That keeps the shadowy kine; 'Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!' Ravelston, Ravelston, The merry path that leads Down the golden morning hill And through the silver meads; Ravelston, Ravelston, The stile beneath the tree, The maid that kept her mother's kine, The song that sang she! She sang her song, she kept her kine, She sat beneath the thorn, When Andrew Keith of Ravelston Rode thro' the Monday morn. His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, His belted jewels shine! Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Year after year, where Andrew came, Comes evening down the glade, And still there sits a moonshine ghost Where sat the sunshine maid. Her misty hair is faint and fair, She keeps the shadowy kine; Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! I lay my hand upon the stile, The stile is lone and cold; The burnie that goes babbling by Says nought that can be told. Yet, stranger! here, from year to year, She keeps her shadowy kine; Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Step out three steps, where Andrew stood -- Why blanch thy cheeks for fear? The ancient stile is not alone, 'Tis not the burn I hear! She makes her immemorial moan, She keeps her shadowy kine; Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! ----S. Dobell. DAFT JEAN |She cam' by the cottage, she cam' by the ha, The laird's ha o' Wutherstanelaw, The cottar's cot by the birken shaw; An' aye she gret, To ilk ane she met, For the trumpet had blawn an her lad was awa. [Illustration: 9265] Daft Jean, The waesome wean, "Black, black," sang she, "Black, black my weeds shall be, My love has widowed me! Black, black!" sang she. Daft Jean, The waesome wean, She cam' by the cottage, she cam' by the ha', The laird's ha o Wutherstanelaw, The cottar's cot by the birken shaw; Nae mair she creepit, Nae mair she weepit, She stept'mang the lasses the queen o' them a', The queen o' them a', The queen o' them a', She stept mang the lasses the queen o' them a. For the fight it was fought i' the fiel' far awa, An' claymore in han' for his love an' his Ian', The lad she lo ed best he was foremost to fa'. "White, white," sang she, "White, white, my weeds shall be, I am no widow," sang she, "White, white, my wedding shall be, White, white!" sang she. Daft Jean, The waesome wean, She gaed na' to cottage, she gaed na' to ha', But forth she creepit, While a' the house weepit, Into the snaw i' the eerie night-fa.' At morn we found her, The lammies stood round her, The snaw was her pillow, her sheet was the snaw; Pale she was lying, Singing and dying, A' for the laddie wha fell far awa'. "White, white," sang she, "My love has married me, White, white, my weeds shall be, White, white, my wedding shall be, White, white," sang she!