128 ROSLIN, HAWTHORNDEN,
battle-fields. The stream has played no unimportant part in Scottish literature
and history. In war its waters have been stained with blood, in peace our
poets and philosophers have mused upon its banks; and in spite of the
reverses of fortune it is a proud little river to this day, and one of which the
people of Mid-Lothian are naturally fond.
There are in reality two Esks: the South Esk, rising on the borders of
Mid-Lothian and Tweeddale among the Moorfoot Hills, and flowing northwards
to the Forth ; and the North Esk, rising on the southern slope of the
Pentlands, and also flowing northwards. These streams unite at Dalkeith
to form the Esk proper, which falls into the sea at Musselburgh. By our
title ‘The Vale of the Esk’ we mean rather the vale of the North Esk,
and of the Esk proper after the confluence of the sister streams. We have
nothing to do, therefore, with the South Esk until it reaches Dalkeith, but
must find our way to the foot of the Pentlands, where the North Esk begins
its seaward journey.
Here at once we are on interesting ground, the site of a religious house
and hospice for benighted travellers, on the old high-road to the capital.
The names Monkshaugh and F~iarrtona re found in the neighbourhood, as also
a farm called the SpittaZ, where a few years back wayfarers were still made
welcome to bed and board according to the ancient custom. Here also is
Newhall House, in the early part of last century the property of Mr. John
Forbes, an Edinburgh advocate, and the rendezvous of the wigged wits and
savans of the metropolis. The Scottish poet Allan Ramsay used to spend
many a long summer day at Newhall when he could get away from his
book-shop in the old town of Edinburgh; and the Vale of the Esk at Newhall
is generally considered to be the scene of his exquisite little pastoral, 2%
GeplfIe Sh@herd. The scenery of the place accords exactly to his descriptions.
The ‘trottin’ burnie’ may be seen ‘ wimplin thro’ the ground.’ Primroses
‘ paint the green,’ the laverocks chant to their hearts’ content, and the ‘ westlin’
winds sough thro’ the reeds.’ Or let us, with pretty Peggy,
‘ Gae far‘er up the burn to Habbie’s Howe,
Where a’ the sweets 0’ spring and summer grow :
There ’tween twa birks, out ower a little lin,
The water fa’s and mak‘s a singin’ din ;
A pool breast-deep beneath, as clear as glass,
Kisses, wi’ easy whirls, the bord‘ring grass.’
At this part of the Vale we find Pufie’s RiZ and Pe&s Lea; but whether
