“I hae all my linen spun and woven,” she faltered, after a nervous silence, not daring to look at him. “Ye ken the lassies often came a rockin’ and so helped me get it done.” She raised her head and looked in his glowing face. “’Tis a very small dowry I’ll be bringin’ ye, laddie,” she added in pathetic earnestness.
He gave a little contented laugh. “Ye’re bringin’ me yoursel’, dearie,” he murmured tenderly. “What mair could any lad want. I ken I do not deserve such a bonnie sweet sonsie lassie for my wife.” He looked away thoughtfully for a moment. Then he continued with glowing eyes, “But ye mind the verse o’ the song I gave ye before I went awa’?” he said lovingly, taking her hand in his. His voice trembled with feeling as he fervently recited the lines:
“We have plighted our troth, my Mary,
In mutual affection to join,
And cursed be the cause that shall part us,
The hour and moment o’ time.”
She smiled confidingly up into his radiant face, then laid her little head against his breast like a tired child. “Always remember, sweetheart,” he continued softly, as if in answer to that look, “that Robbie Burns’ love for his Highland Mary will remain forever the tenderest, truest passion of his unworthy life.”