Stray Leaves from a Border Garden 
Beneath the base, where starving hemlocks creep, 
The yellow pestilence is buried deep. 
It was sometimes called the Bad Yellow, and tradition 
has instances of infected people being buried alive by 
their frightened neighbours. The following is an old weird 
rhyme once current in the Merse concerning a place now 
rebuilt, and not very far from here : 
Howburn stands its lee lane, 
Howburn folk are all gane, 
The Pest has come by the water doun 
An hasna left a soul in the toun, 
The nettles grow on the hearthstane, 
And long they’ll grow ere there again 
A house will be seen at Howburn stede, 
Fora’ the folk of Howburn’s deid. 
This personification of the Plague reminds me that, when 
the Cholera was rife in Southern France, and the white 
mist lay thick at night in the streets of many a town, the 
Provencals whispered fearfully, “ C’est la Peste qui couche 
dans les rues.” 
There is a Polish fairy tale which has this same idea ; a 
moujik meets a tall gaunt woman clad in a long clinging 
cloak, who forces him to bear her through all the country- 
side on his shoulders. 
Here is a recipe for Plague-water from my ancient book : 
“ Take Rue, Carduus, Balm, Spear Mint, Wormwood, Penny 
Royal, Dragon, Marigold Flowers, Angelica and Rosemary, 
of each two handfuls ; cut them small and put them in the 
Still with Anise seeds, Caraway, and Coriander and Sweet 
Fennel seeds : then cover them with spirits and distill it 
off.” But though I found the old Recipe-book in the old 
family home, I did not find a still, so I am unable to test 
the virtues of this recipe— which matters the less that the 
Plague has not been heard of on the Border for many a 
long year. 
Our tale of Elderberries not being complete, we set forth 
again this day. This time we went to a low-lying meadow 
heyond the river, and unfortunately, to get there, we had to 
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