Duncan and I at the kirk would wed,
And soon should our bridal vows be said;
But a pibroch thrilled through the morning air,
And a white cockade gleamed brightly there;
’Twas Charlie Stuart bowed low at my side:
“O, lend me your lover now,” he cried,
“And when I march homeward adown the glen
You shall wed the bravest of Charlie’s men.”
Duncan my lover was good to see,
Straight and tall as the dark pine tree;
Black was his eye as the deep midnight;
His arm was strong and his step was light;
His words were kind and his laugh rang free,—
And oh! he was all in the world to me!
But he marched away through the narrow glen
To fight for Scotland with Charlie’s men.
The days were long and the nights were drear,
My heart grew sick with its weight of fear;
For the battle was fought and the battle was lost,
And the hearts of the living must count the cost;
And Charlie Stuart’s an outlaw now
With a price in gold on his bonnie brow;
And never the watchers in brae and glen
Shall welcome the coming of Charlie’s men.
And Duncan, my lover, my life, my light,
Was the first to fall in that bitter fight;
With Scotland’s banner clasped close in his hand
They laid him to sleep in that stranger land;
Narrow and lonely and low is his bed,
And the gorse of the Southland blooms thick o’er his head;
But still I roam through the mournful glen
And wait for the marching of Charlie’s men.
The mavis and merle in the thicket pipe clear,
But the wail of the pibroch is all I can hear;
The heather a-bloom takes the tint of his plaid,
And the foam on the burn shows the Stuart cockade;
The moonlight that falls on the rocks of Ben More
Is alive with the gleam of his targe and claymore—
And still in my heart and the haunted glen
There echoes the marching of Charlie’s men.
A LOST IDEAL
A mocking bird from out the South
Sang through my dream, he said,
But when the dream was done I heard
A woman’s voice instead.
A woman’s voice that strove to wake
The joyous tones I missed;
But only breathed a sigh across
The lips that pain had kissed.
A deep perfume of tropic flowers
Stole through my dream, he said;
But when I sought the blossoms bright
I saw a face instead.
A woman’s face where Nature wrote
The score of some grand hymn,
Then blotting it with life and toil
Left all the record dim.
And in the dream my soul thrice turned
To greet a comrade call;
But when I woke the gray of night
Lay silent over all.
THE LIFE-BOND
“The last brotherhood is of pain.”—Hindoo Saying.
You think my mouth is over-stern
For woman-grace and tenderness;
You wonder if my lips could learn
The trick of love word and caress;
You sadden when you meet my eyes;
You say they are too still and deep,
Like water where a shadow lies
Some secret thing to hide and keep.
My face no smooth, soft beauty owns,
Unlined and happy as a flower;
My voice has lack of laughing tones
To charm you in a care-free hour—
But I have lived! I do not need
Your play-day love, that only seeks
It’s own light joy, nor stays to heed
The message which the shadow speaks.
Death-darkening eyes have looked in mine
And gone the braver for that glance;
And hearts sore-pressed have sought a sign,
Then turned to meet the fighting chance;
And hands that fought to hold the breach
Have caught fresh weapons from my hands;
And lips that knew but stranger speech
Have learned how love may understand.
Joy with you, friend, and happiness!
You do not need me now, but when
Life wills your hour of pain and stress
Turn back—and find me waiting then.
TO SONG
Grant us, O Soul of Song, that we may find
Much joy in singing, though the road be blind;
Thou knowest we, thy Children of the Air,
Must get our dinners, God alone knows where,
And for a ragged coat have scanty words;
So let us joy in music with the birds,
Our brother minstrels, who among the trees
Have short delight what time the summer please.
Make summer for us, e’en when winter snows
Beat down upon us and the north winds blows;
Fence us with mail against the biting blast,
And feed our fancy, though the body fast.
If any Hall keep still the olden cheer,
Grant thou we find an ungrudged welcome there,
And as of old have leave to harp and sing
Till wild bees hum the reveille of Spring;
And black birds pipe it, and the cuckoos call;
And every ivy leaf along the wall
Shakes to the sun a tender green leaf-wing
And whispers “Spring! The Spring! It is the Spring!”
Then Ho! for pouch and staff and cockle shell!
Ho! for the road we know and love so well!
Stay an you will! For us the Open Way;
The sun and stars and winds of Arcady!
HER GIFT
To Our Lady of La Casa Nichita.