Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XXIV Part 16

"If in this world I smile again, Twill be to see the charming eye Like _hers_--the smile--each effort plain, And think I can them all defy.

You tell me these are Nature's ways, But Nature tells me to beware; And while each angler smiling plays, So shall I play to shun the snare.

"Mocked by the glamour of the eye, I dread all things surpa.s.sing fair; The sweetest flower but makes me sigh To think there may be poison there.

Were I inclined to change my part, And seek again domestic peace, I'd seek for beauties in the heart, Though seen through a _revolting_ face.

"By the heart-pulses of my love, By all the things once dear to me, By every tree within the grove, By every bird upon the tree, By every tint upon its wing, By every note of melodie That close by HER I've heard it sing, _Cursed be the dame of Dowielee_."

VII.

Burde Olive sat at the evening hour Within her mother's painted bower: It was a ruthless winter night.

When beasts and birds cowered with affright From brattling winds that, roving free, Moaned in the woods of Dowielee.

A wanderer knelt beside her chair, And spoke these words of tearful prayer:

THE APPEAL.

"When Justice sought the skies above, She left on earth her sister, LOVE, And heaven-born MERCY staid behind On purpose to console mankind.

The silly sheep that left one day The winter's beild and went astray, Did not, when weary, worn, and old, Seek all in vain the shepherd's fold!

And He, the Shepherd without sin, Felt for the contrite Magdalene, And gave her hope--her sin forgiven-- That she would join the fold in heaven: And shall my Olive while on earth Forgive not her who gave her birth?

Oh! turn on me a smiling face, Forgiving eyes--a look of grace."

But Olive turned her face away-- Her father's spirit whispered Nay-- His hastened death, his curse forbade: She trembled and was sore afraid; Yet father's daughter, meek and mild, Was she not, too, the mother's child?

Then _he_ was gone, and _she_ was here: Her eye acknowledges the tear Of brooding nature all confessed-- She falls upon the wanderer's breast!

No more the veil obscures the frame-- The curse is taken from the name.

XVII.

THE BALLAD OF MAID MARION.

Maid Marion laid her down to sleep, Maid Marion could do nought but weep, For thinking of that happy time When she was in her early prime, When in her gla.s.s she looked so fair With lily-lire and golden hair.

Full many a year had rolled away, Since _he_ left her that weary day, When, poor in love and rich in gear, She cast him off without a tear; When, poor in gear, tho' rich in love, He left her o'er the sea to rove.

His s.h.i.+p was never heard of more, And she must now his death deplore.

Now, poor in gear and rich in love, She saw him looking from above, With mild reproof in his dark eyes, And still that love she dared despise.

"Oh that that day had never been-- That I that day had never seen!

Wae fa the gowd that took its flight, Wae fa' the love I feel this night, Wae fa' the pride that made me mad, And this regret that makes me sad."

And still she turned and aye she mourned, And aye the briny tear it burned: A spendthrift father in the grave, A mother buried with the lave, And he, her Willie, also gone, And she left weeping here alone.

And still she tried to fall asleep, But aye the thoughts their revels keep: Hark, "one" knurrs from the ancient clock, Long yet ere crowing of the c.o.c.k-- That sound which sends to their repose The ghosts that mourn their human woes.

A faint beam from the waning moon Can scarcely more than show the gloom; All is so still and silent round, The foot of ghost might raise a sound.

Hus.h.!.+ there's a rustling near the bed-- She heard the curtain drawn aside.

With trembling fear she turned to see Amid the gloom who there might be, And thought she yet could dimly trace The outlines of that well-known face Of him, now dead, who loved her dear, And she had scorned through pride of gear.

"Oh Marion dear!" the words came plain: "Maid Marion, dear," it said again; "Remember you of that auld time I tried sae sair thy love to win, And for that I was lowly born Thou treated my true love with scorn?"

"Ah, Willie, Willie! I do thee fear, It is thine angry ghost I hear; I saw thee looking from on high, I saw red anger in thine eye; Come thou my cruel heart to chide, Or claim me for thy heavenly bride?"

"No, Marion dear!" the shade replied, "I dinna come thy heart to chide.

A spendthrift father left thee poor, But Heaven has added to my store.

Thou hast been punished for thy pride, And I am come to claim my bride."

"Oh fearful shade! the c.o.c.k will craw; It's mair than time thou wert awa.

Gae back into the ocean deep Where thou and thy companions sleep."

But still the angry spirit said, "I come to claim thee for my bride."

Sore, sore she wept, and shook with dread, "I've meikle sin upon my head, And, oh! I am unfit to dee, And go to heaven thy bride to be.

Leave me! oh leave me! flit away, And give me peace to weep and pray."

Now something touched Maid Marion's arm, She felt the touch both kind and warm; The spirit took her by the hand, She felt the touch both kind and bland.

The spirit kissed Maid Marion's mou', Oh! how it thrilled her body through.

The spirit laughed in that odd way Which spirits do when they are gay; For there are spirits good and bad-- The good are aye a merry squad.

No body-pains their hearts to vex, No worldly cares their minds perplex.

"Nae ghaist am I, Maid Marion dear, My soul's well cased in fleshly gear; I have a heart still warm and free, Enough of gowd for thee and me; And if thou wilt give up thy scorn, Trow-la! I'll marry thee the morn."

XVIII.

THE BALLAD OF ROSEALLAN CASTLE.

Yonder Roseallan's Castle old!

Which time has changed to iron grey, Whose high crenelles, o'ergrown with mould, Are crumbling silently away.

Soft comes the thought that, years before, Now hid by time's obscuring pall, Some tiny foot had tript the floor, Some silver voice had filled the hall.

There was a time in long past years-- It seems to me an age of dreams-- My grandam filled my itching ears With all Roseallan's storied themes: Of how Sir Baldwin dearly loved The last of all Roseallan's maids; And how in moonlight nights they roved Among Roseallan's sylvan shades.

But there was one with envious eyes, Deep set in visage pale and wan, Resolved, whoe'er should win the prize, Sir Baldwin should not be the man.

He took his aim--too deadly straight, Yet not unseen by Annabel, Who sprang before her favoured knight, And died for him she loved so well.

How she who thus so bravely died Was last of all her honoured name, The only hope that fate supplied To keep alive her house's fame.

And then the screeching bird of night Would mope upon the crumbling walls, And chirking whutthroats claim the right To gambol in the ancient halls.