"O had I lulled the imp to rest When first she lisped her name to me, Or pierced her little guileless breast When smiling on her nurse's knee !”— "Just is your vengeance, my good lord, "Tis just and meet our daughter die; For sharper than a foeman's, sword Is family shame and injury. "But trust the ruthless deed to me; I have a vial potent, good; Unmeet that all the Scotts should see A daughter's corse embalmed in blood! "Unmeet her gallant kinsmen know The guilt of one so fair and young; No cup should to her mem'ry flow, No requiem o'er her grave be sung. "My potent draught has erst proved true Beneath my own and husband's eye; Trust me, ere falls the morning dew, In dreamless sleep shall Mary lie!”— "Even go thy way, thy words are true, I knew thy dauntless soul before; But list-if thou deceivest me too, Thou hast a head! I say no more. Stern Tushilaw strode o'er the ley, And, wondering, by the twilight saw A crystal tear drop from his eye, The first e'er shed by Tushilaw! O grievous are the bonds of steel, And blasted hope 'tis hard to prove; More grievous far it is to feel Ingratitude from those we love. "What brings my lady mother here, Pale as the morning shower and cold? In her dark eye why stands the tear? Why in her hand a cup of gold ?". "My Mary, thou art ill at rest, Fervid and feverish is thy blood; Still yearns o'er thee thy mother's breast, Take this, my child, 'tis for thy good!”— O sad, sad was young Mary's plight! To sleep, and never more to wake. She took the cup-she drank it dry, Then pillowed soft her beauteous head, And calmly watched her mother's eye; But O that eye was hard to read! Her moistened eye, so mild and meek, Soon sunk their auburn fringe beneath; The ringlets on her damask cheek Heaved gentler with her stealing breath! She turned her face unto the wall, Her colour changed to pallid clay; Long ere the dews began to fall, The flower of Ettrick lifeless lay! Why underneath her winding sheet Why is cold Mary's buskined feet All laced with belts and bands of gold? "What boots to me these robes so gay? To wear them now no child have I ! They should have graced her bridal day, Now they must in the church-yard lie! "I thought to see my daughter ride, In golden gear and cramasye, To Mary's fane, the loveliest bride E'er to the Virgin bent the knee. "Now I may by her funeral wain Ride silent o'er the mountain gray : Her revel hall, the gloomy fane; Her bridal bed, the cheerless clay !" Why that rich snood with plume and lace Round Mary's lifeless temples drawn? Why is the napkin o'er her face, A fragment of the lily lawn? "My Mary has another home; And far, far though her journey be, When she to Paradise shall come, Then will my child remember me !"— |