“Ye banks and braes of bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?”
A groan of agony escaped the grief-stricken man at the sound of the voice, which was sweeter than all else in the world to him.
“Mary, my lost Highland Mary!” he cried aloud, “how can I give ye up forever?” and throwing himself across the table he wept bitter tears of anguish and remorse.
“How can ye chant, ye little birds,
An’ I sae weary, fu’ o’ care?”
continued the sweet voice in mournful cadence. Softly the words floated to the ears of the sorrowing man, like the echo of his own harrowing thoughts.
As Mary reached the open window she paused and gazed into the room eagerly. As she sees her lover sitting there so silent and alone, her smile is very sweet and tender.
“Dear laddie; asleep,” she whispers softly. “He must be o’er tired after his hard day’s work. God bless my laddie,” and with a smile of ineffable sweetness, she wafted a kiss to the bowed head and quickly passed on, wending her lonely way back to Castle Montgomery, while the man sitting there in agonized silence, with clenched teeth and tense muscles, slowly raised his head to listen, in heart-broken silence, to her sweet voice floating back to him in silvery melody, as she took up the broken thread of her song:
“Thou’lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,