.

“Did not I say,” said Dame Gourlay, “that the braw bridal would be followed by as braw a funeral?”

“I think,” answered Dame Winnie, “there’s little bravery at it:  neither meat nor drink, and just a wheen silver tippences to the poor folk; it was little worth while to come sae far a road for sae sma’ profit, and us sae frail.”

“Out, wretch!” replied Dame Gourlay, “can a’ the dainties they could gie us be half sae sweet as this hour’s vengeance?  There they are that were capering on their prancing nags four days since, and they are now ganging as dreigh and sober as oursells the day.  They were a’ glistening wi’ gowd and silver; they’re now as black as the crook.  And Miss Lucy Ashton, that grudged when an honest woman came near her—­a taid may sit on her coffin that day, and she can never scunner when he croaks.  And Lady Ashton has hell-fire burning in her breast by this time; and Sir William, wi’ his gibbets, and his faggots, and his chains, how likes he the witcheries of his ain dwelling-house?”

“And is it true, then,” mumbled the paralytic wretch, “that the bride was trailed out of her bed and up the chimly by evil spirits, and that the bridegroom’s face was wrung round ahint him?”

“Ye needna care wha did it, or how it was done,” said Aislie Gourlay; “but I’ll uphaud it for nae stickit job, and that the lairds and leddies ken weel this day.”

“And was it true,” said Annie Winnie, “sin ye ken sae muckle about it, that the picture of auld Sir Malise Ravenswood came down on the ha’ floor, and led out the brawl before them a’?”

“Na,” said Ailsie; “but into the ha’ came the picture—­and I ken weel how it came there—­to gie them a warning that pride wad get a fa’.  But there’s as queer a ploy, cummers, as ony o’ thae, that’s gaun on even now in the burial vault yonder:  ye saw twall mourners, wi’ crape and cloak, gang down the steps pair and pair!”