The last verse of Queen Mary's lamentation seemed to be sighing in the air:—
"O, soon for me shall simmer's suns
Nae mair light up the morn;
Nae mair for me the autumn wind
Wave o'er the yellow corn.
But in the narrow house of death
Let winter round me rave,
And the next flowers that deck the spring
Bloom on my peaceful grave."
Only yesterday, it seemed, since that poor heart was yearning and struggling, caught in the toils of this sorrowful life. How many times she looked on this landscape through sad eyes! I suppose just such little daisies grew here in the grass then, and perhaps she stooped and picked them, wishing, just as I do, that the pink did not grow on the under side of them, where it does not show. Do you know that this little daisy is the gowan of Scotch poetry? So I was told by a "charming young Jessie" in Glasgow, one day when I was riding out there.