She won on him. "But why this guile— This secrecy?" His voice was rough. "We feared," she whispered, with a smile, "You would not think me good enough."
"An April fool am I. Come, come— My offer stands. As Hubert's wife," He laughed, "you'll share my wealth and home And brighten up a lonely life."
He kissed her cheek and rode away. Unbroken was his heart, I wist, For he was thinking of a day— A day back in youth's rosy mist—
And of a form and of a face. "My dear, dead love," he whispered low, The while he rode at sober pace, That April fool of long ago.
FOR HE WAS SCOTCH, AND SO WAS SHE.
They were a couple well content With what they earned and what they spent, Cared not a whit for style's decree— For he was Scotch, and so was she.
And oh, they loved to talk of Burns— Dear blithesome, tender Bobby Burns! They never wearied of his song, He never sang a note too strong. One little fault could neither see— For he was Scotch, and so was she.
They loved to read of men who stood And gave for country life and blood, Who held their faith so grand a thing They scorned to yield it to a king. Ah, proud of such they well might be— For he was Scotch, and so was she.