The Balladists

by John Geddie

'The mantle that fair Annie wore
It skinkled in the sun';

or

'And in at her bower window
The moon shone like a gleed';

or

'O'er his white banes when they are bare
The wind shall sigh for evermair.'

Or, to rise to the height of pity, despair, and terror to which the ballad strains of Scotland have reached, what master of modern realism has surpassed in trenchant and uncompromising power the passages in Clerk Saunders?—

'Then he drew forth his bright long brand,
And slait it on the strae,
And through Clerk Saunders' body
He 's gart cauld iron gae';

and,

'She looked between her and the wa',
And dull and drumly were his een.'

Has it ever happened, since the harp of Orpheus drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, that ruth has taken so grim a form as that of Edom o' Gordon, as he turned over with his spear the body of his victim?