Stories from the Grave

Wilson’s Tales of the Borders was a series of short stories, mostly traditional, published in serial form in Victorian times. The weekly magazine proved hugely popular and later contributors included Hugh Miller and David Moir who wrote as “Delta” in Blackwood’s  Magazine.

John Mackay Wilson was born in Tweedmouth, Berwick upon Tweed and is buried there.

Wilson's neglected grave in Tweedmouth churchyard

Years ago, I came across an old copy of the Tales and thought some might be fashioned into a series of plays, tied together by their location, following the Tweed  from its source to the sea.     Nothing came of the project at the time.

I was invited to become involved in a re-appraisal of his work.  There may be an attempt to dramatise  “The Tales”.

http://www.wilsonstales.co.uk/  

 With this new interest, I dusted off the old scripts and went to look again at the places that inspired the stories.

A trip up the romantic Yarrow valley to where the Megget Water flows into St Mary’s Loch, found me revisiting the grave of Perce Cockburn, Laird of Henderland and border reiver, executed by James V in 1530. His wife, Marjory, was buried beside him in the ruined chapel on Chapel Knowe

Cockburn's grave

 The Border ballad “The Lament of the Border Widow” is supposed to recall the events.

Tradition has it that he was hanged from a tree at the door of his own castle and, as such, it is recounted in “The Royal Raid” in Wilson’s Tales.  In reality, Cockburn was beheaded in Edinburgh.  The grave slab is a strange mixture of 13th and 16th century carving, the lettering being that of the 1500s but the sword and cross of a style common two hundred years earlier.  

The slab is covered in moss and lichen but the sword is discernible on the left

Maybe the ballad has melded two events in the same way as the old stone has been re-used to commemorate Cockburn and his wife.

 Anyway, Wilson’s version has more impact and pathos than the legalistic truth.

It makes for more drama as Cockburn is dragged out and hanged at his own front door.

My love he built me a bonny bower,
And clad it a' wi' a lilye flower,
A brawer bower ye ne'er did see,
Than my true love he built for me.
There came a man, by middle day,
He spied his sport and went away,
And brought the king that very night,
Who brake my bower, and slew my knight.
He slew my knight, to me so dear;
He slew my knight, and poined his gear;
My servants all for life did flee,
And left me in extremitie.
I sewed his sheet, making my mane;
I watched the corpse, myself alane;
I watched his body, night and day;
No living creature came that way.
I took his body on my back,
And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat,
I digged a grave, and laid him in,
And happed him with the sod so green.
But think na ye my heart was sair,
When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair;
Think na ye my heart was wae,
When I turned about, away to gae?
Nae living man I'll love again,
Since that my lovely knight is slain;
Wi' ae lock of his yellow hair
I'll chain my heart for evermair.

Sparse, moving, honed by oral transmission, the verses contain not an extraneous word yet they deliver the brutal truth and harrowing emotion, precisely and perfectly.
It will be near impossible to follow it.