But we have reached Dalhousie Castle, with its charming and romantic grounds, situated on a branch of the South Esk, a stream similar to the North Esk, and running in the same direction. These streams, after passing through scenery the most picturesque and beautiful, and watering a hundred spots consecrated by song and story, as if by a mutual attraction, unite a little above Dalkeith, and fall near the old town of Musselburgh into the Firth of Forth. Behind us, at the distance of a few miles, are the celebrated ruins of Borthwick and Crichtoun castles, the one on a branch of the South Esk, the other somewhat to the right, in the vale of Tyne. It was into Borthwick Castle that Queen Mary retired after the death of Darnley, and her unhappy marriage with Bothwell, and from which she was obliged, a few days afterwards, to flee to Dunbar in the guise of a page. Crichtoun Castle is beautifully described by Sir Walter Scott, in Marmion, and as we cannot visit this interesting ruin, take his description of it as the best substitute. "That castle rises on a steep Of the green vale of Tyne; And far beneath, where slow they creep From pool to eddy, dark and deep, Where alders moist, and willows weep, You hear her streams repine. The towers in different ages rose; Their various architecture shows The builders' various hands; A mighty mass, that could oppose, When deadliest hatred fired its foes, The vengeful Douglas' bands. "Crichtoun! though now thy miry court But pens the lazy steer and sheep, Thy turrets rude and tottered Keep, Have been the minstrel's loved resort. Oft have I traced within thy fort, Of mouldering shields the mystic sense, Scutcheons of honor or pretence, Quartered in old armorial sort, Remains of rude magnificence. Nor wholly yet hath time defaced Thy lordly gallery fair; Nor yet the stony cord unbraced, Whose twisted knots with roses laced, Adorn thy ruined stair. Still rises unimpaired below, The court-yard's graceful portico: Above its cornice, row and row, Of fair hewn facets richly show, Their pointed diamond form, Though there but houseless cattle go, To shield them from the storm. And shuddering still may we explore, Where oft whilom were captives pent, The darkness of thy Massy More;[84] Or from thy grass-grown battlement. May trace, in undulating line, The sluggish mazes of the Tyne." [Footnote 84: The prison vault.] Proceeding along the stream, we pass Cockpen, reminding us of the Laird of Cockpen and his amusing courtship, when "Dumb-founder'd was he, But nae word did he gae; He mounted his mare, And he rade cannilie. But aften he thought, As he gaed through the glen, She's a fule to refuse The Laird o' Cockpen."