(BEING THE TALE OF THE RESPECTABLE WHAUP
AND THE GREAT GODLY MAN.)
The Rime of True Thomas
by John Buchan
THIS is a story that I heard from the
King Of the Numidians who with his tattered retinue encamps behind the
peat-ricks. If you ask me where and when it happened I fear that I
am scarce ready with an answer. But 1 will vouch my
honour for its truth, and if anyone seek further proof,
let him go east the town and west the town and over the
fields of Nomansland to the Long Muir, and if he find not the
King there among the peat-ricks, and get not a courteous
answer to his question, then times have changed in that
part of the country, and he must continue the quest to his
Majesty's castle in Spain.
Once upon a time, says the tale, there was a Great Godly
Man, a shepherd to trade, who lived in a cottage among
heather. If you looked east in the morning, you saw miles
of moor running wide to the flames of sunrise, and if you
turned your eyes west in the evening, you saw a great confusion of dim peaks
with the dying eye of the sun set in a
crevice. If you looked north, too, in the afternoon, when
the life of the day is near its end and the world grows wise,
you might have seen a country of low hills and haughlands
with many waters running sweet among meadows. But if
you looked south in the dusty forenoon or at hot mid-day,
you saw the far-off glimmer of a white road, the roofs of the
ugly little clachan of Kilmaclavers, and the rigging of the
fine new kirk of Threepdaidle.
It was a Sabbath afternoon in the hot weather, and the
man had been to kirk all the morning. He had heard a grand
sermon from the minister (or it may have been the priest,
for I am not sure of the date and the King told the story
quickly) a fine discourse with fifteen heads and three
parentheses. He held all the parentheses and fourteen of
the heads in his memory, but he had forgotten the fifteenth;
so for the purpose of recollecting it, and also for the sake of a
walk, he went forth in the afternoon into the open heather.
The whaups were crying everywhere, making the air hum
like the twanging of a bow. Poo-eelie, Poo-eelie, they cried,
Kirlew, Kirlew, Whaup, Wha--up. Sometimes they came
low, all but brushing him, till they drove settled thoughts
from his head. Often had he been on the moors, but never
had he seen such a stramash among the feathered, clan.
The wailing iteration vexed him, and he shoo'd the birds
away with his arms. But they seemed to mock him and
whistle in his very face, and at the flaff of their wings his
heart grew sore. He waved his great stick; he picked up
bits of loose moor-rock and flung them wildly; but the
godless crew paid never a grain of heed. The morning's
sermon was still in his head, and the grave words of the
minister still rattled in his ear, but he could get no comfort
for this intolerable piping. At last his patience failed him
and he swore unchristian words. "Deil rax the birds'
thrapples!" he cried.
At this all the noise was hushed and in a twinkling the
moor was empty. Only one bird was left, standing on tall
legs before him with its head bowed upon its breast, and its
beak touching the heather.
Then the man repented his words and stared at the thing
in the moss. "What bird are ye?" he asked thrawnly.
"I am a Respectable Whaup," said the bird, "and I
kenna why ye have broken in on our family gathering.
Once in a hundred years we foregather for decent conversation, and here we are
interrupted by a muckle, sweerin' man."
Now the shepherd was a fellow of great sagacity, yet he
never thought it a queer thing that he should be having talk
in the raid-moss with a bird.
"What for were ye making siccan a din, then?" he asked.
"D'ye no ken ye were disturbing the afternoon of the holy
The bird lifted its eyes and regarded him solemnly. "The
Sabbath is a day of rest and gladness," it said, "and is it no'
reasonable that we should enjoy the like?"
The shepherd shook his head, for the presumption staggered
him. "Ye little ken what ye speak of," he said. "The
Sabbath is for them that have the chance of salvation, and
it has been decreed that salvation is for Adam's race and
no for the beasts that perish."
The whaup gave a whistle of scorn. "I have heard all
that long ago. In my great-grandmother's time, which 'ill
be a thousand years and mair syne, there came a people
from the south with bright brass things on their heads and
breasts, and terrible swords at their thighs. And with them
were some lang-gowned men who kenned the stars and
would come out nights to talk to the deer and the corbies
in their ain tongue. And one, I mind, foregathered with
my great-grandmother and told her that the souls o' men
flitted in the end to braw meadows where the gods bide or
gaed down to the black pit which they ca' Hell. But the
souls o' birds, he said, die wi' their bodies, and that's the end
o' them. Likewise in my mother's time, when there was a
great abbey down yonder by the Threepdaidle Burn which
they called the House of Kilmaclavers, the auld monks
would walk out in the evening to pick herbs for their distillings, and some were
wise and kenned the ways of bird
and beast. They would crack often o' nights with my ain
family, and tell them that Christ had saved the souls o' men,
but that birds and beasts were perishable as the dew o'
Heaven. And now ye have a black-gowned man in Threepdaidle who threeps on the
same owercome. Ye may a' ken
something o' your ain kitchen-midden, but certes! ye ken
little o' the warld beyond it."
Now this angered the man, and he rebuked the bird.
"These are great mysteries," he said, "which are no' to be
mentioned in the ears of an unsanctified creature. What
can a thing like you wi' a lang neb and twae legs like stilts
ken about the next warld?"
"Weel, weel," said the whaup, "we'll let the matter be.
Everything to its ain trade, and I will not dispute with ye
on metapheesics. But if ye ken something about the next
warld, ye ken terrible little about this."
Now this angered the man still more, for he was a shepherd
reputed to have great skill in sheep and esteemed the nicest
judge of hogg and wether in all the countryside. "What
ken ye about that?" he asked. "Ye may gang east to
Yetholm and west to Kells, and no find a better herd."
"If sheep were a'," said the bird, "ye micht be right;
but what o' the wide warld and the folk in it? Ye are
Simon Etterick o' the Lowe Moss. Do ye ken aucht o' your
"My father was a God-fearing man at the Kennel-head,
and my grandfather and great-grandfather afore him. One
o' our name, folk say, was shot at a dyke-back by the Black
"If that's a'," said the bird, "ye ken little. Have ye
never heard o' the little man, the fourth back from yoursel',
who killed the Miller o' Bewcastle at the Lammas Fair?
That was in my ain time, and from my mother I have heard
o' the Covenanter who got a bullet in his wame hunkering
behind the divot-dyke and praying to his Maker. There
were others o' your name rode in the Hermitage forays and
burned Naworth and Warkworth and Castle Gay. I have
heard o' an Etterick, Sim o' the Redcleuch, who cut the
throat o' Jock Johnstone in his ain house by the Annan side.
And my grandmother had tales o' auld Ettericks who rade
wi' Douglas and the Bruce and the ancient Kings o' Scots;
and she used to tell o' others in her mother's time, terrible
shock-headed men, hunting the deer and rinnin' on the high
moors, and bidin' in the broken stane biggings on the
The shepherd stared, and he, too, saw the picture. He
smelled the air of battle and lust and foray, and forgot the
"And you yoursel'," said the bird, "are sair fallen off
from the auld stock. Now ye sit and spell in books, and talk
about what ye little understand, when your fathers were
roaming the warld. But little cause have I to speak, for I
too am a downcome. My bill is two inches shorter than my
mother's, and my grandmother was taller on her feet. The
warld is getting weaklier things to dwell in it, even since I
"Ye have the gift o' speech, bird," said the man, "and
I would hear mair." You will perceive that he had no mind
of the Sabbath day or the fifteenth head of the forenoon's
"What things have I to tell ye when ye dinna ken the
very horn-book o' knowledge? Besides, I am no clatter-vengeance to tell stories
in the middle o' the muir, where there are ears open high and low. There's
others than me wi' mair experience and a better skill at the telling. Our
clan was well acquaint wi' the reivers and lifters o' the muirs,
and could crack fine o' wars and the taking of cattle. But
the blue hawk that lives in the corrie o' the Dreichil can
speak o' kelpies and the dwarfs that bide in the hill. The
heron, the lang solemn fellow, kens o' the greenwood fairies
and the wood elfins, and the wild geese that squatter on the
tap o' the Muneraw will croak to ye of the merrymaidens and
the girls o' the pool. The wren him that hops in the grass
below the birks has the story of the Lost Ladies of the Land,
which is ower auld and sad for any but the wisest to hear;
and there is a wee bird bides in the heather hill-lintie men
call him who sings the Lay of the West Wind and the
Glee of the Rowan Berries. But what am I talking of? What
are these things to you, if ye have not first heard True
Thomas's Rime, which is the beginning and end o' all
"I have heard no rime," said the man, "save the sacred
psalms o' God's Kirk."
"Bonny rimes," said the bird. "Once I flew by the hinder
end o' the Kirk and I keekit in. A wheen auld wives wi'
mutches and a wheen solemn men wi' hoasts! Be sure the
Rime is no like yon."
"Can ye sing it, bird?" said the man, "for I am keen to
"Me sing," cried the bird," me that has a voice like a
craw! Na, na, I canna sing it, but maybe I can tak ye
where ye may hear it. When I was young an auld bog-blitter did the same to me,
and sae began my education.
But are ye willing and brawly willing? for if ye get but a
sough of it ye will never mair have an ear for other music."
"I am willing and brawly willing," said the man.
"Then meet me at the Gled's Cleuch Head at the sun's
setting," said the bird, and it flew away.
Now it seemed to the man that in a twinkling it was sunset,
and he found himself at the Gled's Cleuch Head with the
bird flapping in the heather before him. The place was a
long rfft in the hill, made green with juniper and hazel, where
it was said True Thomas came to drink the water.
"Turn ye to the West," said the whaup, "and let the sun
fall on your face; then turn ye five times round about and
say after me the Rune of the Heather and the Dew." And
before he knew, the man did as he was told, and found
himself speaking strange words, while his head hummed and
danced as if in a fever.
"Now lay ye down and put your ear to the earth," said
the bird; and the man did so. Instantly a cloud came over
his brain, and he did not feel the ground on which he lay
or the keen hill-air which blew about him. He felt himself
falling deep into an abysm of space, then suddenly caught
up and set among the stars of Heaven. Then slowly from
the stillness there welled forth music, drop by drop like the
clear falling of rain, and the man shuddered, for he knew
that he heard the beginning of the Rime.
High rose the air, and trembled among the tallest
pines and the summits of great hills. And in it were the sting
of rain and the blatter of hail, the soft crush of snow and the
rattle of thunder among crags. Then it quieted to the low
sultry croon which told of blazing mid-day when the streams
are parched and the bent crackles like dry tinder. Anon
it was evening, and the melody dwelled among the high
soft notes which mean the coming of dark and the green
light of sunset. Then the whole changed to a great pæan
which rang like an organ through the earth. There were
trumpet notes in it and flute notes and the plaint of pipes.
"Come forth," it cried; "the sky is wide and it is a far cry
to the world's end. The fire crackles fine o' nights below
the firs, and the smell of roasting meat and wood smoke
is dear to the heart of man. Fine, too, is the sting of salt
and the risp of the north wind in the sheets. Come forth,
one and all, to the great lands oversea, and the strange tongues
and the fremit peoples. Learn before you die to follow the
Piper's Son, and though your old bones bleach among grey
rocks, what matter, if you have had your bellyful of life
and come to your heart's desire?" And the tune fell low
and witching, bringing tears to the eyes and joy to the heart;
and the man knew (though no one told him) that this was
the first part of the Rime, the Song of the Open Road, the
Lilt of the Adventurer,which shall be now and ever and to
the end of days.
Then the melody changed to a fiercer and sadder note.
He saw his forefathers, gaunt men and terrible, run stark
among woody hills. He heard the talk of the bronze-clad
invader, and the jar and clangour as stone met steel. Then
rose the last coronach of his own people, hiding in wild glens,
starving in corries, or going hopelessly to the death. He
heard the cry of Border foray, the shouts of the famished
Scots as they harried Cumberland, and he himself rode in
the midst of them, Then the tune fell more mournful and
slow, and Flodden lay before him. He saw the flower of the
Scots gentry around their King, gashed to the breast-bone,
still fronting the lines of the south, though the paleness of
death sat on each forehead. "The flowers of the Forest
are gone," cried the lilt, and through the long years he heard
the cry of the lost, the desperate, fighting for kings over the
water and princes in the heather. "Who cares?" cried the
air. "Man must die, and how can he die better than in the
stress of fight with his heart high and alien blood on his
sword? Heigh-ho! One against twenty, a child against a
host, this is the romance of life." And the man's heart
swelled, for he knew (though no one told him) that this was
the Song of Lost Battles which only the great can
sing before they die.
But the tune was changing, and at the change the man
shivered, for the air ran up to the high notes and then down
to the deeps with an eldrich cry, like a hawk's scream at
night, or a witch's song in the gloaming. It told of those
who seek and never find, the quest that knows no fulfilment.
"There is a road," it cried, "which leads to the
Moon and the Great Waters. No change-house cheers it, and it has
no end; but it is a fine road, a braw road-who will follow
it?" And the man knew (though no one told him) that
this was the Ballad of Grey Weather, which makes him who
hears it sick all the days of his life for something which he
cannot name. It is the song which the birds sing on the
moor in the autumn nights, and the old crow on the tree-top
hears and flaps his wing. It is the lilt which men and women
hear in the darkening of their days, and sigh for the unforgetable;
and love-sick girls get catches of it and play
pranks with their lovers. It is a song so old that Adam heard
it in the Garden before Eve came to comfort him, so young
that from it still flows the whole joy and sorrow of earth.
Then it ceased, and all of a sudden the man was rubbing
his eyes on the hillside, and watching the falling dusk. "I
have heard the Rime," he said to himself, and he walked
home in a daze. The whaups were crying, but none came
near him, though he looked hard for the bird that had spoken
with him. It may be that it was there and he did not know
it, or it may be that the whole thing was only a dream; but
of this I cannot say.
The next morning the man rose and went to the manse.
"I am glad to see you, Simon," said the minister,
"for it will soon be the Communion Season, and it is your duty to
go round with the tokens."
"True," said the man, "but it was another thing I came
to talk about," and he told him the whole tale.
"There are but two ways of it, Simon," said the minister.
"Either ye are the victim of witchcraft, or ye are a
self-deluded man. If the former (whilk I am loth to believe),
then it behoves ye to watch and pray lest ye enter into
temptation. If the latter, then ye maun put a strict
watch over a vagrom fancy, and ye'll be quit o' siccan
Now Simon was not listening, but staring out of the
window. "There was another thing I had it in my mind
to say," said he. "I have come to lift my lines, for I am
thinking of leaving the place."
"And where would ye go?" asked the minister, aghast.
"I was thinking of going to Carlisle and trying my
luck as a dealer, or maybe pushing on with droves to the South."
"But that's a cauld country where there are no faithfu'
ministrations," said the minister.
"Maybe so, but I am not caring very muckle about
ministrations," said the man, and the other looked after him
When he left the manse he went to a Wise Woman, who
lived on the left side of the kirkyard above Threepdaidle
burn-foot. She was very old, and sat by the ingle day
and night, waiting upon death. To her he told the same
She listened gravely, nodding with her head. "Ach,"
she said, "I have heard a like story before. And where
will you be going?"
"I am going south to Carlisle to try the dealing and
droving," said the man, "for I have some skill of sheep."
"And will ye bide there?" she asked.
"Maybe ay, and maybe no," he said. "I had half a
mind to push on to the big toun or even to the abroad. A
man must try his fortune."
"That's the way of men," said the old wife. "I, too,
have heard the Rime, and many women who now sit decently
spinning in Kilmaclavers have heard it. But a woman may
hear it and lay it up in her soul and bide at hame, while a
man, if he get but a glisk of it in his fool's heart, must needs
up and awa' to the warld's end on some daft-like ploy. But
gang your ways and fare-ye-weel. My cousin Francie heard
it, and he went north wi' a white cockade in his bonnet and
a sword at his side, singing 'Charlie's come hame.' And Tam
Crichtoun o' the Bourhopehead got a sough o' it one simmer's
morning, and the last we heard o' Tam he was fechting like
a deil among the Frenchmen. Once I heard a tinkler play
a sprig of it on the pipes, and a' the lads were wud to follow
him. Gang your ways, for I am near the end o'mine." And
the old wife shook with her coughing.
So the man put up his belongings in a pack on his back
and went whistling down the Great South Road.
Whether or not this tale have a moral it is not for me
to say. The King (who told it me) said that it had, and
quoted a scrap of Latin, for he had been at Oxford in his
youth before he fell heir to his kingdom. One may hear
tunes from the Rime, said he, in the thick of a storm on the
scarp of a rough hill, in the soft June weather, or in the sunset
silence of a winter's night. But let none, he added, pray to
have the full music ; for it will make him who hears it a footsore
traveller in the ways o' the world and a masterless man