Summary

Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland…

He cannot see an old ruin, be it of a castle or a peel tower, but he must know what its possessors did in the days of the red Flodden or the desperate Drumclog—a good old grandam, but he must hear of a legend of foray, or tournay, or love:
"A story old
Of baron bold,
Or trollëd lay
Of lady gaye;"
and laugh or weep over the details, as they come from lips trembling as if with inspiration.
Nor does time ever end legend, or the love of it, in the true legendary lands. Time's embalming yields the incense, which, like the sweetness of the vestal lamp, is fragrant for ever.
Source: Gutenberg

Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland…

Now comes the storm, thought Heiton to himself, and began to collect his thoughts, as the cautious master of a vessel furls his sails, and makes his ship snug, when he discerns the approaching squall.
"Whither drive you, man, as if the mistress of Darnick waited for ye to take your dinner off the best heifer in our enemy Home's parks?" said Scott.
"Having only a small peel," rejoined Heiton, "it is necessary I should look after it when a thousand Scotts are marching north by west. It is not for crows' nests that Buccleugh marches with a thousand men, and without a blast of his horn.
Source: Gutenberg

Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland…

To-morrow I may be in flight for my life, in these tearful times, when the faggot surrounds the altar of the true faith; and how could I trust one with my secret who denies me satisfaction in a matter that concerns us scarcely more than it does the ordinary people of the world."
"Who said that I was at Falconcleugh this night?" answered she. "Was it the beadsman? Tell me Henry, am I betrayed by one of whom neither you nor I can deserve better? for he eats the unholy fruits of the faith he pretends to disown."
Source: Gutenberg

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