I had, recently, a conversation with her that has haunted me every hour since; for it showed me a side of her nature that I had not seen before, and that leads me to think that under her caprice and petulance there is a deep purpose hidden.
I had exhausted my list of songs, and as she still demanded more I bethought me of a curious old ballad I had heard many years ago. The air eluded me for some while; but my fingers, straying over the strings, fell suddenly into the plaintive melody; with it, the words too came back to me.
I bade my love fareweel, wi' tears;
He bade fareweel to me.
"How sall I pass the lang, lang years?"
"I maun be gane," quo' he.
The tear-draps frae mine een did rin
Like water frae a spring;
But while I grat, my love gaed in
To feast and reveling!
The tear-draps frae mine een did start
Salt as the briny tide:
Sae sair my grief, sae fu' my heart,
I wept a river wide.
Adoon that stream my man did rove,
And crossed the tearfu' sea.
O whaur'll I get a leal true love
To bide at hame wi' me?
The lang, lang years they winna pass;
My lord is still awa'.
Mayhap he loves a fairer lass—
O wae the warst ava!
How sall I wile my lover hame?
I'll drink the tearfu' seas!
My red mou' to their briny faem,
I'll drain them to the lees!
Then gin he comes na hameward soon
His ain true love to wed,
I'll kilt my claes and don my shoon
And cross the sea's dry bed.
"Oh in thine heart, my love, my lord,
Mak' room, mak' room for me;
Or at thy feet, by my true word,
Thy lady's grave sall be!"