Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XXIV Part 9

No more for him those eyes so merry, That were to him so sweet to see!

No more those lips red as the cherry, That were to him so sweet to pree!

IV.

Alas! there are of things--we see them Without the aid of wizard's spell; But there are other things--we dree them, No art of wizard can foretell: Strange thing the heart where love has power, So tossed with joy or racked with pain!

Dark Willie from that fatal hour Seemed fated ne'er to smile again.

In vain now Clara, sembling gladness, Plies the magic of her wile, To draw him off from his great sadness, And cheat him of a loving smile: The more her sympathy she tenders, The more he will by art defy All beauty which but contrast renders With his own dear lost Marjory.

V.

Now Time's big silent, solemn billow Rolls quietly on from year to year: Don Pedro lies on his green pillow, With love-lorn Clara sleeping near.

But, ere he died, he did declare it His pleasure when his days were told, And Clara dead, with none to share it, Don William should heir all his gold.

Gift vain, oh vain! would wealth restore him His long-lost Marjory to his arms?

Nay, would it wake and bring before him One only of her envied charms?

No, it might cause another courts.h.i.+p, A love he could not now control: Great Mammon lured him to his wors.h.i.+p, And lorded in his inmost soul.

What though ten years away had stolen?

'Twas not to him all weary time, Who every day was pleased to roll in The tempting Mammon's golden shrine.

But when he laid him on his pillow, His fancy sought the farthest east, And conjured up some lonely willow That waved o'er her he loved the best.

Change still--a pa.s.sion changed to pity!

No other solace would he have-- A wish to see his native city, And sit and weep o'er Marjory's grave.

To see that house, yea, buy the sheiling In that old wynd of St. Marie, A hermit there to live and dwell in, Then sleep beside his Marjorie.

VI.

Blow soft, ye winds, and tender-hearted This hermit waft to yonder sh.o.r.e, From which for sordid gold he parted Ten weary years and one before.

Ho! there's the pier where last he left her, That dear, loved one, to weep alone, And for that love of gold bereft her Of all the pleasures she could own.

He's now within the ancient borough!

He sought the well-known White Horse Inn, And there he laid him down in sorrow, Some strengthening confidence to win; Then up the street, with none to greet him, He held his sad and sorrowing way, When lo! who should be there to meet him But Friar John?--who slunk away.

Strange thing! but lo! the sacred sheiling In that old wynd of St. Marie-- The window where with mirthful feeling He tap't the sign to Marjorie.

He sought the lobby dark and narrow, Groped gently for the well-known door, Where he might hear of his winsome marrow, Who died there many years before.

He drew the latch, and quietly entered; There some one spinning merrilie!

A faltering question then he ventured: "My name, kind sir, is Marjorie."

"Great G.o.d!" he cried, in voice all trembling, And sank upon a crazy chair, And tried to trace a strange resembling In her who sat beside him there.

A maiden she still young and buxom, Nor change but what ten years may bring, Her hair still of the glossy flaxen, Her eyes still blue as halcyon's wing.

He traced the lines, he knew each feature Of all her still unfaded charms; And now this long lost, wors.h.i.+pped creature Is locked fast in his loving arms.

"Look up! look up! thy fear controlling, It is thy Willie's voice that calls:"

She oped her eyes--now wildly rolling All o'er his face the l.u.s.trous b.a.l.l.s-- "It is, it is---oh, powers most holy!

And I had heard that thou wert dead; And here, in spite of melancholy, I still spin for my daily bread."

"'Twas Friar John wrote me a letter, He said he saw thee on thy bier; And sore I mourned with tears, oh bitter!

For one I ever loved so dear."

"Oh, wae befa' that wicked friar, Who sairly tried my love to gain; Wae, wae befa' that wicked liar, Wha brought on us sae meikle pain."

Then Willie said, with tears enc.u.mbered, "Cheer up, cheer up, dear Marjorie, For I have gold in sums unnumbered, And it shall all belong to thee."

"And art thou true, and still unmarried?

And is thy bodie not a seim?

And is it true my ears have carried, Or is it a' a lying dream?"

"All, all is true, my dearest hinny, What thou'rt to me I am to thee, Our years on earth may still be many, And quickly we shall wedded be."

"Ah, weel! ah, weel!" and sighing, sobbing, She on his breast her head hath lain; And as he felt her bosom throbbing, He kissed her ower and ower again.

And he has bought a n.o.ble mansion, And stocked it with all things genteel Of costly price--nor need we mention The rock and reel and spinning-wheel; And he has bought a n.o.ble carriage, With servants in gay liverie, I trow there was an unco marriage In the ancient wynd of Saint Marie.

IX.

THE LEGEND OF MARY LEE.[A]

_(Another Version.)_

[Footnote A: See the strange song of the same name in the _Scottish Gallovidean Encyclopaedia_, from which I borrow some of the maledictory epithets. Grotesque they may be, but they are justified by the vocabulary of our old witch-sibyls used in curses and incantations, as we find in books of diablerie.]

Though Robert was heir to broad Kildearn, He had often with gipsies roved, And from gipsies he came a name to earn, Which was dear to the maid he loved.

To ladies fair he was Robert St. Clair, When he met them in companie; To a certain one, and to her alone, He was only Robin-a-Ree.[2]

[Footnote 2: Kingly, or royal, in the gipsy tongue.]

Through Kildearn's woods they were wont to rove, And they knew well the trysting tree; The green sward was their bed of love, And the green leaves their canopie.

But the love of the virgin heart is shy, And hangs between hope and fear; It is fed by the light of a lover's eye, And it trusts thro' the willing ear.

"My Mary! I swear by yon Solway tide, Which is true to the queen of night, That thou shalt be my chosen bride When I come to my lawful right: My father is now an aged man, And but few years more can see; And when he dies, old Kildearn's land Belongs to Robin-a-Ree."

"Oh Robin, oh Robin," and Mary sighed, "Aye faithfu' to you I hae been, As true as ever yon Solway tide Is true to yon silvery queen.

And faithfu' and true I will ever prove Till that happy day shall be, When I will be in honoured love The wife o' Robin-a-Ree."

Green be thy leaves, thou "tree of troth,"

And thy rowan berries red, Where he has sworn that holy oath, If he stand to what he has said.

But black and blasted may thou be, And thy berries a yellow green, If he prove false to Mary Lee, Who so faithful to him has been.

For a woman's art and a woman's wile A man may well often slight, At the worst they are but nature's guile To procure what is nature's right.

But a woman's wrath, when once inflamed By a sense of fond love betrayed, No cunning device by cunning framed Has ever that pa.s.sion laid.

II.