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Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924104103670 
 
DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 
 
TWELVE 
 
 DRAMATIC SKETCHES, 
 
 FOUNDED ON THE 
 
 PASTORAL POETRY OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 BY W. M. HETHERINGTON, A.M. 
 
 METHINKS IT WERE A HAPl'Y LIKE, 
 
 TO BE NO BETTER THAN A HOMELY SWAIN. 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 EDINBURGH : CONSTABLE AND CO. 
 AND HURST, CHANCE, AND CO., LONDON. 
 
 MDCCCXXIX. 
 
mriiswprih 
 
 EDINBURGH : 
 TRINTED BY BALLANTVNE & COMPANY, 
 PAUL'S WORK, CANONGATK. 
 
 
TO 
 THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 MARGARET, BARONESS TORPHICHEN, 
 
 WITH EVERY SENTIMENT DUE 
 TO THOSE VIRTUES 
 
 WHICH ADORN 
 
 « 
 
 HER ELEVATED RANK, 
 
 THIS VOLUME 
 
 IS 
 
 MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, 
 
 BY 
 
 HER OBLIGED AND GRATEFUL SERVANT, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 a 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 I. BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY, .... 1 
 
 II. THE LOWLAND LASS AND THE HIGHLAND 
 
 LAD, 45 
 
 III. COWDENKNOWS, . * 67 
 
 IV. THE EWE-BUGHTS, 83 
 
 V. THE TOCHERED MAIDEN OF THE GLEN, . 97 
 
 VI. THE HARVEST-FIELD, 123 
 
 VII. THE BUSH ABO ON TRAQU AIR, . . . . 161 
 
 VIII. THE OLD MAID, 175 
 
 IX. LOGAN BRAES, 193 
 
 X. THE CHOICE, 211 
 
 XI. THE ROCKING, 233 
 
 XII. THE SNOW-STORM, 257 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The character of the Scottish Peasantry, 
 which the following Sketches are intended to 
 illustrate, has long been held in the highest 
 estimation, in spite of its somewhat rough and 
 unpromising exterior. Men of educated and 
 philosophical minds, whose habits or inclina- 
 tions induced them to come into close contact 
 with the inhabitants of our glens and moor- 
 lands, have uniformly acknowledged, that in the 
 straw-roofed cottage, and in the homely farm- 
 stead, they have often found a generous warmth 
 of heart, a depth and originality of feeling, 
 and a sound, vigorous, and manly intelligence, 
 altogether unapproached by the same class of 
 men in any other country. * 
 
 a2 
 
^ PREFACE. 
 
 It may perhaps be asked, what particular 
 claims the Author has to be credited on this 
 point, and what induced him to give these 
 Sketches to the world ? To the country he owes 
 his birth ; there he spent all the bright years of 
 infancy, boyhood, and early youth ; among ru- 
 ral scenes and rural manners, the capacities of 
 his heart were first called into action ; and in 
 the country it was, that while listening to the 
 words of experience, virtue, and religion, from 
 the lips of many a sage and manly peasant, his 
 mind acquired what must continue to be its own 
 peculiar modification of character. Circum- 
 stances, which it is unnecessary to relate, ha- 
 ving obliged him to mingle in other scenes, the 
 recollection of earlier and sweeter days, fre- 
 quently incited him to the perusal of pastoral 
 poetry ; from which, however, he failed to de- 
 rive all the pleasure which he had anticipated. 
 Far as it is from his thought or intention to dis- 
 sent from the long-established fame of Theo- 
 critus and Virgil, he must be allowed to say, 
 that not even their beautiful descriptions of 
 Sicilian and Arcadian scenery, presented to his 
 
PREFACE. Xl 
 
 mind a picture equal to his native mountains, 
 bright and balmy with the blooming heather ; 
 nor could his heart respond to the song of emu- 
 lous shepherds, praising their rural loves for 
 the prize of a lamb or a beechen bowl, as it had 
 often done to the less polished, but not less na- 
 tural and animated strains of Scotland's high- 
 souled and pure-hearted peasantry. Nor could 
 the Author bring himself to admit the asser- 
 tion of certain critics, that country life is, of 
 necessity, excluded from all the deeper workings 
 of passionate joy, sorrow, fear, hope, and love. 
 His own experience taught him that the reverse 
 was the truth ; and in the intervals of severer 
 studies, he attempted, in a Dramatic form, and 
 upon a principle of greater compass than is 
 usually adopted in Pastoral poetry, to produce 
 some sketches of Scottish rural life. It then 
 became an object of consideration whether these 
 might not be laid before the public, with some 
 reasonable prospect of answering a twofold 
 purpose : — giving to the other classes of society 
 representations of rural life and manners ; and 
 contributing to the perpetuation among the 
 
Xll PREFACE. 
 
 Scottish peasantry of that innate love of the 
 homes, the habits, occupations, and virtues of 
 their fathers, which makes them at once proud 
 of their Country, and their Country's pride. 
 
 With a view to ascertain this point, they 
 were shown to one of that class of men, whose 
 manners and characters they were intended to 
 illustrate ; — a man, who, for warmth of heart, 
 rectitude of principle, soundness of judgment, 
 and true Christian piety, has rarely been excel- 
 led, and to the sympathetic influence of whose 
 fervent and generous character, the Author 
 owns himself indebted for much of whatsoever 
 may be regarded as ardent and imaginative in 
 the following Sketches; and he cannot omit 
 this opportunity of giving to the memory of 
 William Wightman,* all the fame and perpe- 
 tuity which his feeble efi'orts may bestow. To 
 this man, so worthy and noble a representative 
 of his class, several of these Sketches were 
 shown; and by him was the Author strongly 
 advised to complete his plan, and lay before the 
 
 * Late farmer in the parish of Kirkgunzeon, Galloway. 
 
 6 
 
PREFACE. XIU 
 
 public, what he averred, from his own know- 
 ledge and experience, to be no overstrained or 
 fanciful representation of the Scottish peasantry. 
 Alas ! that instead of listening to his glowing 
 words, rich in Nature's own wisdom, it should 
 be now the Author's sad duty to pay this affec- 
 tionate, but unavailing tribute, to the memory 
 of departed worth ! 
 
 The Author was the more induced to adopt 
 the same opinion from the too apparent marks 
 of a growing change in the character of rural 
 life, which forced themselves upon his notice. 
 The rise in the value of all agricultural produce 
 during the late war has, by the sudden influx 
 of wealth which it occasioned, given birth to 
 many encroachments upon the manners and 
 customs of our fathers. Artificial luxuries, and 
 an affected refinement, have, in too many in- 
 stances, exerted a very baneful influence in 
 banishing virtuous simplicity without confer- 
 ring an equivalent advantage. 
 
 Many and powerful, also, are the methods at 
 present employed to promote the cultivation of 
 the mind, to the neglect, perhaps, of the heart. 
 
XIV PREFACE. 
 
 and all its feelings ; and yet these are the sources 
 of virtue or vice, of happiness or misery. The 
 deathless strains of Ramsay, and of Burns, have 
 long opposed, and still continue to oppose, a 
 mighty barrier to this swelling land-flood, which, 
 if it fertilizes the soil, effaces at the same time 
 the hoary landmarks of ancient virtue. Having 
 mentioned the names of these illustrious dead, 
 to which might be added a bright band of the 
 distinguished living, it is with the utmost diffi- 
 dence, that the Author ventures to express a 
 hope, that even his humbler efforts may like- 
 wise be instrumental in giving permanency to 
 our so much, and so justly admired, national 
 character : and if these Sketches, read by the 
 weary peasant in the gloaming, may contribute 
 to so desirable an object, he shall have gained 
 all that he could wish, and more than he dares 
 venture to hope. 
 
 It remains to offer a few observations with 
 regard to the Sketches themselves. For the sake 
 of variety, such incidents have been selected as 
 required considerable diversity of character and 
 sentiment. At the same time, to secure a strict 
 
PREFACE. XV 
 
 adherence to truth and nature, every Sketch is 
 founded on incidents which either have fallen 
 under the Author's own observation, or been 
 gleaned from received tradition, or well-known 
 pastoral songs. In those derived from the lat- 
 ter source, he has endeavoured to catch the cha- 
 racteristic spirit of the song ; and, at the same 
 time, feeling his subject already elevated above 
 the level of common life, he deemed it right to 
 adopt a more imaginative strain of thought and 
 language, yet, as he thinks, within the bounda- 
 ries of what is natural and becoming. Should it, 
 nevertheless, be still objected, that in those the 
 language is higher than can be supposed natu- 
 ral in the mouths of his characters : To this he 
 would reply, — that this in part must be admit- 
 ted; but not farther, than the same objection 
 might be urged against every possible species 
 of poetical composition. Kings and heroes, in 
 general, do not, any more than peasants, speak 
 the language of poetry. But admitting the ne- 
 cessity of idealising the thoughts and expres- 
 sions to a certain extent, it may not be difficult 
 to show, that there is not, in the present case, 
 
XVI PREFACE. 
 
 much force in the objection. It might be 
 enough to say, that every Scottish peasant can 
 read and understand his Bible, — can relish the 
 unapproachable beauty and sublimity of those 
 sacred hymns breathed by the Poet-King of 
 Israel, or the inspired Seer, whose lips were 
 touched with fire from off the altar. But this 
 is not all. On the same shelf with the sacred 
 volume, may be almost universally seen such 
 books as, Thomson's Seasons, Young's Night 
 Thoughts, and Milton's Paradise Lost. What 
 style must be regarded as too poetical for the 
 man who can enjoy the beauties of Thomson ;— 
 too abstract and artificial for him who can com- 
 prehend the subtlety and antithesis of Young; 
 — or too elevated for him, whose soul can soar 
 with the mighty Milton ? Such men, it may 
 be affirmed, are the bulk of the Scottish pea- 
 santry ; and to themselves the appeal is made, 
 to ratify or condemn the statement. 
 
I. 
 
 BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY. 
 
THE ROCKING. 247 
 
 What arts he used I may not say, 
 
 But when next he sung more blithe was the lay ; 
 
 And oft he repeated the closing line, 
 
 " The maid that I love, she has vow'd to be mine !'* 
 
 Jen, Ay, Johnnie I Who'd have thought to hear 
 from you 
 A song of such sly meaning ? On my word, 
 Some folk are ill to fathom ! 
 
 John, Sm'ely, lass. 
 
 You do not think I'm made of fish ! I know 
 The arch wiles of sweet woman ; and I love 
 Her bashfulness, half nature, and half art. 
 
 Arch. Oh ! most of art I Well know they that 
 they are 
 Most charming, when most sly and petulant. 
 But Nancy, lass, 'tis your time next. 
 
 Nan, My time ? 
 
 I cannot sing I Will some one sing for me ? 
 
 Gudem, No ! You must sing yourself, or tell a 
 tale, 
 Or speak a speech, or to the well. No help. 
 
 Nan. You know I cannot sing I 
 
 Jen, I know you can— 
 
 Or croon, at least I So try ! 
 
 Nan. Well, if I must ! — 
 
 Though well I know you'll mock my tuneless 
 voice. 
 
BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY. 
 
 [The celebrated Bessy Bell and Mary Gray are buried on the banks of 
 the Almond, near Lednoch (modernised into Lynedoeh). The common tra- 
 dition is, that the father of the former was laird of Kinvaid, in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Lynedoeh, and the father of the latter, laird of Lynedoeh ; 
 that these two young ladies were both very handsome, and a most intimate 
 friendship subsisted between them ; that while Miss Bell was on a visit to 
 Miss Gray, the plague broke out in the year 1666, in order to avoid which 
 they built themselves a bower about three quarters of a mile west from Lyne- 
 doeh, in a very retired and romantic place, called Burnbraes, on the side 
 of Brauchie-bum. Here they lived for some time ; but the plague raging 
 with great fury, they caught the infection, it is said, from a young gentle- 
 man who was in love with them both, and here they died. Their burial- 
 place is about half a mile west from the present house of Lynedoeh. 
 
 Muse's Threnodie, Perth, 1774.] 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Lednoch House. (Spriti^.) 
 
 Bessy Bell. Mary Gray. 
 
 M, Gray, Welcome to Lednoch ! my sweet sister- 
 friend ! 
 Thrice welcome to my heart. 
 
 B, Bell My dearest Mary I 
 
 Clasp'd in your arms, the heaving of my bosom 
 May tell my joy ; hut words and thanks are feeble. 
 31. Gray. Thou dear kind creatui'e ! but we two 
 have known 
 
THE ROCKING. 249 
 
 My heart is sick, mine ee is dim— . 
 
 I come, my love ! I come 
 To share thy peaceful bed of rest ;— , 
 
 Thy calm and silent home !" 
 
 John, You had no need to be so shy : you've done 
 Great justice to youi' song ; and to say that, 
 Is to give no slight praise. 
 
 Nan, Nay, do not praise 
 
 The singer for the song's sake : 'Tis enough 
 That it has served my tui-n. 
 
 Arch, It seems to be 
 
 The very sister of my Ringlet song, 
 Knovr ye aught of its story ? 
 
 Nan. Not a word. 
 
 I learnt it from old Alice of the glen, 
 And when I ask'd its story, she would sigh, 
 And shake her head, but answer gave she none. 
 
 Gudem, Betty, my lass, 'tis come to you at last. 
 I hope to hear youi* voice now : — Not a word 
 Has cross'd your lips yet, I believe ; but now 
 You must say something. 
 
 Bet, Well, gudeman, I'll try. 
 
 And for my silence, that can be no faidt ! 
 For there are some, not very far to seek, 
 Would rather meet, or I'm mistaken much, 
 Great listeners than great talkers. 
 
 Gudem, Say you, lass I 
 
 Upon my word, you're a right cunning one 
 For observation ! — But your song. 
 
AND MARY GRAY. 3 
 
 To sadden, and to soften all my heart, 
 Till I shall sigh like a young Zephyr ; weep 
 Like the perpetual tricklings that distil 
 Down mossy rocks, from ever-during springs ? 
 Oh, come ! I've caught the spirit, I shall dote, 
 Ere long, on deep, romantic solitude. 
 
 B, Bell. You airy jester ! Mock it as you will, 
 I shall not love the beautiful retreats 
 Of wildly-graceful Nature e'er the less ; 
 Nor listen with less pleasure to a tale 
 Of artless truth, fresh from the guileless heart, 
 Through dread of your light laughter. 
 
 M, Gray. 'Tisnojest: 
 
 I'm more than half converted to your taste, — 
 In verity I am. There only wants 
 A very, very little more of life. 
 Of mirth, and of variety, to make 
 A rural life quite charming. 
 
 B. Bell. I am glad 
 
 That daily more and more our likings seem 
 To meet and blend ; but yet I would not wish 
 Them quite alike in all things ; 'twere to lose 
 Variety of shading in one broad 
 And dull monotony. But lo I here comes 
 Your lover, Drummond. 
 
 M. Gray. Nay, your lover too ! 
 
 B. Bell. Well say our lover then ; though, for my 
 part, 
 I have not seen him for — many a long day. 
 
 A 2 
 
THE ROCKING. 251 
 
 Gudein. Oh ! I must be excused. My part, you 
 know, 
 Is to keep others to their duty ; — that 
 If I have done, I've done my part. 
 
 Arch, Gudeman ! 
 
 O, fy, gudeman I Is that the way you treat 
 Youi' guests ? The country-side will rmg 
 How the Gudeman of Hollinhraes is just 
 A perfect spoil-sport ! 
 
 Gudem. That shall never be ! 
 
 I'll try and hammer out a tale. 
 
 A TALE OF HALLOWEEN. 
 
 There was a lass — a bold and forward lass, — - 
 Ready with tongue and hand ; nothing she fear'd, 
 Nothing regarded : — Tales of fairies, ghosts, 
 And all such things were her derision ; yet, 
 Strange though it seem, eager she was to try 
 All charms, spells, omens, — all that weak minds think 
 Predictive of the future. True, indeed. 
 She never di'eamt of prying into fate 
 On any point but marriage ; and in that 
 She did but what most women long to do, 
 So far as boldness leads them. Well, it chanced 
 When Halloween came round, after some hours 
 Of sport and pastime held among the rest, 
 That she resolved to try one darker charm, — 
 One which excludes companionship. 'Twas thus : 
 Alone she went to find a running stream 
 
AND MARY GRAY. 7 
 
 Is mean, unworthy, even beneath contempt, 
 Unutterably valueless ? 
 
 Drum, Not so ! 
 
 My very spirit glories in the power 
 And fervency of true, pure, generous love. 
 But what had I of love e'er known or dreamt, 
 Had I ne'er heard thy low and gentle voice ; 
 Ne'er seen the blue depth of thy thoughtful eye, 
 Breathing and beaming tenderest purity ? 
 Or had not Mary Gray's light-tripping tongue, 
 Dark locks, keen eye, and bounding, fawn-like form, 
 Fill'd all my soul with visions of bright beauty ? 
 Love is a spiritual philosophy ; 
 But woman is the glorious page where man 
 Must study, would he learn that heavenly lore. 
 
 M, Gray. What say you, sister-friend, are we 
 not beat ? — \_Aside to B. BelL 
 
 And do you think to take om* credulous ears 
 With flattery, that most delicious poison ? 
 That were to steal a victory. 
 
 Drum. Such a triumpli 
 
 I never di'eamt of gaining ; for no man 
 Flatters, except he have some end in view 
 Which truth would fail to gain ; or think himself 
 Vastly superior to the empty thing 
 He flatters and deludes — unworthy motives I — 
 Motives, I ween, which never can be mine. 
 
 M. Gray. Well, we'll believe thou art a lover still, 
 A true romantic lover ; one whose heart 
 Asks no requital, thinks not of itself, 
 Loves merely for the pleasure of so loving. 
 
THE ROCKING. 253 
 
 My soul," said he, " felt all the agonies 
 
 And tortures of the danin'd ! Thou wicked woman ! 
 
 This evil-omen'd knife, this very hour. 
 
 The vision's dark hint shall fulfil !" He said, 
 
 And stabb'd her to the heart. She died ; and he 
 
 Went raving mad ! 
 
 (^During this tale Johnny and Nanny, and 
 Archy and Jenny, have been whispering 
 apart.) 
 Will. 'Tis a strange tale, gudeman I — 
 
 And surely more incredible than mine. 
 
 Gudem. I know not that : I do not vouch its 
 truth ; — 
 But this I think, that those who rashly try 
 To tamper with the Evil One, can meet 
 Nothing but evil. O I 'tis very wrong 
 To ask, even but in jest, for aid from him, 
 Who always strives to work our ruin ! 
 
 Gudeiv. Come, 
 
 It's getting late ; lasses leave off your work. 
 Nanny, see all things right. Good night t'ye, lads. 
 Arch. Good night, gudewife. Good night, gude- 
 man. Come, Bess, 
 Look for your plaid : 'tis time we were at home : 
 We must be up before the skreigh of day 
 To-morrow for the mill. A kind good night 
 To all that stay. 
 
 Je7i. Well home to all that go I 
 
 ^Exeunt 
 
AND MARY GRAY. 9 
 
 To them no strong untainted mountain gale 
 Comes, bearing on its wing the dews of life ; 
 No lark cai'eering near the gates of mom 
 Comes, like a sweet-tongued messenger, to tell 
 Of Heaven's returning love and clemency ; 
 Even the bright skies hang lurid o'er their heads. 
 Oh ! how unlike the dome of stainless blue 
 Gilded with sunbeams, smiling over us, 
 With love and beauty most magnificent ! 
 Poor wretches ! Death is awful ! but to die 
 In such a scene, where earth is one huge grave, 
 The air a pestilence, and heaven's own brow 
 Murky and scowling 'tis too horrible I 
 
 Drum, You paint it strongly ! Yet if even that 
 were 
 The worst, it might be borne. 
 
 JB. Bell. What can be worse ? 
 
 Drum. Man's heart is worse. Despair's foul de- 
 mon-wing 
 Has flapp'd the feeble lamp of Conscience dark, 
 Or utterly extinguish'd it. With look 
 Malign, man eyes askance his fellow-man : 
 With hollow cheek, and dim and sunken eyes. 
 That glimmer in their sockets, the gaunt form 
 Prowls round the precincts of the yawning grave, 
 And robs the dead ; or, with lean, trembling hand, 
 Murders an inch of life, and gripes the gold, 
 And, while he hugs his horrid booty, dies. 
 All sweet affinities, all tender bonds — 
 Affection, love, relationship — all, all, 
 Have fled from the polluted scene. The mother 
 
THE ROCKING. 255 
 
 Arch. In truth, gudeman, I scarce can tell ! We 
 seem 
 Playing at hide-and-seek ! I had a tryst 
 With my dear Jenny ; and, as I may guess, 
 Jolmny and Nanny had a like tryst set : 
 We knew not of each other ; and like fools, 
 Here are we both, cuiF'd, worried, and discover'd I 
 
 Gudem, Well, this beats all — Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Gudew. This is no joke. 
 
 Lads, say, in sober truth, what want ye here ? 
 If nought dishonourable, come not thus 
 At such untimely hours, by stealth, to break 
 A decent family's repose, and raise 
 The country's clash about my daughters ! Speak, 
 And tell us what ye mean ? 
 
 John. For mine own part, 
 
 I mean nought, wish nought, but my Nanny's hand 
 In honourable marriage. 
 
 Arch, And for me, 
 
 I wish no less. Only I thought it best 
 To win the daughter's own consent before 
 I ask'd the mother's leave. Now, let me beg 
 That I may woo your daughter. 
 
 Gudem, Though we have 
 
 Reason to be offended — yet I think 
 Your fault may be forgiven. Lasses, you — 
 What say ye for yom'selves ? — 
 
 Jen. Dear father, since 
 
 You speak so frankly, I shall be as frank. 
 
AND MARY GRAY. II 
 
 Is pale and haggard, red and wild her eyes. 
 
 In populous cities, where the mingled tide 
 
 Of human life its fullest billow rolls. 
 
 There hugest Ruin stalks, there reigns Dismay 
 
 With all her frenzied train. Dunedin fair, 
 
 Trembles upon her rocky throne; Dundee 
 
 Mourns her lost thousands ; ancient Perth groans 
 
 deep. 
 As frequent funerals blacken o'er her streets : 
 Green youth, strong manhood, drooping age, alike 
 Betake them to the mountain solitudes. 
 And distant glens, in headlong, fearful flight. 
 There hoping to escape the blue destruction. — 
 And now, charged with this tale of woe, I come 
 To warn you, and to speed you hence, away 
 To some remote retirement, where the gale, 
 For ever freshen'd by the breezy speed 
 Of some clear rushing stream, may yet repel 
 The dii'e contagion, till the sultry heats 
 Of Summer have departed, and the keen 
 And vigorous winds of Winter shall arise 
 To sweep afar the noxious exhalations, 
 And pour a healthful renovating flood 
 Of life, through the glad air. 
 
 M. Gray. What can we do ? 
 
 Whither betake us ? Wliither can we go ? 
 Or why go any where ? We cannot fly 
 A foe that dwells in Heaven's own blessed air, 
 And kills us with a breath ! Let us even here 
 Await our doom. 
 
XII. 
 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 y2 
 
AND MARY GRAY. 13 
 
 B. BelL And there, my Mary, 
 
 How gladly could I live and die with thee ! 
 Let us go thither ! 
 
 Drum. Let it be my care 
 
 To build for you, sweet friends, a rural bower, 
 Wliere in calm safety you may dweU, nor dread 
 The breathing of the death-blight. To my task, 
 All light in hope, I go ; soon to retiu'n 
 And lead you to a sweet, secure abode. [_Exeu7iL 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The JBower, 
 
 Bessy Bell. Mary Gray. 
 
 M, Gray, Yes, you are right, dear Bessy ! all the 
 scenes 
 Of gayest mirth and highest splendour ne'er 
 Could fill the soul mth such a perfect joy 
 As do the mild, the quiet beauties, of 
 This gentle solitude. 
 
 B, BelL How glad am 1 
 
 To hear you say so ! And how happy you 
 Thus to have dpen'd freely all your bosom 
 To the bland influence of peaceful natm-e. 
 Our common mother, and our best instructress ! 
 
 M. Gray, I can believe it ; for I feel within 
 My heart a thousand large capacities 
 For happiness, that I had never else 
 
 B 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 SCENE L 
 
 The Moor. {Advanced Winter^ 
 
 Willie and Charlie, 
 
 Wil, Charlie ! Wliere are ye, Charlie ? Rest a 
 hit! 
 I cannot move another step ! 
 
 Char. Cheer uj) ! 
 
 We'll soon he tlii^ough the deepest wreath, and then 
 The worst is past. 
 
 Wil, Where are we ? Not a foot 
 
 Of the wild waste is like itself ; the hills 
 Are scoop'd and rounded into thousand shapes 
 They never were before ; the very streams 
 Are buried fifty fathoms deep ; the glens 
 Smooth'd up by the white ruin. Lost, oh lost ! 
 
AND MARY GRAY. 15 
 
 As there exists between his mind and yours, 
 Must needs ensui'e attachment. 
 
 B. BelL Not so sure : 
 
 And for that very reason ; for there is 
 A certain dissimilitude required 
 To make a complete harmony of minds, 
 As in all other things. And tell me, Mary, 
 Are not we two, think you, dearer friends 
 That, though on all points of deep serious import 
 We think and feel alike, the lighter shades. 
 That form the outlines of the character. 
 Are strikingly contrasted ? 
 
 M. Gray, 'Tis most true : 
 
 Yet he's so kind, so amiable, you cannot 
 Dislike him sure. 
 
 B. BelL Dislike him, Mary ! no : 
 
 I prize him as a more than friend, — a brother I 
 We are so similar, I ever feel 
 As if there Were some tie of undefined 
 But close relationship, forbidding love. 
 Yet giving something dearer far than friendship. 
 
 M. Gray. 'Tis a strange feeling ! 
 
 B. Bell. 'Tis, perhaps ; but yet 
 
 Not the less true, and strong, and permanent. 
 But tell me, since there cannot be with you 
 Such a too-closely-kindred sympathy 
 Of mind, do not you love him? 
 
 M. Gray. Why, T think,— 
 
 I'm almost sure, — I do not. Yet I'm sure 
 I would not lose his friendship for the world. 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 261 
 
 WiL Rest I No, let us move on ! Alas ! I feel 
 Weak, very weak ! Here must I stay and die ! 
 
 Cha?\ But did your little Fanny seem indeed 
 Better this morning ? 
 
 WiL Fanny I my dear child ! 
 
 Yes, she is better ! While my Lucy sought 
 My plaid, I knelt beside her bed, and gazed 
 On the sweet infant's face. Her brow was calm, — 
 Pale, but quite calm ; her eyes were closed ; but life 
 Shone fresh through tlieir transparent coverings ; 
 Her cheek was peaceful, and her gentle breath 
 Raised her fair bosom mildly, healthfully, — 
 No pain disturbing her soft sleep : — I touch'd 
 With lightest kiss her silent lip, and thank'd 
 The gracious Being, who alone can give 
 Repose to suifering mortals ! Shall we yet 
 Meet, and together praise him ? O ! no, no ! 
 My limbs are powerless, and my heart is sick ! 
 Charlie, what can we do ? 
 
 Char. Trust in that voice 
 
 That stills the tempest ! — in that mighty hand 
 That snatch'd his doubting follower from the wave I 
 And strong in him go forth, sui'mounting all 
 Our present dangers ! 
 
 WiL Yes, in him I trust 
 
 For future bliss, but not for longer life. 
 For I bethink me now, that yesterday, 
 About this very hour, — my soul had been 
 Sad for my Fanny's illness, — while I sat 
 And eyed tJie far horizon's verge, where glared 
 
AND MARY GRAY. 17 
 
 As we love him, — 'tis a fraternal passion ; 
 At least I hope so. 
 
 M. Gray, Well, he'll soon be here, 
 
 And we can wind him, till insensibly 
 He shall unfold the secret of his heart ; 
 Else are we no true women. 
 
 B. Bell, We may try : 
 
 Meanwhile, shall we break off our walk ? the bank 
 Receives the noon-tide sun so fervidly, 
 'Twere better to betake us to our bower 
 Till lengthen'd shadows fling their mantle cool 
 Across the greensward ; and the conscious flowers 
 Fold up their blossoms, and decline their heads, 
 To sleep among the gentle, freshening dews, 
 Till dawn and the lark's song shall bid them wake. 
 
 [_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The Banks of Brauchie Burn, a short distance from 
 the Bower. (^Evening.) 
 
 Drummond alo7ie. 
 
 Drum. How very still and beautiful ! Sm'e Health 
 Must spread her mantle o'er this lovely glen, 
 Sheltering it still from every evil breath 
 Of rank contagion. If a spot there be 
 
 b2 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 263 
 
 SCENE II. 
 The Farm-house. 
 The GuDEMAN — The Minister. 
 
 Min, 'Twas well that I was near youi' house, 
 gucleman, 
 When this wild wind began ! I never could 
 Have found my way across the pathless moor, 
 Through this thick- whirling mass of drifting snow. 
 
 Gudem, It was indeed, sir. But you're very wrong 
 To venture out so far afield, in such 
 Rough winter weather ! 
 
 Min. When my duty calls 
 
 'Tis mine to follow ; and to leave the rest 
 To the wise ordering of Providence. 
 
 Gudem. But do you think, sir, every thing we do, 
 And every thing that happens us, is ruled 
 By Providence for some wise end ? 
 
 Min. I do. 
 
 Most certainly ; and that for pui'poses 
 Both wise and merciful I 
 
 Gudem. But some slight things, 
 
 Some accidents — 
 
 Min. No ! nothing can be slight, 
 
 Nor accidental ! We cannot foresee 
 The bearing of events ; but, if we could, 
 
AND MARY GRAY. 19 
 
 How fare you, and how pass the hours along ? 
 Slowly and heavily, or wing'd with pleasure ? 
 
 M, Gray, Mark'st thou that, Bessy?. This ro- 
 mantic youth 
 Commenced in polish'd terms a fair address ; 
 His high-aspiring muse soar'd to the skies, 
 But, lo ! unahle to maintain her flight, 
 Soon stoops her feeble wing. 
 
 B. Bell, Fie, Drummond, fie ! 
 
 I never could have thought that you would thus 
 Have unadvisedly betray'd the cause 
 Of bright romance. Redeem your honour, sir ! 
 Regain the rose-buds from your chaplet reft. 
 Or live a craven knight. 
 
 Drum, So spoke the Bruce, 
 
 Nor did he speak in vain. I thank thee. Lady ! 
 My vantage-ground already is recover' d, 
 And victory must be mine. Yes, my fair foe ! 
 You might, and justly, ridicule the taste 
 That should attempt to people Scotia's glens 
 With Nymphs and Goddesses, the bright creation 
 Of Grecian poesy : yet not the less 
 Yield I the full strong credence of my mind, 
 And all the deepest feelings of my heart, 
 Willingly to that sacred influence 
 Which heartless worldlings, scoffing, term romantic. 
 
 M. Gray. Suppose me then a disputant, or rather 
 Suppose me a disciple, — pray what is. 
 In origin and bearing, this romance 
 Which you esteem so highly ? 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 265 
 
 Enter Charlie. 
 
 Well, how fend the flocks ? — 
 I fear right badly. Silent ! What is wrong ? — 
 How wild he looks I He cannot speak ! Good Heaven! 
 Some dreadful thing has happen'd ! Where is Willie ? 
 Char, He's— O ! Gudeman ! he's lost ! He'll die I 
 
 Help, help I 
 Gudem. Where is he ? Wliere ? How can we 
 
 help ? Speak, speak ! — 
 Char, He's wreathed by this time in the snow ! — 
 I've left 
 His own dog, Burly, with him. Haste, make haste I 
 I'll lead you to the spot : get help to bear 
 Him home ! We yet may save his life ! Haste, haste ! 
 O I his poor family ! 
 
 Gudem. Come, let us all 
 
 Speed to his rescue. 
 
 Min, Lo, the wind abates ! 
 
 I'll hie me to his cottage. Now, gudeman, 
 Behold the errand which my Master has 
 Sent me upon ! To pom* the balm of hope 
 And comfort on the stricken mourner's soul. 
 O ! He is ever-merciful, even when 
 His chastening hand is heavy. 
 
 \_Exeunt, 
 
AND MARY GRAY. 21 
 
 A holy rapture rises in his breast, 
 
 And glows along each nerve, till his whole frame 
 
 Feels like a flower expanding in the sun ! 
 
 This is romantic I — ^be it so I — If, then, 
 
 He scarce can bear to brush the diamond dews 
 
 From the green grass, and picks his wary steps 
 
 Lest he should crush the wild-flower, could he bear, 
 
 In deed, or word, or thought, to do foul wrong 
 
 To man, his mortal brother ? When the sun 
 
 Rides high in the mid-heaven, in some deep glen, 
 
 Where rocks project, and mossy caverns yaAvn, 
 
 Through tangling brushwood all alone he strays, 
 
 Listening the brawlings of the rippling brook, 
 
 Mix'd with the intermittent song of birds 
 
 Hid in their shady covert ; o'er his mind 
 
 Light falls the veily calm of purest peace, — 
 
 (Peace with his own soul and with all the world,) 
 
 And love, even to its least existencies — 
 
 Sweet singing birds, trees with their bloomy boughs,. 
 
 And that fair populace, by Natui-e's hand 
 
 In lavish charms array'd, the flowery tribe — 
 
 Till his heart heaves involuntary sighs 
 
 Of gratitude to that benignant Power 
 
 That placed him in a world so beautiful. 
 
 This, too, is all romantic ! — be it so I 
 
 Can he whose bosom pants with the excess 
 
 Of all-refining sensibilities, 
 
 Can he stoop from the lofty eminence 
 
 Of friendship with the universal Mother, 
 
 Cramp all his finer feelings, and imprison 
 
22 BESSY BELL 
 
 His soul in that dark dungeon Self^ for all 
 
 The little paltry gains that worldlings toil for ?— 
 
 Or see him when the humid hand of Even 
 
 Casts wide her shadowy mantle o'er the plain, 
 
 Drawing its folds gradually up the hills, 
 
 As day's departing lustre fades away, 
 
 And dews, soft as an infant's evening prayer 
 
 When by her tender mother's side she kneels, 
 
 Fill all the air with sense of gentler life. 
 
 Even till a sympathetic moisture floats 
 
 Over the silent wanderer's pensive eye I 
 
 And as the night comes on, and star by star 
 
 Enkindles its eternal lamp on high. 
 
 Beaconing the heavenward traveller to the home 
 
 Of everlasting peace, and bliss, and love : 
 
 Oh ! how the world, and all its mean pursuits. 
 
 Its empty pleasures, and debasing passions. 
 
 Sink into utter insignificance. 
 
 Till the enlarged soul spurns earthly ties. 
 
 And with seraphic ardoiu* re-asserts 
 
 Its heavenly birth, and glorious destiny ! 
 
 Even this is term'd romantic ! — poor despite 
 
 That grovelling minds display, scoffing in vain 
 
 At pure and raptm-ous delights, far, far 
 
 Beyond their feeble comprehension ! Go, 
 
 Ye poor despisers of mysterious nature. 
 
 And hide your littleness ! Go, drudge and moil 
 
 For veriest trash ! Go, herd among the crowd 
 
 Of Mammon's slaves ! Let not yom- steps be fomid 
 
 Insulting the majestic solitudes. 
 
AND MARY GRAY. 23 
 
 Wliere imcontaminated minds yet hold 
 Lofty and solemn converse — through the love, 
 The beauty, and the grandeur which pervade 
 And o'er-inform the universe — with Him 
 The Omnipotent, All-merciful Creator ! — 
 Forgive me, ladies, if enthusiasm 
 Have carried me too far. 
 
 B. BelL No, Drummond, no I 
 
 Forgiveness ! Om- warm thanks are yoiu* just meed ! 
 
 M. Gray. I must become — I am, a willing convert 
 To such a glorious and ennobling creed. 
 But, tell me, Drmnmond, how would you defend 
 That strong attacliment to particular scenes 
 Which forms no trivial part of the romantic ? 
 
 Drum. It scarcely needs defence. — It is a bond 
 Between the living and the dead — a spell 
 Evoking all of lovely, good, and great, 
 That e'er have cast a grace, a dignity, 
 A glory all-imperishable, o'er 
 
 The scenes that gave them birth, or saAV their deeds : 
 And when we tread that hallow'd ground, our souls, 
 Kindling, acquire the sacred inspiration. 
 Making their virtues ours. Breathes there a man 
 Whose soul can harbour villainous intents 
 Against sweet maiden-innocence, while near 
 The grave where lies the young, the beautiful. 
 The famed in tender song ? Or who could dare. 
 With lawless purpose, or hands stain' d in guilt, 
 To violate the sanctity which reigns 
 Where calmly sleeps the grey-hair'd patriarch ? 
 
24 BESSY IlELL 
 
 And who can tread the memorable fields, 
 
 Where Freedom's battle has been fought and won, 
 
 Nor feel thy mighty spirit, Independence, 
 
 Great in his bosom ? Is there — can there be, 
 
 A Scot who can behold red Luncarty, 
 
 Nor think he sees the hoary tumuli 
 
 Teem with the shades of his great ancestors ? 
 
 Or who can steal, with sneaking, craven foot. 
 
 O'er ground that echoed once the undaunted tread 
 
 Of Wallace, Liberty's own chosen son ? 
 
 No I while we breathe the air that proudly waved 
 
 Old Scotia's banner on thy fated field. 
 
 Triumphant Bannockburn ! we must be free ! — 
 
 Thus, then, my fair disciple, I defend 
 
 The strong attachment to pai'ticular scenes : 
 
 And these, I trust, will still accumulate, 
 
 Speeding our country on her high career, 
 
 Ever the foremost in the mai'ch divine 
 
 Of glorious deed and lofty sentiment. 
 
 B, Bell. What tliink you now of the romantic, 
 Mary ? 
 
 M. Gray. That my endeavom* it shall daily be 
 Still deeper to imbibe its noble spirit. 
 
 Drum. I'm glad to hear you say so. Well I know 
 'Twill people all yom- lonely solitude 
 Witli an infinity of loveliest forms, 
 Embodied joys, visions ethereal, 
 Making it quite a paradise. 
 
 M. Gray, \ h^pe 
 
AND MARY GRAY. 25 
 
 it will be so. But meanwhile come with us 
 And share such comforts as it can aJflPord. 
 
 Drum, I thank you : but just now that may not be ; 
 A most important duty calls me hence. 
 
 M, Gray. Attend youi* duties certainly : but yet, 
 If I might hint, a young man often hides 
 Under that name what pleasure dictated. — 
 Wliat, if some lady-faii' expects her lover ? 
 
 Drum, You do not, and you cannot think so ! Now, 
 When death is stalking o'er the prostrate land, 
 Reveal'd in all his terrors, 'tis no time 
 For the light dalliance, and gay gallantries, 
 Misnamed by worldlings, love. Besides, my heart 
 Has long been prescient of that destiny 
 Which now it feels approaching : — fate will have 
 Its course, — and I may love, but never can 
 My heart enjoy the heaven of mutual love. 
 
 B, Bell. You bode too darkly : sm-e there may be 
 found 
 Some worthy of youi' love, and not unwilling 
 To meet it with a mutual flame. 
 
 Drum. No, no I 
 
 I feel that may not be I 
 
 M. Gray. Why may it not ? 
 
 I fear you are too difficult to please. 
 Pray now describe to us what you would wish 
 In her whom you would honoiu* with your love. 
 
 Drum. How shall I pictui*e female excellence ? 
 (For such each lover deems the fair he loves.) 
 
 c 
 
26 BESSY BELL 
 
 An eye that speaks and sparkles full of soul , 
 Or one whose softer light shows a far depth 
 Of tenderest, purest feelings : — locks that float 
 Like clouds of midnight o'er a brow like mom , 
 Or like the golden radiance of the west 
 Streaming around the setting sun : — a form 
 Tall, stately, queen-like in its elegance ; 
 Or one of light and fairy gracefulness : — 
 A tongue whose silver tones give ready life 
 To the bright music of a lively mind ; 
 Or one that, like an echo to the soul. 
 Breathes soft and low its mild and thoughtful words : 
 These charms and qualities in peerless union, 
 Or either, were the other all imknown, 
 Would meet my amplest wish, and ever reign 
 In fullest sovereignty, my bosom's Queen. 
 
 B, Sell, Just as I thought ; he has described us 
 both, 
 A little overcharged, I own, but yet 
 The general outline is distinct enough. 
 
 (Aside to M, Gray.) 
 Nay, Drummond, even I must blame such warmth 
 Of colouring : You must never hope to meet 
 Such an assemblage of most rare endoTVTnents 
 Combined in one frail mortal. — And say, why 
 Is still yom- pictm-e double ? 
 
 Drum. 'Tis because 
 
 As gay or pensive feelings sway my mind, 
 So reigns one or the other in my heart : 
 And were it mine to fix my final choice 
 
AND MARY GRAY. 27 
 
 Upon the one, and to reject the other, 
 Pei'plexity extreme would wring my soul. 
 
 M, Gray. Be thankful, then, that fate commise- 
 rates 
 Youi' fickleness, and does not force such choice. 
 Can you come with us yet ? Or does your duty 
 Withhold you still ? 
 
 Drum, More urgent grow its calls. 
 
 I must, howe'er unwillingly, depart. 
 
 B. Bell, I half may guess the cause. No little part 
 Of these your duties is your care for us. 
 Before you go, permit me to declare, 
 That though in light strain we have idly talk'd, 
 Yet not the less feel we our weighty debt 
 Of gratitude to you for all your kindness ; 
 And not the less long we to hear that health 
 Has flung again its gladdening banner free, 
 To all the winds of our dear native land. 
 Oh ! quickly then return, and may you bring 
 With you glad tidings of the general weal I 
 
 Drum. I hope I sliall do so I Adieu, sweet ladies ! 
 
 Doth, Adieu, dear friend I may Providence pro- 
 tect you ! 
 
 \_Exit Drummond, 
 
 M, Gray, What ought we now to do ? 'Tis but 
 too plain. 
 As you sm-mised, that Drummond loves us both. 
 
 B. Bell. Even as we have done formerly, — to him 
 And to each other be true sisters still ; 
 While his pure mind and delicate regard, 
 
28 BESSY BELL 
 
 I know, will make him still to us a brother. 
 Tlius shall we, dm-ing our retirement, taste 
 The joys of a most generous affection ; 
 And if we live to witness better days, 
 Heaven will not, we may trust, forsake us then, 
 But still direct om* conduct for the best. 
 
 M. Gray. Such be oui' rule of acting, then : — a rule 
 Not more romantic than 'tis rational. 
 But lo, tlie dews fall heavy ; every flower 
 And every blade of grass is deeply wet — 
 I fear the chilly damp may do you harm : — 
 Come, let us wend to our lone Hermitage. 
 
 B. Bell. Say rather, om' delightful Maiden-Bower ! 
 
 \_Exeunt 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 The mterior of the Bower. {JSIoming^ 
 Bessy Bell. Mary Gray. 
 
 M. Gray. Come, will you take a walk this lovely 
 morning ? 
 I hear the mavis in the underwood, 
 On Almond's banks, pom-ing his mellow lay 
 In richest modulation ; 'tis a call 
 'Gainst which you surely will not close your ear. 
 
 B. Bell. Well as I love to hear the mavis sing, 
 
AND MARY GRAY. 29 
 
 Cheering his brooding mate, not at this time 
 Shall I seek other pleasure. 
 
 M. Gray. Wherefore not ? 
 
 You are a truant to romance ! Come, come, 
 You shall not thus escape me, you must come. 
 
 B, Bell, Sweet Mary, cease ; my mind is not on 
 mirth. 
 When, think you, may we look for Drummond here ? 
 Would he were come I 
 
 M. Gray, Why so ? 
 
 J5. Bell. Because there has 
 
 Risen on my mind a sense of exigence 
 Reqiuring my return home to Kinvaid 
 Upon the instant. 
 
 M. Gray. Sure you jest ! yet no ; — 
 
 There lurks no hidden mirth within your eyes — 
 Mirth ! they are smik and lustreless ! Alas ! 
 My sister-friend, I fear you are not well' ! 
 
 B. Bell. Dismiss your fears. 'Tis but anxiety 
 That dims mine eye. Would I were at Kinvaid ! 
 
 M. Gray. Anxiety ? and why ? Now solemnly 
 Do I entreat you, by the memory 
 Of all our faith and love, tell me the truth ! 
 Are you indeed unwell ? 
 
 B. Bell. Perhaps I am 
 
 A little so ; a walk may do me good. 
 
 M. Gray. Why then not walk with me ? 
 
 B. Bell. Because, my Mary, 
 
 Drummond is abler to support my steps 
 Should I grow weary. 
 
 c 2 
 
30 BESSY BELL 
 
 M. Gray. Ah ! it will not do ; 
 
 That forced and melancholy smile, and these 
 Half-playfiil words so feebly murmur'd out, 
 Divulge your secret.— Yes, I know it all. 
 You think that you have caught the plague-infection, 
 And lest it seize me too, you would depart 
 To die untended and alone. Is this 
 The truth ? You know it is. 
 
 B. Bell. Thus tenderly 
 
 Assail'd by true affection's warm appeal, 
 I shall not now dissemble. I must own 
 I'm ill at ease ; and it is my intent. 
 Ere the disease have wither'd all my strength. 
 To hie me hence. Why should I cause your death ? 
 M. Gray. Then hear me ! Whatsoe'er yom- fate, 
 no power 
 But death itself shall tear you from my heart ! 
 And should disease with her cold blighting hand 
 Gripe yom' kind heart, and shroud yom' gentle brow, 
 I'll tend you as a mother tends her child, 
 Her first-born and her only. Have we been 
 Sisters in love, while o'er us shone the sim 
 Of glad prosperity, and shall we shrink 
 Coldly asunder when the adverse clouds 
 Of darkening trouble lower ? It shall not be. 
 
 B. Bell. Dear Mary, sister of my soul ! I yield : 
 And though I dread tliy danger, yet I ow^l 
 Such proofs of deep, disinterested love 
 Are manna to my soul. Yet, oh ! 'tis hard 
 
AND MARY GRAY. 31 
 
 To leave tliec, as I feel I must, and soon, 
 
 Beloved as thou art. 
 
 M. Gray, Nay, say not so ! 
 
 Come with me now, and walk a little space — 
 
 The fresh air will revive you. 
 
 B. Bell. Never, Mary ! 
 
 The fresh, free air, the flowers upon the fields, 
 
 The song of birds, the music of clear brooks. 
 
 The mighty voice of winds, the boundless cope 
 
 Of the blue sky, the glorious light of day, 
 
 No more can kindle up the ecstatic fires 
 
 Of fervency, and hope, and love in me, 
 
 As they were wont, till the strong rapture cast 
 
 The sense of sickness from my languid frame — 
 
 The hand of death is on me. 
 
 M. Gray. Droop not yet ! 
 
 One effort more, and you may yet throw off 
 This fit of faintness. 
 
 B. Bell. Mary, lay me down, 
 
 And place my head that I may see the light, 
 And feast my dying eyes, while they wax dim. 
 With a few glimpses more of lovely Natm-e. 
 Now I am easier ! thank you, my sweet friend ; 
 And leave me for a little : — there are thoughts 
 And communings between the soul and Him 
 Who gave it and recalls, that have their com'se 
 Freest in utter solitude. Meanwhile 
 The open air will do you good. 
 
 ( While Mary retires to another jmrt of the cot- 
 tage, out of her sight, she remains for a while 
 
32 BESSY BELL 
 
 i7i silent prayer y then slowly opens her eyes, 
 and endeavours to look around.) 
 How weak, 
 How very weak, I am I sure death is near. 
 Oh I little do they know of death, who crowd 
 Thousands of gloomy, dreadful images, 
 All ghastly and abhorrent, into one 
 Dark form, and call the fearful phantom Death ! 
 It is a messenger from Heaven, and bound 
 Upon an errand of eternal peace. 
 Even now, methinks I faintly hear its call. 
 Like the uncertain sound of distant music. 
 I come, I come ! Farewell, sweet Mary Gray ! 
 
 M. Gray. Not yet ! not yet ! Oh ! stay a little 
 while, 
 And take me with you I 
 
 B. Bell. What ! retmii'd again ? 
 
 My kind attentive nurse ! Methinks 'tis dark : — 
 Tell me, is the sky cui'tain'd ^-ith deep clouds ? 
 
 M. Gray. There's not a cloud in all the sunny 
 dome. 
 And not a breath to stir the quivering leaf 
 Of the light aspen ; all creation sleeps 
 In smiling, blissful, sabbath-like repose. 
 
 B. Bell. 'Tis strange I I've often thought that I 
 could wish 
 To die on such a day as you describe ; 
 And now Heaven grants my prayer : Come nearer, 
 And let me look once more on that dear face 
 Ere mine eyes close for ever : let me feel 
 
AND MARY GRAY. 33 
 
 Tliy hand. — x\las ! it trembles and it biu'ns ! 
 And thou hast sacrificed thy life for me ! 
 And who will tend thy death-bed ? Oh, this is 
 Indeed the bitterness of death ! 
 
 M. Gray. Oh I calm 
 
 Thy mind. Let no regretful thoughts of me 
 Shake thy life's ebbing sands. All will be well. 
 I'm not ill yet ; and if I should be so, 
 'Tis from the infection in the general air, 
 And not from tending you that I have caught it. 
 Why do you slmnk and shudder so ? 
 
 B. Bell I see 
 
 You sick and comfortless : — no tender hand 
 To smooth your pillow, to support your head, 
 To moisten your parch'd lips ! Oh, how my soul 
 Shudders with grief and horror at the scene ! 
 
 M. Gray. Where is your trust in Providence ? 
 Can you — 
 You, whose calm hopes have ever been reposed 
 Immovably on Him who can support, — 
 Can you permit despondency to seize 
 Your soul in such a moment? Think on Him, 
 And on his gracious word ! 
 
 B. Bell. Thank you, dear friend ! 
 
 Dearer, if possible, than ever now, 
 My hopes are all restored ; and I can leave 
 Both your fate and my own to Him who knows 
 Our wants, and will supply them. Oh I that pang ! 
 It pass'd across my heart-strings with a gripe 
 That shrivdl'd as it went. 
 
34 BESSY BELL 
 
 M. Gray, Wliat can I do 
 
 To give you were it but a moment's ease ? — 
 She speaks not — amoves not — breathes not — Does 
 
 she live ? — 
 Or was that pang her last ? Speak to me, — speak 
 Yet once more, dearest friend I Her eye-lids tremble, 
 And the faint heaving of a languid sigh 
 Raises her bosom — 
 
 B. BelL Mary, art thou here ? 
 
 Mine eyes are dim, I see thee not ; my Mary, 
 Speak, let me hear thy voice I 
 
 M. Gray. How glad am I 
 
 Again to listen thine ? How feel you now? 
 
 B, Bell. Free from all sense of pain, but very weak. 
 List ! there's a sound of music fills mine ears. 
 And glides into my heart ! It breathes of peace, 
 Of invitation, of encouragement, 
 In strains that tell of Heaven and happiness : — 
 Do not you hear it ? 
 
 M. Gray. Nothing do I hear. 
 
 Save the low lulling of the summer-breeze 
 Around our cottage eaves ! 
 
 B. Bell. ' I hear it still 
 
 Nearer and sweeter ! Oh, my sister-friend ! 
 We mortals, in the pride of blinded reason, 
 Reject, as superstitions, glorious truths, 
 Which death will one day prove. I hear, I see, 
 I feel, I know, unutterable things I 
 The veil mysterious of the world of spii'its 
 Is rent asunder! He who died and lives 
 
AND MARY GRAY. 35 
 
 Sends his bright messengers to call me hence : — 
 Amid the music of their golden harps, 
 The beaming love of their celestial eyes, 
 And the deep fervour of their holy words, 
 I feel the fragments of mortality 
 Fall from around my freed, enraptured soul I 
 Farewell the world I Farewell a while to thee I 
 A little, but a little while, farewell ! [_Dies. 
 
 M, Gray. Farewell, thou sainted spirit I As thou 
 saidst, 
 A little, but a little while, farewell ! 
 'Twill not be long ! The strength of sacred love 
 That bore me up to watch thy dying hour 
 Is fast departing ; — soon I'll be as thou art. 
 And have I seen thee die, and shed no tears ? 
 Yet, tears were traitors to my heart, had they 
 Deprived me of the power to render aid 
 In thine extremity. One duty more 
 Remains ; let me arrange thy stiifening limbs, 
 Then lay me down beside thee — ne'er to rise 
 Till time has run his course, and Death is dead. 
 
 [_ While she is busied about the body, Drum- 
 MOND speaks from without. 
 Drum. My gentle friends, good morning I may I 
 enter ? 
 Or shall I longer tarry your permission ? 
 M, Gray. Come in, kind Drummond ! 
 
 [ He enters ; she points to the body ; he 
 stands mute with grief. 
 
 Yes, it is too true ! 
 
36 
 
 BESSY BELL 
 
 She sleeps the sleep of death ! and you have come 
 To do for me what I have done for her : — 
 Scarce need I blush now — Death ends all distinctions. 
 Drum, This is a sight — and these are words — 
 enough 
 To rend the hardest heart. Oh ! what means this? 
 M. Gray. Lay me beside that gentle, slumbering 
 form. 
 Now, — ere I die, let me make one request, — 
 And you must grant it, Drummond, 'tis my last. 
 Drum, What is it that I would not grant you, 
 Mary? 
 Name it, and be obey'd. 
 
 M. Gray. Nay, 'tis not much. 
 
 Let plain sincerity direct my words ; 
 Aught else were now ill-timed. We saw your love, 
 And gave you in retm-n — 'twas all we coidd — 
 The truest friendship : — and I see you now 
 Alone in this cold Avorld. I know the strength 
 Of your warm feelings, and I di'ead the effect. 
 Yield not to woe's wild dictates : 'tis a fiend 
 Tempting frail man to strive against his Maker. 
 The ways of Providence, to om- weak minds 
 Mysterious and dark, are merciful : 
 'Tis ours humbly to say, Thy will be done ! 
 Let us be buried near om* favoui'ite walk 
 On lovely Almond's flowery banks : then go 
 
 And leave this spot and all its memories 
 
 Go to thy fellow-men, and pass thy life 
 In deeds of vii'tue and benevolence : 
 
 5 
 
AND MARY GRAY. 37 
 
 And fear not, we shall meet again in Heaven. 
 Dear friend, you will grant this, my last request ? 
 
 Drum, And would you have me drag a lingering 
 life 
 Amid a heartless world that loves me not, 
 And that I cannot love ? yet this I promise : 
 So far as it depends on mine own will 
 I shall ohey you. Life has been to me 
 A tissue of afflictions ; lighter some 
 Than others, but still wearing, each and all. 
 The sombre hue of sorrow : from this hour 
 Ne'er can it know variety of shade — 
 Hail, henceforth, universal, rayless gloom ! 
 
 M, Gray, For shame, my friend, for shame I this 
 is unmanly, 
 And most unchristian ! I did expect 
 Better of you : why would you vainly writhe 
 In feeble strife against the will of Heaven ? 
 
 Drum, Mary, I know it foolish, feel it wrong : — 
 But, oh I 'tis hard to have our little all 
 Rent from our hearts. Yet God is wise and good, 
 And works in darkness as in light I I yield 
 Submiss to His decrees. 
 
 M, Gray, 'Tis over now I 
 
 The pestilence has done its work I Farewell ! 
 
 Drummond, death is not terrible to those 
 
 Whose home is not this world, whose hope is raised 
 
 Above all perishing existences. 
 
 And fix'd on that which cannot change or die. 
 
 I Avould not give this hour and its high hopes, 
 
 D 2 
 
3S BESSY BELL 
 
 Evolving into certainties, for all 
 The fleeting pleasures that this world holds out, 
 And brief life snatches as it speeds away. 
 Prepare thee, Drummond ! shortly shall we meet 
 Till then, farewell ! IDies.'] 
 
 Drum. How can I say farewell I 
 
 'Tis as if mine own profjer hand should tear 
 My heart from out my bosom. Yet, farewell, — 
 To what ? No human ear receives my words ! 
 Cold, motionless, and dead ! — Fair sister-flowers, 
 Nijit in your bloom, how sweet, how beautiful 
 You are ! Still let me gaze on you ! Alas ! 
 The spotted fiend has laid its loathsome touch 
 Already there ! I cannot bear the sight ! 
 To thy receptive bosom, Mother Earth, 
 These fragile forms of organized dust 
 I must commit ; — ^to rest in peace mitil 
 The dawning of that glorious morn, whose day 
 Shall never set in night. That duty done 
 I little reck how soon I follow them ! 
 
 l^Exit; — to prepare a grave.'] 
 
AND MARY GRAY. 39 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 The Grave of Bessy Bell and Mary Gray. 
 
 Drummond alone. 
 
 Drum, My task is done ! And what is now to me 
 The world — mankind — life — death — or any thing ? 
 What am I to myself? 
 
 A record of what might have been, but was not ! — 
 A spectral semblance of what is, and is not ! — 
 A breathing form, dead at the heart, that dies not I — 
 I am a fear, a wonder to myself. 
 Stricken and blasted to the core ! — cease, cease. 
 Ye smouldering fii-es of fate ! — And thou, my soul, 
 Be still, and learn to yield thee to thy doom ! — 
 Oh ! what a precious spot of earth is this. 
 With its two little, narrow, grassy mounds ! 
 There sleep the Young, the Beautiful, the Good ! 
 But goodness, beauty, youth, could not avail 
 The fell destroyer's progress to arrest ! 
 Oh I who, tliat had beheld them in tlieLr bloom, 
 Glowing with all the loveliness of life. 
 Could, even in his gloomiest moods of mind. 
 Have ever dreamt theii' death so near ? — Death — 
 
 death — 
 Full of mysterious import is that word I 
 Breathed over recent graves, it is a spell 
 
40 BESSY BELL 
 
 To call forth the departed ; or to bear 
 
 Our souls beyond the limits of this world, 
 
 With all its scenes and beings palpable, 
 
 Into the land of shadows, doubts, and fears — 
 
 The land of hopes, of glories, and of truths ! 
 
 Death ! — Yes, I feel its presence. Errors, mists. 
 
 And prejudices, from my mental sight 
 
 Depart, and truth, severe but glorious, beams 
 
 Upon my soul. O World ! how false thou art ! 
 
 How hollow are thy pleasures I In thy joys 
 
 How treacherous ! Nought hast thou but it bears 
 
 The bias or the stamp of evil. Love, 
 
 That even in thee some faint resemblance claims 
 
 To what it was erewhile in Paradise, — 
 
 To what hereafter it shall be in Heaven, — 
 
 Even Love, alas I full oft misleads the heart. 
 
 Ye two fair creatm'es ! never pui'er love 
 
 Glow'd in man's bosom, than in mine for you ; 
 
 And had ye lived and own'd a mutual flame. 
 
 This world — this fleeting, vain, and worthless world, 
 
 Had been the all of Heaven my soul had sought. 
 
 I, like a blind idolater, had bow'd 
 
 Prostrate before the Creature, and forgot 
 
 The Great Creator. Thou hast been to me, 
 
 O Death I the best of friends. And thou hast been 
 
 To them no foe in hastening them away. 
 
 To the abodes of everlasting bliss, 
 
 Ere life had grown a languor, or a pain. M 
 
 Death I — 'tis our second birth. Disease, or age. 
 
 Shatters and rends that mortal encrustation, 
 
AND MARY GRAY. 41 
 
 In which our prison'd spirits darkly dwell ; 
 Death bursts it, and, like insect newly fledged. 
 The soul, assuming powers that dormant lay, 
 Into another and a nobler life — 
 A life that dreads no death — exulting springs. 
 Then happy are the dead ! — Let me not say 
 The dead — happy are they who die no morel 
 But do they — do these human souls, amid 
 The wonders and the glories of their state 
 Of new existence — do they e'er revert 
 To scenes, and loves, and friendships of this world ? 
 Does not some touch of human feelings still 
 Tremble and glow in their immortal natures ? 
 Can those strong ties that seem'd not of the earth ; — 
 Can Love, which triumph'd unimpair'd, even when 
 The mortal frame lay in the grasp of death, 
 Die with the body which it seem'd not of, 
 And lie with it, perishing in the grave ? 
 I will not think so ! — In the human soul 
 The essence of humanity must still 
 Imperishably dwell, to be restored 
 To its lost pm'ity, when the last pang 
 Hath sever'd it from its abode of dust, 
 And guilt, and misery ; — and from that land 
 Of perfect peace, full often do they bend 
 Their pitying eyes upon this world of woe, 
 And on the toils, sorrows, and sufferings, 
 That wage unceasing warfare on mankind. 
 Oh ! yes ! And often, sure, unseen they bathe 
 The throbbing brow of misery, and pour 
 
 d2 
 
42 BESSY BELL 
 
 Etlierial balm upon the sufferer's heart ! 
 
 Have I not felt upon mine own sad breast 
 
 Fall an unwonted, and a holy calm, 
 
 I knew not whence or wherefore, till my soul 
 
 Smiled at afflictions ? And I look'd to Heaven, 
 
 And to the earth around me, and I felt 
 
 On me, and with me, the mysterious powers 
 
 Of that high world to come — the World of Spirits I 
 
 Ye sister-spirits, newly enter'd there I 
 
 Do ye behold me from your bower of bliss ? 
 
 And do your viewless hands even now prepare 
 
 To touch the master-chords of my jarr'd heart. 
 
 And tune its tones to soft harmonious peace ? 
 
 'Tis done I 'tis done ! and I repine no more. 
 
 That lone, deserted bower, and these twin graves. 
 
 Shall they be all forgot ? Shall future times 
 
 Of them know nothing ? No ! while flowery spring 
 
 Shall prank the greensward gay ; while summer suns 
 
 Shall flush the full-blown blossoms on the boughs; 
 
 While autumn shall heap high her mellow fruits ; 
 
 And savage winter wrap his brow in storms. 
 
 So long shall youths and gentle maidens come 
 
 In pensive pilgrimage to view the Bower, 
 
 And Graves of Bessy Bell and Mary Gray. 
 
 For me ! — Ha I— o'er my heart a sickness spreads, — 
 
 A red pang shoots : — My race on earth is run. 
 
 But let me not pollute this sacred spot 
 
 With aught less sacred. — And there is one hand — 
 
 A Mother's — that must close mine eyes in death ; 
 
 Scarce would she else rest quiet in her grave, 
 
AND MARY GRAY. 43 
 
 So yearns her heart on me, her only Son. 
 
 Earth I in the certainty of faith and hope, 
 
 To thee these hallow'd relics I intrust : 
 
 I charge thee keep them till the day of doom 
 
 In deep, inviolable sanctity I 
 
 Farewell I Farewell I 
 
II. 
 
 THE LOWLAND LASS 
 
 AND THE 
 
 HIGHLAND LAD. 
 
Oh, she's cast afF her bonnie shoon 
 
 Made o' the Spanish leather ; 
 And she's put on her Highland brogues 
 To skip amang the heather. 
 
 And she's cast aff her tonnie gown 
 A' wrought wi' gowd and satin; 
 
 And she s put on a tartan plaid 
 To sport among the braken. 
 
 Old Ballad. 
 
THE LOWLAND LASS 
 
 AND THE 
 
 HIGHLAND LAD. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Farm-house in the vicinity of Dumfries, 
 (^Evening. — Spring.^ 
 
 GuDEMAN, GuDEWiFE, Grandfather, Peggy, &c. 
 
 Gudem. Peggy, the fire's but weak ; a night like 
 this 
 Requii'es a good one. Peggy I do you hear ? 
 I think the lassie's deaf ! 
 
 Peg, Wliat did ye want ? 
 
 Gudem, What did I want ? Have ye been di*eam- 
 ing, lass ? 
 "What ails the creature ? Such a woe-hegone 
 And broken-hearted look I've seldom seen. 
 
 Peg, There's nothing ails me, father, that I know ; 
 
48 THE LOWLAND LA6S 
 
 Only I feel a very weary weight 
 Growing upon my heart and spii'its. 
 
 Gudem. StuiF ! 
 
 Pure nonsense ! Shake it off I Come, lilt us up 
 Some canty song I That is the best of cures 
 For melancholy. 
 
 Feg, No, I cannot sing, — 
 
 Indeed I cannot, father. Easier far 
 It were to bend my dowie head and weep. 
 
 Gudem. Why would you weep ? 
 
 Veg, Because my heart is sad ; 
 
 Though why, I know not. 
 
 Grand, Cliide her not. Such things 
 
 As sinkings of the heart, indefinite 
 And dreary bodings, do not come for nought ; 
 They are the rack, rent from the coming storm 
 By the fierce winds, and gliding o'er the sky, 
 Dim harbingers of danger, pain, and woe. 
 
 Gudem, Nay, you are worse than she is ! Lassie, 
 come 1 
 Quit your grave moods, and let us have a song, 
 Of any kind you choose. 
 
 Teg, If I must sing, 
 
 I'll sing the song that the brave Highlanders 
 So often sung as they were on their march, 
 To and from England. And, to tell the truth, 
 Its tune runs strangely in my mind just now. 
 
 Gudem, That may do well enough ; any will do, 
 So that you only sing. 
 
AND HIGHLAND LAD. 49 
 
 Peggy sings. — (Ah-, Lochaber,) 
 
 Farewell to Lochaber ! farewell to Strath Spey ! 
 To the land of the lake, and the far-winding bay, 
 Of the mountain, the torrent, the cliflP, and the stream, 
 Where bound the red deer, and the grey eagles scream ; 
 To the glen, the wild pine, and the heath's purple bell, 
 To the homes, and the cairns of our Fathers, farewell ! 
 A deep boding gloom dark Ben Nevis hangs o'er. 
 And we'll may -be return to Lochaber no more ! 
 
 Farewell the chill sadness that clasp'd, like a shroud, 
 The heart, hand, and eye of the brave and the proud ! 
 At the voice of our Prince each bold bosom heaves high, 
 Each chief his broad banner flings free to the sky ; 
 The wild echoes ring o'er the dark- waving heath, 
 As the shrill pibroch hails us to glory or death ; 
 Disgrace lowers behind us, and Danger before,— 
 We'll may-be return to Lochaber no more ! 
 
 Farewell to our lone homes in Glen or in Strath, 
 Loud swells the Clan muster ! On, on is our path ! 
 It speaks not of chase or of banquet to-day, 
 To the red strife of heroes it call us away. 
 Unsheathe the claymore, and gripe firmly the targe, 
 On, on ! ye brave clansmen ! On, on to the charge ! 
 Victorious return, as your sires did of yore,— 
 Defeated — return to Lochaber no more ! 
 
 Gudem, Now are you better, lassie ? 
 Teg, Father, no I 
 
 I fear some dreadful thing hangs o'er us I — 
 Giidew, Hush ! 
 
 E 
 
50 THE LOWLAND LASS 
 
 Grandfather's sleeping ; wake him not ; your song 
 Has lull'd him to repose. 
 
 Peg. Would it could do 
 
 As much for mine own self ! 
 
 Gudew. Those whims of yours, 
 
 If you would mind your work, would plague you 
 less. 
 
 Peg. Dear mother I if unhidden sadness comes 
 'Tis nature's fault, not mine. I do not seek 
 Nor cherish its approach : And if it be 
 The secret warning of some coming grief. 
 It may be sent in mercy, that I may 
 Prepare my heart for suffering. 
 
 Gudeiv. Do not speak 
 
 So loud, I charge you ! Grandfather's distm'b'd. 
 See I sui'e he's dreaming some wild di'eam ! 
 
 Grand. (^Starting up in his dream.^ Now ! now ! 
 The victory's won ! Now ! now ! Hm-rah ! hurrah I 
 
 Gudeiv. What is the matter, grandfather ? 
 
 Grand. What's wroner ? 
 
 Where am I ? Who's here ? What's the matter now ? 
 Have I been di'eaming ? 
 
 Gudew. That you have ; and waked 
 
 In a strange frenzy. 
 
 Grand. Well I might I I thought 
 
 I saw two armies on a battle-field, 
 Kingsmen the one, the other Highlanders ; 
 They met in mortal conflict ; cannons roar'd. 
 And vomited their death-hail ; rapid rung 
 Sharp-rattling volleys of fierce musketry ; 
 
AND HIGHLAND LAD. 51 
 
 Deep in the gleaming ridge of bayonets 
 
 The deadly broadsword hew'd ; there was a burst — 
 
 A charge- — a roaring whirl of desperate strife — 
 
 A yell of rage and agony — a shout 
 
 Of swelling triumph ; like a thunder-cloud 
 
 Shatter'd asunder by the burning force 
 
 Of its own muster'd bolts, the Highland clans 
 
 Charged — waver'd — broke — and fled in hopeless 
 
 rout, 
 Pursued and slaughter'd o'er the gory plains 
 By their remorseless enemy. My heart 
 With horrid sympathy join'd in the shout 
 Of the triumphant victors, till my sleep 
 Was broke by mine own voice. 
 
 Peg. 'Twas a wild dream I 
 
 What may it bode ? 
 
 ( The door burst open.) Enter Mitchell. 
 
 Mit. Preserve us all I I've seen 
 
 A fearful sight ! 
 
 Grand. What sight ? 
 
 Mit. Give me a di-aught 
 
 Of water quickly ! Heaven preserve us all I 
 
 Gudew. What is the matter ? 
 
 Mit. Some most di'eadful thing 
 
 Has happen'd, or will happen soon, I fear ! 
 
 Grand. Tell us, what have you seen ? 
 
 Mit. As I came o'er 
 
 The fields from the next town, where I had spent 
 An hour or two since gloaming, the swift moon 
 Seem'd racing o'er the sky through the grey garb 
 Of broken cloud-rack ; on a sudden, dark 
 
52 THE LOWLAND LASS 
 
 And darker grew the night — a wailing moan 
 Rose, sunk, and rose again, and louder swell'd 
 Into a shrill wild scream, then died away 
 In low and broken sobs ; the black cloud burst, 
 And thick as snow-flakes tliro' the burden'd air 
 A shower of Highland bonnets fell — Look not 
 As if incredulous ! — I say, a shower 
 Of Highland bonnets I — Nay, so perfectly 
 Was I convinced of what they were, I stoop'd 
 To lift one by the tuft — my fruitless grasp 
 Pass'd through the vision ! Terror-struck, I fled 
 Eager to see once more the cheering face 
 Of human beings, and material things !* 
 
 Gudew, What can all these things mean ? 
 
 Grand, I think they mean 
 
 Destruction to the rebel Highland clans. 
 
 Teg, Call them not rebels, grandfather ! they fight 
 For him whom they esteem their la^^^ul king : 
 They may be wrong ; but thus to risk their lives 
 For an unfriended Prince, — it is, at least. 
 The error of most noble, generous minds ! 
 
 Grand, So says romance ; but well I ween we 
 have 
 Small cause to risk our lives for Charles Stuart, 
 Or any of his race I We shall not soon 
 Forget by whose command grey-headed age. 
 Strong manhood, speecliless infancy, all, all 
 
 * The tradition of a visionary shower of Highland bonnets is 
 still current in Nithsdale. 
 
A^D HIGHLAND LAD. 53 
 
 Of every age and sex, with barbarous 
 
 And wanton cruelty, on their own hearths 
 
 Were violated, butcher'd ; hunted forth 
 
 Like wild beasts to the mountains — Witness there 
 
 The moss-grown martyr's stone! Ay, while the hills, 
 
 Glens, moors, and mosses shall endui-e, so long 
 
 Shall live the execrated memory 
 
 Of those red-handed monsters ; and of him 
 
 Whose tyrant-voice halloo'd them on I so long 
 
 Shall live the hallow' d, the revered names 
 
 Of those true Christian men, who nobly shed 
 
 Their blood in the great cause of liberty, 
 
 Civil and sacred ! Yes, that race is doom'd ! 
 
 They cannot prosper : and all those who lend 
 
 Them aid must with them perish. 
 
 Gudem. It may be ! 
 
 'Tis very likely I 
 
 Peg. What may be the fate 
 
 Of our protector, Lewis ? 
 
 Gudem. Much I fear 
 
 A bloody one indeed I Kind, gallant youth ! 
 Deep is the debt of gratitude we owe 
 To his protection from the ravening hands 
 Of his wild followers. Would that we could now 
 In kind repay it. 
 
 Peg. Oh I I wish we could ! 
 
 But the dark bodings of my heart forbid 
 The indulgence of such hopes. 
 
 Grand. Dark ai-e the ways 
 
 Of Providence, but wise ! Then let us leave 
 
 E 2 
 
54 THE LOWLAND LASS 
 
 The clearing up of these strange mysteries 
 To time and Heaven's high will I Come, let us all 
 Prepare for rest I Peggy, bring here The Book. 
 f They join in family -worship^ and then retire,) 
 
 SCENE II. 
 The Farm-House. {Evening^ 
 
 GUDEMAN, GUDEWIFE, GRANDFATHER, PeGGY. 
 
 Grand, Poor Peggy I Still the gloom is on your 
 brow ! 
 I'm grieved to see you. 
 
 Gudew. Silly thing I such sighs I 
 
 You'd make one trow that you were really ill. 
 
 Peg. No, mother, I am neither well nor ill ; 
 But in a middling way. 
 
 Gudem, The very worst 
 
 Of all conditions ; for one cannot tell 
 What to make of it I 
 
 Peg, Never mind me, father ; 
 
 I'll shortly mend or end. 
 
 Grand, - Hope for the best ! 
 
 Our fears are our worst ailments. I could guess 
 The secret of your sadness,— 
 
 P^Q' I'm not sad — 
 
 Only not merry. 
 
 Gudem, Pray what would you do 
 
AND HIGHLAND LAD. 55 
 
 If you were sad ? To sit in silent dumps, 
 And scarcely speak when spoken to ; — to wear 
 A brow like grave November ; — long-drawn sighs, 
 Like the wind moaning in the Avindow-chinks, 
 To heave at each third breathing, — these are not 
 Sure signs of sadness I no ? 
 
 Peg, I'll sing a song 
 
 If that will please you, father. 
 
 Gudem, If it please 
 
 Your wayward self, it may please me. 
 
 Gudew, Fy, fy I 
 
 You're too harsh with the lassie. Peggy, dear ! 
 Just sing or not as your own heart inclines. 
 
 Peg. Oh I yes I'll sing I yet I'm not sui'e my song 
 Will please you, grandfather. 
 
 Grand. It cannot fail, 
 
 If it please you, dear lassie. 
 
 Peggy sings. 
 
 Oh ! lang shall Caledonia rue 
 
 That day, when on CuUoden plain 
 The blood o' her bravest heroes streamed 
 
 Like the torrent-gush o' wintry rain ! 
 When the cruel victor joy'd to hear 
 
 The tartan'd warrior's dying groan ; 
 And his pitiless eye grew red and keen 
 
 As he cheer'd the murdering blood-hounds on. 
 
 Then Scotia's targe sank frae her arm,— . 
 
 Her good braidsword was broke in twa ; 
 The tapmost flowers o' her thistle droop'd, 
 
 And the last o' the Stuarts was driven awa' ; 
 
56 THE LOWLAND LASS 
 
 And ride ye north, or ride ye south, 
 For a lee-lang day nought wad ye see. 
 
 But the ruin'd wa's, a' bloody-stain'd, 
 
 Where the hames o' the luckless brave should be. , 
 
 Now she maun sit like a widow'd dame, 
 
 In lonely wastes wi' slaughter red ; 
 Nae crown to grace her joyless brow, 
 
 Her freedom lost, her glory fled ! 
 The howlet screams in the empty ha', 
 
 An' flaps his wing o'er the chair o' her kings,— 
 In courts that rang wi' the warrior's tread, 
 
 The lang grass waves, an' the nettle springs. 
 
 Sair, sair aboon the bloody graves, 
 
 Wi' a heavy heart she makes her mane, 
 Where lie her best an' bravest sons 
 
 Who for her bled, an' b]ed in vain. 
 An' aye when she lifts her wae-bent head, 
 
 Out-owre the wide and the weltering sea 
 She takes a lang an' a wistfu' gaze ; 
 
 But the sails o' her Charlie nae mair glad her ee. 
 
 But the day may come when her bright ee-glance 
 
 Shall kindle again as it did of yore, 
 When Wallace wight led her warriors on, 
 
 An' the Bruce her bloody lion bore : 
 Her spreading thistle bauld an' free 
 
 Its armed head may uplift again, 
 An' the race o' her Stuarts wear the crown, 
 
 And yet in their fathers' ha' may reign ! 
 
 Grand. 'Tis a dark pictui'e, Peggy, and I fear 
 Too true a likeness. For the hopes it breathes 
 They'll never be fulfiU'd ; the Bard will prove 
 A dreamer, not a Prophet. Let him dream I 
 
AND HIGHLAND LAD. 57 
 
 'Twere the mere wantonness of cruelty, 
 
 To blame or pmiish that most air-born solace. 
 
 Peg, Thank you for him and for myself I I'm glad 
 To hear you pity these misguided men. 
 
 Grand, They're human beings, Peggy : who would 
 not 
 Pity their most unheard-of sufferings ? 
 
 Gudem, I could have fought — did fight, against 
 them ; now 
 I could fight for them ! Cumberland insults 
 The sacred heart of whole humanity. 
 By his cold-blooded butcherings. A Prince ! 
 The Son ! the Brother of a King ! to stain 
 His hands in the warm gore of prisoners, — 
 Of unoffending and defenceless women, — 
 Nay, even of veriest infants ! Latest times 
 Will blush to utter the detested name 
 Of that most barbarous ruffian, Britain's shame I 
 
 Peg, Hark I some one's at the door. 
 
 Gudem, Come in I come in I 
 
 The door is on the latch. 
 
 Enter Lewis. 
 
 Lew, I come to trust 
 
 You with a life of little value now : 
 The death-snares thicken all around my path ; 
 And, like the hunted deer, I seek the spot 
 Where 1 have tasted peace in other days — 
 Betray me, or protect me, as you list. 
 
 Gudem, Betray ! 
 
 Name not the word, brave Lewis ! I would risk 
 My own life to protect thee. 
 
58 THE LOWLAND LASS 
 
 Gudew. Welcome here, 
 
 Our kind protector ! 
 
 Grand. Heaven be praised that thou 
 
 Hast 'scaped the perils of the battle-field 
 And murderous pursuit I 
 
 Giidem. Here may you rest 
 
 Beneath my roof in safety. 
 
 Lew, Generous man ! 
 
 How shall I e'er requite — 
 
 Gudem, Si3eak not of that I 
 
 Can we forget the deep debt that we owe 
 To our kind protector ? Peggy, will ye stir ! 
 And place the arm-chair by the fire, and get 
 Something to eat and drink ! — Why sit you there 
 Pale, silent, like a bloodless, lifeless image ? 
 Bestir yourself ! 
 
 \_She starts tfp,- makes a half step towards Lewis ; 
 then hastens to obey her father s directions.~] 
 
 Lew. Have you forgot me, Peggy ? 
 
 Peg. Forgot you ? Lewis I — Oh ! how worn you 
 look 
 With toil and sufferings I 
 
 Lew. Yes, I have been 
 
 Familiar with all grim and ghastly scenes 
 Of unimaginable, nameless horror, 
 Since last I saw thee ! But, my generous friend. 
 Is it quite safe for you to shelter me ? 
 Will it be dangerous to yourself? 
 
 Gudem. Oh, no ! 
 
 We Nithsdale men are deem'd the very pinks 
 Of unstain'd loyalty. Our gallant deed 
 
AND HIGHLAND LAD. 59 
 
 At Lockerby, and the revenge you took 
 
 On your return ; together with the name 
 
 We bear of being stanch kirk-going men, 
 
 Or hill-men, as some call us sneeringly, 
 
 Make us quite unsuspected. 
 
 Lew. Make no boast 
 
 Of your poor plundering exploit : You might 
 
 Have paid it dearly. 
 
 Gudem, Dear enough we paid, 
 
 And some of us might have paid dearer far 
 Had we not met kind friends for di'eaded foes — 
 But these are delicate points. My gallant friend I 
 I see, if chafed, you yet could wield a broadsword I 
 / shall not put you to the proof. Once more. 
 Let me assui-e youi* perfect safety here 
 For weeks, months, years, — a lifetime, if you choose! 
 And let me now conduct you where you may 
 Enjoy the rest you so much need. 
 
 Leiv, My thanks 
 
 Fain would I speak, but cannot ! May the peace 
 And bliss of Heaven be ever the reward 
 Of such true-hearted friendship ! 
 
 \_Exeunt 
 
 SCENE HI. 
 
 A secluded spot near the Nith. ( Tioilight, in early 
 Summer.) 
 
 Lewis. Peggy. 
 Lew. My Peggy, must I leave thee ? Must my feet 
 
60 THE LOWLAND LASS 
 
 Pace in deep loneliness my native hills, 
 Now tenantless, — with hosom lone as they ; 
 Its dear possessor distant far ? Oh ! come I 
 Come with me, dearest, Peggy ! 
 
 Peg, If you love 
 
 As warmly as you say, why not remain 
 And make this land your home ? 
 
 Lew, That may not be I 
 
 My native element, my very life. 
 Is action ; and my poor paternal hills 
 Oppress'd and pillaged, mournfully demand 
 Their every son's most fervent energies ; 
 Nor may I tm^n a deaf ear to the voice 
 That calls me, from amid the momitain mists. 
 But come with me, and thou shalt reign the queen ] 
 Of purple heath, and foaming cataract, 
 And sheeted lake, as far as one good sword 
 May win them for thee. Come, thou deai-est maid ! 
 And share with me true life, and liberty. 
 
 Feg, How dare you ventm-e back? Is there not still 
 Much cause for di'ead ? 
 
 Lew, No, dearest ! there has been 
 
 Issued of late a tardy, but a full 
 Pardon, to all who fought for Charles Stuart ; 
 And I am free to roam the Higldand hills ; 
 Or seek some silent glen, and build me there 
 A bower for my own Peggy. Come, my love ! 
 Oh I do not say me nay. 
 
 Peg, Lewis, I come I 
 
 I can no longer say thee nay. 
 
 Lew, Bless'd words ! 
 
AND HIGHLAND LAD. 61 
 
 My OAvn dear maid I Let me thy soft consent 
 Seal with one faithful kiss. Now let us go 
 And bid farewell to yom- kind parents ; then 
 Hie to the land of glen and mountain. 
 
 Peg, Stay ! — 
 
 My heart is wild and feverish, — let me think 
 What I have done ! — I will not slirink I I'll go 
 With thee, my Lewis, to the loneliest glen 
 Traversed by mountain-stream ! yet let me pause. 
 
 Lew, WTiat mean you, my dear love ? 
 
 Peg. Ye gentle hills I 
 
 Belted or crown'd with lightly-waving woods ; — 
 Ye fields ! where peace and plenty smile, glad scenes 
 Of rural toil and rm'al mirth ; — ye streams I 
 Winding and singing on your quiet paths, 
 Margin'd with velvet moss, and flowerets bright. 
 Where I have play'd whole summer days, and pluck'd, 
 Nay, fed on violets and primroses ; — 
 Ye lawns and groves ! that skirt the fair abodes 
 Of rank and affluence, ye too have been mine, 
 Oft as your beauties fiU'd my glowing breast 
 With almost tearful raptures ; — Nith, sweet Nith ! 
 My own pure river, rolling in thy proud 
 And burnish'd beauty, through a lovelier vale 
 Than ever fabling poet dreamt or sung ; — 
 Ye dear scenes of my earliest infancy ! 
 Where with light foot and lighter heart I've stray'd 
 From da^vn till dusk, and never thought it long ; 
 Where I have hoped and fear'd, and grieved and 
 joy'd ; 
 
62 THE LOWLAND LASS 
 
 Laugli'd with the living, mourn'd above the dead, 
 As passing time and changing circumstance 
 Awoke my bosom-chords, — must I then gaze 
 On you for the last time ? bid you a last 
 Farewell, and wander to far other scenes ? — 
 I must I I will ! — Forgive me that I wee]), 
 Dear Lewis ! 'tis no easy thing to rend 
 The heart from all the well-remember' d scenes 
 Of its past loves and sorrows. But I'm thine ! — 
 I bid farewell to all the favom'ite haunts. 
 Feelings, and pleasm'es of my bygone days ; 
 And thine, dear Lewis, from this horn- I am, 
 With all the full powers of my woman's heai't. 
 
 Lew, (aside. She meets, she jDasses my soul's ut- 
 most wish ! — 
 If this may but endure ! — One trial more 
 Ere I discover all.) Then come with me, 
 My own loved maiden ! Let us bid at once 
 Farewell to lovely Nithsdale ; and away 
 To om' far Highland home. 
 
 Peg, Thus let me wake 
 
 The echoes of my native groves once more — 
 It is my farewell song. 
 
 SINGS. 
 
 How sweet is the might of ihe dewy-link'd spell 
 That binds the fond heart to one dear charmed spot, 
 
 Where its own happy tale every loved scene can tell, 
 Or dimly the phantoms of past sorrow float ! 
 
 Like the shade-loving violet the heart there would hide, 
 And nestle it desp in its own silent bower ; 
 
AND HIGHLAND LAD. 63 
 
 In a valley remote, by a bright runnel's side, 
 
 Root its gentle attachments, and live its calm hour. 
 
 Oh ! still might I stray where my young feet have stray'd, 
 
 By streamlet, by rock, and by ivy-bound tree ; 
 And list the spring-gale breathing soft thro' the glade, 
 
 And the clear loosening gush of the wood-music free ! 
 With the dead and the distant there yet I could meet. 
 
 For 'tis haunted and hallowed ground where I tread,— 
 And the thrill of the heart-chords may tell, Oh ! how sweet 
 
 Is the vision' d recall of the days that have fled ! 
 
 Ye dearly-loved scenes where my childhood up-grew ! 
 
 Where I first learn 'd to love, and to hope, and to fear,— 
 To muse amid nature's dread pomp, till I knew 
 
 In the depth of my soul that my home was not here ! 
 Must I bid you a long and a latest farewell ! — 
 
 In the haunts of my youth must I wander no more ! — 
 Still in memory's innermost shrine shall ye dwell 
 
 Till life and its feverish dreams shall be o'er ! 
 
 Now to my dear, dear parents let us go, — 
 Spend my last night in the sweet home of youth, — 
 Conclude my farewells I — and then haste away 
 To our far Highland home ! 
 
 [^Exeunt, 
 
64 THE LOWLAND LASS 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 A wild Glen in the Highlands — A Castle in the dis- 
 tance — Huts at hand* 
 
 Lewis. Peggy. 
 
 Peg. Dear Lewis I let us rest a while : my limbs — 
 My weary, weary limbs, cannot support 
 My sinking frame much farther. 
 
 Leiv. No, not yet I — 
 
 We cannot yet stop ! many a rugged heath 
 And misty mountain, and dark rocky glen 
 We have to pass before we reach our home. 
 
 Peg. Then shall I never reach it I here, even here 
 I could be well content to lay me down, 
 And end my toil by dying ! 
 
 Leic. Do you not 
 
 Now bitterly regret that e'er you left 
 The groves, the green fields, and the flowery holms 
 Of lovely Nithsdale ? 
 
 Peg. Lewis, no ! these hills 
 
 Ai'e wild and lofty, deep and dark the glens, 
 And the whole face of nature bears to me 
 A strange and savage aspect : yet whilst thou 
 Art true and kind, my Lewis I where thou art 
 Is to me better than a paradise 
 And thou not there ! Let us go on I I feel 
 Somewhat refresh' d. 
 
AND HIGHLAND LAD. 65 
 
 Lew. Dost thou behold, my love I 
 
 That stately castle ? 
 
 Peg. Yes ; but what of it ? — 
 
 It has an air of almost royal pride 
 And grandem', and its lady bears, no doubt. 
 Her high brow like a queen ; — but I could be 
 More happy in a little lowly hut, — 
 Like one of these, — with thee, my own dear Lewis I 
 
 Leiv. Alas ! my love ! I cannot call my own 
 Even so poor a hut as one of these ! 
 My home is now a ruin-pile, and I 
 Am but an outcast wanderer I No friend. 
 No home, no dwelling-place have I, save what 
 I with the wild beasts share, the cavern'd cliff I 
 I have no home, not even a lowly hut. 
 To take thee to ! — I know thou hatest me now ? 
 
 Peg. Hate thee? Dear Lewis I with increasing love, 
 My fond heart, like a dove, would o'er thee brood, 
 And soothe thy sorrows, cheer thy manly heart. 
 My own dear love I We'll seek some lonely glen, 
 There build a hut, and pass our happy days 
 Remote from all the world ; for we shall be 
 More to each other than even all the world. 
 Come on I — I'll chide thee, Lewis, if thou look'st 
 Sad for so slight a cause. 
 
 Lew. And wilt thou then 
 
 Share even an outlaw's cave with me ? 
 
 Peg. I will ! — 
 
 And sing thee songs to cheer thy solitude ; 
 
 Or share thy hours of toil and danger^ love ! 
 
 f2 
 
66 THE LOWLAND LASS, &C. 
 
 Lew. And wilt thou not upbraid the selfish man, 
 Whose false, false tongue, and most ungenerous 
 
 heart 
 Have woo'd thee to the couch of misery ? 
 
 Peg, Oh I little dost thou know of woman's heart, 
 If thou canst think so, Lewis I Hast thou given 
 Thy life to me, and could I ask for more ? 
 Hast thou, crush'd by a load of many woes, 
 Sought for till/ love to cheer thee ? Is not this 
 The highest honour thou couldst render me, 
 As deeming the possession of my love 
 Able to conquer and expel all woes ? 
 And it shall ever be the joy, the bliss. 
 The glory of my life, to be to thee 
 A mmistrant of peace and happiness ! 
 
 Lezv, Oh I matchless love and constancy I Dear 
 maid ! 
 Forgive me that I tried thee thus I My tale 
 Of want and woe is all, thank Heaven, a fiction. 
 My clan was loyal to the king, though I, 
 Its chieftain's son, foUow'd the hapless Prince ; 
 War scathed not them, and my peace has been made. 
 And now I hail thee to my father's hall, 
 Its Lady I And behold, my gallant clan 
 Are mustering to receive, with honours due, 
 Their Chief and his fair Bride ! 
 
 (Highlanders are seen advancing^ xoith music play- 
 ing^ banners streaming^ S^c.) 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
III. 
 
 COWDENKNOWS. 
 
How blythe, ilk morn, was I to see 
 My swain come o'er the hill ; 
 
 He skipt the bum, and flew to me, 
 I met him wi' good-will. 
 
 the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom. 
 The broom of Cowdenknows ; 
 
 1 wish I were with my dear lad. 
 With his pipe and my ewes ! 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Hard fate ! that I should banish'd be. 
 
 Gang heavily, and mourn ; 
 Because I loo'd the kindest swain. 
 
 That ever yet was bom ! 
 O the broom, &c. 
 
 Old Song. 
 
COWDENKNOWS. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Annie, tending Sheep. (Spring.) 
 
 An. Sure 'tis the liour when Colin used to come ; 
 And yet he is not here I What can have chanced ? 
 Has he forgot, or slighted me ? — Oh, no I 
 Yonder he comes I I see him I hedge nor ditch 
 Impede his progress ; — like a winged thing 
 He hounds across the burn. Be hush, my heart I 
 Thou fluttering fond betrayer I Let me keep 
 A due reserve, a fitting maiden-pride. 
 
 Enter Colin. 
 Col. My sweet, my bonnie Annie I Oh, Fve 
 thought, 
 The minutes hom-s, and every yard a mile, 
 Till I should meet thee I Hast thou waited long ? 
 
 An. Waited for you I A very modest lad ! 
 What right have you to think me such an idler ? 
 
70 COWDENKNOWS. 
 
 Or such a thoughtless light-o'-love ? 
 
 CoL Nay, Annie^ 
 
 I spoke but as I wish'd, and hoped, and fear'd : 
 I would be happy did you come to meet me ; 
 But shamed and sorry had I made you wait. 
 
 An, Well, here I am at any rate ; but here 
 Long I'll not be : my ewes are wearing fast 
 Up the hill side, and I must after them. 
 
 CoL O never mind them : I'll send round my dog 
 To turn them back. Meanwhile sit down, my love I 
 IVe got a song, a new one for you. Come ! 
 
 An, Well, let me hear what idle thing you've got, 
 
 Colin sings. 
 
 Tune, — Coxvdenkno'ws. 
 
 The Highland bards may sing the Dee^ 
 
 The Don, the rushing Tay ; 
 The royal Forth, the stately Clyde, 
 
 Are famed in many a lay : 
 Be mine to sing the bonnie, bonnie broom,. 
 
 The broom o' Cowdenknows, 
 Where she, my ain dear lassie, strays. 
 
 Tending her lambs and ewes. 
 
 O Leader haughs are saft and green, 
 
 And Yarrow braes are fair ; 
 Not Leader haughs nor Yarrow braes 
 
 Wi' Cowdenknows compare. 
 O the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom. 
 
 The broom o' Cowdenknows ; 
 Where my dear lass, the lee-lang day, 
 
 Tends a' her lambs and ewes. 
 
COWDENKN0W3. 7i 
 
 Out-owre the knows the waving broom 
 
 Flings free its golden tide ; 
 Amang its sweet and silent bowers, 
 
 My lassie, let us hide. 
 O the broom, &c. 
 
 And for thy flock thou need'st na fear, 
 Though thou shouldst gang wi' me ; 
 
 Nae tod nor corbie shall them skaith,— 
 I'll tend baith them and thee. 
 
 O the broom, &c. 
 
 A' day thy ewes and lambs may feed 
 
 Amang the braes sae green ; 
 Be mine the care to keep them safe. 
 
 And bught them in at e'en. 
 O the broom, &c. 
 
 Then come, my ain sweet lassie, come, 
 
 In safety feed thy ewes. 
 And stray wi' me amang the broom 
 
 Sae fair on Cowdenknows. 
 O the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom, 
 
 The broom o' Cowdenknows ; 
 Where my dear lass, the lee-lang day. 
 
 Tends a' her lambs and ewes. 
 
 What say you, my sweet Annie, will you come ? 
 
 An, Hold there I Deep hid among the yellow broom, 
 Who shall protect me, Colin, from thyself? 
 I doubt that would be giving to the fox 
 The lambs to keep : — bad shepherd-craft, I ween. 
 Coi. And dost thou ask who would be thy pro- 
 tector ? 
 
72 COWDENKNOWS. 
 
 Love, my dear lassie ! pure, true love shall be 
 
 Thy sure protection : — Love, the viewless bond— 
 
 Viewless, but mighty — -joining earth and heaven I— 
 
 Love, universal as the air we breathe. 
 
 Look round on the broad hills, the springing grass, 
 
 The budding flowers, the honeyed heather-bell, — 
 
 The thousand living things that hum around, — 
 
 All in boon Nature's bounties revelling, 
 
 And all, as their capacities permit. 
 
 In song or gambol telling of their joy. 
 
 Can, then, a native wanderer of the wilds 
 
 Fail to perceive — to feel, the general spell, — 
 
 To own the potent agency of Love ? 
 
 And dares he violate that sacred power, 
 
 And in its pure domains betray the trust 
 
 Of sweet, confiding maiden innocence ? 
 
 My Annie, no I This heart of mine was ne'er 
 
 Made for such villainy I 
 
 An. How easy 'tis 
 
 To make a fair show with fair promises I 
 But I have seen among the dews of morn. 
 Woven around the interlacing briers, 
 A filmy web of glittering gossamer. 
 Round, bright, and studded like a Highland targe — 
 The sun shone out, — the dews arose ; — I look'd, — 
 The fair round targe was melted all away, 
 And spiky thorns, urged by the rising breeze. 
 Swept harrowing through the dark forsaken place. — 
 Such and so fleeting are men's protestations ! 
 And such the joys they leave the trusting heart ! 
 
COWDENKNOWS. 73 
 
 CoL My eloquent disputant I Well may I 
 From thee learn lessons of sweet minstrelsy : 
 But sure thy Colin's faith, unsullied yet 
 By word or thought, should bear a greater weight 
 Than loose and general accusations. 
 
 An. Better 
 
 To trust too little than too much. 
 
 Col. Come, come ; 
 
 Look not so distant, dearest ! I could brook 
 The thickest, keenest snow-drift ever blew, 
 Wearing my sheep upon the brent hill-side 
 Where it smites chillest, rather than the cold 
 Unkindness of thy cheek and eye. 
 
 A71. Oh! flatterer! 
 
 A woman's frown, were it of hate and scorn, 
 Is mirth and sunshine to the angry blast 
 Of winter. 
 
 Col. Annie, no ! The winter blast 
 
 Beats on my bosom all without ; and I 
 Have learn'd to bear it ; but the other falls 
 Chill as a snow-wreath on my very heart. 
 
 An. Now tell me frankly, Colin, speak'st thou 
 truth ? 
 Or are these fine words meant for ornament ? 
 
 Col. Truth all — pure truth I — Or if a word or two 
 Do serve for show, why, tell me, bonnie lass, 
 Is the greensward upon the flowery braes 
 Less good, less useful to the feeding flocks, 
 Because the happy daisy opens there 
 Its bosom to the sun ? — because the primrose 
 
 G 3 
 
1P4 COWDENKNOWS. 
 
 Lifts there its pale and sickly head^? — because 
 The violet, sweet as my own shepherdess, 
 Makes there her shy and silent mossy bower ? 
 
 Ati, Ah I but green grass may hide; and flowers 
 begem 
 The unsafe footing of a shelving bank, 
 And tempt the witless nibblers to their ruin. 
 
 Col. And what advantage could it be to me 
 Were I indeed to be so base a thing ? 
 All that my feet must daily trace, the hills, 
 The glens, the streams, fair Cowden's broomy knows, 
 The all that now my soul delights to see 
 Would then become fearful memorials. 
 To call up keen remorse ; would haunt me still 
 Like the pale ghosts of mui-der'd innocence, 
 Till I should pine away, an outcast, bann'd, 
 And conscience-stricken ^vi'etch. 
 
 An. And if I should 
 
 Believe your words ; wliat then ? 
 
 Col. INIy Annie ! then 
 
 I should be happier than my tongue can tell. 
 I never loved but thee — I never will : 
 And I would wring the black drop from my heart, 
 If there was one meant less than well to thee. 
 
 A?i. Dear Colin, I ne'er doubted thee. 
 
 Col. Why then 
 
 Did you so torture my fond, faithful heart ? 
 
 A7i. Because, like your own pipe, sweet music flows 
 Free from your lip, when you are touc/i'd with skill ! 
 
COWDENKNOWS. 75 
 
 CoL Thou sweet, provoking, arch one I Dost thou 
 not 
 Tremble to think what punishment awaits thee ? 
 
 An, No, not a bit. I know I'm safe, quite safe, 
 In the protection of your moorland spell, — 
 All-powerful, all-pervading Love! 
 
 Cot. But yet 
 
 At least a score of kisses I must have 
 In barter for the pretty words I wasted. 
 
 An, Was it a deed of such desert to deck 
 In silvery words the pure and golden truth ? 
 
 CoL I cannot match thee in light raillery ; 
 But in the soundless depth of passionate love 
 My heart owns no superior. 
 
 An, Very like ; 
 
 O'er head and ears, no doubt ? 
 
 Col, Enough of this. 
 
 The cloud has pass'd away that lately hid 
 The sunshine of thy smile : Come to my arms,— . 
 Rest on my happy heart, and hush its beating ! 
 
 A7i, Nay, Colin, nay ; softly and fair holds long I 
 True love and joy are like high music-notes, 
 Too rapturously exquisite to last ; 
 And we, poor instruments of feeble clay, 
 Cannot endure such high-toned heavenly bliss ! 
 Besides, my flock has worn clean out of sight, 
 Over the braes. 
 
 CoL I'll tmni them for thee, dearest ! 
 
 Or tend them where thou wilt. 
 
 An, I thank thee, Colin ; 
 
76 COWDENKNOWS. 
 
 And to thy care I'll leave them ; for to-day 
 We hope my father will return, and I 
 Must be at home to meet him. Let me go ; 
 At miliving-time again we'll meet. 
 
 Col, I'm loath 
 
 To part so soon ; but if it must be so, 
 I yield ; I would not for the world distress thee. 
 Yet, since love's language ever flows in song, 
 Tliat I may tell my love, and that I may 
 Have claims upon thee for a kiss or two 
 By way of hire, canst thou, or wilt thou, still 
 Wait a brief space, and hear another song ? 
 
 An, I'll venture ; so it be not all the longer. 
 
 Colin sings. 
 
 The wintry winds hae blawn their last, 
 
 Sleeps the gurlie Norlan blast ; 
 
 Nae mair the snaw-drift, sleet, or rain, 
 
 Sheet the hill or drown the plain ; 
 
 Nae shepherd, 'mid the tempest's wrath, 
 
 Toils to fend his flock frae skaith ; 
 
 Heaven smiles on earth, wi' love-warm'd ee, 
 
 And bonnie Annie smiles on me. 
 
 Up amang the sunny braes, 
 Spouting springs their young heads raise ; 
 The burnies wind out-owre the lea, 
 Popple, poppling, fresh and free ; 
 Now in glancing silvery sheen, 
 Bedded now in gladsome green, 
 Sweet they gush like Annie's ee, 
 When melting, soft, she smiles on me. 
 
COWDENKNOWS 7T 
 
 The early lark, wi* dewy wings, 
 Cleaves the clouds, and soaring sings ; 
 Trills his lay at heaven's high gates, 
 Where the blushing Dawn awaits. 
 The mavis bids the glens rejoice, 
 Loosening all his mellow voice ; 
 I'll join the blithesome minstrelsy, 
 For bonnie Annie smiles on me. 
 
 Col. My hire, sweet Annie I now I claim my hire. 
 
 An, What I for a song like that ? Why, Rant- 
 ing Willie* 
 Would make a dozen such for half your hire. 
 I'll owe it you till night. 
 
 Col, No, no I I'll have 
 
 Half payment at the least, just now ; and then 
 The other half, and as much more for interest. 
 
 An. Hold, hold ! you lawless reaver! you have ta'en 
 More than the whole. 
 
 Col, Well, if I have, sweet lassie, 
 
 I'll give you hack as many as you choose. 
 
 An, We'll balance the account 'gainst hughting- 
 time : 
 Meanwhile, good day t'ye, lad ; I must away. 
 
 Col, Farewell, my dearest Annie ! for a few 
 Heavy and lonely hours ! I'll to the hills. 
 And see that all oiu- flocks be right and safe. 
 
 \_Exeu7if, 
 
 * See the Notes to " The Lay of the Last MlnstrcV^ 
 
 g2 
 
78 COWDENKNOWS. 
 
 SCENE IL 
 
 Colin, at the Ewe-bughts, 
 
 Col, How slowly pass the hours ! sure milking- 
 time 
 Ought to have heen ere now I I really think 
 That day gets tu-ed, and moves more tardily 
 As night approaches. My sweet lovely lassie ! 
 Oh ! how I love her ! how I long to meet her ! 
 
 SINGS. 
 
 O sweet to my playful lambs 
 
 Is the sun on the flowery braes ; 
 And sweet to their feeding dams 
 
 Is the grass where the burnie strays ; 
 The honey-dew'd heather-bell 
 
 Is sweet to the eident bee ; 
 But sweeter than tongue can tell 
 
 Is bonnie Annie to me I 
 
 O dear is the dawning east, 
 
 To the wanderer lost on the wild ; 
 And dear to the young mother's breast, 
 
 Is her clinging, first-born child ; 
 Dear, dear to the banish'd man's soul, 
 
 The dreams of his ain countree ; 
 But dearer than a' dearest things 
 
 Is bonnie Annie to me I 
 
COWDENKNOWS. 79 
 
 I see her gliding o'er llie flowery braes 
 
 As fair, as lightly-moving as a swan 
 
 Buoyantly floating o'er the sunny waves 
 
 Of sweet St Mary's lake I Yet stay I how's this ? 
 
 There's less of air and spirit in her motion 
 
 Than wont to wing her gait. Her head droops too ! 
 
 I fear all is not well I— 
 
 Enter Annie. 
 
 My bonnie Annie, 
 I've waited long and wearily. 
 
 Aiu For all 
 
 Your fond regards, dear Colin ; — for the many 
 Sweet proofs of kindness and of love ; — for all 
 The hours of pleasure that your winsome tongue 
 Has charm'd upon their way, accept the last, 
 The sole return that this poor heart can give, — 
 Its thanks of deepest gratitude. 
 
 Col, Wliat means 
 
 My dearest lassie ? These dark words of thine 
 Strike on my very heart I 
 
 An, I jest not now. 
 
 This is the last time, Colin, we shall ever 
 Meet at the ewe-bughts ; this is the last time 
 Ever my foot may press fair Cowdenknows ; 
 This is the last time ever I may gaze 
 On the wide-waving broom ; this is the last, 
 The very last time ever I may hear 
 Thy music-voice, my Colin ! 
 
80 COWDENKNOWS. 
 
 Col Why is this ? 
 
 Wliat unknown fearful doom disturbs thee ? Speak, 
 And let me know the worst. 
 
 An. Then hear me, Colin : 
 
 Thou knowest the deadly spirit of the feuds 
 That long have raged between our rival names ; 
 My father's heart is fiU'd with that fierce hate. 
 Some most officious tongue has told him all 
 The story of our loves ; he questioned me, — 
 I own'd the truth ; — he laugh'd in bitterness, — 
 Then breathed a di'eadful vow between his teeth. 
 To-morrow I must leave these pleasant hills. 
 These sweet green glens, and all my gentle flocks, 
 And go with him ; — the town's dull, dingy lanes, 
 And noisy bustling streets must be my home— 
 My home ! — Oh, no ! my prison ! Never more 
 The dewy greensward, or the flowery heath. 
 My foot may press I The joyous song of birds, 
 Pom-ing a thousand various notes of love. 
 
 Shall glad my ravish'd ear, Oh ! never more ! 
 
 Even Sim, and sky, and winds, can never more 
 Be what they were to me ! And thee — Oh ! hold 
 
 My heart ! — to thee, I've come to bid a long, 
 
 A last farewell ! 
 
 Col. No ! never dream it, Annie I 
 
 I'll to thy father — hard his heart must be. 
 If true love's strong entreaties cannot move it. 
 
 An. 'Twill but incense him ; go not ; 'tis in vain. 
 
 Col. Let me at least make trial. 
 
COWDENKNOWS. 81 
 
 -4w« If you love me, 
 
 Grant me this one request, — go not ! 
 
 Col Why so ? 
 
 I do not fear his anger, though he were 
 The bravest of his name ; it has not been 
 My wont to be a trembler. 
 
 An, That it is 
 
 For which I fear. Colin, he is my father. 
 And thou — why need I mince it now ? — my lover : 
 My soul fears for you both. Oh I do not go ! 
 
 CoL I will not go, my Annie ! Why should I 
 Grieve your true heart ? But stay, my Annie, here, 
 And be my wedded wife, and tend the flocks 
 With me on Cowdenknows ! 
 
 An, It may not be ! 
 
 CoL Why may it not ? Why should a father's 
 power 
 Be strain'd beyond its limits, but to make 
 His child for ever wretched ? Nature's self 
 Resists, and Reason sanctions her resistance. 
 
 An, No ! — 
 
 I may be most unhappy : o'er my mind 
 The sweet, sad memory of days gone by, 
 Of thee and my loved Cowdenknows, may come ; 
 And I may sit alone, like prison'd bird. 
 Singing the lays of happier scenes and hours. 
 Their gay notes all to plaintive wailings changed : 
 Or, when my gather'd grief is all too full 
 For utterance, in silence weep ; — but ne'er 
 Shall conscience, mingling its upbraidings keen, 
 
82 CO WDEN KNOWS. 
 
 Pollute the tears shed to the memory 
 Of days and loves departed, with the drops 
 Of dark remorse. Full hitter is my cup ; 
 Let me not poison it with mine own hands ! 
 Colin I my first, my last, my sole heloved ! 
 Our morning sun has sunk, — a winter hlast 
 Has blighted all our spring : — the sun of noon, 
 The bloom of summer, we may never see ! 
 Once more a long — a last farewell ! 
 
 CoL Yet stay 
 
 One hour — a half — a few short minutes stay ! 
 I cannot, cannot thus part with thee, love ! 
 And must thou — wilt thou leave me ? Farewell then 
 To all my fond, fond hopes I I'll haunt the hills. 
 The glens, the burns, the broom of Cowdenknows, 
 The ghost of what I might have been ! Farewell ! 
 To hope, to love, to thee, a last farewell ! 
 
 [^Exeunt, 
 
IV. 
 THE EWE-BUGHTS. 
 
Will ye goto the ewe-bughts, Marion, 
 And wear in the sheep wi' me ? 
 
 The sun shines sweet, my Marion, 
 But no half so sweet as thee. 
 
 Old Sonff. 
 
 Altho' thou maun never be mine, 
 Altho' even hope is denied, 
 
 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing 
 Than aught in the world beside. 
 Burns. 
 
THE EWE.BUGHTS. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 (Evening , early in Summer.) 
 
 Allan, bringing the Ewes to the Bughts. 
 
 AIL Hey, Keeper ! liaud away ! hey, bring them 
 in! 
 Hey, lad I I fear we shall be late. — 'Tis time 
 That we were at the bughts. — Oh, bughting-time, 
 Tis worth, ay, three times worth the whole day long ! 
 'Tis then I feel that life is sweet indeed ; 
 Life near my Pliemie ! Oh ! that little word, 
 That my ! will it be ever realised ? 
 Fool ! trifling fool ! how can I gain the race 
 If I ne'er make the start ! There's Maxwell too, 
 I see he loves her ; nay, I see he tries 
 By every little wile to steal her heart. 
 And win even ere he asks : while I stand still 
 
 H 
 
86 THE EWE-BUGHTS. 
 
 Viewing another pluck the golden fmit 
 
 That my soul dies in longing for ! Why this 
 
 Is worse than very madness ! I ivill speak, 
 
 Will tell the soft, insinuating tale 
 
 Of my pure love, and — ^but it may offend 
 
 Her gentle, timid heart, and never more 
 
 With the sweet smile of trusting innocence, 
 
 Will she toy with me, — call me brother — friend ; 
 
 And share with me her little griefs and joys. 
 
 How would my life taste then ? No ! better be 
 
 Her bosom-friend than her discarded lover ! 
 
 But he may woo her, win her, and I lose 
 
 At once hope, friendship, love, and all ! — No ! no ! 
 
 I must, I will reveal — She comes : — ^now hold, 
 
 My heai't, thy purpose ! Give me Avinning words, 
 
 For on this hour depends the glow or gloom 
 
 Of my life's future day ! 
 
 Enter Phemie. 
 
 All. Phemie, the Fair! Why, you are late to- 
 night. 
 
 Ph. Well, I must ply the quicker, now I'm here. 
 But am I late ? 
 
 All. To me it seems you are : 
 
 But Fm so glad to meet you, I would have 
 You early here, and late ere you depart, 
 The longer to enjoy your company. 
 
 Ph. Alone upon the moor from dawn till dusk, 
 
THE EWE-BUGHTS. 87 
 
 It is not strange you long for bughting-time. 
 Me, too, its coming glads. 
 
 AIL (^Aside.) What does she say ? 
 
 Heaven speed the omen ! 
 
 Ph, I hear other strains 
 
 Than the wild, wheeling peewit's lonely cry : 
 See other creatures than the frisky lambs ; 
 But, oi'phan as I am, when do I see 
 A friend, save at the Ewe-bughts ? 
 
 All. Sure you speak 
 
 Sadly, my Phemie ! And your looks are sad. 
 What grieves you ? Do not, if you call me friend, 
 Deny me friendship's dearest office ! Speak, 
 If you are grieved, and let me share your griefs, 
 And sharing, lighten them, as oft I've done. 
 
 Ph. Oh ! thou art ever kind ! Thou hast to me 
 Been Father, Mother, Brother, Sister, all ! 
 And yet 
 
 AIL What yet ? My Phemie I can there be 
 The shadow of a doubt, that I am still 
 Your Brother, — more than Brother ? 
 
 Ph. Why, oh ! why 
 
 Have I no Mother ? in whose arms my heart 
 Might cradled lie, — might sigh its secret thoughts, 
 And find repose and shelter ? 
 
 AIL Dearest Phemie ! 
 
 What moves you thus ? If ever I have been 
 The sharer of your cares, and griefs, and joys, 
 And kept my trust, tell me your secret heart. 
 And think yom' Mother hears I 
 
88 THE EWE-BUGHTS. 
 
 Ph. Allan, I must 
 
 Do, what perhaps no woman ever did, 
 And none should ever do. Yet think me not 
 Unfemininely bold : Fate urges me. 
 And I must — Look not on me, else I die 
 Ere I can breathe my secret ! — Maxwell loves — 
 He woos — he offers wedlock — warmly pleads, 
 And beg"s an answer. Mother have I none 
 To counsel me ! — 
 
 All. (Aside.) Great Heavens ! and is it so? — 
 Oh, Love, and Hope, fai'ewell ! 
 
 Ph. Will you not speak ? 
 
 Have you, too, left me ? You ! Have I no friend ? 
 Oh ! Allan, is this well ? 
 
 AH. (Aside.) What can I say ? 
 
 Yet I must speak. — In this your heart must judge 
 Even for itself. — 
 
 Ph. Cold, cold, unkind ! Is this 
 
 The sum of all your friendsliip ? thus to leave 
 Me in my hour of need ! O Thou, who art 
 The Father of the fatherless, from heaven 
 Guide, counsel me ! No friend have I on earth ! 
 
 All. (Aside.) This must not be ! She weeps — Be- 
 slu'ew my heart, 
 My selfish heart ! I must speak to her. — Phemie, 
 How can I counsel you ? for love, they say 
 Takes no advice ; and, if you love the lad. 
 There is no more to say. 
 
 Ph. Still, still so cold I 
 
THE EWE-BUGHTS. 89 
 
 Were I what you have call'd me oft, your sister, 
 What, then, would you advise ? 
 
 All. Do you desire 
 
 In this my candid, true opinion ? 
 
 Ph, Yes. 
 
 All, Then, answer candidly : Phemie, could you 
 With him be happier than with any else ? 
 
 Ph. I know not that — you ask too much — Yet this 
 I may confess — with him I could be happy — 
 That is, I think I should — unless, indeed, 
 He have some grievous fault I know not of. 
 
 All. Once more. Grant me this night to think of it, 
 And when we meet here at to-morrow's dawn, 
 You shall have my opinion. 
 
 Ph. Dear, dear friend ! 
 
 My lone heart thanks you I Brother-friend, good 
 night ! [_Exit. 
 
 All. Good night, dear Phemie ! 
 
 < Dear friend — Brother-friend!' And is this all? 
 Oh ! perish the cold formal term ! No more ? 
 Not Lover ? No ! — ' With him I coidd be happy !' 
 * I think I should !' And shall /le win her thus ? 
 Win her, and mock at the forsaken lover ? — 
 This night — this deep, dark night — if we should 
 
 meet — 
 Despair is strong and terrible ! — 'Twere easy 
 To crush a rival's life. 
 
 Oh ! gracious God ! 
 Chase Thou the insidious Demon from my soul I 
 Oil ! save me from perdition I — 
 
 h2 
 
90 THE EWE-BUGHTS. 
 
 She loves him, yes, she loves him ! Could I then 
 Wring, with red hands, her heart-strings ? Oh I no, 
 
 no ! — 
 She calls me Brother ; she has given to me 
 The guardianship of her fair maiden-fame, 
 And her life's happiness : Oh ! let me be 
 Generous as she is trusting ! What am I ? 
 And what is he ? Conscience, adjust the beam ! 
 His merits are, a name unstain'd ; a heart 
 Of manly worth and honour ; hands of frank 
 And liberal charity ; a tongue that ne'er 
 Broke truth, or hurt his neighboiu* ; wealth enough. 
 More than enough, to meet his every want ; 
 Lastly, a form, if not of matchless grace, 
 Yet such as well may please a woman's eye : — 
 To match them what have I ? lYliat is my wealth ? 
 What my own hands can win ! — And shall I then 
 Wed her to poverty, when she might live 
 A life of ease and affluence ? — 'Tis enough ! 
 His scale preponderates ! — Never till this hoiu' 
 Long'd I for wealth ; but now, for lack of wealth, 
 I bid farewell to Love, and Hope, and all 
 That render life worth having. One by one, 
 Mine own hand plucks the blossoms of bright hope, 
 And scatters them to sun, and wind, and rain, 
 To waste for ever I Oh ! that it were not 
 Sinful to burst the thread of life ! — that thread 
 Whose dreary bond connects into one mass 
 The grim array of pain, affliction, woe. 
 And sinks the soul immortal 'neath the weight 
 
 10 
 
THE EWE-BUGHTS. 91 
 
 Of mortal miseries ! Must I then live 
 
 But to be wi'etclied ? Can it be a crime 
 
 To cast away what I no motive have 
 
 For cherishing' ? Yes, I must live — must fill 
 
 The station, and endure the sufferings, 
 
 Appointed me by fate — must linger on 
 
 Alone, and hopeless I Shall I then behold 
 
 Her all another's ? Oh I thou mighty arch 
 
 Of all-embracing heaven ! — that I could now, 
 
 In my soul's bitter agony, rend do^vn 
 
 Thy everlasting pillars, crush at once 
 
 The miiverse to ruins, and restore 
 
 The wild misrule of chaos ! — 
 
 The last fierce pang is o'er I I feel the gripe 
 
 Of fate upon my soul ! O Thou, who art 
 
 The Ever-Merciful I support me now ! 
 
 Guide me along bright virtue's onward path ; 
 
 Uphold my sinking feebleness ; direct 
 
 My every thought, word, action ; and be Thou 
 
 My life, my light, my hope, and my reward. 
 
 {Exit, 
 
92 THE EWE-BUGHTS. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 The Eive-Bughts. (Mor7iing,) 
 
 Allan. 
 
 All. How tranquilly this little well-eye sleeps, 
 As if no storm e'er broke upon its rest, 
 No thunder-cloud e'er darken'd o'er its sheen. 
 Blackening and troubling its pellucid wave I 
 May not my heart yet sleep as still ? It may ! 
 For when its hopes, its joys, its very fears. 
 Are smitten all to death, then may it sleep 
 As sleeps this fountain 'neath the winter-spell. 
 Untroubled, but cold, cold, and dead ! Even now 
 I feel the resolute calmness of despair ; 
 And I can smile at fate. Ye silent hills ! 
 Ye wide bro^^l moors ! communion let me hold 
 With you, and with the mighty Spirit-Voice 
 That lives, and breathes, and traverses amid 
 Your everlasting wilds ! 
 
 Thou old grey cairn ! how willingly coidd I 
 Exchange my lot for his, who rests unknown 
 Within yom* rugged bosom ! 
 But this is very weakness ! I have forni'd 
 In solitude my purpose. — 
 
THE EWE-BUGHTS. 93 
 
 Lo ! she comes ! 
 My — no, not my — his Phemie comes I Let me 
 Sweep from my brow, and eye, and cheek, each trace 
 Of my last sleepless night's deep misery, 
 And be once more her friend ! 
 
 Enter Phemie. 
 
 So early up ? 
 Tis yet but grey-light, and the morning mist 
 Sleeps like a silent sea upon the holms ; 
 You'll make a thrifty wife I 
 
 Th. That's not quite sure : 
 
 A thrifty maiden oft becomes, they say, 
 A sluttish wife. But, Allan, are you well ? 
 
 AIL Quite well ! Why do you ask ? 
 
 Vh, Because your brow 
 
 And eyes look heavy. 
 
 All, Oh ! mere marks of thought I 
 
 You left a subject yester-eve, you know, 
 For me to muse on. 
 
 P/^ Sure I did not think 
 
 'Twould like the nightmare weigh upon yoiu- breast, 
 Murdering your di^eams. 
 
 All, Nor did it. Ere we dream, 
 
 First we must sleep. — To the point I I have revolved 
 Deeply and anxiously, in every shape 
 And bearing, Avhat you spoke of: and at length 
 Thus would I counsel you. Give him your hand, 
 Yom- heart ! make him the happiest of men. 
 
94 THE EWE-BUGHTS. 
 
 And be blest with him ! Every thing is his 
 
 In person, mind, and fortune, that can make 
 
 A woman happy. Others there may be 
 
 Could love as deeply, truly, fervently. 
 
 But could not keep thee from the hungry clutch 
 
 Of poverty ; yet rather would endure 
 
 To lose thee than to see thee pine : — Enough 
 
 For such to know that thou art happy now 
 
 Beyond the reach of fate I 
 
 Ph. And would you thus 
 
 Advise your sister ? 
 
 All. You I thus advise — 
 
 And could a sister ever be so dear ! 
 But will you grant me one request ? 
 
 Ph. Name it ! 
 
 That I may say 'tis yours. 
 
 All. Nay, 'tis not much. 
 
 When you are his, and happy — when your heart 
 Rises in gratitude to Him who gives 
 All precious blessings — didy even and morn, 
 When knees are bent, and clasped hands are raised, 
 And the rapt spirit's adoration swells 
 Too large for human utterance, — then, Oh ! let 
 One thought of me be mingled in your prayers ! 
 Farewell ! sweet Sister-friend I farewell, fai-CAvell ! 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 Ph. What can he mean ? Why gone so suddenly ? 
 There's something strange in all this ! Let me think. 
 What's here ? — a piece of paper I — written too — 
 
THE EWE-BUGHTS. 95 
 
 He must have left it, — and perchance it may 
 Explain the mystery. 
 
 READS. 
 
 Farewell to hope ! to love farewell ! 
 
 Farewell, alas ! for evermore, 
 Ye joys, that 'mid the heart-strings dwell ! 
 
 Farewell ! your bright brief day is o'er. 
 
 Ye Phantom-hopes ! that smiling twine 
 
 Rose-chaplets for the ardent brow, 
 I've hail'd your glittering splendours mine,— 
 
 Farewell your vain delusions now ! 
 
 The gripe of anguish wrings my heart, 
 
 Till blood at every pore it weeps ; 
 Its master-chords all thrilling start 
 
 With that strong pang which never sleeps. 
 
 A thousand fancies, hopes, and fears, 
 Those rainbows in youth's mellow sky. 
 
 From the dim sepulchre of years 
 Again awake, again to die ! 
 
 Oh ! rarely has it been my lot 
 
 To bask my heart in rapture's ray ; 
 
 It glimmers o'er that lonely spot, 
 Then glances fast, and far away ! 
 
 Then let me draw the deepest fold 
 
 Of dark oblivion o'er my breast ; 
 And all unnoted, silent, cold. 
 
 Perchance my weary heart may re«t. 
 
96 THE EWE-BUGHTS. 
 
 Yet, ere it sinks into its long, 
 
 Its final slumber, one warm prayer, 
 
 My sobbing breath, my faltering tongue, 
 For thee, for thee to Heaven would bear : 
 
 All the best bliss that can be given 
 To human kind, beneath the sky, 
 
 Be thine on earth — be thine in Heaven 
 Immortal bliss, eternal joy ! 
 
 I dare not guess the meaning of these lines : 
 
 But well I feel, that to unriddle them 
 
 And his abrupt departure, were a task 
 
 Too easy. Generous spirit I fare-thee-well ! 
 
 The orphan's blessing on thee rest, and Heaven's. 
 
 lExit. 
 
V. 
 THE TOCHERED MAIDEN 
 
 OF 
 
 THE GLEN. 
 
Tibby Fowler o' the glen. 
 There's owre mony wooing at her. 
 
 Old Song. 
 
 Since my uncle's dead I've lads enow. 
 That never before cam here to woo ; 
 But to the laddie I'll prove true. 
 That loved me first of onie, O. 
 
 Old Sons: 
 
THE TOCHERED MAIDEN 
 
 OF 
 
 THE GLEN. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Farm-House in the Gle7i. Morning, 
 ( Summer^ 
 
 Jessie. Menie. 
 
 Jes, Heigli lio ! this is a weary, weary world ! 
 I'm sick and tired of wealth, — more sick and tired 
 Than e'er I was of poverty. 
 
 Men. You have 
 
 Much to complain of, doubtless I Tocher good 
 Left by our careful uncle — dresses fine 
 As any lady's — wooers even in droves — 
 What would you have, I wonder ? 
 
 Jes, I woidd have 
 
 Less flattery and more love. We never are 
 Quite right, or quite contented. Tocher ! dress ! — 
 Can they give happiness ? Wooers ! — in sooth, 
 
100 THE TOCUERED MAIDEN. 
 
 They are my worst tormentors ! fawning knaves I 
 
 A short while since, when but a simple snood 
 
 Bound back my hair, and to the bughts I bare 
 
 The milking-pail at even, not one of them 
 
 E'er look'd the way I went : but oh ! the change 
 
 My uncle's gear has wrought ! Now I am grown 
 
 So lovely — if all tales be true — no man 
 
 Can gaze on my sweet face and keep his heart ! 
 
 Vain fools ! I know them, and I scorn their arts ! 
 
 But where is he, the artless shepherd-lad, 
 
 Whose soft voice gently breathed the first love-tale 
 
 That e'er stole on my ear, while my young heart, 
 
 Trembling, yet pleased, flutter'd within my breast 
 
 Like unfledged linnet ? Why does he remain 
 
 So distant, now when every fear is gone 
 
 That poverty could tlireaten? Has he seen 
 
 Some fairer maiden, and forgot his troth ? 
 
 Or can he think that wealth could ever make 
 
 Me haughty and inconstant ? 
 
 Men. Well I ween, 
 
 Whate'er the matter be, it is not love 
 For any other face — if looks may speak 
 The language of the heai*t. No farther gone 
 Than Sunday last I saw him at the kirk, 
 And for one look he gave the minister, 
 He cast a hundi-ed side-long glances, fiU'd 
 With wistful love, on you. 
 
 Jes, Did he indeed ? 
 
 My first, my faithful lover ! WoiUd he but 
 Speak out his mind, I'd let the proud ones see 
 
THE TOCHERED MAIDEN. 101 
 
 I know the worth of true, respectful love, 
 
 And can reward it ! Oh ! the cruel law 
 
 That binds the tongue of woman ! I could well 
 
 Find in my heart to break its cold restraints ! — 
 
 Why should I not ? If wealth must be to me 
 
 The loss of hajDpiness, 'twere better far 
 
 That I were yet a simple shepherdess, 
 
 Bless'd with my shepherd's fond and faithful Jove ! 
 
 Jessie SINGS. (Aii* — The Yellow-hair d Laddie^ 
 
 Weel mind I the day, when the first thue I saw 
 My Yellow-hair'd Laddie, the flower o' them a', 
 When he came to the hill for sax score o' young lambs, 
 And I help'd him to wear them awa frae their dams. 
 
 Sae saftly he spak, an' sae sweet was his smile, 
 On the daisied burn-brae as we rested a while ; 
 How happy, I thought, with a sigh, could I be 
 If the Yellow-hair'd Laddie were bridegroom to me ! 
 
 Though rarely sinsyne have we met on the hill, 
 I think an' I dream o' my dear laddie still ; 
 My wish it was ne'er for braws, riches, nor Ian', 
 But the Yellow-hair'd Laddie to be my gudeman. 
 
 Though now like a lady fu' braw I can gang, 
 An' coofs wi' toom purses come wooing fu' thrang, 
 They gtien for my tocher — they care nought for me ; 
 But the Yellow-hair'd Laddie my bridegroom shall be. 
 
 They sigh, an' they whisper, an' ca' me fine names. 
 
 They speak me fine speeches 'bout loves, darts, and flames ; — 
 
 Far dearer ae blink o' my laddie's blue ee, 
 
 Oh ! the Yellow-hair'd Laddie my bridegroom shall be I 
 
 J. rv 
 
102 THE TOCHERED MAIDEN. 
 
 Poor chiel ! he's sae blate, no ae word can he say, — 
 But I love him the mair ; — I'll e'en meet him half-way ; 
 I'll gie hinti my tocher, my heart, and my han'. 
 An* the Yellow-hair'd Laddie shall be my gudeman ! 
 
 Men, A wise intention, sister ! But, meanwliile 
 I see the young* laird, on his prancing nag, 
 Come dashing up the loaning. How d'ye mean 
 To entertain the feather-headed youth ? 
 
 Jes, To send him back more fool than he came 
 here, 
 ■ If that he possible ! Dear Menie, set 
 Your wits to work, and help me with some trick 
 May cause him rue the day that e'er he came 
 To woo for tocher I 
 
 Men. I will gladly try — 
 
 'Twould be rare sport ! — But soft ! he's lighting- 
 
 do^ii — 
 See how he struts ! proud as a very peacock ! 
 We'll make him stoop his crest ! — But I must oif. 
 And think on something. [^Exit Menie. 
 
 Jes. Here he comes, vain fool I 
 
 Entei' Young Laird. 
 
 Yoiuig L. How does my lovely ^laiden of the 
 Glen— 
 My sweetest lassie ? 
 
 Jes. Whom, sir, do you mean ? 
 
THE TOCHERED MAIDEN. 103 
 
 Young L* Whom but yourself, fair Jessie? Seven 
 long miles 
 I've spurr'd my gallant brown through moss and 
 
 muir, — 
 My matchless brown ! — not such another steed 
 Is to be found in all broad Galloway ! 
 Hot-foot, I'll match him, twenty miles, against 
 The Stewartry, from the braes of wild Glenapp, 
 To the green vale of Nitli I I hope to see 
 Him win the broose yet, on the bridal day 
 Of some one I could name ! 
 
 Jes, Laird, do you wish 
 
 To sell yom' horse ? 
 
 Youoig L. Sell him ? my dashing brown ! 
 
 I would not part with him for aught on earth I 
 
 Jes. I thought — but 'tis no matter — Well ? 
 
 Young L, Speak out 
 
 Your thought, sweet Jessie ! I, too, think sometimes. 
 
 Jes. Of what ? 
 
 Young L. Of you, my dearest. 
 
 Jes. And your horse ? 
 
 Young L. Of him ? Ay, always. Shall I tell you 
 how, 
 The other day, Glendinning and myself — 
 Oh, he's a noble animal ! Do come 
 And look at him — I'll tell you how I beat 
 Glendinning out and out. 
 
 Jes. Pray tell me here ; 
 
 'Twill do as well. 
 
 Young L. But you sliould see him Avhile 
 
104 THE TOCHERED MAIDEN. 
 
 I tell of his exploits. Well, let that pass. 
 Old Alexander with his hounds were out ; 
 Glendinning and 
 
 Enter Menie. 
 
 Men. O Laird I for mercy's sake ! 
 
 Your horrid horse ! he'll kill them every one ! 
 Young L. Kill what ? 
 
 Men. The goslings, Laird ! his bridle's slipp'd — 
 See where he's now ! 
 
 (^He runs out — catches the horse beside the 
 pond — mounts him ; the gander comes 
 hissing — the horse shys — the saddle slips 
 rounds and the LiAIRd falls into the pond. 
 Jessie, Menie, and the Servants laugh- 
 ing^as he gets up and runs off after his 
 horse.^ 
 Jes. Ha I ha! the " gallant brown !" 
 
 Is that the way you heat Glendiuniug, Laird ? 
 Well speed ye, Laird. 
 
 Men. The gander. Laird ! run, run ! 
 
 Jcs. So much for him. Hell be in no haste back 
 To woo me with the praises of his horse. 
 Men. Have not I managed well ? 
 
 Jes. Dear sister, yes ! 
 
 But tell me how you did it. 
 
 Men. From the ring 
 
 I slipp'd the bridle, led him to the pond, 
 Slacken'd the saddle-gear, came running home, 
 
THE TOCHERED MAIDEN. 105 
 
 Gave the alami, and sent the fool to show, 
 As well I knew he would, his horsemanship ; 
 And how he sped, he'll not forget, I ween, 
 He, and his gallant brown ! 
 
 Jes» Even let him go 
 
 And muse on his mishap. His father's wealth. 
 Already deeply pledged, he thought to mend 
 His unthrift with my tocher. Witless gowk, 
 He go a-wooing ! Send him to the fair 
 To gossip with horse-jockeys. 
 
 Men. Hold you there I 
 
 Put on a sober face, for yonder comes 
 Our learned Dominie. 
 
 Jes, What, Samuel Gray? 
 
 The smooth-tongued flatterer! What brings him 
 here ? 
 
 Men. Yom- long purse, sister, doubtless. ShaF 
 we throw 
 Some witchery o'er him ? 
 
 Jes, No. 1 scorn the man, 
 
 Yet I revere his calling. He shall meet 
 With no uncivil usage here, unless 
 Himself provoke it. Leave me for a while ; 
 I'll try what words can do. 
 
 Men. If you shoidd need 
 
 Assistance, let me know. I long to learn 
 If there is metal in him. 
 
 Jes, Fie ! — Away I 
 
 I hear his step. \^,Exit Menie. 
 
106 THE TOCHERED MAIDEN. 
 
 Eiiter Samuel Gray. 
 
 Sam. G, Fair Maiden of the Glen, 
 
 Sweet be the sunshine on youi- lovely brow ! 
 And may the happy houi's glide o'er your head 
 On angel-pinions. Happy is the man 
 Whose eyes behold thee in thy virgin bloom, 
 Beautiful as the Queen of Smiles and Loves 
 When from the deep emerging, borne along 
 The hoary paths of ocean by a train 
 Of sea-nymphs, as old j^oets sweetly sung ; 
 But, oh ! how hap23ier he, to whom kind Fate 
 May give the empire of those radiant charms ! 
 
 Jes, Sir ? Mister Gray, I cannot understand 
 Such learned speeches. Pray, subdue your words 
 To such plain meaning as a country lass 
 May comj^rehend : else must you teach me, — tho' 
 I fear I'd be a dull, untoward scholar, 
 
 Sa?n. G. To teach thee, lady, were a task too 
 good 
 For even Dionysius, though his hand 
 Once sway'd a sceptre I Yet, oh ! might I teach 
 Your gentle heart the lessons of young Love ! — 
 
 Jes, What lessons, INIister Gray ? 
 
 Sam G. Might I presume — 
 
 Dear lady, love unites — there is a chord 
 That sends its thrilling notes — when sympathy 
 Attracts congenial natm-es — sighs and looks, 
 
THE TOCHERED MAIDEN. lOt 
 
 For words want power — the heart — the heart — 
 
 permit 
 My lips to seal — 
 
 Jes. Stay, stay I This broken speech — 
 This ill-repeated lesson, Mister Gray — 
 I could perhaps interpret : but you must 
 Answer a few brief questions fii'st. Say, then, 
 Does it befit a man, whose life has been 
 Devoted solemnly to teach the ways 
 Of virtue, honour, and religion, thus 
 To come prepared with flattery's witching words 
 Against a simple maiden ? Is it right, 
 Or generous, to assume, with wily art. 
 The semblance of true, honom-able love. 
 When well I know there glows no purer flame 
 Within your breast than the base love of gold ? 
 Shame on you, sir ! Has learning done no more 
 Than store youi- head, and smooth your tongue ? 
 
 While all 
 The better feelings of your heart lie waste, 
 The worse spring up in rank luxuriance. 
 A simple maid, skill'd in no higher lore 
 Than what her Bible teaches, gives you this 
 Lesson of Christian morality ! — 
 Not less in value, as she humbly thinks, 
 Than your fine heathen tales of nymphs and loves. 
 
 Sam, G, Forgive me, lady, and believe me now ! 
 Your pure, untutor'd heart has given me 
 A just rebuke ; has chasten'd and expell'd 
 The demon, Vanity, from its stronghold 
 
108 THE TOCHERED MAIDEN. 
 
 In my repentant bosom. From this hour 
 My task shall be to elevate my soul 
 To loftier aims ; to cherish in my breast 
 All pure and self-denying- principles ; 
 To place before my mind expanded views 
 Of my important duties ; and perchance 
 Thus your esteem I yet may gain — I ask 
 No dearer meed — I know my ill-desert. 
 Farewell, pure-hearted Maiden — hence I go 
 A humbler, and, I trust, a better man. 
 
 Jes, Farewell. — Maintain your purpose, and be- 
 lieve 
 You have already won my high esteem. 
 
 \_Exit Samuel Gray. 
 I did him, then, no more than justice : Well, 
 I'm glad he's done, I can respect, — ^nay, more, 
 Can honour him, — ^but love ? — My shepherd lad, 
 No love have I for any one but thee. 
 
 Eiiter Menie. 
 
 Men. Upon my word, this Dominie of ours 
 Has, after all, a heart ! I heard his words. 
 And watch'd him as he went ; his steps were slow, 
 And pensive were his looks. He tm-n'd and raised 
 His eyes to heaven — mutter'd some prayer, or vow, 
 Then sprung across the stile, and disappear'd. 
 He was well worth a thousand of the Laird ! 
 
 Jes, Have his line words won yom' heart, Menie ? 
 
 Men. No. 
 
THE TOCHERED MAIDEN. i09 
 
 But his frank owning of his fault ; and more, 
 His purpose of amendment, well deserve 
 More praise than I have given. 
 
 Jes, If he should 
 
 Become all that he seems to wish ; and then 
 Should gain your favour, sister, you shall find 
 That I can honour worth, and act the part 
 Of a kind sister too. But I must go 
 And give some orders to the shepherds — Look I 
 Lo, yonder comes another ; — yet he seems 
 Uidike a wooer — sure it cannot be — 
 Yes, 'tis old Simon Gatherall ! Oh ! do, 
 Dear Menie, pass for me I I'm very sure 
 He'll never find you out I 
 
 Men, Tliat will I, Jess, 
 
 Most readily ! 'Twill be such sport ! Away, 
 And leave me to enjoy the honey'd words 
 Of my rare ancient lover. 
 
 \_ExiL Jessie. 
 Now shall I 
 Tease this old fool to pm-pose ! They deserve 
 No less, these hoary wooers ! 'T sets them well 
 To long for blooming twenty-two, while they 
 Creep hirpling o'er a staif, ripe for the grave, 
 Instead of blythesome marriage. 
 
 Enter Simon Gatherall, 
 
 Sim. G. My bonnie lady I how d'ye do this day ? 
 
 K ^ 
 
HO IHE TO CHE RED MAIDEN. 
 
 I need not ask ; ye bloom as fresh and fair 
 As a May lily. 
 
 3Ien. Thank you, thank you, sir ! 
 I hope I see you well, in spite of age 
 And its attendant frailties ! 
 
 Sim. G. Frailty ? Age? 
 
 I'm not so old and frail, my bonnie dow I 
 A man's but at his best at forty-five. 
 
 Men. \_ Aside. 
 
 (That, and a score, were near the truth!) Excuse 
 My witless words ! Misled by country talk 
 I thought you old, but find I'm wrong. 
 
 Sim. G. Dear lassie, 
 
 Never believe the country's clash ! Because 
 I am a prudent man, and never join 
 Their idle racketings and waste, forsooth, 
 They call me old and miserly ! — Ne'er mind ; 
 I'm young enough to think of marriage yet. 
 And should some bonnie lassie give her hand. 
 She'd maybe find her home as snug and blythe 
 As any in three parishes. 
 
 Me7i. Indeed, 
 
 To say the truth, I've often thought our lads 
 Too fond of mirth and revelry abroad 
 To make good husbands. 
 
 Sim. G. Never in your life 
 
 Spoke you a truer word ! Vain butterflies. 
 They do not know the worth of home ! 
 
 Men. Besides, 
 
 They are such spendthrifts ! ten to one they bring 
 
THE TOCHERED MAIDEN. Ill 
 
 Their poor misguided wives and families 
 To utter ruin. 
 
 Sim, G, That's my very thought 1 
 Waste not, and Avant not I Oh ! the dear delight 
 Of adding pence to pounds, and pounds to pence ! 
 That, and a careful wife — 
 
 Men, How can a man 
 
 Pretend to love his wife, and all the while 
 Lavish in wasteful folly every means 
 Of making her, his children, and himself, 
 Happy and comfortable ? 
 
 Sim, G, Dearest lassie, 
 
 You speak my very sentiments ! How blest 
 Were I with such a wife ! What think'st thou, dear ? 
 We'd be the happiest couple — 
 
 Men. Oh I fie I sir. 
 
 You make me blush ! 
 
 Sim, G, My bonnie budding rose ! 
 
 I like thy blushes ! Do not say me nay ! 
 Sweetly consent, and — 
 
 Men, But I am so young — 
 
 So fond of girlish play — you could not bear 
 My silly mirthfulness. 
 
 Sim, G, Trust me for that ! 
 
 I like a little harmless fun myself 
 Upon a time. 
 
 Men, Oh, rare ! You would not frown 
 If I should sing to while away an hour 
 In the long winter evenings ? 
 
112 THE TOCHEKED MAIDEN. 
 
 Sim. G. Frown I I'd rather 
 
 Sing with you, lassie ! 
 
 Men. Better yet ! Come, now, 
 
 Let's try how it will do ! — 
 
 SINGS. 
 
 I'll sing my ain gudeman a sang when he comes hame, 
 A braw canty sang at e'en when he comes hame, 
 I'll beat the cozy ingle till it gi'es a cheerfu' flame, 
 An' I'll sing a canty sang to him when he comes harae. 
 
 We'll hae nae idle junketings in our douce hame, 
 Nae waste and nae want in our ain douce hame, 
 Ne'er riot till in poverty our folly sair we blame. 
 But sober happiness shall dwell in our douce hame. 
 
 Come join the chorus I 
 
 Both. But sober happiness shall dwell in our snug hame. 
 
 We'll hae nae costly ornaments in our snug hame, 
 Nae gay tinsel finery in our snug hame, 
 We'll hae what's good an* usefu', we'll hae nought for show 
 or name, 
 Both. An' sing the sang o' sweet content in our snug hame. 
 
 Sim. G. My dearest, sweetest, wisest, bonnie 
 lassie I 
 Give me your hand, and let me call you mine ! 
 We're made for one another I Let me taste 
 The honey of yom* lips ! 
 
 Men. Oh ! no, no, no I 
 
 You terrify me ! you're in such a haste I 
 Old ? Why, you are too young ! But shall we dance ? 
 Do you like dancing ? 
 
THE TOCHERED MAIDEN. IIS 
 
 Sim, G. Oh yes ! we may dance 
 
 When we've nought else to do. 
 
 Men. Come let us try, 
 
 You sing so well, I'm certain you can dance. 
 Come, come ! 
 
 Sim. G. Tut, lassie ! not just now ! 
 
 Men. Yes, come ! 
 
 You must I I will not be refused ! — Come, come ! — 
 
 Sim. G. Daft lassie ! — 
 
 Men. Come, give me your hand I 
 
 (^Sings and dances round him.) 
 
 Merrily, cheerily, brisk and airily, 
 
 Hey, auld man, away, auld man. 
 Fairly, cannily, lightly, funnily, 
 
 Strike up the dance sae gay, auld man 1 
 Lilt up the measure wi' blythesome glee, — 
 Gar the auld wig to the rafters flee, 
 And nimbly trip it alang wi' me. 
 
 Come, brisk auld man, away, auld man ! 
 
 ( Tosses aivay his ivig, and while she is whirls 
 ing him about the room, enter Jessie.) 
 
 Jes. What, what! Old Simon! Menie ! What, 
 means this ? 
 
 Men. Not much. My venerable lover here 
 And I, were practising a little ; — just 
 By way of trial how the thing would do,. 
 Should we get married. 
 
 K.2 
 
114 THE TOCHERED MAIDEN. 
 
 Jes, Married ! Sure you jest ? 
 
 Married to tliat old man ! 
 
 Men. Why not ? he wants a wife. 
 
 And I vrant money. 
 
 Sim. G, Have I been deceived ? 
 
 Are you not, then, the Lady o' the Glen ? 
 
 Men. Her younger sister. Never mind I I'll be 
 A frugal wife. O ! you will be most blest 
 In getting me ! 
 
 Sim, G. You, you ! No, I'll have none 
 Of your fine younger sisters ! — tocherless. 
 And good for nothing, but with witching words 
 To wile a plain man to his ruin ! No I 
 I'm bless'd that I escaped the snare ! 
 
 Jes. A frank confession ! So you come to woo 
 Me for my wealth ? And, like a weak old fool, 
 Degraded your grey head to be the sport 
 And plaything of a giddy girl ! For shame ! 
 To see an old man fallen into a state 
 Of second childhood, is most pitiful : 
 But when we see the mean and selfish tricks 
 Of an old doting miser, we can feel 
 Nothing but utter loathing and contempt I 
 Away I and let me never see thee more ! 
 
 ^He sneaks off. 
 
 Men. What thought you of my sport ? 
 
 Jes, I must declare 
 
 I cannot quite approve it : — though the fool 
 Deserved it all, I cannot beju* to see 
 Old age made so ridiculous. 
 
THE TOCHERED MAIDEN. 115 
 
 Men. Do not be 
 
 So grave ; — 'twas all for your sake ; and besides, 
 'Twas such a tempting opportunity I 
 I thought I should have died with very laughter 
 When he began to sing and dance I 
 
 Jes, Well, well ! 
 
 At any rate he's gone : And I have set 
 Another scheme agoing. What may be 
 The consequence I cannot yet foresee. 
 I hope — yet there is some good ground for fear — 
 I must about it — ^no time's to be lost ! 
 
 Men. Can I not help you, sister? 
 
 Jes. No ; not now. 
 
 This matter I must manage for myself. 
 
 \_Exeunt 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The hanks of the Burn — Robin, Jessie in disguise 
 as a Shepherd boy, drivhig a small Jlock of lambs. 
 
 Rob. I think 111 turn again. You and your dog 
 May now with ease conduct my pretty lambs 
 To their new home : — though they had been as well 
 Under my care, on their own native hills. 
 And with their dams yet for a week or two. 
 
 Jes. Our mistress has some notions of her own 
 On that, as on most subjects. 
 
116 THE TOCHERED MAIDEKr 
 
 Rob. Like enough ; 
 
 And who can blame her ? 
 
 Jes, I shall not for one. 
 
 But I must thank you for your help so far, 
 And try the rest myself. 
 
 Rob. What's all the haste ? 
 
 'Tis long till dark I Come^ rest you here a while, — 
 You and your little flock. Come, sit you down 
 On this green mossy brae, where primroses, 
 Gowans, and violets, lift their lovely heads. 
 To welcome spring-tide's gentle sun and shower. 
 J love this flowery brae ; and well I may ! 
 On such a day as this — the summer skies 
 Smiling most placidly ; the wimpled burn 
 With all its fairy waterfalls and pools 
 Sparkling as now ; the rough sloe sheeted o'er 
 With its bright snowy blossoms ; wild flowers young, 
 Peeping from out the fresh green sward, as now, — 
 On such a Aaj, and in this very scene. 
 Lovely as now, this heart of mine fii'st tlu'ill'd 
 With the sweet trembling bliss of youtllftd love — 
 First love ! — pure as the new-fallen snow ! — But 
 
 sure 
 I'm talking to myself ! Sit do^vn, my lad ; 
 And tell me how you like this country-side ; — 
 For I think you're a stranger. 
 
 Jes, I have been 
 
 But short while shepherd to that lucky lass 
 They call the Tochered Maiden of the Glen. 
 
 Rob. And how like vou her service ? 
 
THE TOCIIERED MAIDEV. 117 
 
 *^^^' Well enough, 
 
 For the short time I've known it. 
 
 I^oh, Can you tell 
 
 If half the tales that tlu'ough the country ring, 
 About her wooers, be aught like the truth ? 
 
 Jcs, I know not half the country's tales ; but this 
 Full well I know, — there passes scarce a day 
 But there come dozens, clad in all their best, 
 Eager to win her love. 
 
 Hob. And how does she 
 
 Receive the selfish crew ? 
 
 Jes. Oh ! there's no doubt 
 
 As other women would : Her vanity 
 Must be so highly gratified with all 
 Their flatteries, that she, no doubt, believes 
 Herself the very pink of excellence — 
 A perfect goddess ! — 
 
 Rob. Oh, how changed I — ^but no, 
 
 I'm sure she never — that is, I have heard. 
 That ere her uncle's death, she was a lass 
 Of sense and modesty ; and I should hope 
 She'll not now turn a vain coquette. 
 
 Jes. I doubt 
 
 She's not much less already. 
 
 Hob. Do you hear 
 
 Who are supposed her favourites ? 
 
 Jes, I have heard 
 
 So many spoken of — 
 
 Hob, Can you name some ? 
 
118 THE TOCHERED MAIDEN. 
 
 Jes, There's the Young Laird, 'tis thought he has 
 a chance : — 
 He bears a high head, — rides a dashing horse, — 
 And has enough of impudence. 
 
 ^oh. I'm sure 
 
 She'll never fancy him, conceited fool ! 
 
 Jes, There's Samuel Gray, the schoolmaster. I 
 hear 
 He's well received. 
 
 Hoh. I dread him more, far more — 
 
 He has both head and heart ; and his learn'd tongue 
 Can frame bewitching tales , — yet sure his airs 
 Of affectation cannot please the taste 
 Of a plain country girl. Who is next ? 
 
 Jes. There's Simon Gatherall, Ned Smart, Dick 
 QuiU, 
 O, a whole legion ! — 
 
 Hoh, There is little fear 
 
 That she will cast away her love on such 
 A motley squad. 
 
 Jes. Fear I What is there to fear ? 
 
 Sure you or I have little cause to fear 
 Which of her lovers she may choose to make 
 Her lawful lord and husband ? 
 
 Rob. Every man 
 
 Should wish well to all women. Let us, then. 
 Wish that the lover of her choice may be 
 A man of worth and honour ; not a wretcli 
 Of sordid, selfish nature, whose sole aim 
 Is to obtain her wealth. 
 
THE TOCHERED MAIDEN. 119 
 
 Jes. I've heard besides, 
 
 Some story of a shepherd lad, who was 
 Her lover years ago, ere she became 
 An heiress. 
 
 Rob. What of him ?— 
 
 Jes. They say he had 
 
 Won her affection, and then slighted her. 
 Before her uncle's death ; and, now, for shame 
 Of his false conduct, comes not near, though she 
 Would rather have him in his shepherd's plaid 
 Than even the brawest, proudest, of her wooers. 
 
 Roh. If it should be so — ^no, it cannot be ! 
 
 Jes. What cannot be ? 
 
 Rob. Why do they say that he 
 
 Woo'd and then slighted her ? 
 
 Jes. Because he was 
 
 A most inconstant lad ; he never knew 
 His own mind for a week together ; changed 
 From love to coldness, like an April day ; — 
 A faithless promise-breaker. 
 
 Rob. 'Tis quite false ! — 
 
 When did I ever break my plighted troth 
 Of love or friendship ? 
 
 Jes. You ! Are you the lad ? 
 
 Ha ! ha ! — This is the best joke in my life 
 I've had the luck to meet with. — Ha I ha ! ha ! 
 Are you the faithless swain ? 
 
 Rob. — But let me hint 
 
 That it may be a serious joke for you, 
 Should it be push'd too far. I am the man. 
 
120 THE TOCHERED xMAIDEN, 
 
 I loved her dearer than my tongue can tell ; — 
 As witness this burn-brae, where fii'st I spake 
 To her of love : my heart even now is hers, — 
 Unalter'd, and unalterably hers, — 
 In all the truth and fervour of first love ! 
 But she now moves in a more lofty rank ; 
 And though I cannot cease to love, I shall, 
 Whate'er it cost me, check each longing wish — 
 Each self-born hope that she were mine. 
 
 Jes. Poor lad ! 
 
 I must not call thee " faithless swain," alack ! 
 But " faithful and forsaken." 
 
 Roh, Thou liad'st best 
 
 Restrain thy feeble mockery, silly boy. » 
 
 Unworthy of my anger as thou art. 
 Speak one more taunting word of her, I'll send 
 Thee, like a whipp'd child, whining home ! 
 
 Jes, That were. 
 
 To her a gallant compliment, forsooth I 
 T'would work a reconcilement ! 
 
 Rob. Take thy meed f 
 
 Provoking imp : — 
 
 (^Attempts to seize her. She throws off her plaid 
 and hat; smiles, blushes, and speaks in her 
 natural voice.^ 
 
 Jes, My own true shepherd lad I 
 
 Rob. My Jessie ! Can it be ? Can I believe 
 Mine eyes ? 
 
 Jes. You may : and more — my hand, my heart. 
 
THE TOCHERED MAIDEN. 121 
 
 My all be thine ; dear, faithful, noble youth ! 
 Thy true and honourable love deserves them well. 
 
 Roh, Is this not all a glorious di-eam ? My love ! 
 My dearest Jessie ! May I call thee mine, 
 Novr, and for ever ? Blessed be this day, 
 This flowery brae, and thy sweet, wily self, 
 Thou kind and generous maiden ! 
 
 Jes, I must home, 
 
 And for the future quit the shepherd craft, 
 Since I have now regain'd my faithful swain, 
 *' I'll gie him my tocher, my heart, an' my han'. 
 An' the yellow-hair'd laddie shall be my gudeman I" 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
VI. 
 
 THE HARVEST-FIELD. 
 
When wild war's deadly blast was blawn. 
 
 And gentle peace returning. 
 And eyes again wi' pleasure beam'd. 
 
 That had been blear'd wi' mourning, 
 
 I left the lines and tented fields. 
 
 Where lang I'd been a lodger — 
 
 Burks. 
 
 Still shearing and clearing 
 
 The tither stocked raw, 
 Wi' clavers and haivers 
 
 Wearing the day awa. Burns. 
 
Characters. 
 
 James Gordon, in love with Mary 
 
 Stewart. > Officers* 
 
 George Irving, his comrade. 
 Mr Stewart. 
 
 Mary Stewart, his daughter, in love with Gordon, 
 Boy, son to Mr Stewart, 
 
 Andrew Hay, the Grieve, or Overseer. 
 
 Hugh. 
 
 Lawrence. 
 
 Sandy. 
 
 Robin Craik. I Reapers. 
 
 Annie. 
 
 TiBBY. 
 
 Kate Craik. 
 
 l2 
 
THE HARVEST-FIELD. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The rismg ground above the Forth^ near Tullibody^ 
 upon the base of the Ochils. 
 
 Enter James Gordon and George Irving, two bro- 
 ther officers, on their return home from Spain. 
 
 Irv, What ! not a word to cheat the weary miles 
 That lengthen on our march ? Why, I have seen 
 A gallant pace him to the place of doom, 
 And wear a brow less gloomy ! Cheer thee, man ! 
 Is this a welcome to thy native land ? 
 Does that dark sullen brow, that muddy eye, 
 That gather'd lip, befit a time like this ? 
 Beslu'ew me, Gordon, but I think thy heart 
 Is yet among the orange-groves of Spain, 
 And home's no home for thee I 
 
 Gor, I pray thee, cease ; 
 
 Irving, my heart is very sad. 
 
128 THE HARVEST-FIELD. 
 
 Irv, Thy heart ! 
 
 Speak not but truly of the absent, comrade ! 
 Some dark-hair'd, olive-tinted maid is now^ 
 The casket where that jewel plighted lies. 
 Well, I did think thou wouldst have hailed return 
 In other guise than this. I've check'd the words 
 That oft were struggling on my lip, to mark 
 Thy pensive mood ; and save a glow that rush'd 
 Unbidden o'er thy cheek and brow — a glance 
 Of fiery pride that kindled in thine eye — 
 When on thy view first broke yon stately hall, 
 Deepbosom'd 'mid its groves of peace, thoumightst 
 Have been a mere mute walking thing of wood. 
 
 Gov. And know'st thou not to whom that hall 
 belongs ? 
 
 Irv, No ; nor unless indeed it be my hap 
 To pass it with a guide more talkative 
 Than thou art, am I likely. 
 
 Gor. 'Tis a hall 
 
 Whither the warrior oft, in days to come. 
 Shall bend his steps, as to a hallow'd shrine. 
 Worthy the deepest reverence of liis heart : 
 And in the page which beai'S the many names 
 Of Scotia's heroes, brightly blazon'd forth 
 Brave Abercrombie, red Aboukir's Lord ! 
 Shall thine appear I 
 
 Irv, Well might it wake the fire 
 
 That seems to sleep so dead-like in thee, Gordon. 
 There's not a man who calls this mountain-land. 
 With its wild glens and waving heaths, his home. 
 
THE HARVEST-FIELD. )i9 
 
 But feels his heart bound at that noble name, 
 And treads with prouder step his native sward 
 
 In loftiest mien and bearing But, my friend. 
 
 My fellow-soldier, prithee do abate 
 
 This most unsocial gloom, that clouds thy soul : 
 
 No glance of recognition lightens o'er 
 
 These old remember'd scenes ; thou dost not bid 
 
 A stranger welcome to thy native hills ; — 
 
 It is not well. 
 
 Gor. Bear with me yet a little. 
 
 A leaden weariness lies on my heart ; 
 And thoughts of busy import crowding come, 
 Choking my utterance. 
 
 Irv. Why, give them vent — 
 
 Speak them : they cannot be so wayward, wild. 
 Or dreary, but they must as far excel 
 This stifling midnight silence, as the bm'st 
 Of the fierce tempest from the low-hung cloud. 
 Where slept its terrors, does the brooding, dim, 
 And scowling aspect of its treasured gloom. 
 
 Gor, Let me intreat thee, Irving, cease. I know 
 Thou dost not wish to pain me. 
 
 Irv. No, I wish 
 
 To lead thee from what pains thee. 
 
 Gor. Tis in vain ; 
 
 It dwells too deeply. 
 
 Irv, Do not think so. Come, 
 
 Cast round thine eye familiar I Note each hall, 
 Grey tower, green hill, and dusky glen's far depth ^ 
 Whether renown'd for deeds of other days, 
 
130 THE HARVEST-FIELD. 
 
 Or glorious in the blaze of recent fame, 
 And make their story mine. 
 
 Gor. Thou meanest kindly. 
 
 And in good time, lo ! we have gain'd a height 
 Whence all the prospect widens on the eye, 
 Even till it dazzles, overtask'd to scan 
 The countless beauties ! 
 
 Irv. 'Tis a spot indeed 
 
 Where the rapt wanderer may gazing stand 
 A round of countless hours, while his tranced soul 
 Drinks in unutterable rapture ! 
 
 Gor. Bend thine eye 
 
 On the far westward limit of the vale, 
 Where huge Ben Lomond rears his hoary brow, 
 Encintured by the clouds of heaven ; behold 
 The linked windings of the silver Forth, 
 Gliding with intricate, involved coui'se 
 Through her green strath, and round the time-worn 
 
 towers 
 Of regal Stirling ; mark the sunny gleam 
 That reddens on Demayet's brow, and flings 
 Its slanting radiance o'er Ben Cloich, while all 
 The wavy Ochils brighten : Wider spreads 
 The Forth, until she rolls an inland sea 
 Studded with islets, and alive with sails ; 
 Along the deep embayments of her shores 
 Shine towers, and spires, and halls, and palaces, 
 Begirt with forward or receding groves 
 In loosen'd union : Far amid the haze 
 The straining eye may mark where Scotia's pride^ 
 
THE HARVEST-FIELD. 131 
 
 Edina, sits upon her throne of rocks ; 
 
 Edina, by the hand of Nature framed, 
 ^it dwelling for a warrior-nation's king, — 
 And lifts her high unconquer'd head to heaven 
 In peerless majesty ! 
 
 Irv. There spoke a Scot I 
 
 Now I believe indeed thou dost not tread, 
 With all unwilling feet, thy native land. 
 But tell me, Gordon, why the ill-timed gloom 
 That but so lately held thee sad and mute ? 
 
 Gor. Thou know'st me, and the wayward moods 
 that oft. 
 With might that may not be controll'd, sweep o'er 
 My mind till all is dark. 
 
 Irv, Why, yes ; — but yet 
 
 I should have deem'd that hope's bright imagery 
 Would have expell'd them now. 
 
 Gor, Hast thou ne'er felt 
 
 A di'eary boding gather o'er thy soul. 
 Till hope's faint whisperings seem'd but mockery. 
 And each, and all, partook the sombre cast ? 
 
 Irv, Perchance I have, one dull half-hour, or so, 
 About drear midnight, on a battle-eve. 
 When placed a sentinel by some lone wood. 
 Where round me lay piled heaps of newly slain, 
 And birds of prey, scared by my pacing step. 
 Left their dire feast, and wheeling o'er my head, 
 FJapp'd their broad wings, wild screaming I — rarely 
 . else^ 
 
132 THE HARVEST-FIELD. 
 
 Gor, What ! not when all the scenes of early- 
 youth, — 
 The friends that then were, and may oiow be gone^-^ 
 The joys whose memory foUow'd thee afar, — 
 The hopes that cheer'd thee when all else had fail'd,, — 
 Come in one blended vision, wearing* all 
 TJiat shadowy hue which palls ? 
 
 Irv. Were it not wiser 
 
 To think them all at hand, blooming as ever ? 
 
 Gor, Would I could think so ! 
 
 Irv, And why could you not, 
 
 Most gloomy man ? H^iVe you not lately heard, 
 That parents, and relations, all were well ? 
 What would you more to turn your fears to hopes ? 
 
 Gor, What would I more ? Irving, I do not think 
 That we, who side by side so oft have braved 
 The extremest perils of the field of blood, 
 Will now in peace, and in our native clime. 
 Shrink from a comrade's duty. 
 
 Irv. Gordon, no ; — 
 
 I know you do not, cannot, doubt my friendship. 
 But wherefore this ? 
 
 Gor, There has a secret dwelt 
 
 Long in my heart, conceal'd like the rich store 
 O'er which the miser prays. There was a maid — 
 Oh I she was all a lover's thought could frame, 
 A lover's heart could wish — she was to me 
 More than the light of day, the air I breathed; 
 She was the light and life even of my soul ! 
 
THE HARVEST-FIELD. 133 
 
 I loved ; — in winning terms I told my love ; 
 
 And, spite of fears and maiden coynesses, 
 
 I won her blushing favour. Let me not 
 
 Dwell on those blissful days ! Ere then my fate — 
 
 The fate of younger brothers — as thou know'st, 
 
 Had bound me to the ranks of war : I left 
 
 My father's house, and all its inmates dear ; 
 
 -Sharp was the pang I but oh ! the sliarper pang 
 
 When to the maiden of my heart I bade 
 
 Farewell ! Years, full of sternest strife 
 
 And bloodiest peril, since have roU'd along, — 
 
 And my sweet cousin, does she love me still ? 
 
 Will she glad hail her soldier from the wars ? 
 
 Or reigns some trim and polish'd son of peace 
 
 In that heart where her wanderer once was Lord ? 
 
 Would that I knew ! 
 
 Irv. Well, in a little time 
 
 You will know. 
 
 Gor. But meanwhile my heart — 
 
 My restless heart, that medium never knew, 
 Js rack'd with the extremes of hope and fear ; — • 
 And nearer as my steps approach the goal 
 Of certainty, the more my fears increase, 
 Stunning my soul with hollow mutterings 
 That seem to bode of her inconstancy. 
 
 Irv, Why such vain, dark, ungenerous surmises? 
 You may be very constant \ — here and there 
 Such wondrous things as constancy in rnasi 
 Perhaps may be : for me, I must confess 
 J am no turtle-dove — I could well be 
 
IS^ THE HARVEST- FIELD. 
 
 In love with twenty in a month; — but you — 
 If love occasions love, sure constancy 
 May spring from constancy, and youi* fair maid 
 Must be unchanging. 
 
 Gor. Could I but believe 
 
 That it might be — that 'tis so ! 
 
 Irv. You a lover ! 
 
 There is but little chivalry, I ween 
 In such suspicions I Wliat, will you not own, 
 That purest, loftiest love, fidelity. 
 All unimpeachable in every thought. 
 The unmix'd essence of each several vii'tue, 
 Yet blended all in one harmonious whole, 
 Belong — nay, cannot but belong — to woman ? 
 And dare you think her fickle ? 
 
 Gor, Mock me not. 
 
 This doubting, sinking, weary mood of mind. 
 If 'tis a faidt, 'tis its o^vn punishment. 
 If less my love, less were my hopes and fears. 
 Well, well ; 'twill soon be o'er : An hour or two 
 Will solve all doubts. See where the mid-day sun 
 Shines on the lovely heights of Broomilee, 
 Deepening the lustre of the yellow fields ! 
 There now, even now, her father's reapers ply 
 The busy sickle. VYould I were among them 
 But one short hour unknown ! 
 
 Irv. What hinders thee ? 
 
 Could we but think on some disguise, some garb 
 Of unsuspicious seeming : — now I have it ! 
 See where some frugal dame lier well-saved gowns 
 
THE HARVhST-FlELD. 135 
 
 Has spread to sun tliem, on that formal thorn ; 
 
 'Twoiild be small harm to borrow one a while ; . 
 
 I'll make thee, Gordon, like thy grandmother I 
 
 I'll be a blind old soldier, thou my wife. 
 Come, wilt thou do't ? 
 
 Gov. Such idle foolery 
 
 I like not much — though might it- — yes it might — 
 But 'tis no matter. 
 
 Irv. Do not baulk the jest. 
 
 Thou slialt have nought to do : thou art an old. 
 And, strange — a woman of few words; I'll talk 
 
 enough. 
 Fear not, for both. They know not me. Consent, 
 It is the only way to learn, unkno\^ii. 
 And unsuspected, what tales rumour tells ; 
 Whether your Fair One wear thie willow-wreath 
 For your lamented absence, or if she 
 Have found some consolation in the vows 
 Breathed by new lovers. Come, what say you now ? 
 
 Gor, Scarce can I say I will not, or, I will. 
 
 Irv I'll say it for thee then — Thou wilt. Haste, 
 haste, 
 Ere the goodwife shall come to turn her wardrobe. 
 Why, such a trick I've tried ere now. Cheer up, 
 We shall, we must succeed. 
 
 Gor, Yet I confess 
 
 My mind misgives me. 
 
 Ixv, Stuff, man ! Heed it not. 
 
 1 see a dell of darksome bosom near, 
 Thither betake thee ; and the task be mine 
 
136 XHE HARVEST-FIELD. 
 
 To choose what gear we want, and meet thee there. 
 
 Thou'lt make a stalwart, gruesome carlin, Gordon, 
 
 As I shall deck thee : And for me, fear not, 
 
 A little fraying on a stone, or tree, 
 
 A rent or two, will make this travelling garb 
 
 Seem not a whit too good to be the wear 
 
 Of an old pensioner. Come, my boy, quick march ! 
 
 Love has its stratagems as well as war, 
 
 And we are spies, you know I 
 
 \_Exeunt 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Mr Stewart's house — Mr Stewart busied among^ 
 papers — Mary, Ms daughter^ sitting near Mm — A 
 little Boy^ her you7iger hrotlier, enters running. 
 
 Miss S. Well, little runaway, where hast thou 
 been? 
 
 Boy. O, Mary ! I have been — ye never saw 
 The like ! — Do bid my father come ! 
 
 Miss S. Hey day I 
 
 My little oracle, am I to guess 
 Thy meaning tlu'ough thy broken hints ? Be plain, 
 If breathless haste has made thee brief. Now say, 
 Where hast thou been ? 
 
THE HARVEST-FIELD. 137 
 
 'Boy, I've been to the harvest-field, 
 
 'Vnd how the reapers cut the yellow grain ! 
 And how the lads and lasses lauarh and sino- t 
 Do, Mary, come ; and bid my father come. 
 You know he'll come for you : — It is not far, 
 
 And well he likes to see poor people happy. - 
 
 I'm sure 'twill please him. 
 
 Miss S. You too, little sly one, 
 
 Expect your share of pleasure, do you not ? 
 Well, my dear father, will you to the fields ? 
 Your reapers have no deep dislike to see 
 Their Master's foot upon the stubble-field. 
 
 3Ir S, A short space hence I will ; some matters 
 here 
 Must first be look'd to. 
 
 Miss S, Oh no ! Father, no ! 
 
 These matters should be left for in-door work 
 On rainy days ; but such a day as this ! — 
 The sky is one wide arch of stainless blue, 
 The hills are russet, and the j^lains are gold, 
 And every tree has donn'd a richer garb, — 
 A changeful autumn suit. It were a crime, 
 A great one, 'gainst the majesty of nature, 
 To sit and waste these precious sunny hours 
 Poring o'er musty papers. Shall I bring 
 Yom' cane ? 
 
 3Ir S. Not yet, my dear : to day I've got 
 Letters of various import, some of which 
 Must be attended to immediately. 
 
 m2 
 
138 THE HARVEST-FIELI>. 
 
 Miss S. 'Twill do as well when you return^ dear 
 father, — 
 Nay, better ; for but think how fresh young thoughts 
 Will spring up in your mind, when you have heard 
 The reapers' song amid the rustling corn, 
 And felt the wing of autumn's fickle breeze 
 Fanning your cheek in very playfidness ! 
 O I you will write as if some rm^al muse 
 Inspired you. Let me lay aside a while 
 These dull and tiresome sheets of crabbed lines. 
 You will come, will you ? 
 
 Mr S. Foolish girl ; you talk 
 
 About you know not what. Among these sheets 
 Of crabbed lines is one from Spain, it tells 
 Of fighting fields, and — what ! Why pales, and glowsy 
 By tm-ns, your cheek ? — nay, nay, you shall not 
 
 know — 
 Calm thee, my child ; it speaks of nothing ill. 
 Our gallant lads are Avell and prospering ; 
 There's even some hopes, that ere the tardy foot 
 Of laggard time has paced o'er many months, 
 They may be home. 
 
 3Iiss S, And glad they'll be, no doubt, 
 
 Again to breathe their native air, and roam 
 O'er all the scenes where oft their careless feet 
 Bore them in sportive boyhood's early days. 
 
 Mr S. And will no hearts but theirs be touch'd 
 with joy ? 
 Is there no maiden that will gladly hail 
 A warrior's safe return ? 
 
THE HARVEST-FIELD. 139 
 
 Miss S, O ! very like,— 
 
 If one knew where to find them. 
 
 Mr S, That's to say, 
 
 Thou know'st of none ? Ah I Mary, thou art just 
 Like all thy sex : and thou wouldst vainly hide, 
 Under the light veil of indifference, 
 Feeling's that make thy very soul of being ; 
 As if a father's anxious eye could fail 
 To penetrate that gossamer disguise. 
 But come ; I press thee not : it is enough. 
 I'll to the field with thee, my girl. I know 
 That thy kind heart would lighten, if it might, 
 The labourer's toil : and thou dost lighten it, 
 By looking, and by speaking kindly to him. 
 
 Miss S. Dear father, if you mean to be so grave, 
 And make such speeches — But here is your cane — 
 You'll come too, boy. See how his very soul 
 Looks tlu'ough his eyes in joyous expectation. 
 Come, let's away, 
 
 \_ExeuiiL 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The Harvest-Field — Dimmer just concluded — The 
 Reapers enjoying half an hours relaxation. 
 
 Hugh. Hey, lasses ; what's befall'n ye ? — Lost 
 youi' tongues ? 
 
^40 'x'HE HARVEST- FIELD. 
 
 Has that brent-brae your vigour clean outworn, 
 And left you breatliless ? What unlook'd for bless- 
 ings 
 A man may meet with ; and sure not the least 
 Is such a group of gentle, silent maidens. 
 
 Tib, There's little silence near you, Hughie 
 Graham. 
 That taunting tongue of thine ne'er rests. 
 
 Hugh. Why should it ? 
 
 I have it but to use it. Bonnie Annie, 
 Dare you and Tibby bet with me to-day, 
 That you can bind grave Lawrence ? 
 
 Ann. That we dare : 
 
 Dare not we, Tibby ? 
 
 Tib, Ay, — and do it too, 
 
 Ere he have time to make a book-learn'd speech, 
 Or Hugh a clumsy joke ; — although he thinks 
 Himself so very clever, 
 
 Hugh, Softly, lasses ; 
 
 Talk not so big, till ye have done the deed. 
 
 Tib, We'll not be long with that. But have you 
 got 
 A piece of cord ? or will you lend your garters ? 
 
 Hugh, Come here and get them. 
 
 Tib, That will do. Now, lad, 
 
 What if we try thee first ? 
 
 ( They set upon Hugh himself, and succeed in 
 binding him hand and foot.) 
 
 All, Well done ! Well done I That, lasses I Well 
 done you ! 
 
THE HARVEST-FIELD. 141 
 
 Hay. Now, Hugh, I think you're cheaply served, 
 my lad. 
 Nay, spur not ; 'tis in vain, — the knots are firm, — 
 'Tis no slim business this. What say'st thou, Hugh ? 
 Art thou tongue-tied, too ? Poor lad, fairly beat ! 
 Now loose him, lasses. 
 
 Ann, No, not till he own 
 
 That he's completely master'd. 
 
 Lawr. Why, what need 
 
 Is there for owning or denying that ? 
 Lo, where he lies ! bound in the very bonds 
 That he devised for others. 
 
 Hugh. Spare me ! spare me I 
 
 Thy learned speech, good Lawrence. Come, you 
 
 traitors ! 
 I'll ow^n I'm beat : and I forgive you too, 
 Though I had scarce fair play. 
 
 Tib. No murmurings. 
 
 Else shalt thou lie there till thou slialt be glad 
 To yield to our worst terms. 
 
 Lawr, I intercede : 
 
 For me the weird was meant, and I should be 
 Not undeserving of it, did I not 
 Now do my best to mitigate his doom. 
 
 Tib. Bless us, what pretty words I Do, Lawrence, 
 now, 
 Forget thy books a while, and try to speak 
 As fits the harvest-field. 
 
 Anti, Well, Hughie lad, 
 
 And are we friends again ? 
 
142 THE HARVi<:ST-FIELD. 
 
 Hugh. The best of friends : 
 
 Only 'twould much console me had I but 
 Some partner in defeat. What say ye, lasses, 
 To sober Lawrence, or the Grieve himself? 
 
 Hay. No, no : no more of that. A joke is well. 
 But not too much of it ; besides, I fear 
 Some harm, quite unintended, might be done. 
 Were it not wiser, for a brief half hour, — 
 Your breathing-time, reclining at your ease, 
 To while away the time in milder sports. 
 Light jest, or merry tale ? Or, better still, 
 Let each in turn tune up his rustic pipe, 
 And treat us with a song. 
 
 All. Agreed, agreed I 
 
 And he who framed the scheme can surely have 
 No scruples to begin it. 
 
 Hay. Nay, you know 
 
 I cannot sing : my voice would scare a screech-owl ! 
 
 Tib, We're not so easy scared. Come, try it then ; 
 'Tis but to bid you cease, — or stop our ears, 
 Even at the worst. 
 
 Hugh. Nay, if our sub-gudeman 
 
 Will not begin, and set a good example, 
 The case is hopeless. 
 
 Hay. Well, I'll do my best. 
 
 Since it must needs be so. 
 
THE HARVEST-FIELD. 143 
 
 SINGS. 
 
 Aw a' ye fretfu' carles a'. 
 
 We dinna want ye here ; 
 Your crabbed words, and looks sae sour. 
 
 Wad only spoil our cheer : 
 The sunshine, an' the glorious sky,— 
 
 The gloaming's dewy air, — 
 Earth's beauties a', free we enjoy ; 
 
 What could we wish for mair ? 
 
 It's no the coffers fu' o' gowd, — 
 
 It's no the lordly birth, — 
 But it is the sterling honest heart 
 
 That makes the man o' worth : 
 An' though his frame be worn and bent, 
 
 An' plain his garb may be, 
 There's honour in his manly breast. 
 
 An' freedom fires his ee. 
 
 When cheerfu' neighbours meet a blink, 
 
 To ca' the lightsome crack, ■ 
 It isna wrang a' cares an' toils i 
 
 To cast ahint their back. • 
 
 Then gie's your hands, my hearty chiels, 
 
 My cronies frank and free,— 
 There's mony greater, richer men,— 
 
 But blyther canna be. 
 
 There then : — so much for me, — but well I know 
 My singing would spoil any song. 
 
 Lawr, Not so, 
 
 'Tis excellent indeed ! And in your song 
 
^44 THE HARVEST-FIELD, 
 
 There runs besides a sentiment of truth. 
 
 The poor are Heaven's own favoui'ites ; they are 
 
 taught 
 To look beyond this vain world for their home ; 
 While oft the rich man's soul is earthward drawn, 
 Even by the strong attraction of his lands. 
 
 Hugh. Ay, ay, you may philosophize indeed ! 
 But I should like to spur my noble steed 
 O'er my own acres ; or to list the roar 
 Of a bold water-fall, in some wild glen 
 That own'd no lord but me. 
 
 Hay. So should we all, 
 
 No doubt, whate'er we sing or say. Now, Tibby, 
 'Tis your turn next : we'll have the song go round 
 Just like a toast. 
 
 Tih. Well, there's but little good 
 
 In long refusals, if I must at last. 
 I'll try — if I knew what. 
 
 SINGS. 
 
 Why should I weep, why should I sigh. 
 
 An' beat my breast, and rive my hair, 
 As ne'er anither jo had I, — 
 
 As loss o' ane should bring despair ? 
 Though winds should waft him far frae me — . 
 
 Till boundless oceans roll between ; 
 Or though he should inconstant be, 
 
 I'll be nae waur than I hae been. 
 
 I'll ne'er gang wanderin' in the wood 
 
 By moonlight, pining a' my lane ; 
 Nor sit in daroopin', dowie mood ; 
 
 As if a' hopes at ance wejre gaJie. 
 
THE HARVEST-FIELD. 145 
 
 A storm may blacken owre the sky 
 Hiding Love's young and smiling ray, 
 
 I'll wait awee, 'twill soon blaw by,_ 
 The next may be a brighter day. 
 
 But tent me, lad, I'm in nae haste, — 
 
 I'm young — I've time enough to spare 
 The frolic sports of youth to taste, — 
 
 'Tis yet owre soon for sober care. 
 This heart o' mine is yet my ain, 
 
 In spite o' Love's saft pawky wile ; 
 Then haste thee, laddie, back again ; 
 
 I'U keep it for thy sake a while. 
 
 Hugh, Well sung, my girl ! there is some spunk 
 in that ! 
 
 Lmvr, Well, I must say, I do not greatly like 
 Such unmoved, reckless 
 
 Hugh, Lawrence, fie, oh fie ! 
 
 How can you criticise a woman's song ? 
 Take it with thankfulness, be what it may. 
 But such a song ! And so well sung I Indeed 
 You are too rude. — Come, Sandy, 'tis you next. 
 You have an ear, I know, and partly guess 
 Your voice is not amiss. 
 
 Sand, When lasses sing. 
 
 And sing so frankly, 'twould be very wrong 
 In me to make a coil, and stop the pleasure 
 Of hearing them again ; though I can boast 
 Nought of my voice or ear. 
 
 N 3 
 
14p THE HARVEST-FIELD. 
 
 Hay, Fear not, my lad, 
 
 You'll do quite well enough. 
 
 Sarid. At least I'll try 
 
 To do my best. 
 
 Sandy sings. 
 
 'Tis sweet wi' blithesome heart to stray 
 In the blushing dawn o' infant day ; 
 But sweeter than dewy morn can be, 
 Is an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee. 
 An hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee. 
 An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee, 
 The half o' my life I'd gladly gie 
 For an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee, 
 
 The garish sun has sunk to rest ; 
 
 The star o' gloaming gilds the west ; 
 
 The gentle moon comes smiling on, 
 
 And her veil o'er the silent earth is thrown : 
 Then come, sweet maid, O come wi' me ! 
 The whispering night-breeze calls on thee : 
 O, come an' roam o'er the lily lea. 
 An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' me. 
 
 For wealth let warldlings cark and moil, 
 Let Pride for empty honours toil, 
 I'd a' their wealth and honours gie 
 For ae sweet hour, dear maid, wi' thee. 
 An hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee, 
 An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee ; 
 Earth's stores and titles a' I'd gie 
 For an hour i' the jnild moonlight wi' thee. 
 
THE HARVEST-FIELD. H'T 
 
 Hugh, Well done, mild, silent Sandy !— On my 
 word, 
 Thou hast more mettle than I di-eamt of far I 
 
 Sand. It is not always he that says the most, 
 Whose heart has best and deepest feelings. 
 
 Hay. There, 
 
 Take that, Hugh ! Now you're answer'd ; are you 
 not ? 
 
 Hugh, Why, yes : hut I'm so used to give a gibe, 
 That I can surely well afford to take one : 
 Besides, I like a good home-thrust, bestow'd 
 Boldly, and cleverly, though on myself. 
 Who's next ? O, Annie, lass, give us your lilt, 
 As well you can ! Some blithesome lay, no doubt, 
 Will be your choice. 
 
 Ann. No, Hugh ; indeed it is not. 
 
 I like a song to have a happy tone ; 
 But with a dash of sadness in it, too. 
 It sinks upon the heart with softening fall, 
 Like dew upon a violet ; and 'tis sweet 
 To feel an infant sigh stir on the heart, 
 Not our own sorrow's offspring. 
 
 Lawr* Your choice, Annie, 
 
 Will sure be best : Pray, favour us. 
 
 Annie sings. 
 
 O sweet is the blossom o' the hawthorn tree, 
 The bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree, 
 When the saft westlin wind, as it wanders o'er the lea, 
 Comes laden wi' the breath o' the hawthorn tree. 
 
I4a[ THE HARVEST-FIELD. 
 
 Lovely is the rose in the dewy month o' June, 
 An' the lily gently bending beneath the sunny noon ; 
 But dewy rose, nor lily fair, is half sae sweet to me, 
 As the bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree. 
 
 blithe at fair an' market fu' aften I hae been. 
 
 An' wi' a crony frank an' leal, some happy hours I've seen ; 
 But the happiest hours I e'er enjoy 'd, were shared, my love, wi' 
 
 thee, 
 In the gloaming 'neath the bonnie, bormie hawthorn tree. 
 
 Sweetly sang the blackbird, low in the woody glen, 
 
 And fragrance sweet spread on the gale, light o'er the dewy 
 
 plain ; 
 But thy saft voice an' sighing breath were sweeter far to me, 
 While whispering o' love beneath the hawthorn tree. 
 
 Old Time may wave his dusky wing, an' Chance may cast his 
 
 die. 
 And the rainbow-hues of flatterin' Hope may darken in the sky ; 
 Gay Summer pass, an' Winter stalk stern o'er the frozen lea, 
 Nor leaf, nor milky blossom deck the hawthorn tree : 
 
 But still'd maun be the pulse that wakes this glowing heart o' 
 
 mine. 
 For me nae mair the spring maun bud, nor summer blossoms 
 
 shine,— 
 An' low maun be my hame, sweet maid, ere I be false to thee, 
 Or forget the vows I breathed beneath the hawthorn tree. 
 
 Lawr. I must not criticise a lady's song ; 
 But praise alone would be 
 
 Hugh. A lady's song I 
 
 What, Lady Ann I Oh, how polite we ai-e ! 
 
 1 crave your pardon, madam ! 
 
THE HARVEST- FIELD. 149 
 
 ^nn. No oiFence, 
 
 Good clown ; you knew no better. 
 
 Hugh, There, again, 
 
 I'm g^o^^^l a butt for each one's arrowy wit, 
 To aim at. But, good Lawrence, let us hear 
 Your warbled melody. 
 
 Lawr. I neither sin^ 
 
 To please thee, Hugh ; nor yet shall I forbear 
 Through dread of thy lame taunts : I shall not be 
 The first to interrupt our fine arrangement 
 Of circling harmony ; — unless, indeed, 
 My strains be unmelodious. 
 
 Lawrence sings. 
 
 Autumn winds are round me wailing^ 
 O'er the skies deep clouds are sailing, 
 Sere leaves one by one descending, 
 pTOva the branches o'er me bending. 
 Fitful gales ! I love your sighing; 
 Leaves around me drooping, dying, 
 While ye rustling fall before me. 
 Pensive thoughts crowd darkly o'er me. 
 
 Hopes I've seen out-budding lightly, 
 ■ Fortune's day-shine smiling brightly ; 
 
 But hopes are seat'd, day-shine departed. 
 And I am lone and broken-hearted. 
 Pale leaves, fall ! dark clouds, benight me ! 
 Sights of gloom alone delight me. 
 Wilder raise, ye winds, your measure ! 
 Sounds of woe are all my pleasure. 
 n2 
 
150 THE HARVEST-FIELD. 
 
 Hugh, Dear me I a most pathetic ditty truly I 
 Poor Lawrence I broken-hearted too ! Poor lad, 
 I pity you I Was she so very cruel ? 
 Would she not listen to your tender tale ? 
 Most moving, and most melancholy ! 
 
 Lawr. Hugh, 
 
 This is past all endurance : were it not 
 For other sakes than either thine or mine, 
 I would — 
 
 Hay. Come, come ; — no quarrelling I Nay, lads. 
 This is both childish, foolish, and improper : 
 Wliy poison oui* enjoyment with your broils ? 
 
 Hugh. I own the fault was mine ; although indeed 
 I did not think to give so much offence ; 
 But my tongue often runs beyond my reason, 
 And says more than I meant it. 
 
 Lawr. 'Tis enough, 
 
 I have no wish to quarrel with thee, Hugh ; 
 So 'tis all over. 
 
 Tib. Here comes Robin Craik, 
 
 And a strange-looking couple with him. See 
 Such an uncouth old woman I Well, I think 
 The soldier was not difficult to please ! 
 But he seems blind, she leads him ; that explains 
 His choice. O could we get old Robin now 
 To sing some of his queer old-world songs ! 
 
 Hay. WeU, Robin Craik ! 
 
 Bob. Well, Andrew Hay ! What next ? 
 
THE HARVEST-FIELD. 151 
 
 Hay, What next? why, I half-thought you were 
 not coming. 
 
 Hoh. But I have come; and sooner than I meant. 
 I went to turn the cattle from the corn, 
 While my old Kate help'd home the dinner things, 
 That we might let these lazy younkers rest ; 
 And on my way I met this man-o'-war 
 And his trim consort — hail'd them — they enquired 
 Wliat point to steer for Broomilee : I've tow'd 
 Them liither — with a good look-out a-head. 
 Where they may catch the very point and hearing — 
 
 Hugh. Come, my old ship, pray quit your smug- 
 gling slang. 
 And give us landsmen's language. But d'ye know 
 There has a law heen made, that each man here 
 Must sing his song ? and you are just in time : 
 So, if you please, begin. 
 
 Hob. Please ? if I please ! 
 
 Some less would serve for Robin, were it not 
 That Hugh is making a request. But come. 
 Reach me that bottle there, that I may wet 
 My whistle with a drop o' mountain dew. — 
 Aye ; now I'm for you. 
 
 Robin sings. 
 
 Come listen to me, my cronie leal, 
 An' I'll tell ye a tale ye maun aye conceal; 
 Wha think ye has set my wee heart in a low, 
 But a hoyden lass wi' a carroty pow. 
 
152 THE HARVEST-FIELD. 
 
 This lovely lass is straught an' lang, 
 An' owre the riggs like a grue can spang, 
 Her grey, grey een sae wildly row. 
 And waves sae bright her carroty pow. 
 
 O mony a bonnie lass I've seen. 
 An' owre the lugs in love I've been, 
 But a' was nought to this burning low 
 For the hoyden lass wi' the carroty pow. 
 
 This heart o' mine, oh dear ! oh dear ! 
 Will ne'er again be itsell, I fear ; 
 Red links o' love around it glow 
 For the hoyden laSs wi' the carroty pow. 
 
 Hugh. Well done ! old boy ; why, that's the best 
 
 song yet \ 
 Forgive me, lasses ! Welcome here, old soldier \ 
 Right welcome to a harvest-field of peace ! 
 Your harvest-fields are of a sterner sort ; 
 Yet there, I hope, you've reap'd your own full share 
 Of honest wealth, and honom-able lam-els. 
 
 Old Sol. Why, lad, there's little going for poor 
 
 privates 
 But scanty gleanings, while the rich sheaf goes 
 To those who win it easier. Howsomever, 
 I've got my share of knocks, and got besides 
 A little pension to keep green my bones. 
 But it has been so long my daily wont 
 To march and counter-march, that for my life 
 I cannot keep at home : so here we go, 
 My good old wife and I, campaigning on, 
 Over the country, e'en where chance may lead. 
 
THE HARVEST-FIELD. 153 
 
 Ann, And does she like that roving life as much 
 As you do ? 
 
 Old Sol. Nay, 'twould pose a conjuror 
 To answer that. She has one property, 
 A precious one, my good old Sal, not twice 
 On a day's march she'll speak ; except it be 
 A Yes, or No, at times, merely to keep 
 Me in some countenance. Ah, bonnie lasses ! 
 Could ye but learn to be like her, how bless'd 
 Unspeakably would be your lucky husbands ! 
 
 Tib. What say you, Hugh, to that ? 
 
 Hugh, Not much, indeed. 
 
 I like to talk ; but I should quickly tire 
 Had I the whole to do. Besides, I'm sure 
 'Twould be a perfect torture to poor women 
 To keep such utter muteness ; and I'm far 
 From wishing to be cruel to the darlings. 
 
 Hay. But Hugh, we have not got your song. 
 D'ye mean 
 To put us oflp with talk ? we get enough 
 Of that from you right cheaply. Come, your song« 
 
 Hugh. O yes ; I'll sing a song, such as I have ; 
 And with what skill I can. 
 
 Hugh sings. 
 
 The drum roll'd loud, the trumpet peal'd, and war was in their 
 
 swell ; 
 And gallant youths came mustering fast, and maidens* tears fast 
 
 fell. 
 
154 THE HARVEST-FIELD. 
 
 Fair Helen sunk on Charlie's breast, while round his neck she 
 
 clung, 
 And vows o' love and constancy fell frae her faltering tongue. 
 
 Away then sped our gallant lads, away to met the fae, 
 Pale, pale grew many a lovely cheek, and many a heart was wae, 
 And long fair Helen sigh'd, and aft the parting pledge she prest 
 Fond to her lips, then treasured it upon her heaving breast. 
 
 But woman's heart's a light thing, and lightly can change,—. 
 And woman's eye's a wandering thing, and wide is its range :— 
 A youth wi' lily hand, saft glance, and sweetly flattering tongue, 
 Has won the fickle maid, — away her Charlie's pledge she flung. 
 
 Then word has gane ayont the sea, an' Charlie's heart was sair, 
 O'er his bent brow a shadow pass'd — a darkening o' despair ; 
 He drew his sword half frae the sheath, and on thebare blade gazed, 
 And in his stern-set eye a gleam of fate and vengeance blazed. 
 
 The faithless pledge frae near his heart wi' trembling hand he 
 
 took,— 
 ■f he fiery flush his dark cheek left, and safter grew his look ; — 
 *' False though she be I love her well, and deed o' mine shall ne'er 
 For her ae pang, ae starting tear, ae bursting sigh prepare !" 
 
 Hugh. But what's the matter, soldier, with your 
 wife ? 
 She's suddenly ta'en ill. Look to her, lasses 1 
 She sobs and quivers with convulsive shudder ; 
 I fear she's very ill. 
 
 Old Sol. Oh no ! 'tis notliing- ; 
 
 She'll soon be well— -you see she's better now. 
 
THE HARVEST- FIELD. 155 
 
 \^ Aside.'] Nay, Gordon, be a man I you will mar all 
 With this ill-timed emotion ! 
 
 Gord, Oh ! my friend, 
 
 Mark'd you that song ? It is an omen dark. 
 
 Irv. Tush! do not he so weak! That female garb, 
 Has it unsex'd thee ? — She is well, quite well. 
 Thanks to you, friends, the megrim fit is o'er. 
 
 Ann. But, soldier, what does ail her ? Does she oft 
 Fall into fits like that ? 
 
 Old Sol. Oh, no ; not often : 
 
 And then she's well again ere you can say 
 That she was ill. 
 
 A?in. I fear you love her not : 
 
 You make so light of it. 
 
 Old Sol. Love her not ! Girl I 
 
 We love like Antony and the fair Queen 
 Of reedy Egypt : for each other's sake 
 We would not think it much to lose the world. 
 
 Aim. Oh, what a precious thing man's heart would 
 be. 
 Were it but like his words ! 
 
 Old Sol. Why, bonnie lass, 
 
 How know you but it is ? 'Tis woman's art 
 To blame poor mankind ; while the changeful moon 
 Is the apt emblem of thy fickle sex ;—r- 
 At least we soldiers find it so. 
 
 Ann. Soft, now ! 
 
 You speak not as you think. Full many a maid 
 Pines for her wanderer, hoping his retm^n 
 Till hope itself is hopeless ; he the while 
 
156 THE HARVEST-FIELD. 
 
 Revels in lawless freedom, spending" ne'er 
 
 A thought on her who for his absence mourns, 
 
 And daily for his safety prays to heaven. 
 
 Old Sol. Come, come; you're too severe: 'twould 
 never do 
 To sigh on guard, like shepherd on green hill 
 Musing upon his shepherdess. We need 
 Somewhat to keep our hearts up. 
 
 Ann, Never, then, 
 
 Speak slightingly of woman's constancy ! 
 O, there be true-love tales, that, were they told— - 
 But we need not go very far to seek 
 Examples ; there's our sweet young lady, she 
 Might have had wooers plenty ; but she shuns 
 Them all, and keeps the faith she pledged 
 To her brave cousin in the wars. 
 
 Old Sol. Indeed ! 
 
 If that be true, she is a rare one. 
 
 Ann. True ! 
 
 Why should I say it, if it were not so ? 
 You know its truth, Hugh Graham ! 
 
 ffuffk. I do right well : 
 
 And I've been sad to think on all the fears 
 That oft must rack her gentle heart. But hush I 
 See where she comes across the stubble-field 
 Lightly and gracefidly, as trips a fawn 
 Across the woodland glades ; — the laird her father 
 Feels not the touch of her soft silken arm, 
 That like a woodbine folds in his ; — her brother, 
 All joy, wheels round them in his sportive race, 
 
THE HARVEST-FIELD, 157 
 
 Too liappy to walk slowly. Lawrence, say, 
 
 111 all thy books or thy imaginings, 
 
 Hast thou e'er read, or seen, or dreamt of aught 
 
 So sweet, so beautiful, affectionate — 
 
 So like a glimpse of what there might have been 
 
 Had Eden still been tenanted by man 
 
 In his first state of happy innocence ? 
 
 blessings, blessings on them I 
 Lawr. In my heart 
 
 There dwells a rapturous echo to thy words. 
 And oft I've wish'd that Avon's peerless bard 
 Could be revived, to see how far excell'd 
 Are even his fictions by pure Nature's work. 
 But soft ! they near us. 
 
 Grieve, Come, lads, 'tis now time 
 
 To get to work again. 
 
 Irv. \_Aside.~\ Gordon, what think'st thou now ? 
 
 Gord. I cannot think I 
 
 My soul is drunk with rapture ! She is mine — > 
 My own — my lovely I — 
 
 Irv, Would we were away I 
 
 1 see no good in staying now. — Besides, 
 
 You cannot keep in bounds that restless joy,— ' 
 It will betray us. 
 
 Enter Mr and Miss Stewart. 
 
 Mr S. Health to you, lads and lasses ! Pray sit 
 still : 
 Take out your breathing-time ! Fie, Andrew Hay, 
 
 o 
 
158 THE HARVEST-FIELD. 
 
 Give them their full allowance ; never stand 
 For a few minutes more. How look the crops ? 
 Hay. As Avell as heart could wish, sir ; there 
 will be 
 For man and beast abundance, with a blessing-. 
 
 Miss S. Well, Annie, how are you, this smmy day? 
 I hope it harms you not. — Tibby, I'm glad 
 To see you look so well in spite of toil. 
 
 Ann. We thank you, ma'am : we're used to sun 
 and toil, 
 So used that it can do us little harm. 
 
 Miss S. Yes, Annie, that good-humour'd face of 
 yours 
 Would not be easily spoil'd by sun or storm. — 
 
 ! Robin Craik, I hope youi' wife is well ? 
 
 1 see her not. 
 
 Robin. Yonder she's coming, ma'am : 
 Nought ails her but a spice of crabbedness ,• 
 And that's no very new, nor deadly ailment. 
 
 3Iiss S. Robin, how can you say so I But I know 
 You love her ne'ertheless. 
 
 Robin. Oh ! hugely, doubtless ; — 
 
 My amiable old rib ! — but softly, softly ! — 
 
 Enter Kate Craik. 
 
 Kate. So, there ye lie, ye lazy limmers I Up 
 And to your hooks ; it's lang, lang past the time. 
 Miss S. O Kitty ! are you there ? I hope you're 
 well ? 
 
THE HARVEST-FIELD. 159 
 
 Kate, Mony kind thanks t'ye, ma'am : Tm no that 
 ill. 
 But stop — what have we here ? twa randy beggars I 
 A sodger an' his wife ! Ay, ay, just sae ! 
 They strut parading wi' theii- di*ums an' trumpets, 
 An' make fine speeches about wealth an' glory ; — 
 But bide a wee, — they'll learn anither sang, — 
 A meal-pock an' a stick, — that's aye the end o't I 
 
 Hugh. What, Kate, our brave defenders I 
 
 Kate, Fiddlesticks ! 
 
 Brave ! Sorrow mean them ! they're weel paid for't 
 
 a' I 
 Defenders ! Set them up I a bonnie crew 
 Of idle, gude-for-naething cheat-the-wuddies ! 
 Defenders ! quo' the callant ! I hae seen 
 The day I wadna thought it ony pinch 
 To fleg a dozen o' them wi' the tangs I 
 
 Old Sol. Hold there, good woman ! with yom* 
 tongue you might ; — 
 For that's yom- weapon : and upon my word 
 You're mistress of it. 
 
 Kate, I had muckle need, 
 
 When I forgather wi' sic loons as you. 
 But baud a blink yet ! Are ye honest, wife ? 
 Where got ye that braw shawl? that douce-like 
 
 mutch 
 Wi' the lang lappets ? an' that sonsy gown 
 O linsey-woolsey ? I think I've some right 
 To claim acquaintance wi' them. Let me see — 
 Ecli ! sirs I a man ! a sodger ! — 
 
160 THE HARVEST-FIELD. 
 
 Miss S. Can it be ?^ 
 
 It is — it is — my Gordon ! — 
 
 [^Runs to him and falls in his arms. 
 
 Gord. My own sweet Mary ! 
 
 Mr S, Nephew, is it you ? 
 
 Welcome, right welcome to your native land ! 
 
 Gord. Sweet lovely cousin ! Oh, look up ! look up I 
 It is thy Gordon holds thee to his heart I — 
 It is his voice that calls thee ! Speak, oh, speak ! 
 Let thy soft murmur'd words melt on my soul ! — 
 What, have I kill'd thee ? — That awakening sigh — ■ 
 Dearer to me than airs from paradise — 
 It says she lives I my Mary ! 
 
 Miss S. My own Gordon ! 
 
 Art thou indeed return'd, and safe ? 
 
 Mr S. Why, this 
 
 Is better than romance I What if we have, 
 To crown the adventure of the Harvest-Field, 
 A wedding and our harvest-home together? 
 
 Irv. Adieu now to campaigning, comrade I Well ! 
 Would some such luck were mine ! But I may hope 
 To have at least one happy day, when I 
 Shall be the bridegroom's man, and lead the sports, 
 At the glad wedding, and blithe Harvest- Home ! 
 
 [^Exeunt, 
 
VII. 
 
 THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. 
 
 o 2 
 
Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, 
 
 I'll tell how Peggy grieves me ; 
 Though thus I languish, thus complain, 
 
 Alas ! she ne'er believes me : 
 My vows and sighs, like silent air. 
 
 Unheeded, never move her ; 
 At the bonnie bush aboon Traquair, 
 
 'Twas there I first did love her. 
 
 Crawford. 
 
THE BUSH ABOON TBAQUAIR. 
 
 Davie. Jamie. 
 
 I>av, Married or not, 'tis all the same, I see : 
 There always is a something in the way 
 To break our rest and pine us. There's myself;— 
 I once was plump and rosy : Mark me now ! 
 My shoulder-blades stick staring through my coat ; 
 My ribs broad, bare, apart, as they belong'd 
 To a mere skeleton ; my sharp shin-bones 
 Are perfect scythe-blades grown ; and for my face, 
 I dare not bend me o'er a crystal pool, 
 It looks so like a death's-head ; — would you know 
 The cause ? hush, that's a secret ! yet among 
 The hills it may be mention'd — I am married ! — 
 Then, there's poor Jamie ; — once a blither lad 
 Dwelt not in all the Border : — See him now ! 
 His dumb flock round Minchmoor he dumbly tends, 
 For hours as mute as they : he silent sits. 
 Watching the silver Leithen hastening on 
 
164« THE BUSH ABOON TRAgUAIR. 
 
 To join the sweeping Tweed, as he would try 
 
 To number its swift ripples as they pass : 
 
 He sits upon a flowery bank, and plucks, 
 
 One after one, spread gowans, gazing oft 
 
 Into their open bosoms, as if they 
 
 Were living things, and he could read their thoughts. 
 
 He lifts his pipe, but sobs obstruct its somid ; — 
 
 Or, if he plays, so woful is the measure, 
 
 It makes the very echoes melancholy : 
 
 His eye is dim and sunken, and his cheek 
 
 All colourless and tliin : — yet he's not married ! 
 
 But, if I'm not mistaken very far. 
 
 Love is his ailment. Well, it's much the same ; — 
 
 O woman, woman ! — bliss and bane of man ; — 
 
 " There is no living with you nor without you !" 
 
 Jamie ! hey ! hear'st thou, man ! I pray thee speak, 
 
 If but for thine own good : — these heavy sighs, 
 
 As I have heard my grandmother declare. 
 
 Send each a drop of life-blood from the heai't, 
 
 And starve it by degrees. 
 
 Jam* I little care 
 
 Though her strange notion were a sober truth. 
 Were but its operation quicker. 
 
 Dav. Nay, 
 
 Soothly to speak, yom- wasting cheek, dead eye, 
 And feeble step, proclaim its verity, 
 And its speed too, I think. But tell me, Jamie, 
 In downright earnest, what it is that grieves you 5 
 For though I am not quite cut out to be 
 A sentimental confident, I know 
 
THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. 165 
 
 That uttering your griefs would do your heart 
 Incalculable good. 
 
 Jam, I know not that : — 
 
 'Twould be but tearing open all my wounds ; 
 Making them bleed afresh. 
 
 JDav, 'Twere better so, 
 
 Than festering in concealment : probe them well, 
 I'll warrant them heal the sooner. And, besides, 
 Now that I think on't, I'm the fittest person 
 To hear your woes : — we think not quite alike, — 
 Will disagree, of course, and you'll be led 
 To see both sides o' the subject, which as yet 
 You have not done. 
 
 Jam. I have a mind to try 
 
 The experiment. 
 
 Pav, Oh ! do so ! 
 
 Jam, Well, I will. 
 
 My Peggy ! — thou hast seen her ? Winter's stars 
 And winter's skies are not so bright, so blue. 
 As are her eyes ; the dewy sweet-brier loses 
 Both bloom and sweetness near her breathing lip ; 
 And oh ! her voice ! — the music of the brooks, 
 The warbling of the linnet, thrush, or lark. 
 Beneath the eye of morn, or when mild eve 
 Casts wide her humid veil around, — all, all 
 Would I forego to hear my Peggy speak. 
 
 T>av, A rich assortment these of peerless charms ! 
 Oh ! what a worse than prodigal is love ! 
 Beauties, of which an angel might be proud 
 His lavish hand bestows on — a mere woman ! 
 
166 THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. 
 
 Then, fond idolater I he blindly worships 
 The creature of his own formation I Thus 
 'Tis a fair being, g-ifted and adorn'd 
 With all of loveliness your mind can dream, 
 And not the real Peggy as she is, 
 That fills youi' heart. 
 
 Jam. No, she is all, and more 
 
 Than I could e'er describe. But were she not, 
 "VYhile she is so to me, 'tis all the same : 
 If, ever when I see her, visions bright. 
 And sweet, and beautiful come o'er my mind, 
 Still let me love her for those lovely dreams. 
 
 Dav, Good sooth, ye'U get a wakening, lad, T 
 dread ! 
 A right unpleasant one ! Yet say, meanwhile. 
 Why should those lovely visions break yoiu* rest, 
 And wear you to a shadow ! 
 
 Jam, 'Tis because 
 
 Love rouses all the heart's capacities 
 For soft enjoyment, and, when unrequited, 
 Their fervent cravings inward tui'n, and di'ain 
 The very soiuxe of life. 
 
 T)av. Then give them scope ! 
 
 Go to your Peggy ; tell her yom- soft tale : 
 I'll warrant she'll give favourable hearing. — ■ 
 But mind you flatter well. The woman breathes not 
 That is not fond of flattery. 
 
 Jam. So you 
 
 From your experience seem to think ; but I 
 Have learn'd another lesson. I have gone. 
 
THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. 167 
 
 Have dallied in half-friendsliip and half-love, 
 Basking in the dear sunshine of her smiles ; 
 While, unrestrain'd, her soft yet cheerful tongue 
 Pour'd its glad music on my raptured ear. 
 At length, ah, fond presumptuous fool ! I dared 
 To hope she felt more than mere friendship's 
 
 warmth ; — 
 I hinted of my love ; she would not seem 
 To understand : plainlier I told my tale, — 
 And then 
 
 Dav. What then ? 
 
 Jam. Ah ! then ! — I have no heart 
 
 To prosecute the sad recital. 
 
 Dav. Yet 
 
 I beg you'll do it. With but half your tale 
 How can I either sympathize, or give. 
 What may procure me little thanks, advice ? 
 
 Jam. She tried at first to laugh my serious mood 
 Away. It would not do. My heart was in the issue, 
 And life and fate hung upon every word. — 
 Her laughter fell, — her light jest pass'd away. 
 Aimless and pointless ; her bright eye grew sad ; 
 And low and solemn grew her silver voice, 
 With all its dulcet words. Again I spoke, 
 Again pour'd forth the secret of my soul. 
 With such full, gushing depth of feeling, as 
 None ever can speak twice. She sadly smiled ; 
 But in her smile there was no food for hope : 
 It told of pity for the misery 
 That it must needs inflict. She spoke ; soft words-— 
 
168 THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. 
 
 And chosen for their softness — breathed to me 
 
 A gentle, but a firm and full denial. 
 
 I strove to woo her to relent : — 'twas vain. 
 
 She check'd my wooing ; — hinted earlier ties ;— 
 
 Gave me cold pity, but refused me love : 
 
 And ever since, to stifle every hope, 
 
 And cut oif possibility, she shuns me. 
 
 Wliile I — I yet survive, and bear about 
 
 A dead, cold heart, entomb'd within my bosom. 
 
 Say, then, have I not cause to droop, to pine, 
 
 To linger near the Bush aboon Traquair, — > 
 
 ('Twas there her early friendship bless'd my soul, 
 
 'Twas there she spoke the death-doom to my hopes !) 
 
 As haunts a miser's ghost the secret spot 
 
 Where sleeps his buried treasure ? Have I not 
 
 Had cause to be a lonelier thing than yet 
 
 I have been ? 
 
 Dav. Why, to say the truth, I think 
 It was a happy riddance ! Oh ! no doubt 
 You were too rude, you were not good enough 
 For her, the haughty one ! Could one have got 
 Slyly a peep into her heart, I ween 
 He might have seen both scorn and triumph there. 
 She was not worth your while, the saucy dame ! 
 
 Jam. Wellnigh thou movest my laughter, empty 
 man ! 
 Think' st thou the cherish'd memory of those days, 
 When the bright bliss of Peggy's kindly smile 
 Was gleaming round my soul, can pass away 
 Before the weak breath of a dull surmise ? 
 
THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. 169 
 
 Bav. If she has slighted thee, slight her in turn : 
 'Tis but mere self-defence. 
 
 Jam, I cannot slight her : — 
 
 Nor would I, if I could : I love her frankness ; 
 And will do, should it kill me. 
 
 Dav* As you please. 
 
 Yet I must own dislike, malice, revenge, 
 Or any such, are serpents in the bosom ; 
 They sting where they are nourish'd. Since 'tis so, 
 Bid her a last farewell ! Pluck up your heart ; 
 And even go try your fortmie with another. 
 
 Jam. No ; that may never be ! Once to have been 
 Rejected is enough for me. 
 
 Dav. StuiF! man, 
 
 Rejected once, and break yom- heart for that ! 
 A high farce, truly ! Not for fifty times !— 
 Come, you'll have better luck next time : if not, 
 At least you'll gain experience. Try again ! 
 
 Jam. I tell thee, no, never I I do not blame 
 My Peggy ; but the woman does not breathe 
 That shall again reject my proffer'd love. 
 
 Dav. Nay, that's pure pride. But be it so ; I think, 
 If I may speak my real sentiments. 
 You never form'd so wise a resolution. 
 
 Jam. Do you thus change your tune ? 
 
 Dav. This is no change ; — 
 
 At least no new one. If you knew what I — 
 And I believe what every married man — 
 Coidd tell you, you would thank your lucky stars, 
 The longest day you have to live, you would. 
 
 P 
 
170 THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIK. 
 
 Jam, Why so ? 
 
 Dav,. 'Tis scarcely to l>e thought that I 
 
 Should pick out every flaw in mine own plaid, 
 And hold them up for yom- amusement ; yet 
 I owe you either warning or advice, 
 Or at the least a few quiet friendly hints. — 
 I think the experience that another pays 
 The pui'chase of, the cheapest, and the best :— 
 But I'm a true Scot — wise behind the hand. 
 
 Jam, Well, then, my sapient and experienced 
 friend, 
 Will you bestow on me a modicum 
 Of this your dear-bought wisdom ? 
 
 Dav, I shall try. 
 
 A well-stock'd farm, a snug warm house, were mine, 
 Left by my father ; and, — Oh, dear ! — Oh, dear ! — 
 They're mine yet ; but I'm now not mine myself; — 
 I have not — no, in truth ! — the heart to tell 
 How I destroy'd my liberty and peace. 
 
 Jam. Why, this is peevish, childish ! 
 
 Dav, Be it so, — 
 
 I am a peevish child — I cannot help it ; — 
 My spirit fails me but to think upon it. 
 There's yet one way, though. In a musing mood, 
 One day I somehow got my story wrought 
 Into a kind of song : I croon it o'er 
 An hundred times a-day — I'll do it now, 
 If you think fit, and that ^^411 tell you all. 
 
 Jam, I shall be quite delighted. It will be 
 At once a song lo soothe me, and a piece 
 
THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. 171 
 
 Of sage and grave experience to advise. 
 
 I'll list the lay, and learn the lesson. Come ! 
 
 Davie sings. 
 
 I wat it is a canty place, 
 
 This cozy wee bit cot o' mine ; 
 The sun blinks blithely o'er the braes, 
 
 An' a' day lang it drinks his shine ; 
 But yet within its four bit wa's, 
 
 Alack, it bauds a scaulding c[uean ; 
 It's sun without an' storm within,— 
 
 It's no just what it might hae been. 
 
 The howlet-crag towers braid an' high, 
 
 In vain the snell nor-west may blaw ; 
 The hill comes snugly elbowing roun' 
 
 An' bears the bitter east awa; 
 The sunny south, the breathing west, 
 
 Come flichtering up the haughs sae green 
 My wifie's tongue-blast never lowns,— ^ 
 
 It's no just what it taight hae been. 
 
 The little burnie bickers by, 
 
 Chirming its brisk and cheerie sang ; 
 The woodland minstrels gaily lilt 
 
 Then- lays, the birken shaws amang ; 
 They meet an' murmur roun' my cot, 
 
 Blessing the hours o' dewy e'en ;— ; 
 'Tis din an' discord a' within,— 
 
 It's no just what it might hae been. 
 
172 THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. 
 
 My housie ance was quiet enough. 
 
 But dowie, dowie, a' the night ; 
 A mim an' modest maid I wooed, — 
 
 I made her mine, an' a' was right. 
 But had I kend whatnow I ken, 
 
 I ne'er had taen the pawky quean ; 
 For aye sinsyne my cozy cot 
 
 Is far frae what it might hae been ! 
 
 Dav. Ah ! lad, it is too true ! they're angels all 
 So long's the love-spell lasts ; but marriage comes, 
 Reverses the enchantment : — like a di'eam, 
 Their beauties and their virtues pass away, 
 And they are — what I will not name ! Your Peggy, 
 So sweet, so like an angel, when she met 
 Her lover at the Bush aboon Traquair ; 
 Another guise had borne, had she e'er met 
 Him as her husband I You have ample cause 
 Of joyful gratitude, that you have miss'd 
 That boon, — once wish'd, and ever more repented. 
 Scorn all the jades I live happy as you're free ! 
 
 Jam, And would you have me for the fault of 
 one — 
 Say that it be a fault — to hold all women 
 In scorn and detestation ? 
 
 Dav. That I would ! 
 
 There is not one haii-'s-breadth to choose upon 
 Between the very worst, and those that seem 
 Yom* spotless female saints, your perfect patterns 
 Of excellence and every virtue. 
 
 Jam, What ? 
 
THE BUSH ABOON TRAgUAIR. 173 
 
 And is this then indeed your true belief 
 Of lovely womankind ? 
 
 Dav, It is ; and built 
 
 Upon experience. 
 
 Enter Davie's wife, Nelly. 
 
 NeL How now, gudeman I 
 What say you ? Is it thus you talk of me ? 
 Of me, your lawful wedded wife and mistress ? 
 
 Dav. 'Twas all in jest, dear Nelly ! 
 
 NeL All in jest ? 
 
 And dare ye make a jest of me ? Poor gowk I 
 Did I refuse the laird's fourth cousin's son, 
 The spruce town-merchant, and a score beside. 
 And wed you for pm-e pity, thus to be 
 A subject for your sneers and silly songs? 
 Is this your gratitude ? 
 
 Jam, The blame was mine; 
 
 I'm sure he meant no slight to you. 
 
 Nel. He meant ! 
 
 Speak for yourself, my lad ; — and, sooth to say, 
 That's more than you can do to purpose. Come, 
 Put off your sullen looks, and haste ye home ; 
 There, one on business waits you. And for you, 
 Poor slighted wooer, learn to tell yom' tales 
 Of dole and sorrow to another ear — 
 My husband shall have none of them. Come, come. 
 
 [^Exit Davie and Nelly. 
 
 Jam. A happy couple, truly ! Let them go ; 
 
1T4 THE BUSH ABOON TRAOUAIK* 
 
 I trust there are few such. For me, my fate 
 Must wear a different aspect. I shall tread 
 The weary wilderness of life alone ; 
 To none of womankind again shall I 
 Tender the fragments of a slighted heart — 
 That were an insult : But I'll cherish still 
 The memory of those feelings soft and pure ; 
 And like the ivy clustering green around 
 The hoary ruins of a mouldering tower, 
 Bestowing grace and beauty on the haunts 
 Of veriest desolation, they shall yield 
 A seeming life and freshness to my heart. 
 While dead and withering it sleeps beneath. 
 Yes — since to none a husband I may be. 
 Let me to all become a friend — a brother , 
 A sister's meek familiar love is all 
 That I can now ask or receive of woman. 
 And with that I shall strive to be content. 
 
VIII. 
 THE OLD MAI 
 
Gin living worth could win my heart. 
 
 You should not speak in vain ! 
 But in the darksome grave it's laid. 
 
 Never to rise again. 
 My waefu' heart lies low wi' his 
 
 Whose heart was only mine ; 
 Oh ! what a heart was that to lose ! 
 
 But I maun no repine. 
 
 Old Son^, 
 
THE OLD MAID. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A little Cottage in a retired Glen, Alice at the bleach^ 
 ing green, (^Morning.) 
 
 Walter. Good morning, Alice. You begin your 
 work 
 Betimes. I need not wish you speed : the hand 
 Of industry, says Solomon, makes rich. 
 A good text that for you. 
 
 Al. For any one ; 
 
 For, if not wealth, it sure gains happiness, 
 The truest riches. 
 
 WaL Oh ! that I could learn 
 
 Your secret, Alice ! 
 
 AL Secret ! Tell me, lad, 
 
 Wliat 'tis you mean ? 
 
 WaL 'Tis how to pass my life 
 
 Untroubled by the froAvns of any one. 
 
1*78 THE OLD MAID. 
 
 I would not hate, could I but cease to love, — 
 No, not cease altogether — learn to bear 
 A placid medium, an unruffled kindness 
 Alike remote from raptui-e and despair. 
 
 Al. Poor lad ! has Marion been too coy ? Yes, yes, 
 I see I've guess'd your ailment. 
 
 Wal. Alice, no ! 
 
 Not by an hundi-ed fold ! That faithless one 
 Has thrown at last the mask aside, and shown 
 Herself in her true likeness. Coy ? no, that 
 Is woman's Parthian warfare, rendering her 
 The more invincible. Oh ! she is false ! — 
 Nay triumphs in her falseness, — flouts at me, 
 And showers her smiles on George. 
 
 AL But why is this ? 
 
 Tell me the whole. 
 
 Wal. A few days since it chanced, 
 
 When we were all at the sheep-shearing met, 
 To blind the rest to my real love, I toy'd 
 With Kate ; this Marion saw, and instantly 
 Took up with George. I sought the earliest chance 
 To clear the matter : — Oh I scarce would she speak 
 Or but in taunts. Grieved to the heart, I strove 
 To pacify her ; sneeringly she bade 
 Me keep my sweet words for my winsome Kate. 
 And ever since, in very spitefulness, 
 She shows to him more favour than, in truth, 
 A modest maiden slioidd to any one. 
 
 Al, And is this all ? 
 
THE OLD MAID. 179 
 
 Wal. All ! Is it not enough ? 
 
 She mocks me, — nay, she even demeans herself 
 To vex me. Let her — she may rue her choice. 
 
 Ah Little know you of woman's heart ! Think you 
 That she would act thus were there in her breast 
 No love for you ? Or Avould she thus resent 
 Your favom- shown to Katie, did she not 
 Value that favour highly ? 
 
 Wal. If I could 
 
 Believe she did 
 
 AL What then ? 
 
 JVal. My plans would all 
 
 Suffer a change. 
 
 Al. And what, pray, were your plans ? 
 
 Wal. To leave my native coimtry : where to go 
 I had not yet determined. 
 
 AL Well for you 
 
 That that point undetermined yet remains I 
 Believe me, there's no land like home. No land 
 Like that where every burn lifts up the voice 
 That lull'd our infant sleep, — where every tree 
 And every bush, and every daisied field. 
 Lone glen, and mountain green, is haunted rife 
 By the pale lovely shades of hopes and joys 
 That play'd around our steps in youth I No land 
 Like that where sleep our fathers,— those great men, 
 Whose deeds and sufferings, tlirough ages past, 
 Have won for Scotland this most glorious name, 
 " The Warrior's, Patriot's, Poet's, Christian s Land !'* 
 
180 THE OLD MAID. 
 
 Oh ! rather let the meanest hut that e'er, 
 Placed on the rugged height of some wild heath, 
 Totter'd before the winter-blast, become 
 My solitary home in such a land. 
 Then Paradise elsewhere ! 
 
 JVal. Alice, your words 
 
 Set all my blood on fire ! I will not go. 
 Unless it be to fight my country's foes. 
 
 Al. You'd better cheer her friends ! Jesting apart, 
 Attend to me ! Soon as the gloaming casts 
 Her plaid of grey o'er heath and glen, steal you 
 Unseen down to my cottage : Marion comes 
 And spends an hour with me full oft. To-night 
 I'll sound her heart's-depth : she will tell to me 
 The simple truth. You can the while, unseen. 
 Hear all ; then judge if you shall go or stay. 
 
 Wal. Heaven bless you for the thought ! I will 
 not fail 
 At night-fall ; — Woidd 'twere here ! 
 
 A I. Still in extremes I 
 
 Go, guide you like a wise man, if you can, 
 You crazy-pate ! 
 
 JVal. I'll try, at any rate. [^Exif. 
 
 Al. How mankind sacrifice their own heart-peace 
 For veriest folly ! I'll for Marion send : 
 Unless I err, her heart is not less sick 
 Than Walter's. Lucky 'tis for them that I 
 By both am trusted. Had I met with one 
 '§0 trusted and so minded, I had not 
 
THE OLD MAID. 181 
 
 Been the sad lonely thing that now I am ! 
 But that is past ; — then let me do my best 
 To warn and rescue others. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Tli€ interior of the Cottage — Walter co;?(?eaZecf. 
 {Evening.^ 
 
 Alice and Marion. 
 
 AL Come, Marion ; come away, and take a seat, 
 And let me have some talk with you. 
 
 Mar, I come 
 
 Right willingly ; for I, too, long to have 
 Advice from you. 
 
 AL Well, Marion, let me hear 
 
 Frankly what 'tis you want. 
 
 Mar. My heart I my heart I 
 
 O, Alice, it will break ! The pride that gave 
 Me strength among the rest has left me now. 
 O, my dear Alice ! 
 
 (Throws herself into Alice* s arms, weeping,) 
 
 AL Silly girl ; speak out 
 
 And tell me what afflicts you. 
 
 Mar. I have lost — 
 
 For ever lost my Walter 
 
 Q ^ 
 
THE OLD MAIE>. 
 
 ^^' How is this ? 
 
 By his fault or your own ? 
 
 Mar. By both, perhaps^ 
 
 But most by mine. 
 
 AL Say how. 
 
 Mar. The other clay, 
 
 At om- sheep-shearing feast he toy'd with Kate^ 
 And slighted me. To be revenged, I gave 
 My company to George ; it answer'd well, 
 For Walter saw and fretted. I enjoy'd 
 His evident uneasiness : — nay, more, 
 I shunn'd his proferr'd reconcilement, mock'd 
 And taunted him, then seem'd more kind to George. 
 This lasted for a day : Walter at length 
 Waylaid and met me near the milking fauld, 
 And gently, fondly, warmly, did he plead 
 For my lost favour. — Every word he spoke 
 Went to my heart ; yet, in my wayward pride, 
 Still did I jeer and flout him — gave some hints 
 That I pi'eferr'd another : — lu'ged too far. 
 He fired — drew back — upraised his manly brow, 
 And with brief dignity bade me enjoy 
 The bosom-peace that springs from broken vows, — 
 Then stalk'd with stately step away. My heart 
 Knock'd at my breast to follow him, — my tongue 
 Trembled to call him back. 
 
 AL Why did you not ? 
 
 3Iar. Because I was too proud. O ! never yet 
 Came any good from pride, nor ever will I 
 He shuns me now ; and I— what can I do ? 
 
THE OLD MAID. 183 
 
 ! rather let me die than be the first 
 To seek a reconcilement ! yet, imless 
 His favoiu' I regain, I cannot live. 
 Alice, what can I clo ? 
 
 Al, Do ? own your fault, — 
 
 For you are most to blame with your cold jn-ide, 
 And groundless jealousy. 
 
 3Iar. I never can I 
 
 That were to court him ! no, I never can ! 
 And even he would despise me ! 
 
 Al, Do you think 
 
 That he loves Kate ? 
 
 Mar. Loves Kate, the yellow fright I 
 
 Ay, as I love a toad ! 
 
 AL Do you believe 
 
 He loves not you ? 
 
 Mar. I cannot tell— I think — 
 
 1 thought he did : — Think you he does ? 
 AL I do ! 
 
 If it were not so, would he care with whom 
 You toy'd ? Or would he plead so tenderly 
 To win your smiles again ? Or would his heart, 
 Spite of its pride — nay, by its pride, display 
 Such hurt from aught less keen than slighted love ? 
 He loves thee, Marion ; and one little word 
 Of kindness timely spoken will win back, 
 In fondest fervour, all his heart to thee. 
 Will you be silent then ? 
 
 Mar. Alas ! I must ! 
 
184« THE OLD MAID. 
 
 I cannot make advances ; though I own 
 Most gladly would I meet them. 
 
 Al. Will you give 
 
 To me permission to conduct this deep 
 And intricate affair ? 
 
 Mar, You mock me, Alice. 
 
 But if you could, and would — 
 
 AL I can, and will I— 
 
 For I can see farther than you can do 
 What sad results might follow ; ay, and all 
 My heart-strings thrill with deepest sympathy, 
 For I have known — 
 
 Mar. Dear Alice ! do not thus 
 
 Awake that spirit, cm-iosity. 
 And leave it all unsatisfied ! you know 
 The dearest secrets of my heart ; let me 
 Share yours in turn I 
 
 Al, \_Aside, (It might produce some good 
 
 If I should — yes, for once I will.) Do you 
 Long for an Old Maid's Tale ? 
 
 Mar, O I yes : do tell it ! 
 
 For often have I long'd to ask you why 
 You dwelt here all alone, since easy 'tis 
 To see that you have, as the saying runs, 
 Seen better days : and how it is that you. 
 In refutation of the silly scoff, 
 " An Old Maid's crabbedness," are still so kind, 
 So prudent, that the old respect; the young 
 Love you, and tell you all their little griefs, 
 
THE OLD MAID. 
 
 Or joys, or loves ; till you have quite become 
 
 The oracle of all the couiiti'y-side 
 
 Ah Then listen to as sad a tale as e'er 
 
 Wrung tears from sympathetic listeners. 
 
 Needs not to tell from whence I drew my name 
 
 And origin, — suffice it, they were such, 
 
 That all which culture can was done for one 
 
 Not natiu'ally dull ; and hence it comes 
 
 That I can shrewdly guess, and rightly judge; 
 
 In matters that less cultivated minds 
 
 Feel puzzled with : — 
 
 Mar, That, too, lias often waked 
 
 My wonder. 
 
 Al. In the bloom of g'ay seventeen 
 I met a youth — not twenty were his years — 
 His stature, shape, and air, were fashion'd in 
 A mould of matchless elegance ; his eye, 
 His eloquent eye, beam'd full of soul ; his tongue 
 Discoursed sweet music ; - be was more than all 
 My heart had ever fashion'd in its di'eams 
 Of manly beauty ! — 
 
 Mar. Was he fair, or dark ? 
 
 Al. His eyes were blue and bright as summer 
 skies ; 
 His locks deep chestnut, clustering round his brov/ 
 In rich luxuriance, like the plighted clouds 
 That float around the portals of the dawn ; 
 His cheek — but why describe ? We met, we loved ; — 
 He sued, nor was rejected. Blessed days 
 RoU'd over us, and every passing day 
 
186 THE OLD MAID. 
 
 More blessed than the last. But ah 1 no joy 
 That earth can give may long endure I 
 
 Mar, Wliat chanced ? 
 
 Not unkind parents ? 
 
 ^L Marion, no ! Full oft 
 
 Parents are blamed when prudence, duty bids 
 Them act with salutary firmness. Youth 
 Is all of passion and blind folly made , 
 And therefore to be pitied, guided, led. 
 Even driven to what's best. Marion, like you, 
 I quarrell'd with my Henry ; and, like you, 
 Proudly refused to lend a candid ear 
 To his apologies ; like you, I scorn'd, 
 I taunted, and I braved him. Gently long- 
 He bore my petidance ; — haughtier I grew : — 
 Proud of my power,, I tyrannized ; — at last, 
 His high heart rose, and in his swelling mood 
 He vow'd no more to brook my cruel taunts ; 
 Nor ever more to see me, speak to me, 
 Unless I should confess that I had wrong'd 
 A faithful lover ! When his vow I heard, 
 My heart died in my bosom ; yet I kept 
 My haughty bearing, nor woidd speak one word 
 Of yielding purport. 
 
 Mar, 'Tis most strange indeed, 
 
 That thus far have your destinies and mine 
 Run counterparts ! But say what happen'd next. 
 Al, We met no more ; and shortly, as I heard, 
 He went on board a ship about to sail 
 To foreign lands. How did I then regret 
 
THE OLD MAID. 187 
 
 My proud unkindness I How I long'd once more 
 To see him, that I might confess my fault ; — 
 Confess, and be forgiven, and again 
 Call the bright youth my own ! It might not be I 
 The vessel sail'd, and I was left to mourn 
 My self-procured desertion. 
 
 Mar, Wretched fate ! 
 
 A fate, too, that may yet, alas ! be mine. 
 
 Al. How shall I speak the rest I 
 A few days pass'd of utterest misery, — 
 No hope, no joy, stirr'd in my heart, — it lay 
 As lapt in leaden cerements, dead and cold ; 
 And all my feelings wither'd lay, beneath 
 One waveless mass of blight, — even grief itself 
 Seem'd chill'd to torpor. 
 
 Mar. What a dreary state ! 
 
 How long remained you thus ? 
 
 AL There came a day — 
 
 A bleak November day ; — the hollow gale 
 Among the mountains breathed a boding moan, 
 As intermittent maniac, when he feels 
 His frenzy-passion rising, wailingly 
 Deplores the woes that he foresees may be 
 By his wild madness wrought. Dead, and more dead 
 Still grew my sinking spirit : — human face 
 I could not bear to look on ; but withdi'ew 
 To mine own chamber's privacy. Night came, 
 And with it came the tempest, in its rage 
 Embroiling sea and sky. A terror seized 
 My darken'd soul, as on my couch I lay 
 
188 TkE OLD MAID. 
 
 Sleepless, listening the howling of the storm* 
 
 Sudden before me Henry seeni'd to pass : — 
 
 His dress, his step, and his whole air like one 
 
 By imminent peril roused ; or wrestling fierce 
 
 With desperate assailant. Full on me 
 
 He fix'd his earnest eyes, he wav'd his hand 
 
 With hasty gesture, — rapidly his lips 
 
 Moved, but no words came forth, — save once, me- 
 
 thought. 
 An indistinct and distant echo-sound 
 Mm-mur'd my name : — I started — gazed again — 
 But he was vanish'd ! Instant on my soul 
 A dread revealment rush'd. — My father's house 
 Stands near the sea-beach. All unseen, I ran 
 Through the thick-driving tempest to the shore. 
 A steep cliff towers high-beetling o'er the wave, 
 Like a sea-beacon, — to its top I flew, 
 And gazed with straining eyes tlu'ough the blent haze 
 Of cloud and ocean-spray. The crescent moon 
 With headlong speed was o'er the tm-bid sky 
 Careering, like a sorceress di'agon-di-awn, 
 And through the rent rack giai'ing luridly. 
 At once a shriek of agony arose 
 Upon the wild sea- verge, — at once I saw 
 A huge black mass borne on the topmost sui'ge, 
 And drifting landward:- — On it swept — it struck — 
 The crash of shatter'd beams — the starting creak 
 Of severing cordage, — man's despairing yell, 
 Pierced in most horrible union through the roar 
 Of warring winds and waters. From the height 
 
THE OLD MAID. 18^ 
 
 O'er clifF and crevice with impetuous foot 
 I bounded to the beach : — A foamy wave 
 That moment to my feet its ghastly load 
 
 Bore, — 'twas a human form: — Istoop'd — Igrasp'd 
 
 I raised it in my arms ; with one hand swept 
 The dripping locks, matted with oozy sand, 
 From the pale face — 'twas his, Marion, 'twas his. 
 And my false pride had kill'd him ! 
 
 Mar. Gracious heaven ! 
 
 Should Walter go to sea — O ! tell me, Alice, 
 What can I do to save him ? 
 
 Al. Own your fault. 
 
 Or are you still too proud ? 
 
 Mar. Away with pride ! 
 
 Let truth and love direct me. 
 
 Al. 'Tis enough. 
 
 But while your heart beats right, methinks 'twere 
 
 best 
 To put you to the proof. Walter I come forth, 
 And answer for yourself! — Forgive me, Marion I 
 By my desire Walter has heard the whole 
 Of our past conversation : nor need you 
 Blush for its tenor, his own tongue this morn 
 Told me of slighted love, sorrow, despair. 
 And wild determinations. You have both 
 Listen'd my tale of woe : O I thence be warn'd 
 And strive against the cloud-crown'd demon Pride, 
 Ere you become its victims I 
 
 Wal If I have 
 
 Offended thee, dear Marion, let me crave 
 
i9d 
 
 THE OLD MAID. 
 
 Forgiveness, and accept my promises 
 Of full amendment. 
 
 Mar, Let us then exchange 
 
 Free pardon and fresh 2>light : for I, too, have 
 Been much to blame. 
 
 AL Come, let me join your hands. 
 
 Henceforth he gentle and affectionate ; 
 Accommodating to each other's wants 
 And little failings ; and your life will he 
 One of unvaried happiness. 
 
 Wal To you 
 
 The warmest thanks we owe ; for you have been 
 Om- kindest, truest friend ! But might we ask 
 The sequel of yoiu' story ? 
 
 Al. There remains 
 
 Little to tell. After that dreadful night, 
 Reason awhile was shaken on her tlu'one. 
 And Memory holds no records of that time. 
 At lengtli the dark hour pass'd away ; but still 
 Unable to endm^e the sight of all 
 My former scenes of happiness, I left 
 My father's house, and wandering aimlessly 
 Where chance might lead, this little lovely glen 
 Attracted me ; — I made it my abode : 
 And my chief occupation since has been 
 To warn and counsel proud and fiery youth ; 
 Nor do I seek or hope a greater joy 
 Than such as this night has bestow'd. It is 
 A lonely destiny ; but yet 'tis one 
 
THE OLD MAID. 191 
 
 That has its blessings, since it has the power 
 Of doing good to others. ' Good night, both I 
 Be faithful, kind, and happy ! 
 
 Both. Good night, Alice I 
 
 And Heaven reward your piu'e benevolence ! 
 
 \_Exeunt^ 
 
IX. 
 
 LOGAN BEAES. 
 
 B 
 
By Logan's streams that run sae deep, 
 Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded cheep, — 
 Herded sheep, or gather'd slaes, 
 Wi' my dear lad on Logan braes. 
 Bat wae's my heart thae days are gane. 
 And I wi' grief maun herd alane, 
 While my dear lad maun face his faes,. 
 Far, far frae me, and Logan braes ! 
 
 Mayne. 
 
LOGAN BRAES. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Ji Farm-house — A shady lane adjoining — Cathcart 
 walking 'pensively alone, 
 
 Cath. Fool, madman that I am ! I saw it well — 
 I knew it must be so ! — Yet on to speed 
 Tlie blind career of ruin ! — And for what ? 
 Because I could not mouth a resolute No, 
 To paltry triflers, creatures whom I scorn'd ; 
 Yet herded with, in idle playfulness, 
 And suffer'd to allure me ! That I ever 
 Should have been such a worse than prodigal ! 
 My soul's best hopes, like wither'd leaves, away 
 The ceaseless sweep of Time's broad wing lias 
 
 brusliM ; 
 O ! could I but recall them I ^ 
 
196 LOGAN BRAES. 
 
 Enter Moss^ian, meeting him. 
 
 Moss. Well, my gay heart I 
 
 My king of hearts I What sport to-night ? 
 
 Cath, None. 
 
 Moss, None, 
 
 Say you ? I think I could — but have you seen 
 None of our comrades ? — Silent ! Why is this ? 
 What is the matter ? What is wrong ? 
 
 Cath. Nothing — 
 
 At least, that you can right. 
 
 Moss. How know you that ? 
 
 I bring you news of some rare game afoot ; — 
 'Twill make you leap to hear it. Come along, — 
 Let's join the rest ; — and then — 
 
 Cath. Go, if you will : — 
 
 Go where you will ; but leave me ! 
 
 Moss. That I won't I 
 
 We cannot do without you. Come, we lose 
 Our time for nothing. 
 
 Cath. Yes, I've lost indeed 
 
 My time for worse than nothing ! Mossman, you 
 And your companions, sports, and revelries, 
 From this day I abjure for ever I 
 
 Moss. Good ! 
 
 Capital ! Well this passes — Seriously, 
 What do you mean ? 
 
 Cath. I mean what I have said; 
 
LOGAN BRAES. 197 
 
 That henceforth Ihave done with reveMes, 
 And such companionship. 
 
 Moss, This is too much ! 
 
 If aught annoys you, laugh it off I Leave cares 
 To grey-beards I Come, phick up yom* heart, my lad I 
 A short life and a merry one for me ! — 
 
 Cuth. Pray get you hence — 'twere best ! 
 
 Moss. And leave you thus ? — 
 
 To be the jest of all our — 
 
 Cath, Think'st thou, fool ! 
 
 I ever valued their opinions ? No I 
 Even when I led yom* song and merriment, 
 I from my soul despised you ! Not a man 
 Among you has enough of heart or head 
 Even to be worth the hating ! Get you gone ! 
 My own wild passions were my tempters ; you 
 Were but my toys : — yet many a golden hoiu' 
 I've lavish'd even with you. Go from me I fly I 
 Farewell I And as you go, take one advice I — 
 Pursue your calling, and discharge your duties : — 
 Then, and not till then, may you tliink of pleasm'es. 
 
 Mos. Well, I ne'er heard — 
 
 Cath. Away ! No time have I 
 
 Now to destroy in trifling I 
 
 \_Exit MOSSMAN. 
 So far well ; 
 One step is made, one fetter reft in twain : 
 The next — O I Ellen I What must be the next ?^ 
 For the light sparkling of most empty mirth 
 I've lost — O ! what a treasure I have lost ! — • 
 
 R 2 
 
198 LOGAN BRAES. 
 
 My Ellen's heart and hand I How can I go 
 
 And tell her of my folly ? Yet I must — 
 
 I will ! — My heart has now to learn the lore 
 
 Of anguish and endurance ! To my task I — 
 
 Ye faded fields I ye many-tinted trees I 
 
 Ye autumn skies, so pensively severe I 
 
 Like you I've spent my summer-days ; like you 
 
 I feel the autumn-blight, the autumn-gloom ! — 
 
 Yes, I have sown the wind, and now I reap 
 
 The tenfold whirlwind I — Once more, to my task I 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 T7ie Banks of Logan Water — {Evening ^ and 
 Moordight.) 
 
 Cathcart — Ellen. 
 
 Cath. Sweet Ellen I this is very kind I I fear*d 
 You might not come. 1 waited long, and paced 
 Meanwhile around the grey and mouldering walls 
 Of the old ruin ; traced the margin green 
 Of lovely Logan ; footed every path 
 Where we were wont to stray ; but you are come, 
 A'i\(\ I am more than happy. 
 
 EIL I too thought 
 
LOGAN BRAES. 199 
 
 I ne'er should have got out unseen. There came 
 Some neighbours in the gloaming ; — ^for my life 
 I durst not leave the house ; but they are gone, 
 And I am here. I hope they saw you not ? 
 
 Caih, Fear not for them : Mine eye, ear, foot, and 
 hand, 
 Mock at the danger of surprise ; — besides, 
 Night, and her many shadows, lent their aid. 
 
 l£ll. Night is your favourite time, I think ? 
 
 Cath, It is. 
 
 Day is the time of active toils and cares. 
 But night of thoughts and feelings, hopes and loves. 
 
 EIL That's as you use them ; but sure night, sad 
 night. 
 With all its clouds and fears, may not compare 
 In loveliness with bright day's sunny brow. 
 
 Catlu Yes, Ellen, night is lovelier than day. 
 How beautiful the moon I scaling the steeps 
 Of Heaven, and shedding from her starry height, 
 O'er sky and earth, a veil of silver grey I 
 See where the rippling current, tipt with light, 
 Troops, like a band of living things, along 
 In glittering procession I Not a breath 
 Of wind comes o'er the trees, to speed the fall 
 Of the pale, dropping leaves ! Creation sleeps ; 
 And oh ! her sleep is calm and beautiful ! 
 
 EIL 'Tis so indeed. Yet have I seen a day— ■ 
 An autumn-day — when o'er the silent sky 
 Lay floating just enough of vapoury clouds, 
 To give a grey-hair' d, venerable grace 
 
 9 
 
^00 LOGAN BRAES. 
 
 To Nature's aspect : — earth-fruits all were stored, 
 And Peace and Plenty, link'd with smiling Mirth, 
 Led the gay dance ; the sun's benignant eye 
 Smiled o'er the scene, as a kind father smiles. 
 With looks of calm complacency and love 
 On his glad chilch-en, blest and happy all 
 By the full bounty of his liberal hand. 
 
 Catlu The father's bounty ! — yes — .well may he 
 smile. 
 For he has done his duty. But his sons ! — 
 O ! Ellen I Wliat should give us bliss, alas ! 
 May be om' bane ! Oiu- own hands madly rend 
 Oui' own wild bosoms ! Ellen ! 
 
 Ell. Dear Cathcart ! 
 
 What would you say ? Why do you fix yom* eyes 
 On me so wistfully ? Speak ! tell me j)lain 
 What is the matter. 
 
 Catli. 'Tis not much, perhaps. 
 
 To any but myself. My vows of love, 
 Did you believe them, Ellen ? 
 
 Ell, Had I not 
 
 Strong cause to think them true ? If they were 
 
 false — 
 What mean you now ? 
 
 Cath, Oh I would that you could see 
 
 The innermost recesses of my heart. 
 And trust or doubt as it seem'd true or false ! 
 But yet I fain would ask — 
 
 Ell, I too would ask 
 
 If aught in nie gives room — no, sure 'tis grief 
 
LOGAN BRAES. 201 
 
 That darkens on your brow, and chokes your voice I 
 Tell it I Or, shall I guess? 
 
 Caih, Dear Ellen, no I 
 
 Let me, at last, act as becomes a man I 
 I've sought this interview with fix'd intent 
 To take a long, perhaps a last farewell ; 
 For, ere to morrow's sun has set, my steps 
 Shall traverse scenes unknown ; and I, perchance, 
 Thee, and sweet Logan Braes, may see no more I 
 
 Ell, What say you ? Can you leave me ? O I no, 
 no! 
 'Tis all to try me ! — Cruel one I 
 
 Caih, Dear maid ! 
 
 Hear me a few brief moments I I have been 
 A very prodigal ; my flocks, my crops, 
 My cattle, all — my all will not suffice 
 To pay my rents, my debts, and borrow'd sums :— 
 I cannot, will not meet it. I will go 
 To other lands, and war with toil and want ; 
 Nor e'er return, unless with ample means 
 To more than meet what justice may require. 
 Such is my purpose ; and it should not cause 
 One sigh to make and keep it ; but, alas I 
 That is an April shower, while in its train 
 I see the storms of winter I I must leave — 
 And, leaving, must I lose thee, Ellen ? — lose 
 The only boon my soul ere pray'd for ? — lose 
 What I would gladly peril life to gain ? — 
 Lose thee, my only love ? 
 
 Ell. It shall not be ! 
 
202 LOGAN BRAES. 
 
 I have a little — and my father — sure 
 He will not see you want ! Stay, stay at home ! 
 Make me your wife ; — tend you the rougher tolls, 
 I'll tend the household cares ; and we shall soon, 
 Through honest industry, and frugal care, 
 Clear every score, and yet hold u]) oui' heads 
 In honourable independence. Come ! 
 'Tis no time now for feigning ! I am thine 
 If that will stay thee ! 
 
 Cath. . O ! ye moon and stars 1 
 
 Beheld ye ever such a woman ! — No ! 
 Thou dearest maid ! I will not wrong thee thus I 
 I were yet more unworthy than I am 
 Could I avail me of thy generous proffer. 
 But wheresoe'er I go, whatever my fate ; 
 The thought of thee, and of thy noble love. 
 Shall be a fount of ever-springing hope. 
 At which my thirsty heart shall drink large di'aughts. 
 And with refresh'd endm*ance bear its lot. 
 O ! now I love thee as I never did, — 
 Never could love before I 
 
 EIL Yet will you go ? 
 
 You mock me for my fondness. Can you thus 
 Pluck from mine own words M'liat I never di'eamt 
 They could insinuate ? Take back your resolve. 
 And stay at home on Logan Braes with me ! 
 
 Calk. Were it not base to bind you to the home 
 Of toilsome poverty ? to bid you wear 
 The conscious red impressment of disgrace 
 Stamp'd on your downcast brow ? And could I be 
 
LOGAN BRAES. 203 
 
 So base, your noble heart must cease to love me. 
 
 My father — ^his stern virtue never knew 
 
 The weaknesses of gaiety or love — 
 
 I cannot meet his rigorous rebuke : — 
 
 To him I leave my all, and well I know 
 
 That he will leave no debt of mine unpaid, 
 
 Bearing all loss himself. O I had he sho^vn 
 
 A little of a father's tenderness, 
 
 This had not been ! Him shall I see no more. 
 
 Till with full interest every latest plack 
 
 Shall have been quite repaid : — he shall confess 
 
 That I too can be just. 
 
 Ell. O ! thou proud heart I 
 
 But art thou just to me ? 
 
 Cath. Yes, Ellen, yes ! 
 
 If I return, thou shalt not blush for me : 
 And if I ne'er return, of this be sui-e, 
 I shall have fall'n in honour's path and cause. 
 But wilt thou, when I'm gone, e'er think on me ? 
 Wilt thou retrace our former haunts ? Wilt thou 
 Beneath om' trysting tree at even-tide 
 Thy fair knee bend, and pray for my success, 
 And safe retui'n ? I know, I know thou wilt I 
 
 SINGS. 
 
 A weary weight lies on my heart ; 
 
 My soul is sick and wae, love ; 
 Fate sternly calls — I maun depart. 
 
 Though laith am I to gae, love. 
 
204 LOGAN BRAES. 
 
 But ae grasp o' that snaw-white han*, 
 Ae taste o' that lip*s saft red, love ; 
 
 Ae sigh'd farewell, sae deeply drawn,— 
 Ae gaze, an* a' joys are fled, love. 
 
 I'll ne'er forget the witching wile 
 
 O' that bright ee o' thine, love ; 
 An' the graces o' thy gentle smile 
 
 Aye roun' my heart shall twine, love. 
 An' when the cauld, cauld han' o' Death 
 
 Comes o'er my glazing ee, love, 
 My last lang sob o' parting breath 
 
 Shall deeper heave for thee, love ! 
 
 Yet why this g-loom ? Cheer thee, my dearest Ellen I 
 The parting hour, absence, and distance, all 
 That now is woe, will swell our future bliss. 
 No boding farewells let us utter, love ! 
 But part, dreaming the while of aU the joys 
 That shall be ours, hailing my glad return. 
 
 [^JExeunL 
 
 SCENE III. 
 The Try sting- Tree, (J Spring Evening?) 
 
 Enter Cathcart, in disguise, 
 
 Cath Hail, Logan Water ! Hail, sweet Logan 
 Braes I 
 Scenes of my early youth ! beloved scenes ; 
 
LOGAN BRAES. 205 
 
 Peopled with thousand dear rememhrances ! 
 Upon thy banks, thou lively mountain-stream, 
 How often have I roam'd, lapt in the robe 
 Of the grey matron, gloaming- ; every step 
 Light as a spirit's, while I hied me on 
 To the known trysting-tree, to meet with her, 
 My soul's beloved, sweet Ellen I Thou old tree ! 
 How oft beneath thy conscious shade reclined, 
 With soft words, and with softer song, I've woo'd 
 Her not unwilling ear. O ! well I love 
 Each haunt of those blest days ! yet not the less 
 Love I this trysting-tree, that there I took 
 The last farewell of her, my only love ; 
 For strong grief has its own most potent spells ! 
 Yes, thou art dear, sweet Logan ! Though my steps 
 Have trod by mighty rivers, broad and deep — . 
 Oceans to thy small rill — though I have seen 
 Huge forests, darkening in their vast extent 
 Whole continents — yet thy light-rippling stream, 
 Thy sedgy banks, thy scoop'd and bosom'd braes, 
 Fringed with the hazel grey, and jetty sloe. 
 Dearer than all, rose on my dreaming moods 
 In mellow beauty; as upon the mind ■ 
 
 Of our great father, Adam, there might rise 
 Bright visions of his own lost Eden-home, 
 And now once more, with glad returning foot, 
 I tread this mossy greensward. Yes, ye are 
 Scenes of sm-passing loveliness ! But, oh ! 
 -Not for yourselves I love you ! All around, 
 In the clear stream, upon tlie swelling braes> 
 
206 LOGAN BHAES. 
 
 In every breath that fans my glowing cheek, 
 My spirit feels the holy power of love — 
 Love, pure and faithful ! On these braes so green, 
 Beneath this tree my farewell sighs were heaved — 
 My farewell troth was plighted I Where is now 
 My own, my dearest Ellen ? Does she still 
 Love her poor prodigal ? — no longer poor, 
 Unless she love him not. — But, hush ! I hear 
 A rustling sound — a light foot-fall ! Soft, soft ! — 
 It is a female figure ! — Lo I she bends 
 Straight hitherward her steps ! Let me retire, 
 And watch, unseen, her motions ; — for there is 
 I know not what strange stirring in my breast. 
 As if a spell were on me ! \_Retires. 
 
 Enter Ellen. 
 
 Ell How strange a thing is love ! Years, years, 
 long years 
 Have sped their romid since here he sigh'd farewell . 
 And slowly, di-earily, they've dragg'd along :— 
 Yet are his looks, his words, his very form. 
 As clearly present to my mind's fond eye 
 As he were now beside me ! Will he e'er 
 In his own much-loved person glad my sight ? 
 Or must I trace alone all the dear scenes 
 Of joys, and loves, and hopes, for ever gone? 
 Yet am I not alone !— the potent call 
 Of Love evokes from Memory's slirine bright shapes 
 That time can ne'er destroy, nor space exile. 
 
LOGAN BRAES. 20t 
 
 Beneath the trysting-tree let me recline,' 
 
 And hold sweet converse with these spirit-joys ! 
 
 (^Sits musing — then sings j in a slow sweet strain,) 
 
 O, Logan Braes ! how sad ye seem ! 
 
 How sad thy murmurs, Logan stream! 
 
 The primrose, pale as sorrow's cheek, 
 
 The violet true, the daisy meek, 
 
 An' a' the young spring-flowers, are seen 
 
 Peeping through the moss sae green : 
 
 Nae mair, sweet flowers, your fair heads raise I 
 
 For sorrow reigns on Logan Braes ! 
 
 How sweet the lintie's early sang 
 Floats the budding bowers amang ; 
 And sweet the lav'rock loud and clear, 
 The robin chirping on the brier ! 
 But, ah ! their sang, though sweet, to me 
 Nae joy, nae bosom-bliss can gie ! 
 Ye birdies, hush your lively lays. 
 They glad not me nor Logan Braes ! 
 
 The birds may sing, the flowers may bloom. 
 They canna cheer my lone heart's gloom : 
 He's far frae me, — my ain dear lad, — 
 And how can I be ought but sad ! 
 Oh ! days an' years hae come an' gane, 
 An' aye I wander here alane ; 
 Or sadly think on him who strays 
 Far, far frae me an' Logan Braes ! 
 
 Why did he go and leave me ? I could well 
 Have shared his poverty — have shared, and striven 
 
208 
 
 LOGAN BRAES. 
 
 To make it less. O ! it had been a lot 
 Of perfect happiness I Where is he now ? 
 What toils may now oppress, what sorrows WTin^ 
 His heart, and I not near to soothe his ills ! 
 Sure, 'twas not wise to go I Now pine we both 
 Under our griefs, and those imagined ones 
 Each for the other dreads. If e'er again 
 In life we meet, no more in life we part. 
 
 [Cathcart approaches. 
 
 Cath. Gude e'en t'ye, bonnie lassie ! Can ye show 
 The nearest way to the niest town ? I've tint 
 My gate amang the muirs, and I w^ould fain 
 Rest my auld w eary shanks, and lay my head 
 In some snug bield till day breaks in the east. 
 
 EIL Good even, old man. I'll lead you to a house 
 Where, for this night at least, you're sm-e to find 
 Both kindness and good quarters. 
 
 Cath. Mony thanks ! 
 
 It's an aidd saying, an' a true ane, lass, 
 " A soft voice an' a kind heart ;" — ye hae baith. 
 
 JEll, Fy, fy, old man ! to flatter at your years ! 
 The truth sounds beautifid from hoary lij)s. 
 While flattery's light words are unnatural ! 
 
 Cath. I spak nae flattery ! though, if I had, 
 It might hae pass'd for a mere common thing 
 Wi' ane but half sae bonnie. H^reawa 
 The lads maun sure be scarce, or wonder leal I 
 
 Ell. Scarce ? There are lads enough ; but, scarce 
 indeed 
 Well might some say so ! — 
 
LOGAN BRAES. 209 
 
 Cath. Let me lead the way, — 
 
 I'll help you o'er the stile : the ditch beyond 
 Is not for you to step across unhelp'd. 
 
 Ell Old man, 
 
 You seem to know the way as well as I ! — 
 Nay, the near way ! — Who art thou ? O I it is ! — 
 It is Cathcart ! My lost ! — my found ! — my own ! 
 
 (^Flings herself into his arins.) 
 
 Cath. My own dear Ellen I I have come again, 
 And find thee true as ever ! I have won 
 Wealth, ample wealth ; — I have paid every debt — 
 Ay, every debt but one, — and that each hour 
 Of life I'll spend in paying ! — Dearest Ellen I 
 Say, shall we now be happy ? Shall we now 
 Knit round our hearts the tie that severs not 
 While life glows warmly there ? 
 
 EIL My kind ! — my true I — 
 
 My noble- hearted love ! And art thou come ? — 
 And do I clasp thee in my arms, safe, safe ? — 
 And shall we part no more ? 
 
 Cath. No more, my love ! 
 
 The clouds that lour'd so gloomily are gone ; 
 And all our life-day, yet to come, shall shine 
 With the blent beams of Plenty, Peace, and Love I 
 
 \_Exeunt< 
 
 % S 
 
X. 
 
 THE CHOICE. 
 
And are ye come at last, and do I hold you fast ; 
 
 And is my Johnnie true ? 
 I hae nae time to tell, but sae lang's I like mysell, 
 
 Sae lang shall I like you. 
 
 Old Song. 
 
Characters. 
 
 The Gudeman. 
 
 The Gudewife. 
 
 Tam Macgill, a Fisherman, and formerly connected 
 
 with Smugghrs, in love with Jeanie. 
 Sandy, in love with Jeanie. 
 Jeanje, in love with Sanely^ 
 
THE CHOICE. 
 
 SCENE I. {Early Winter.) 
 
 The interior of the Farm-house — the Gudeman mend' 
 ing harness — the Gudewife moving about and SU' 
 perinte7iding household matters — Jeanie spinning, 
 
 Jeanie sings lowly* 
 
 " Oh hon, for somebody ! 
 
 Oh hey, for somebody ! 
 I wad do ! — What wad I not ! 
 
 For the sake o* somebody !" 
 
 Gudew. Wliat ails thee, Jeanie, lass ? That spin- 
 ning wheel 
 Needs wonder-mony trimmings. I declare 
 The pira is ne'er the fuller I There again 
 Snap goes the thread.— Lassie, what ails the lint ? 
 Or what ails thee ? 
 
216 THE CHOICE. 
 
 Jeari. Dear mother, do not fret, 
 
 The Imt's not good, and something like a mist 
 Comes o'er my sight. I really cannot help- 
 
 Gudew, Cannot help what ? — A mist comes o'er 
 your sight ! 
 O I ay ! no doubt ! a sigh or two, belike. 
 Would help tlie farce. Fie, lassie ! ply the wheel — 
 That will beseem ye better. Scant eighteen ! — 
 The creature's crazy I 
 
 Gudem. — (^Aside to the Gudewife.) — Come, Gude- 
 wife, be gentle ; 
 Ye snub her too severely. 
 
 Gudew. Hush, Gudeman ! 
 
 Never ye mind ; a mother's bitterest word 
 Springs from a root of love. I wish to try 
 Tlia truth and depth of that fond, youthful passion, 
 Now stirring in her bosom : if it yield. 
 Why, let it go ; and if it stand the test, 
 'Twill be the better for its trial. 
 
 Gudem. lYell ; 
 
 So it ends well, I cai'e the less. Hark ! hark ! 
 The wind is up : hear how it howls along 
 The woody tops of Mabie hills, and beats 
 Fidl on the bosom of Nitli's smiling vale. 
 
 Jean, O, father ! what a night 'twill be at sea, 
 And up among the moorlands ; how it roars I 
 
 Gudem. Ay, lassie ; though a lad should crack 
 his tryst, 
 He might be pardon'd on a night like this. 
 
THE CHOICE.. 217 
 
 Jean. Pardon'd ! ay, thankfully ! 
 
 Gudeiv, You silly thing-, 
 
 If a wild night can stop him, let him stop, — 
 His manhood or his love is little worth. 
 
 Jean. But, mother, if his life 
 
 Gudew. E'en let him risk it. 
 
 If his own precious safety, in his view, 
 Outweig-li his plighted promise, oh, good night ! 
 He's not for me. 
 
 Jean. Mother, you sm-ely jest. 
 
 You cannot mean, that though the night were wild. 
 The road lay long, o'er many a moss and moor, 
 And faithless bogs, and roaring mountain-streams, 
 Were frequent in the path, and sounds of fear, 
 And shapeless sights of dread, were all abroad ; 
 Each, every peril roused and heightened 
 By winter and black night, the lover's breast 
 Should brave all, or be slighted ? 
 
 Gudeiv. That I do. 
 
 Men were but made to brave the world's rude storms, 
 And to be ruled by women ! 
 
 Gudem. Stop, gudewife. 
 
 That's if we like to yield, you know. 
 
 Gudew. Ay, ay ; 
 
 No doubt ye'U say so. Well, we'll not dispute 
 That point just now. But hark I I hear a foot. 
 Open the door, gudeman : It's not a night 
 To let the wanderer rap, and wait an answering. 
 
 T 7 . 
 
^18 THE CHOICE. 
 
 Door opened — enter Tam M'Gill. 
 
 M'Gill Good e'en t'ye all, good folks. 
 
 Gudem, What, Tam M^Gill I 
 
 What wind's blown you liere ? 
 
 M'-Gilh A right stormy one. 
 
 Many a night of driving wind and rain. 
 Sharp sleet, and blinding snow, have I been out in ; 
 But one like this 
 
 Gudew. The last seems still the worst, 
 
 Or best, as hap may be. But take a seat. 
 And plant yourself snug in the chimney-nook. 
 There ; — now let's have your cracks. 
 
 M^Gill. Thank you, gudewife ; 
 
 But let me say, I'm no fair- weather- Jack ; 
 I reck as little of a winter-blast 
 As any he in all broad Galloway ; 
 But this night's storm — Well, let it roar ! Wliy, 
 
 Jeanie, 
 How hast thou been ? What cheer, my dainty trout ? 
 What ! shy and pettish ! Nay, be brisk^ my young 
 
 one : — 
 A sharp short shower brings down the bait, a torrent 
 Would gorge to loathing. 
 
 Jeaii, Would icliat, do you say ? 
 
 I cannot spell your quaint fisherman-talk ; 
 Give us plain Scotch. 
 
 J/' Gill, Why, so I do, my lass ; 
 
 Flavom-'d a little with my trade, 'tis true, 
 }>ut ne'er the worse for tkat. 
 
THE CHOICE. 219 
 
 Jean. But say, M'Gill, 
 
 Is it indeed so wild a night ? 
 
 M'Gill, So wild?— 
 
 Just as the g-loaming fell I went to meet 
 Ned Gleg at Cargen Crooks — it makes not why — 
 But scarcely had we bowne us to our task, 
 When a deep, stunning, shuddering sound arose, 
 Growing on earth and air — we knew it well — 
 'Twas the loud burst of Sol way's angry tide 
 O'er dark Drmnroof, and in the cavern'd cliffs 
 That girdle in the shore of green Col vend : 
 We stood to listen, — soon the whistling- gale 
 Told of a tempest landward ; round the bight, 
 And o'er the brow, and down the hoary sides 
 Of Criffel roll'd the storm ; — the black clouds shook ; 
 Out-gush'd their gather'd fury ; thick and fast 
 Drove on the blinding snow, howl'd the loud wind, — 
 We might not bear its wrath — we shrunk — we fled — 
 Each as his need or his desire advised. 
 He to some shelter — I strove tlu'ough the moss 
 To see my bonnie Jean. 
 
 Jean. The more fool you, 
 
 To risk yom' life among the blind moss-pits 
 On such a thankless errand. 
 
 M'Gill. Say not so — 
 
 One kindly glance of love were cheaply bought 
 By the rude buffets of the boisterous storm. 
 Thou art a torch-light on my stream of life ; 
 And, blinded by the witching blaze, my heart 
 Plays round its bright destroyer. 
 
220 
 
 THE CHOICE. 
 
 «^<^^^' So you say. 
 
 [_Aside.2— But soft, my motlier's eye is kindling- 
 well, 
 Fair words and fair shows be my cue. — Why, lad, 
 Your praise runs but awry. Did I e'er look 
 Other than kind when kindly look'd upon ? 
 'Twere but fair play to try, ere you condemn. 
 
 iff' Gill. Now, fair befall the tongue, my bonnie 
 lassie. 
 That speaks no worse encom-agement I — But yet 
 The bir, bir, birring, of that spinning-wheel, — 
 Bad as a thunder-storm to anglers — checks 
 The lightsome leaping of my heart and words ; 
 And I must either sit beside you, love. 
 Or you must quit yom- spinning. 
 
 Jean, At your choice, 
 
 If my side of the fire be wai'mer. 
 
 31' Gill. That it is. 
 
 By all the difference betwixt two and one. 
 Now I'm right snug, and wondrous happy, too. 
 Let's slip a gentle whisper now and then — 
 There's none need be the wiser. 
 
 Jean. Not so fast, 
 
 Your gudgeon has not gulp'd the bait yet, lad, 
 Keen sportsman though you be. 
 
 SINGS. 
 
 " I wadna gie my Sandy lad, my Sandy o'er the lea, 
 I wadna gie my Sandy lad for a' the lads I see." 
 
THE CHOICE. 221 
 
 Gudem. \_Aside.']—T\\i^ roving spark 
 
 From his old habits loves the bottle Avell, — 
 I'll humour him a little. — Come, my buck, 
 What say you to a glass to cheer yom- heart, 
 And match the fire-side warmth ? 
 
 M'-Gill, I say, gudem an, 
 
 I've been too long a moonlight trafficker 
 To shun, ay even a caulker. 
 
 Gudem. That's right, lad ! — 
 
 Gudewife, bring ben the bottle. 
 
 (u4 small table is brought forivard, bread a?id 
 cheese produced^ and glasses filled.) 
 Here's t'ye, M'Gill I 
 
 31^ Gill. And here's to you, gudewife ! 
 
 To you, my bomiie Jeanie, and to you. 
 Light-hearted friend I — May ne'er worse luck be 
 
 yom's 
 Than a snug home, a bottle, and a friend. 
 
 Gudem. Thank you I that's not amiss, but might 
 be better; — 
 To have more bottles and more friends than one. 
 M'- Gill. Content ; so I be of them. 
 Gudem. Come, my lad I 
 
 A glass is never half itself until 
 We time its motions with some lively lilt : 
 Give us a song ; I know you can. 
 
 M^GilL Well, well. 
 
 Although no nightingale, yet I shall ne'er 
 Stand shill-I, shall-I, upon stepping stones ; 
 So here goes, as I can. 
 
 t2 
 
222 THE CHOICE. 
 
 SINGS. 
 
 Fast pours the rain, the wintry storm 
 , Brews in the black and drumlie sky, 
 The wind howls in the leafless tree, 
 
 And wildly raving hurries by ; 
 But let it madly rair and rave, 
 
 We dinna mind its din a flee, 
 We'll drown its eerie noise wi' mirth, 
 
 And drink and sing wi' canty glee. 
 
 There's no a star in a' the lift, 
 
 The moon has hid her face wi' fear, 
 The cauld dull earth is wrapp'd in gloom, 
 
 And a' is dowie, mirk, and drear ; 
 But moon and stars may a' gae hide 
 
 Their blinkin een for us this night 
 We carena by, — to drink and sing 
 
 There isna need o' muckle light. 
 
 This night's our ain,. — we've nought to do 
 
 Wi' warldly cares, and warldly folk, 
 We'll lilt our sang wi' canty glee, 
 
 And drink our glass, and crack our joke ; 
 Our days to come but few may be, 
 
 Yet grieving ne'er could make them mair ; 
 Then we'll enjoy them while they pass, 
 
 And scorn the threats o' canker'd care. 
 
 Let fools gae pine at Fate's decrees. 
 
 The blithest's aye the wisest man ; - ' 
 
 AVe'll jouk and let the jaw gae by, 
 And happy be sae lang's we ca ! 
 
THE CHOICE. 223 
 
 Then here's to him wha's heart's aye light, 
 Though fate should row her bowls ajee^ 
 
 Be his the wale o' fortune's gifts, 
 And canty friends to share them wi' ! 
 
 Gude7n. Hale be your heart, my lad ! Another 
 glass ! 
 That song deserves it well. 
 
 M'GilL I'm glad ye like it. 
 
 Gudew, (to Jean.^ There, lass I what think you of 
 a lad like that ? 
 The wildest winter-storm his brow can brave, 
 And blithesome is he by the winter-hearth : 
 I scorn, mark me, a selfish, timid man ; 
 But one that dares and does, deserves to win 
 Youi' highest estimation. See to it. 
 As you regard my favoui'. 
 
 Jean. Well, dear mother, 
 
 What hospitality requires, I'll do ; 
 Nor should he, yet a stranger, look for more. 
 
 (During the song and the above conversation, 
 Sandy Hyslop approaches, peeps in at the 
 window, and sees ivhat is passing^ 
 M^ Gill. But what say you, dear Jeanie ? Half a 
 word 
 From yoiu' sweet lips were worth a thousand songs. 
 Jean. What can I give for one then ? half a look ? 
 M^ Gill. Ay, half a look would make me proud. 
 Jean. Proud of your own performance ? 
 M'Gill. Sly one I no. 
 
 Proud of your favour. 
 
224 THE CHOICE. 
 
 Jean. Win it ere you wear it, 
 
 mGill, That's what I'll gladly try. 
 Gudem. Come, come, my lad, 
 
 'Mid your small talk ye let the glass stand still. 
 
 i^' GUI. Never fear that, there I can bear my part 
 Right jollily. My bonnie lively lassie. 
 Here's to the growth of our acquaintance ! Come, 
 You'll drink to that toast, won't you ? 
 
 (Lays his arm round her neck.) 
 Jeayi. Not so fast ! 
 
 Hands, off, sir, if you please. You seem to make 
 Fully more free than welcome. 
 
 M'Gill. O yes I shyish! 
 
 I know a little of you women-folks, 
 A.nd well I ween that you would rather give 
 Twenty good kisses in the dark, than one 
 Where light should ask for blushing. Soft and fair, — 
 The lightest is the angler's sm-est cast. 
 
 Jean. \_Aside.'] Wou'd he were in the blackest pool 
 o'Nith, 
 Till I should fish him out, the hateful brute. — 
 You're frank, at least ; I scarce need be deceived 
 Since thus you tell yom' pm-pose. 
 
 M'Gill. Nay, I meant 
 
 Nothing rude or offensive ; but my life 
 Has better taught me loose and scoffing terms. 
 Than the soft words of wooing. Are we friends ? 
 Jean. You, at least, seem to think so. 
 M'Gill. ' Fain I would. 
 
THE CHOICE. 225 
 
 (Sandy taps gently at the loindowy she hears, 
 starts, and rises hastily.^ 
 Jean, O I father, I've neglected Crummie's supper, 
 Tis more than time she had it. 
 
 Gudem. Let me go 
 
 This stormy night. 
 
 Jean. To save me ? Father, no ; 
 
 I'm younger, fitter far to bear the blast 
 Than you after yom- toils ; I'll go myself. 
 
 lExit, 
 
 SCENE II. 
 The Farm-yard — Enter Jeanie with a lantern. 
 
 Jean, Sandy ! Dear Sandy ! Are ye there ? Come, 
 come ! 
 This is a dreadful night of storm ! O, haste ye, 
 Come with me to the nearest shelter, come ! 
 
 ( They enter the barn.) 
 How could you venture out so wild a night ? 
 
 Sa7i. How could I venture ? — Jeanie, if your heart 
 Had ever felt what true love is, you'd know 
 That mirkest moonless nights, and wildest storms, 
 When darkness veils the fighting elements. 
 Are nought to him, who, like a lover true. 
 Braves them to meet a maid who truly loves I 
 That dear belief pom^'d vigoxu- tlirough my nerves, 
 
226 THE CHOICE. 
 
 Till, though the tempest smote me in its power, 
 'Twas the light fanning of a summer breeze. 
 
 Jean. Too bold ! Why did you dare ? You never 
 thought 
 What grief unutterable had been mine, 
 If you had — di'eadful even to think I — had perish' d — 
 
 Sa7i, Oh I specious dissembler ! 
 
 Jean. How I What now ? 
 
 San. Ah, false one I Yes, put on well-feign'd 
 surprise : 
 Who would have thought so beautiful a form 
 The dwelling-place of so depraved a mind ! 
 
 Jeaii. How mean you ? What have / done ? Or 
 \i you 
 Have broke youi' faith, why seek to cloak yom' guilt 
 By first accusing me ? Oh, shame ! be manly 
 Even in your wickedness ! 
 
 Saji. Ai-e you so bold I 
 
 And shall I plainly speak my grievances ? 
 
 Jean. Oh ! by all means !— the story of your 
 wrongs I — 
 I long to hear it. 
 
 San. I>o you ? Listen, then ;— 
 
 And if you have not lost all sense of guilt 
 And maiden shame, thank the deep gloom that 
 
 checks 
 The dubious light, and hides thy red confusion ! 
 Soon as the sun sunk o'er the lone Glenkens, 
 Leaving the fervour of his farewell glance 
 Behind him, far o'er many a deepening mass 
 
THE CHOICE. 227 
 
 Of clouds ; and gladly from the fuiTOw'd field 
 Each blithesome ploughman, whistling, hied him 
 
 home ; — 
 I to the moor, the hill, the glen, the stream. 
 Bent eagerly my hasty steps ; for rest, 
 Sweet after toil, was not so sweet to me. 
 As toil to meet with her, mine own loved maid ! — 
 Darkness was round my path, ere I had pass'd 
 The steepy wilds of green Glen cairn ; and ere 
 I cross'd thy hents, hare, barren Dunscore ! deep, 
 And deeper grew the gloom, and rising winds 
 Began to pipe their discords — on I press'd, 
 For night and howling winds were nought to me, 
 So I might hear that voice so dearly loved ! 
 At Gribton Holm the Cairn's rough stream I braved, 
 Though strong it roar'd, nor ford, nor bridge, I 
 
 sought — 
 Down rush'd the tempest headlong in its might, 
 And wrapt me in its folds — I struggled on, 
 Swept round the base of proud Terregies Hill, 
 Pass'd fair Terraughty, and the hermit groves 
 Of sweet Carruchan, traced the witching lane 
 Of shady Cargen, cross'd the plunging moss, — 
 For storms and perils garb'd in hideous gloom 
 Could not o'erpower or shake me, strong in love, 
 And confidence that I too was beloved. — 
 I came and found — O, Jeanie I not the oath 
 Of half mankind would I have credited — 
 Found you half clasp' d in his embrace, 
 That wild rude smuggler I One whose darken'd soul 
 
228 
 
 THE CHOICE. 
 
 May never prize, no, by a thousandfold, 
 The jewel he has won I 
 
 Jeayi. (Aside and reflecting.) This must be real- 
 So many miles, a road so drear, a night 
 
 So terrible, this must be love, indeed, 
 
 Deceit could never go so far. — Dear Sandy, 
 
 'Twere needless cruelty to trifle now; 
 
 I see, I know it all, your whole mistake. 
 By all our former vows, by all our love. 
 And all our hopes, I never gave that man 
 Encouragement. I hate him ; — but I hid 
 My deep dislike, for the low whisperings 
 And keen looks of my mother told a tale 
 Of no ambiguous meaning. — Did you need 
 Twice to repeat your signal ? 'Mid the din 
 Of such a storm, what but a lover's ear — 
 Ay, a true lover's — could have noted it ? 
 
 San. And was this all? It might be so — it was- 
 It must have been ! If thou deceivest me now, 
 Truth dwells not ujjon earth. 
 
 Jea7i. Perhaps I ought 
 
 To show some distant, cold, affronted airs ; 
 But I must frankly own, appearances 
 Look'd strong against me ; yet, I think you may 
 Credit my simple word ; or would you more ? 
 
 San. No, Jeanie, no ! I'd rather be deceived 
 Than make my breast the den of jealousy. 
 Yet I have that to say — it was the errand 
 On which J came — will amply try your love. 
 
 Jcaiu Out with this mighty trial. 
 
THE CHOICE. 229 
 
 San, Hear me, then, 
 
 And coolly, calmly : — that I love thee dearly, 
 Witness the terrors of this howling night. 
 That could not keep me from thee ; witness Heaven 
 And mine own soul's deep vows there register'd. 
 Yet would I not one moment wish thee mine 
 Were not the cordial sanction of thy heart, 
 And the fair hope of mutual happiness 
 To crown the wish ; — then hear, think, and advise me. 
 This very day our factor came a-iield 
 When we were all at work ; he show'd to me 
 A letter from the far Isles of the West, 
 Where grows the sugar-cane, requesting him, 
 At his best speed, to send some careful person 
 To act as overseer : large were its proffers, 
 Large, fair, and very tempting, — for a few 
 Brief years of honest toil and industry. 
 To reap that golden harvest, independence, — 
 And much he lu'ged me to accept the proffer. 
 I ask'd one night to think of it. Night came, 
 Oui' tasks suspending ; through its eerie shades, 
 And through the tempest's fury, have I come 
 To thee, my Jeanie ! for thy frank advice ; — 
 Thy choice must seal my doom. Say, wilt thou then 
 Be mine, poor as I am — in all but love — 
 Or shall I cross the wide Atlantic — brave 
 The sultry fervour of the tropic suns. 
 From thee and Scotia far ; my only stay 
 The hope to share with thee my treasured stores ? 
 Make thou the choice, my love; I'll dree the weird 
 
 u 
 
230 THE CHOICE. 
 
 Jean. Choice ! no, dear Sandy ! there's no choice I 
 What I go 
 Where fever dwells in every poison'd breeze, 
 To breathe it, and to die ere thy life's noon ! 
 Shouldst thou survive, until thy golden di^eams 
 Were all into realities converted, 
 Hovr will thy feeble and diseased frame 
 At thy return, bear the keen mountain-gale ? 
 Thy step will be a totter, and thy cheek, 
 Sallow and thin, have lost its manly bloom ; 
 Thine eye, no longer bright as evening's star, 
 Will glimmer like a death-fire on the moor, 
 Sunk in its socket. If my heart and hand 
 Can cause thee stay in our own lovely Scotland, 
 Content with honest poverty and love, 
 There, take them — they are thine — no wand for ever I 
 
 Saiu My own, my dearest lassie I to my heart 
 Come let me lock thee ! Leave thee ! never, never, 
 While life beats in my bosom ! Let us go 
 This instant to thy father — tell him all — 
 Ask his permission — name the happy day, 
 To make us one beyond the power of fate, — 
 Then take what Heaven may send ! Come, let us go ! 
 
 [^JSnter ififo the house. 
 
 Gudem, Ay, Jeanie, thou hast met more fitting 
 help 
 Than thy old father's ! Happy beast, I'm sure, 
 Must Crummie be I 
 
 Gudew. Gudeman, this is no jesting : — 
 
THE CHOICE. 231 
 
 What means this, daughter ? Tell me, on your life, 
 Who is this fellow, and what wants he here ? 
 
 Jeayi. This fellow, as you please to call him, mother. 
 Is my own Sandy, and he wants your daughter. 
 Full ten long dreary miles his feet have trod. 
 Through the rough pelting of this fearful storm, 
 And all for me : " And he who dares and does 
 So much for me, deserves my best return ;" 
 Your own words, mother, sure you'll not deny them. 
 Gudew. Ye pawky jade I well have you fought 
 your battle I 
 YouVe done so cleverly, and turn'd my words 
 So home and to the purpose, that I think 
 I must forgive. 
 
 San. Gudeman, I come to ask, 
 Your leave to woo your daughter. 
 
 Gudem, Good sooth, lad, 
 
 That does not seem to do. 
 
 San, Permit me, then 
 
 A little farther, may I have your leave 
 ' To make her mine ? 
 
 Gudem, So, so ; why, look you, lad. 
 
 If you can get the lassie's own consent, — 
 Which, I confess, seems rather more than likely, 
 And you be come of honest kith and kin. 
 And in a fail' and decent livelihood, 
 My leave shall be no lion in your path. 
 
 San. To make you easy on one point, gudeman : 
 My uncle often has entreated me, — 
 He's old and weary of a heavy charge, — 
 
232 THE CHOICE. 
 
 To come and take possession of his farm 
 In all its flowing, full prosperity ; — 
 And there I'll go at Beltane ; Jeanie there 
 Shall have a home as good as that she left, 
 And when my uncle hears that her consent 
 Has saved his favourite nephew from the risk 
 Of Indian suns, he'll be a father to her. 
 
 Gudem, Ye offer fair : there, take her Jiand I my 
 blessing 
 Be hers and yours ! 
 
 Gudeiv. My blessing, too, be theirs ! 
 
 Though she has been self-will'd a thought. 
 
 Gudem. O! that 
 
 Was natural, she had it of her mother. 
 
 M'GilL Well, my smart lad, though you have 
 snapp'd the prize 
 I aim'd at, ne'er mind ; luck's all ; as good fish 
 Are in the sea as e'er came out on't yet. 
 And if you choose to bid me to your wedding, 
 I'll drink the bride's health, and the bridegroom's too, 
 Without or grudge, or malice. 
 
 Sati, If you don't. 
 
 The fault shall not be mine. 
 
 Gudem. What think you, now, 
 
 Suppose we have another brimming glass. 
 Just to cement our loves and new-form'd friendships ? 
 
 AIL Right heartily we hail the blithe proposal I 
 
 \^£Jxemit. 
 
XI. 
 
 THE ROCKING 
 
 v2 
 
On Fastern e'en we had a rocking, 
 
 To ca' the crack, and weave the stocking, 
 
 And there was muckle fun and joking, 
 
 Ye need na doubt, 
 At length we had a hearty yoking. 
 
 At sang about. 
 
 Burns, 
 
THE ROCKING. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Farm-House, Gudeman, Johnnie, Willie, 
 Archie, Mat, Gudewife, Jenny, Nancy, 
 Betty. 
 
 Gudew. Fy, lassies, ply your tasks I the night 
 wears on, 
 And little yet to show fort. 
 
 Jen, Never fear, 
 
 A good darg may be wrought ere bed-time yet, 
 At least if tongues would do. 
 
 Arch. Ay, Jenny lass, 
 
 Yom-s would not fall behind. 
 
 Jen, And if it should, 
 
 Know ye where one might ask for help ? 
 
236 THE ROCKING. 
 
 Arch. Troth, no ! 
 
 The kirk-bell may get tired. 
 
 Jen. Bless us I what wit ! 
 
 A woman's tongue is like a bell ! How new ! 
 Some thousand years at least. O ! but you're bright I 
 When pedlar Tam dies — 
 
 Nan. Jenny, can ye not 
 
 Be civil to your neighbours I 
 
 Jeti. Civil ? yes I 
 
 Ask Willie else. 
 
 Will. Ask nought of me, unless 
 
 You tell me what to answer. 
 
 Nan. Why so, lad ? 
 
 Will. Lest with my usual luck I blunder out 
 What I might wish unsaid ; for ne'er can I 
 Say pleasant things, but when I'm on the hill. 
 And none but Bawty near me. 
 
 Jen. Oh, to be 
 
 A Peewit on the muir, to wheel ai'ound 
 Your head and list your speeches I 
 
 Will. I'll not say 
 
 What you might hear of somebody. 
 
 Jen. Oh, do ! 
 
 Pray think yourself alone, and let us have 
 A fine soliloquy I 
 
 Gudem. That's right I Come, lad, 
 You're in for something, speech, or tale,'^or song. 
 Choose which you will ; but sing, or say, you must. 
 
 Will You task me hard I but if I must, gudeman. 
 Let me make one condition. Let it be 
 
THE ROCKING. 237 
 
 A law, that each must give a song or tale ; 
 And then I'll take my turn. 
 
 Gudem, It shall be so ; 
 
 And he that will not sing or say, must trudge 
 At mirkest midnight to the Fairies' Well 
 Alone, and bring fresh water. If he does, 
 And hears, or sees, beside the Witches' Thorn, 
 The grey cairn, or the haunted hagg, nought worse 
 Than day may look on, he's a happy man ! 
 
 All. So be it ! Come, begin then, Willie ! 
 
 Will, I cannot sing ; and as I said before, 
 I never make a speech but when alone : 
 Some tale, then, I must try. 
 
 THE HOLY AVELL. 
 
 There was a Holy Well : its clear wave brimm'd 
 
 A hollow basin in a living rock ; 
 
 But never flow'd nor ebb'd, though winter rains 
 
 Or summer suns might gush or glare around : — 
 
 It slept like Patience, clasp'd in the embrace 
 
 Of strong Resolve. O'er the grey rock's sheer ledge 
 
 The lady-fern hung lovingly; its sides 
 
 Were all alive with lichen ; earliest there 
 
 The primrose and the violet bloom'd, and there 
 
 They latest linger'd when the year wax'd old. 
 
 And it was said a Spirit loved the well ; 
 
 And had breathed virtue in, and all around it. 
 
 The maidens, when the lily on their cheek 
 
 Had chased away the rose, would to it wend, 
 
238 THE ROCKING. 
 
 Before the fervid sun had kiss'd away 
 
 The dew-tears of the dawn ; and from their locks 
 
 Slu'edding a ringlet, cast it in the well ; 
 
 And as it floated on the sacred wave, 
 
 Or sunk, they read an omen of their life. 
 
 Then would they bathe theii' brows, and drain one 
 
 draught 
 With trembling lip, and speed in silence home — 
 Nor ever was the ringlet after seen — 
 It was the Spirit's offering : — many a maid 
 Thus did, and bloom'd again in rosy health. 
 Young mothers, too, would come, with anxious steps, 
 When pining seized their infants. 'Twas a spot 
 Hallow'd, indeed, by hopes, and fears, and prayers. 
 And all the gushings of the human heart ! 
 A fair young widow'd mother once there came ; 
 Her husband had, among the wintry snows, 
 Perish'd, and her poor orphan boy now lay 
 Like a lone flower, unshelter'd from the blast, 
 Drooping and dying. The poor mother sought 
 The Holy Well, her latest hope. She came, — 
 Into the wave she cast the silken lock,— 
 A soft swell moved the water, — thrice around 
 Wliirled the lock, then sinking, disappear'd. — 
 The mother did not shriek ; — a mother's love 
 Is stronger than all omens — but her heart 
 Strove with a pang of mortal agony I 
 She scoop'd the sacred wave, and tried to hope 
 Thus to secm-e its healing virtue,-— turn'd, 
 And hied with hasty step away. But ere 
 
THE ROCKING. 239 
 
 She left the silent glen, one gaze she threw 
 Back towards the well. And lo ! upon its brink 
 There sat a female Form, bright, shadowy, pale, 
 As moonlight on a snow-wreath. In her arms 
 She bore an infant — well the mother's eye, 
 And mother's heart, knew its sweet angel-face I 
 Three times the phantom kiss'd its lovely brow. 
 Then shred one lock of golden hair away, 
 Hover'd a moment o'er the Holy Well, 
 And, clasping to her breast the infant, soar'd 
 Through the grey morning clouds away to Heaven ! 
 Frantic the mother sped, like mountain doe, 
 To her lone home — rush'd to her infant's couch. 
 And, as she knelt and pray'd, felt his last breath 
 Wander cold, cold across her cheek ! It was 
 His passing spirit she had seen ! 
 
 Gudeiu, And was that true ? 
 
 Will. For what I know, it was ; — 
 
 At least I made it not. A good old man 
 Told it to me as what he oft had heard. 
 And never heard disputed. 
 
 John. But, gudeman, 
 
 Wliat do you think about it ? 
 
 Gudem. Why, I think — 
 
 I think — in truth I cannot tell I Such tales 
 Om- fathers, with most potent faith believed ; 
 They might be true. I know not. 
 
 John. If I might 
 
 Give my opinion, I would say that botli 
 
240 THE ROCKING. 
 
 We and our fathers err in this : they were 
 
 Somewhat too deeply credent, and we are 
 
 By much too disbelieving. Spirits may 
 
 Act as men do. Wlien in a friend we trust 
 
 With perfect confidence, our very faith 
 
 Makes him the man of honour, and of worth, 
 
 That we believe him. Even so spirits may, 
 
 Though not call'd into being, yet be clothed, 
 
 To our perceptions, by our act of faith. 
 
 In human semblance ; whilst the doubting eye, 
 
 By its own doubts is darken'd. Oh ! there are 
 
 A thousand potent agencies abroad. 
 
 That paint the summer skies, wield the strong winds 
 
 Store up the sunbeams, and all nature rule 
 
 As their and nature's Author wills ! but we, 
 
 In our proud blinded wisdom mark them not ! 
 
 Gudem. Most learnedly discuss'd! But all the 
 while 
 The song stands still. Who next ? Jenny, 'tis you — 
 Out with yom' song or tale. 
 
 Jen, Father, 'tis hard 
 
 To set me on so soon : but if I must, 
 I'll try a song, a gay one, were it but 
 To change om* strain, we grow so mystical. 
 
 SINGS. 
 
 O Sandy is a braw lad, 
 An' Sandy is a fine, 
 . An' Sandy is a bonnie lad, 
 An', best of a', he's mine ! 
 12 
 
THE ROCKING. 241 
 
 There's Tibby glooms, and Nelly geeks, 
 
 An' Nanny looks fu' shy, 
 And Katie downa speak to me ; 
 But troth I carena by ! 
 
 For Sandy is a braw lad, 
 
 An' Sandy is a fine, 
 An' Sandy is a bonnie lad, 
 An', best of a,' he's mine ! 
 
 Auld Girzie, wi' her cock-up nose, 
 
 She fufFs like ony goose ; 
 An' wee bit perkin Marjory, 
 
 Poor thing ! looks unco crouse : 
 Fat Lizzie's een for very spite, 
 
 They glow like ony coal, 
 An' Betty, wi' her brucket face, 
 
 My sight she canna thole. 
 For Sandy is, &c. 
 
 The slae is sour, but sourer far 
 
 Is muckle wry-mou'd Jean ; 
 An' lang-tongued Eppie, warst ava. 
 
 She flytes frae morn till e'en ; 
 Mim Marion thraws her wrinkled chafts 
 
 Like ony beggar's dud, 
 Gleed Matty shakes her corky head, 
 
 And winks as she were wud. 
 For Sandy is, &c. 
 
 There's no a lass in a' the town. 
 
 But sair she hates poor me ; 
 Daft gouks ! they fear they'll lose their joe.— 
 
 And sae it e'en may be ! 
 To tempt them, for a week or twa. 
 
 The secret yet I'll hide ; 
 But I could tell, or this day month 
 
 Wha will be Sandy's bride ! 
 Sandy, &c. 
 X 
 
24-2 THE ROCKING. 
 
 Nan. Jenny, ye're perfect mad ! A song like that 
 A lass should never sing ! 
 
 t/e?2. 'Tis just a song 
 
 That every lass would like right well to sing, 
 And sing it of herself. 
 
 Arch, I trow it is : 
 
 But few speak out so plainly. 
 
 Jen, O wise lad I 
 
 Speak out ? What is a song ? 'Tis hut the heart 
 Conversing with itself; and as they rush, 
 Its feelings murmur music like a stream. 
 Lively or mournfid as may chance. 
 
 Arch, ' 'Tis true. 
 
 Yet 'tis a wayward truth : Why should not I 
 Sing joyous songs ? Yet never in my life 
 Could I learn one that was not melancholy ; 
 Though at most other times I'd rather spend 
 My breath in laughter than in sighs. 
 
 Gudem, Perhaps 
 
 Your pleasure lies in contrasts ; and yom- mind, 
 Playful in idle moods, is grave by choice, 
 When it calls up its powers. But to your song, 
 Altliough you threat us with a mom-nful lay. 
 Arch. Mournful indeed it is. And had you 
 known, 
 As I did, the poor lad that made it — No, 
 I need not give you both a song and tale. 
 
THE ROCKING. 243 
 
 SINGS. 
 
 The sun has sunk o'er yon bleak hill, 
 
 The murky night begins to fa', 
 Let me gae pace the wood's bield side, 
 
 An' think on her that's far awa ! 
 Night's blackening gloom is nought to me, 
 
 Nor wintry winds sae wild an' drear, 
 While on this ringlet fond I gaze,-^» 
 
 'Twas hers—the Maid I love sae dear ! 
 
 Come, sorrow, gin thou wilt ! nae love, 
 
 Nae frien', seek I, my waes to cheer — 
 I press the ringlet to my lips. 
 
 While on it draps the bitter tear — 
 I press the ringlet to my breast, 
 
 While my heart's like to burst in twa, 
 There shall it ever, ever rest, 
 
 For sake o' her that's far awa ! 
 
 An' if I ne'er maun see again 
 
 Her for wha's sake I wear it there, 
 I'll wed my soul to it alane 
 
 An' never love sweet woman mair ! 
 An' when my heart has done wi' grief, 
 
 This is the last request I'll make ; 
 Oh ! lay it in the cauld, cauld grave 
 
 Alang wi' me, for her dear sake ! 
 
 Jen, And did he never see her more ? Poor lad ! 
 Arch. No, never ! O'er him now the green turf 
 rests, 
 The green grass waves. 
 
244. 
 
 THE ROCKING. 
 
 ^«*i- Oil, tell US how it was ! 
 
 Do tell us, Arcliy ! 
 
 Arch. No. I may not dare 
 
 Reveal the secrets of the dead I His griefs, 
 
 And they were neither few, nor light,--are o'er; 
 What of his tale he has himself reveal'd 
 You have heard sung ; the rest shall sleep for me, 
 Deep as his own kind heart does now. 
 
 Gudem. Well, well,— 
 
 We must perforce content us then. Come, Mat, 
 'Tis youi' turn next, my boy ! 
 
 Mat What maun I do ? 
 
 I canna sing ; — if I could tell a tale 
 Like Sandy's I wad do't. — But I durst gang 
 An' fetch some water frae the Fairy Well, 
 If Jenny wad gang wi' me. 
 
 Gudem, If you go 
 
 You must go quite alone. 
 
 Mat. I dam'na gang- 
 
 My lane I I'U rather do — just ought ye like. 
 
 Gudem. Then you must sing a song, or tell a tale, 
 Or make a speech. 
 
 Mat. What is a speech ? 
 
 Gudem. You've heard 
 
 The minister on Sundays tell the folk 
 How to be good, and what to do ? 
 
 Mat. O yes ! 
 
 Then I can speak a speech ! Or I came here 
 My auntie made a speech, ay, mony a time, 
 
THE ROCKING. 245 
 
 Till I can say't amaist as weel's hersell. 
 
 But let me stand beliind you, will ye, Jenny ? 
 
 Jen, Yes, Mat, my man ! Come here and speak ; 
 not one 
 Shall see your blushes. 
 
 Mat. Thus, old aunt begins :— 
 
 ** Mat, my dear bairn ! when your poor mother died, 
 She left you to my care : She bade me be 
 A mother to her orphan boy ! I've done 
 My best to be sae. But the time has come 
 When ye maun gang and win yere ain bit bread, — 
 I canna keep ye aye at hame, poor man ! — 
 Ye're gaun amang the fremit ; but mind this ; 
 Though ye're nae langer in youi* auntie's ee. 
 There's Ane aboon that sees your very thoughts ! — 
 Pray even and morn to him I — Pray to be made 
 True to your master, — kind to every ane, — 
 An' gratefu' for a' mercies ! Never set 
 Your han' or heart on aught that ye durst not 
 Look up to Heaven and crave a blessing on ! 
 Oh ! read your Bible I learn your duty there ! 
 Do what it bids ! — An' He who is the stay 
 An' trust of orphans will protect my bairn !" — 
 Will this do for a speech ? 
 
 Gudem. Yes, my good boy ! 
 
 Speak that speech every day when you're alone, 
 And follow its directions ; and I dare 
 Foretell for you a life of happiness. 
 You have done your part well. Now Johnnie, lad, 
 We're come to you. 
 
 x2 
 
246 THE ROCKING. 
 
 John, I wish you had gone past — 
 
 You are so accui-ate. What must I do ? 
 Gudem. E'en what you like. 
 John. Well, then, I'll sing a song. 
 
 SINGS. 
 
 T he gloaming had fall'n on the dewy lea, 
 Not a light leaf stirr'd on the spreading tree ; 
 On a green mossy bank, spring flow'rets araang, 
 A young shepherd lay, and thus he sang :— - 
 
 " More soft than the violet blue is her eye, 
 
 Her cheek out-blushes the rosebud's dye. 
 
 Far sweeter her breath than the sweet woodbine, 
 
 The maid that I love, — Oh ! gin she were but mine ! 
 
 " 'Tis not for wealth, for rank, or power, 
 For fortune's sun, or fortune's shower, 
 Come what come might, that I ere would repine, 
 The maid that I love, gin she were mine. 
 
 *' There's a wee bird sings wi' canty glee. 
 An' oh ! but its sang is sweet to me ! 
 For aye it sings, that her heart will incline, 
 An' the maid that I love, she will yet be mine. 
 
 *' How blest would I be !" — But while he sung. 
 Unseen drew near him the maiden young, 
 And echoing his lay with a pawky design. 
 She sung, " That maiden will ne'er be thine !" 
 
 Then loudly laughing she seem'd to hide, 
 Yet she fled not so fast but he saw her glide 
 Through bowers with tangling woodbine laced, 
 Where her flying steps he nimbly traced. 
 
THE ROCKING. 247 
 
 What arts he used I may not say, 
 
 But when next he sung more blithe was the lay ; 
 
 And oft he repeated the closing line, 
 
 " The maid that I love, she has vow'd to be mine !" 
 
 Je7i* Ay, Johnnie I Who'd have thought to hear 
 from you 
 A song of such sly meaning ? On my word, 
 Some folk are ill to fathom ! 
 
 John, Surely, lass, 
 
 You do not think I'm made of fish ! I know 
 The arch wiles of sweet woman ; and I love 
 Her bashfulness, half nature, and half art. 
 
 Arch. Oh ! most of art I Well know they that 
 they are 
 Most charming, when most sly and petulant. 
 But Nancy, lass, 'tis your time next. 
 
 Nan, My time ? 
 
 I cannot sing I Will some one sing for me ? 
 
 Gudem. No ! You must sing yom'self, or tell a 
 tale, 
 Or speak a speech, or to the well. No help. 
 
 Nan. You know I cannot sing I 
 
 Jen, I know you can — 
 
 Or croon, at least ! So try ! 
 
 Nan, Well, if I must ! — 
 
 Though well I know you'll mock my tuneless 
 voice. 
 
248 THE ROCKING. 
 
 SINGS. 
 
 O hark ! the merry music plays 
 
 Sae sweet and gladsomely ; 
 Then come and thread the winding maze, 
 
 Fair maid ! alang wi' me. 
 "How can I join your sports sae gay, 
 
 Or share your mirth ?" she cries ; 
 " When mouldering in the darksome clay 
 
 My ain true lover lies !" 
 
 O maiden ! come alang wi' me, 
 
 The evening's mild an' fair ; 
 We'll wander o'er the flowery lea, 
 
 An' breathe the balmy air. 
 " How can I crush wi' careless tread 
 
 The flower that bending weeps, 
 An' minds me o' the lonely bed 
 
 Where my true lover sleeps ?" 
 
 O, maiden ! lay the grief aside, 
 
 That long has dimm'd thine ee ; 
 An' pledge thy hand an' be my bride— 
 
 I'll aye be kind to thee ! 
 *' Talk not to me o' love ! for oh ! 
 
 My heart is cauld an' dead ! 
 Dark is the grave, where slumb'ring low 
 
 My only love is laid ! 
 
 " Instead of bridal robes, prepare 
 The pale, pale shroud for me ; 
 
 An' seek my lover's grave, for there 
 My bridal bed shall be ! 
 
THE ROCKING. 249 
 
 My heart is sick, mine ee is dim— , 
 
 I come, my love ! I come 
 To share thy peaceful bed of rest ;_ 
 
 Thy calm and silent home !" 
 
 Jolui, You had no need to be so sliy : you've done 
 Great justice to youi* song ; and to say that, 
 Is to give no slight praise. 
 
 Nan, Nay, do not praise 
 
 The singer for the song's sake : 'Tis enough 
 That it has served my tui*n. 
 
 Arch, It seems to be 
 
 The very sister of my Ringlet song. 
 Know ye aught of its story ? 
 
 Nan, Not a word. 
 
 I learnt it from old Alice of the glen, 
 And when I ask'd its story, she would sigh, 
 And shake her head, but answer gave she none. 
 
 Gudem. Betty, my lass, 'tis come to you at last. 
 I hope to hear youi' voice now : — Not a word 
 Has cross'd your lips yet, I believe ; but now 
 You must say something. 
 
 Set, Well, gudeman, I'll try. 
 
 And for my silence, that can be no fault ! 
 For there are some, not very far to seek, 
 Would rather meet, or I'm mistaken much, 
 Great listeners than great talkers. 
 
 Gudem. Say you, lass I 
 
 Upon my word, you're a right cunning one 
 For observation ! — But your song. 
 
250 THE ROCKING. 
 
 Betty sings. 
 
 Sweet is the song of early lark, 
 
 'Mid dewy clouds careering ; 
 And sweet the blackbird in the glen, 
 
 Grey twilight's echoes cheering ;— 
 Sweet sings the linnet near the bush 
 
 Where his mate and young brood nestle ; 
 But sweeter the whee wheeple whee 
 
 Of sweet John Campbell's whistle ! 
 
 . Dear to the miser's eager clutch, 
 
 His hoards of golden treasure ; 
 Dear the full feast and mantling bowl, 
 
 To the sons of mirth and pleasure ; 
 Dear to Ambition's burning heart 
 
 For thrones and crowns to wrestle i — 
 Dearer to me the wheeple whee 
 
 Of dear John Campbell's whistle ! 
 
 Perpetual motion ! 'tis not in 
 
 Automaton revulsion, 
 Wheel, pulley, lever, pivot, crank. 
 
 Attraction, or repulsion. 
 In woman's tongue, or fiddler's arm, 
 
 Or apothecary's pestle, — 
 Shout, ye philosophers ! 'tis found 
 
 In gay John Campbell's whistle ! 
 
 Arch. 'Tis excellently sung ; and on the whole, 
 It is a di'ollish thing : — ^but yet I think 
 Fitter for town's folks, o'er a canty glass, 
 Than for a farmer's ingle. Now, gudeman, 
 It is your own turn next. What will you give us ? 
 
THE ROCKING. 251 
 
 Gudem, Oh ! I must be excused. My part, you 
 know, 
 Is to keep otliers to their duty ; — that 
 If I have done, I've done my part. 
 
 Arclu Gudeman ! 
 
 O, fy, gudeman I Is that the way you treat 
 Your guests ? The country-side will ring 
 How the Gudeman of Hollinhraes is just 
 A perfect spoil-sport ! 
 
 Gudem. That shall never he ! 
 
 I'll try and hammer out a tale. 
 
 A TALE OF HALLOWEEN. 
 
 There was a lass — a bold and forward lass, — - 
 Ready with tongue and hand ; nothing she fear'd, 
 Nothing regarded : — Tales of fairies, ghosts, 
 And all such things were her derision ; yet. 
 Strange though it seem, eager she was to try 
 All charms, spells, omens, — all that weak minds think 
 Predictive of the future. True, indeed, 
 She never dreamt of prying into fate 
 On any point but marriage ; and in that 
 She did but what most women long to do. 
 So far as boldness leads them. Well, it chanced 
 When Halloween came round, after some hours 
 Of sport and pastime held among the rest, 
 That she resolved to try one darker charm, — 
 One which excludes companionship. 'Twas thus : 
 Alone she went to find a running stream 
 
252 THE ROCKING. 
 
 That flows due south, — a course unnatural, — 
 There at deep midnight her left sleeve she dipt, 
 Return'd, and hied in secret to her bed. 
 Nor spoke one word — not even a whisper'd prayer, 
 Hung up the sleeve before the fire, and lay 
 Silent to mark the issue. Brief time pass'd, 
 Till the door open'd, and a Shape appear'd ! — 
 Forward it came, — one look on her it cast ; — 
 Its eye was red and wild, its brow was knit, 
 And all its features wrought convulsively, 
 As if in mortal angxiish. Then the sleeve 
 It turn'd — laid on the chair a little knife, — 
 Gave her one more red glance, and disappeared. 
 In utmost terror for a while she lay ; — 
 But rose at length, took up the little knife, 
 And hid it in a secret drawer. To none 
 She told the story ; but at times she seem'd 
 Harass'd by anxious thought. Well, time pass'd on, 
 And she got married : but most strange to say ! 
 Her husband bore the selfsame face and air 
 As did the phantom-shape of Halloween ! 
 But nothing of that tale he knew. At length 
 In an unguarded hour the secret drawer 
 Was left exposed ; — he saw, and knew the knife, — 
 Instantly seized it, and most fiercely ask'd, 
 How came it there ? Confused at first, she strove 
 To shun reply. Sternly he bade her tell, 
 Whence and how it came. Thus enforced, she told 
 Tlie whole adventure. In his hand he raised 
 The little knife : " That night, that fearful night, 
 
THE ROCKING. 253 
 
 My soul," said he, " felt all the agonies 
 
 And tortures of the damn'd ! Thou wicked woman ! 
 
 This evil-omen'd knife, this very hour, 
 
 The vision's dark hint shall fidiil !" He said, 
 
 And stahb'd her to the heart. She died ; and he 
 
 Went raving mad ! 
 
 {JDurhig this tale Johnny and Nanny, and 
 Archy a7id Jenny, have been whispering 
 apart,^ 
 Will, 'Tis a strange tale, gudeman ! — 
 
 And surely more incredible than mine. 
 
 Gudem. I know not that : I do not vouch its 
 truth ; — 
 But this I think, that those who rashly try 
 To tamper w itli the Evil One, can meet 
 Nothing but evil. O I 'tis very wrong 
 To ask, even but in jest, for aid from him, 
 Who always strives to work our ruin ! 
 
 Gudeiv. Come, 
 
 It's getting late ; lasses leave off your work. 
 Nanny, see all things right. Good night t'ye, lads. 
 Arch. Good night, gudewife. Good night, gude- 
 man. Come, Bess, 
 Look for your plaid : 'tis time we were at home : 
 We must be up before the skreigh of day 
 To-morrow for the mill. A kind good night 
 To all that stay. 
 
 Je7i. Well home to all that go I 
 
 \_ExeimL 
 
254 THE ROCKING. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Farm-yard, Johnny and Archy, having ac- 
 companied the others home, return by different ivays, 
 unknown to each other — They enter the Farm-yard 
 from opposite sides — Johnny approaching the door, 
 — Archy sees, and resolves to frighten him away. 
 
 Arch, Hey, fellow I Who are you ? 
 John, Who bade you ask ? 
 
 Arch. I'll see that soon. ( Collars him.^ 
 John. My lad, ye'se rue the day 
 
 E'er ye laid hands on me ! 
 
 ( They close and struggle — The dog springs upon 
 them — Tliey fall together — The two Lasses 
 rush out.) 
 Nan, Is that you, Johnny ? 
 Jen. Archy, is it you ? 
 
 Nan. Mercy I what will be done ? Oh ! he'll be 
 
 kill'd ! 
 Gudem. What now ? Who's there ? Come here, 
 come here, gudewife I 
 Bring me a light. 
 
 Gudew. What's all the stir, gudeman ? 
 
 Gudem. Let's see ! What, Archy I Johnny ! you 
 too, lasses ! 
 What, in the name of wonder, does this mean ? 
 
THE ROCKING. 255 
 
 Arch. In truth, gudeman, I scarce can tell ! We 
 seem 
 Playing at hide-and-seek ! I had a tryst 
 With my dear Jenny ; and, as I may guess, 
 Jolinny and Nanny had a like tryst set : 
 We knew not of each other ; and like fools, 
 Here are we both, cuff 'd, worried, and discover'd ! 
 
 Gudem. Well, this beats all — Ha I ha ! 
 
 Gudew. This is no joke. 
 
 Lads, say, in sober truth, what want ye here ? 
 If nought dishonourable, come not thus 
 At such untimely hours, by stealth, to break 
 A decent family's repose, and raise 
 The country's clash about my daughters ! Speak, 
 And tell us what ye mean ? 
 
 John. For mine own part, 
 
 I mean nought, wish nought, but my Nanny's hand 
 In honourable marriage. 
 
 Arch, And for me, 
 
 I wish no less. Only I thought it best 
 To win the daughter's own consent before 
 I ask'd the mother's leave. Now, let me beg 
 That I may woo your daughter. 
 
 Gudem, Though we have 
 
 Reason to be offended — yet I think 
 Your fault may be forgiven. Lasses, you — 
 Wliat say ye for yourselves ? — 
 
 Jen. Dear father, since 
 
 You speak so frankly, I shall be as frank. 
 
256 THE ROCKING. 
 
 Arcliy has won my heart, — and when you please, 
 May have my hand. 
 
 Nan. I too must break the rules 
 
 Of maiden bashful n ess, and own as much. 
 
 Gudem. Well, well ! All's right ! Come in, come 
 in a while ; 
 'Twould do no good to strive against the stream, — 
 Nor do 1 feel inclined. Be pure, be kind. 
 Be faithful to each other ! Be to them 
 Leal, loving husbands ! And may they to you 
 Be wives as true, affectionate, and good. 
 As has to me their mother ! May you long 
 Live, with full hearts to bless this happy night. 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
XII. 
 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 y 2 
 
Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west. 
 The drift is driving sairly. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 The feathery clouds, condensed and curl'd. 
 In columns swept the quaking glen ; 
 
 Destruction down the vale was hurl'd. 
 O'er bleating flocks and wandering men. 
 
 Hogg. 
 
 Down he sinks 
 
 Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift. 
 Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death,— 
 His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. 
 
 On every nerve 
 
 The deadly winter seiees ; shuts up sense ; 
 And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold. 
 Lays him along the snows, a stififen'd corse. 
 
 Thobison. 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Moor. {Advanced Winter^ 
 
 Willie and Charlie, 
 
 WiL Charlie ! Wliere are ye, Charlie ? Rest a 
 bit! 
 I cannot move another step ! 
 
 Char. Cheer uj) ! 
 
 We'll soon be tlirough the deepest wreath, and then 
 The worst is past. 
 
 Wil. Where are we ? Not a foot 
 
 Of the wild waste is like itself ; the hills 
 Are scoop'd and rounded into thousand shapes 
 They never were before ; the very streams 
 Are buried fifty fathoms deep ; the glens 
 Smooth'd up by the white ruin. Lost, oh lost ! 
 
260 THE SNOW-STORM 
 
 Char. Come, come, you must not thus despond ; 
 the wind 
 May soon abate. 
 
 Wil. It may ; but long ere then 
 
 We shall have ceased to feel it. 
 
 Char. \_ Aside. (How his face 
 
 Is changed! His strength and self-command are 
 
 gone. 
 Unless I can awake his heart, I fear 
 All's over vrith him !) This will never do ! 
 To yield ere we have well begun ! Will this 
 Find and secure our flocks ? 
 
 WiL Om- flocks ! Ay — yes — 
 
 Flocks said ye ?- — the gudeman — they're buried 
 
 deep, 
 Poor things ! 
 
 Char. Poor things, indeed ! Where are they now ? 
 (No, no, this will not do ! he minds me not ! 
 I'll touch another chord.) How did you leave 
 Your poor sick child this morning ? And your wife, 
 Is she well ? 
 
 Wil. Child ! — Ay, that's my Fanny I O ! 
 The patient little suff^erer ! Yes, she will — 
 She will recover ! Death will never crop 
 My little moorland floweret in its bud ! 
 Lucy's strong prayers will mount before the throne, 
 And bring down health and bliss ! Shall we go on 
 And seek our flocks ? 
 
 Char. Do you feel strong again ? 
 
 Or shall we rest a little longer here ? 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 261 
 
 WiL Rest I No, let us move on ! Alas ! I feel 
 Weak, very weak ! Here must I stay and die ! 
 
 Cha?\ But did your little Fanny seem indeed 
 Better this morning ? 
 
 WiL Fanny I my dear child ! 
 
 Yes, she is better ! While my Lucy sought 
 My plaid, I knelt beside her bed, and gazed 
 On the sweet infant's face. Her brow was calm, — 
 Pale, but quite calm ; her eyes were closed ; but life 
 Shone fresh through their transparent coverings ; 
 Her cheek was peaceful, and her gentle breath 
 Raised her fair bosom mildly, healthfully, — 
 No pain disturbing her soft sleep : — I touch'd 
 With lightest kiss her silent lip, and thank'd 
 The gracious Being, who alone can give 
 Repose to suffering mortals ! Shall we yet 
 Meet, and together praise him ? O ! no, no ! 
 My limbs are powerless, and my heart is sick ! 
 Charlie, what can we do ? 
 
 Char. Trust in that voice 
 
 That stills the tempest ! — in that mighty hand 
 That snatch'd his doubting follower from the wave I 
 And strong in him go forth, surmounting all 
 Our present dangers ! 
 
 Wil. Yes, in him I trust 
 
 For future bliss, but not for longer life. 
 For I bethink me now, that yesterday, 
 About this very hour, — my soul had been 
 Sad for my Fanny's illness, — while I sat 
 And eyed the far horizon's verge, Avhere glared 
 
262 THE SNOW-STORM- 
 
 The weather-gleam, and loom'd the coming storm, 
 Sudden a trance of rapture fiU'd my breast — 
 A passion of ethereal bliss I — My soul 
 Seem'd born into a new existence ! — All 
 Was one wild whirl of speecliless ecstasy. — 
 'Twas a foretaste of death ! And, see ! see I see ! 
 Look there ! My Fanny I O ! thou angel-form, 
 Take, take me with thee I Lay thy holy hand 
 Upon my brow, and shade these burning glories I — 
 I come I I come ! — 
 
 (^Staggers forward, and falls dying.) 
 Char. He's gone ! he's gone ! High Heaven ! what 
 
 can I do ! 
 Scarce can I drag mine own exhausted limbs 
 Through the deep swelling snow-wreaths, — can I 
 
 then 
 Bear his unhelping bulk ? Shall I speed home 
 And seek assistance ! The swift-shifting snows 
 Will mar all efforts to retrace my steps ! — 
 Yes, this may do ! — Burly, poor faitliful dog I 
 Watch here till I return ! It is the last 
 Sad service thou wilt ever do for him I 
 Come with me Flora I I will need thy help 
 To find this spot again. Heaven be my speed ! 
 Direct my steps, and nerve my sinking frame, 
 And I may save him yet ! 
 
 \\Exit. 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 263 
 
 SCENE IL 
 The Farm-house. 
 The GuDEMAN — The Minister. 
 
 Min. 'Twas well that I was near your house, 
 gucleman, 
 When this wild wind began ! I never could 
 Have found my way across the pathless moor, 
 Through this thick-whirling mass of drifting snow. 
 
 Gudem, It was indeed, sir. But you're very wrong 
 To venture out so far afield, in such 
 Rough winter weather ! 
 
 Min. When my duty calls 
 
 'Tis mine to follow ; and to leave the rest 
 To the wise ordering of Providence. 
 
 Gudem. But do you think, sir, every thing we do, 
 And every thing that happens us, is ruled 
 By Providence for some wise end ? 
 
 Min, I do, 
 
 Most certainly ; and that for purposes 
 Both wise and merciful I 
 
 Gudem. But some slight things, 
 
 Some accidents — 
 
 Min. No ! nothing can be slight, 
 
 Nor accidental ! We cannot foresee 
 The bearing of events ; but, if we could, 
 
264 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 Then should we see that all things are arranged 
 Wisely and well, — all work to one great end, — 
 And that great end is holiness and love ! 
 It seems mere accident that I am here, — 
 Yet am I well convinced that I am here. 
 Because 'tis best I should be so ; although 
 I know not yet the reason. 
 
 Gudem. I am glad 
 
 To hear you hold that glorious belief ! 
 What should we, tenants of the mountains, do. 
 If we could not, when the strong tempest raves. 
 Look up, and trust in Him, whose mighty word 
 Can still its fury ? O ! how powerfully 
 That blessed text speaks comfort to our souls, 
 In times of trouble, peril, and alarm. 
 Which bids us cast our cares on Him, whose love 
 Careth for us more truly, tenderly. 
 Than even a mother's ! 
 
 Min, Make that faith yoiu- stay, 
 
 And ye need fear no evil. Hush, I think 
 I hear a cry for help ! Haste to the door, — 
 It may be some poor wanderer ! 
 
 Gtidem, It is ! — 
 
 I see a man struggling amid the snow, — 
 'Tis like our shepherd, Charlie : hell have lost 
 The sheep, I fear ; — but since he's safe himself, 
 'Tis the less matter. 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 265 
 
 Enter Charlie. 
 
 Well, how fend the flocks ? — 
 I fear right badly. Silent ! What is wrong ? — 
 How wild he looks I He cannot speak ! Good Heaven ! 
 Some dreadful thing has happen'd ! Where is Willie ? 
 Char, He's—O ! Gudeman ! he's lost ! He'll die I 
 
 Help, help I 
 Gudem. Where is he ? Where ? How can we 
 
 help ? Speak, speak I — 
 Char, He's wreathed by this time in the snow ! — 
 I've left 
 His own dog, Bui-ly, with him. Haste, make haste I 
 I'll lead you to the spot : get help to bear 
 Him home ! We yet may save his life ! Haste, haste ! 
 O I his poor family ! 
 
 Gudem. Come, let us all 
 
 Speed to his rescue. 
 
 Min. Lo, the wind abates ! 
 
 I'll hie me to his cottage. Now, gudeman, 
 Behold the errand which my Master has 
 Sent me upon ! To pom* the balm of hope 
 And comfort on the stricken mourner's soul. 
 O ! He is ever-merciful, even when 
 His chastening hand is heavy. 
 
 \_ExeunL 
 
266 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 SCENE. III. 
 
 Tke Cottage — Lucy watching by the bed of her dead 
 
 Child, 
 
 Lucy. She's gone, she's gone! My child, — my only 
 child !— 
 Life of my life ! She's gone, — for ever gone ! 
 My sweet, my darling innocent ! Farewell 
 To all a mother's tender cares and joys ! — 
 But thou art calm — the tempest scares not thee. 
 Where is thy father, my dead child ? — alas ! 
 The sorrows of the living and the dead 
 In fearful union thicken over me : 
 O ! that he were return'd ! Retm-n'd I — to what ? — 
 A melancholy home awaits his coming I — 
 No little foot shall meet him at the door ; — 
 No shrill and silver voice salute his ear 
 With " Father, father I" — No slight twining form 
 Climb on his knees, and hang around his neck, 
 And shower sweet kisses on his manly cheek I 
 
 She's gone, — for ever gone ! 
 
 The storm howls fearfully, — would he were home I 
 
 Methinks I see him I No, 'twas but some thick 
 
 And whirling volume of fast-di'ifting snow ! 
 
 How awful 'tis amid this lonely wild 
 
 To sit beside the dead, while all around 
 
 Roars the strong tempest ! O ! that some blest foot 
 
 Might come to break this fearful solitude I 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 267 
 
 It slackens ! He will soon return — my child I — 
 Return to find thee, — silent, breathless clay ! — 
 Now he does come indeed I — Oh ! no ; it is 
 Our good young Minister. 
 
 Enter the Minister. 
 
 Min. How do you, Lucy, and your little child ? 
 I heard 'twas ill. 
 
 Lucy, She was, sir. 
 
 Mi7i, I am glad 
 
 That she is better. But you weep I 
 
 Lucy. Look there ! 
 
 I my sweet innocent ! 
 
 Min. Forgive me, Lucy ; 
 
 1 spoke unwittingly, — I did not know 
 That she was gone to rest. Be pacified I 
 She hath escaped the bitter ills of life. 
 The Father hath in mercy call'd her hence, 
 
 Ei'e guilt had stain'd, or sorrow wi'ung her soul — 
 The taint she had from Nature, we may trust, 
 Forgiven her for the sake of Him who died. 
 That we might live for ever ! 
 
 Lucy. Let me weep. 
 
 Else will my full heart burst ! 
 
 Min, It is no fault, — 
 
 For nature will have vent. Yet, do not weep 
 As those that have no hope. She has but gone 
 Where you, where all must follow. You shall meet 
 In holier, happier lands, to part no more. 
 
268 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 Lucy, I hope, I trust we shall ! 'Tis very kind 
 Of you thus to speak comfort to my soul. 
 
 Min, It is at once my duty, my delight, 
 And my great privilege. But where's your hus- 
 band ? — 
 
 Lucy. Out on the moor. 
 
 Mill, Amid this storm-drift, Lucy ? 
 
 Lucy. It is the shepherd's lot ; and he has learn'd 
 To meet and brave it. Yet I wish he were 
 Safely return'd. 
 
 Min. I wish indeed he were ! 
 For it is fraught with danger. — 
 
 Lucy. O ! sir, tell — 
 
 Have you heard ought? That solemn, earnest look — 
 What has befallen him ? 
 
 Min. Nothing, that I know 
 
 For certain 
 
 Lucy. O ! torment me not with fears ! 
 Speak, speak the worst ! — 
 
 Min. Chill'd and fatigued he rests 
 
 A short way oflP, — he'll soon be here — they've gone 
 To help him home. 
 
 Lucy. O ! never, never more 
 
 Will he return alive ! O, gracious Heaven ! 
 Drive me not to despair I I too will go, 
 Find out his body, and there lay me down 
 And die ! — 
 
 (Attempts to rush out, — he prevents her.) 
 
 Min. Almighty Father, help her ! O, be calm ! 
 Submit thy soul to Him who never smites 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 269 
 
 But with a merciful intent. They come, 
 Bearing thy husband. 
 
 EnUr Charlie, Gudeman, &;c. with the Body. 
 
 Lucy, My husband ! my own William ! Dead 
 dead, dead ! 
 Let me die too ! Oh I oh I — 
 
 {Falls upon the body, and faints.) 
 
 Min. Is life extinct ? 
 
 Gudem. Alas I I fear it is. 
 
 Min. Raise the poor widow'd, childless mother up, 
 From the chill'd body. Place it near the fire, 
 And try if vital warmth may be restored. 
 
 Gudem. 'Tis all in vain ! 
 
 Lucy. (Recovering.) — Where is he? Let me clasp 
 Him to my heart, and warm him into life 
 With my embraces ! Stay me not ! Hold off ! 
 Who shall divide the husband and the wife ? 
 
 Min. Thou hast no husband now ! 
 
 Lucy. It cannot be I — 
 
 It must not be I Child I Husband ! Dreadful day ! 
 Widow'd, and childless ! Break, hard heart, at once, 
 And let me follow them ! 
 
 Min. Poor lonely one, 
 
 I cannot blame your grief; — yet, oh, be calm ! 
 Submit to Heaven ! O, Thou, Most Merciful ! 
 Support her in this hour of bitter woe 
 And terrible bereavement ! On her soul 
 Pour thine own gracious balm, and be to her 
 
 z2 
 
270 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 Strength in her day of trial I Lucy, think, 
 
 Death is release from sin and every woe ; 
 
 Yes ! Death is truest liberty and life ! 
 
 'Tis freedom from the fightings and the fears, 
 
 That outwardly and inwardly assail 
 
 Our harass'd souls ! Death, like a parricide, 
 
 Slays his own parent, Guilt, — nay, slays himself I 
 
 For, with the last, the mortal pang, our souls 
 
 Spring into life immortal, never more 
 
 To sin, to sorrow, or to die ! 
 
 Why slirink we, then, from our deliverance ? 
 
 Why weep for the deliver'd ? Rather let 
 
 The love that clings around our human hearts, 
 
 Partake of their enlargement, break the spell 
 
 That held it captive here below, and soar 
 
 With them to the pure home of perfect peace. 
 
 And holiness, and everlasting joy I 
 
 I blessed be the Mighty One, who bought, 
 With his most precious blood, for us this great, 
 This glorious Salvation I His be all 
 
 The praise, and all the glory, through the round, 
 The endless round of vast Eternity ! 
 
 Soon as the snow abates, be it our care. 
 This lifeless clay, to its own element. 
 Back to restore. Lucy, thou slialt not want ! 
 My gentle Mary's tender heart will joy 
 To succom- thy distress, and soothe thy woe. 
 
 1 have a little cot; there shalt thou dwell. 
 With half thy soul already in the skies : 
 While they who aid and comfort thee, shall feel 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 271 
 
 The blessedness of doing good, and grow 
 Thereby more ripe for Heaven ! 
 
 Lucy. Now blessed be 
 
 Thy peace-distilling lips ! servant of God ! 
 / cannot yet pray, for my heart is wild ; 
 But on thy fervent words ascends my soul, 
 And tastes of consolation ! 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 *Fhe Minister, Lucy, and several aged Neighbours — 
 the Funeral train just disappearing — \i\3GY gazing 
 after in an agony of tears, 
 
 Min, Poor widow'd mourner ! vain are human 
 words. 
 Or human sympathies to soothe thy woe ! 
 Look up to Heaven, there dwells thy comforter ! 
 Nor there alone — here, everywhere, to all 
 Who on Him trust ; the day-spring of His love 
 And mercy dawns, beaming eternal peace. 
 Think on his blessed word ! 
 
 Lucy, I do, I do ! 
 
 And I have tasted of its healing power. 
 But O ! my heart is sorely tried. Alas ! 
 I shall see him no more ! 
 
 Min, Yes, thou shalt see, 
 
 Shalt meet him in that land where sin and death, 
 And sorrow, are unknown — to part no more. 
 Life is but daily, hourly, death : we speed 
 
272 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 With swift involuntary step, along 
 Tlirougli time, still onward to eternity ; 
 Yet this brief hurried span, so insecure 
 And fleeting, labours with the mighty birth 
 Of everlasting bliss or woe. How great, 
 How awfully important then its use ! 
 What is the world, or life, or death, or all 
 That we can here enjoy or suffer? Nothing ! — 
 And less than vanity, but as they work 
 Our spiritual advancement I Are they not 
 All overruled by mercy infinite ? 
 Then let us joy, as though we joy'd not ; grieve, 
 As though we felt not grief, and ever yield 
 With cheerftd willingness to Him who works 
 In all, by all for his own people's good. 
 Come, Lucy, dry your tears, and leave with me 
 This melancholy scene. My Mary has 
 Prepared thy little cot. 
 
 Lucy, Not yet, not yet ! 
 
 A little longer let me linger here, 
 Amid the sad memorials of past joys ! — 
 I cannot leave them yet ! My husband ! child ! 
 I cannot leave yoiu' sweet home yet ! the links 
 Of loves and sorrows clasp around my heart. 
 And bind me to this little lonely hut. 
 My child ! my husband ! 
 
 Min, 'Tis the fervent voice 
 
 Of Nature speaks ! I cannot urge thee, Lucy . 
 But in thy solitude converse with Him 
 Who hears and sees in secret. He will make 
 The wilderness an Eden — here will build 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 273 
 
 The temple of His presence. When thy heart 
 Has, by its earnest wrestlings, won repose. 
 Then come, a ready home awaits thy coming. 
 Till then I leave thee, Lucy, not alone, — 
 I leave thee with thy Bible, and thy God, 
 The sacred stream, and the eternal source 
 Of holiness, and immortality. 
 And everlasting joy ! Come, let us all, 
 Impress'd with solemn, sympathetic awe, 
 By each memorial of the lately dead, — 
 The presence of the living desolate. 
 Unite in breathing the low plaintive strains 
 Of a consoling dirge-hynm. 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 Mourn not for those who die ! 
 They but escape this scene of strife,—. 
 
 They pass in rapid voyage o'er 
 The stormy ocean-wilds of life ; 
 
 Secure they reach that happy shore. 
 Where holy peace and rest shall be 
 Theirs through a long eternity ! 
 Mourn not for them ! 
 
 Mourn not for those who die ! 
 The weary pangs the heart that wring,— 
 
 Fled joys, lost hopes, and festering woes, 
 No more to them can sufferance bring ; 
 
 Soundly they sleep in calm repose ; 
 They sleep — till time shall pass away ; 
 They sleep — till dawns eternal day ! 
 Mourn not for them ! 
 
274 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 Mourn not for those who die ! 
 Died they in early youth ? Oh ! blest, 
 
 Thrice blest are those who die in youth ! 
 While yet the tender, guileless breast 
 
 Is thy pure home, bright Seraph ! Truth ! 
 Ere vice has lured their steps astray 
 From virtue's onward, heavenly way. 
 Mourn not for them ! 
 
 Mourn not for those who die ! 
 Died they even in that sunny hour 
 
 When manhood's morn shone bright and free 
 When hope exulting dreamt of power, 
 
 And vision'd glories yet to be ? 
 O ! they have never learn'd to know 
 A hopeless bosom's sickening woe ! 
 Mourn not for them ! 
 
 Mourn not for those who die ! 
 Had age the furrow 'd brow irapress'd. 
 And thickly veil'd the sunken eye ? 
 Had life's tide, ebbing in the breast. 
 
 Left gradual its cold channels dry ? 
 Death, like a pitying friend, has come 
 To call the weary pilgrims home I 
 Mourn not for them ! 
 
 Mourn not for those who die ! 
 If suffering Nature, sad and weak. 
 
 Must shed the tear, and heave the sigh, 
 Wouldst thou the wells of comfort seek ? 
 Mourner ! thy lost ones live on high ! 
 The Father has but call'd his own ; — 
 Bend thee, and say, " Thy will be done." 
 Mourn not for them ! 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 275 
 
 Mourn not ! they are not dead ! 
 No ! they have burst the galling chain 
 
 That bound them to this dungeon-world ; 
 Their souls with their Redeemer reign,—, 
 
 Love's banner o'er them floats unfurl'd ! 
 For ever, and for ever bless'd 
 Are those who in their Saviour rest ! 
 Mourn not for them ! 
 
 Mourn not ! They live for aye ! 
 Death's stingless shafts in vain are cast ; 
 
 And vainly yawns the grave's deep gloom ; 
 The tyrant's shadowy reign is past, — 
 Burst the dark barriers of the tomb ! 
 Sin dies in death — all sorrow dies ! 
 To endless bliss the ransom'd rise ! 
 Rejoice for them ! 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 EDINBURGH : 
 
 PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE & CO. 
 
 PAUL'S WORK, CANONGATE.