Ballads of the North-East: The Jolly Beggar

September 2009

BLAIRYDRINE TODAY: Arthur Hogg’s farm, where he entertained ‘Jimmy Stewart’. illustration: Sandy Cheyne

by Sandy Cheyne

Father George Duthie looked sternly at the small company who stood before him in the aisle of Durris Chapel – Arthur Hogg, a sturdily built farmer who was tenant on the farm of Blairydryne, his wife Kate and his daughter Margaret, known to all and sundry as Meg, a comely lass of 18. In her arms she held a baby boy, scarcely three months old.

“Weel weel, Hogg,” drawled the priest, “I’m hearin ye’ll be wintin yer dother’s bairn baptised.”

“That I am indeed,” replied Hogg, “and I wid be ever grateful if yer holy reverence could dae the honours.”

“Och aye,” said Duthie, “but I’d like tae hae a word wi the bairn’s faither, an I’ve been tellt he’s nae aboot the place. An forbye, I’ve been tellt that he an Meg are nae mairriet.”

Farmer Hogg fixed his gaze on his feet, which shuffled awkwardly on the flagstones of the aisle.

“Aye,” he said, “Ah doot that’s the wye o’t. He jist disappeared on the road tae Aiberdeen an niver come back. Ye see, I’d nae idea o fit hid been gyaan on atween him an Meg. A widna min’,” he said, raising his eyes to the priest, a look of hurt indignation on his weatherbeaten features, “bit A wis real ceevil tae the man. He an his freens niver wintit for onything fan they wis at my place.”

“Jist foo did he come tae be at your place onywye?” enquired the priest.

“Weel, it wis aboot a year ago,” replied Arthur, “last September tae be exact. Div ye mind yon aafa wither we hid? Yon time wi aa the rain? Weel, jist fan it started in earnest, an nicht wis comin on, there cam tae my yetts a puckle chiels on horses wintin oot o the rain, an faa could blame them. They wis drookit tae the skin.

“They hid come fae doon sooth somewye — ye could tell be the wye they spoke – oot ower the Cryne’s Cross. They wis makkin for Ashentilly, bit that wis some five mile awa, an they’d niver hae gotten near the place withoot catchin their death o caul. So fit could I dae? I bade them come in an mak themsel’s at hame, an that’s jist fit they did.

“It wis a laird an his servants, as it turned oot. Jimmy Stewart, I think he said his name wis, an he tellt me he wis laird o Ballengeich, or something like that. He wisna muckle tae look at, I dinna ken fit Meg saw in him, bit he wis weel spoken an richt ceevil. A gentleman, I’d hae ca’d him.

“Onywye, I made them aa welcome, an got Kate tae look oot some dry claes for them, an Meg made a fine pot o broth for their supper. We laid doon a bed for Jimmy in the kitchie, an his men got beddit amang the strae in the barn.

“Weel, the neist day the wither wis even waur, an it bed like that for a hale wik. Jimmy an his men hid nae option bit tae bide at my place. They couldna get ower the Dee, ye see, it wis that swollen wi the rain. I hid tae butcher twa o my best pigs tae feed them aa, an noo look at foo he’s rewarded me.”

“A good name gives strength”

“That’s nae true, faither,” interrupted Meg. “He did offer tae pey ye, bit ye widna tak it, ye wis that prood.”

“Weel, aye,” said Arthur grudgingly, “I tellt him that gin I wisna aa that wealthy, I wis prood tae wark on the lan’, an prood o ma guid name. ‘Aye,’ says he, ‘your name’s a good one, Hogg, especially for a farmer. Always remember, my friend, a good name gives strength.’

“He spoke that wye, real posh like, an wi that he wis awa, an I niver seen ‘im again.”

“Weel, noo,” said Father Duthie, looking sternly at Meg, “I doot I’m nae gyan tae be able tae baptise yer bairn efter aa, because, ye see, the bairn’s faither is required tae be present at the ceremony, and the two o ye jined in holy wedlock.”

Meg looked at him, tears welling in her eyes, but before she could reply a clatter of horse’s hooves turned every head to the church door. In strode a young man dressed in fine livery and carrying a parcel. It was Guy Robertson, squire to the Earl Marischal at Dunnottar Castle.

“I am looking for Arthur Hogg, and have been told that I may find him here,” he said.

“Aye, ye’ve found him,” said Arthur. “An fit wid ye be wintin wi a peer fairmer like me?”

“I have been instructed to deliver this to you,” said Guy, thrusting the package into Hogg’s arms.

Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode from the church, mounted his horse, and rode away. Hogg stood holding the parcel, his face a picture of bewilderment.

“Come on, noo,” urged Father Duthie, “Ye’d better open it up an see fit’s in it.”

Arthur untied the bindings and unrolled a sheet of parchment covered in neatly penned writing, with a red wax seal at the foot.

“Weel, fit dis’t say?” enquired the priest.

“Ye needna spier at me,” replied Hogg. “Ye ken fine I canna read. Here, hae a look at it yersel – ye’ll maybe be able tae mak sense o’t.”

“I doot it’s in Latin”

The holy father studied the parchment for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“I doot it’s in Latin, bit I ken Latin. I’ll be able tae tell ye fit it says, nae bother. It looks aafa important. Maybe it’s a summons for ye tae appear afore the magistrates or something like that.”

“Surely nae. It canna be that!” Hogg paled visibly, his eyes wide with fear, recalling an undignified brawl he had with a tax collector in the local alehouse.

“Haud on,” said Father Duthie, “it’s nae a summons. I see fit it is noo. Lord be here! It’s fae the King himsel! Listen tae this: James, by the grace of God King of Scots, to Arthur Hogg, tenant farmer of Blairydryne, greetings.”

The priest continued reading, slowly, translating from the Latin with an ease born of long practice, and the more he read the further Arthur’s jaw dropped. Finally he came to the end. “Weel, weel, Arthur, ma loon, it looks like ye’re een o the landed gentry noo. This here’s a charter giein you an your descendants the ownership o the lands an dwellings o Blairydryne.

“Fit did ye say yon chiel’s name wis, the een that got Meg here intae trouble? Jimmy Stewart, wis it?”

He turned towards the wide-eyed girl holding the infant, the frost in his eyes replaced by a mischievous twinkle.

“Noo, Meg, efter serious conseederation, I think I micht jist be able tae overlook the fact that the bairn’s faither canna be present at the christenin’ o his son. But jist this eence, mind!”

The royal beggar

In October 1527 Arthur Hogg, tenant farmer of Blairydryne in the parish of Durris, gave food and shelter to a group of horsemen making for Aberdeen. He refused payment for his hospitality, and a year later received a charter granting him ownership of the farm. Only then did he realise who the stranger was.

A ballad called The Jolly Beggar, believed to be about King James V, tells of him seeking lodgings at ‘a hoose near Aiberdeen’ disguised as a beggar, and during his stay he seduces the daughter of the house.

Blairydryne is the only place near Aberdeen known to have given shelter to the incognito James V, so farmer Hogg’s hospitality may not have been the only reason for the royal gratitude.

You can read a version of the ballad in The Scottish Folksinger, by Norman Buchan and Peter Hall.

Sandy Cheyne, artist, biker and banjo player, has a long-standing enthusiasm for the ballad and song of his native North-East.

This is an article from the September 2009 edition of Leopard Magazine. To read much more like this every month, subscribe to Leopard Magazine.