To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is—to die.
“And what has become of the laird?” said I, looking to the well-known mansion.
“The old laird is dead, and the young one, that was once expected to be laird, lies rotting with many carcases in a foreign trench. He broke his father’s heart, spent his substance, and died a common soldier. The comforting dew of heaven seldom falls on him who disregards its commands: seldom does the friendly hands of woman smooth the dying bed of the seducer; and still more rarely does the insulter of a parent’s gray hairs sleep in the same grave wi’ him. Ye canna lament Mary Wilson mair than I do.”
“Do you possess her father’s land?” said I.
“Ay do I,” replied the rustic,—apparently much moved; “and it may be that I would hae ploughed them mair pleasantly, and whistled mair cheerfully to my horses, had Mary shared it with a plain man, as became her station; but we maunna repine.”
I had no wish to proceed farther; and in my ride back I enjoyed one of those deep, melancholy musings, far more congenial to my mind than the most ecstatic dreams of the most ambitious men.—Aberdeen Censor.
THE LAIRD OF CASSWAY.
By James Hogg, the “Ettrick Shepherd.”