And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forbode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway: I love the brooks which down their channels fret Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. SIR WALTER SCOTT 1771–1832 PROUD MAISIE PROUD Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely. ‘Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?’ ‘When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye.’ ‘Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?’ ‘The grey-headed sexton That delves the grave duly. ‘The glowworm o’er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady.’ A WEARY LOT IS THINE ‘A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine. A lightsome eye, a soldier’s mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green— No more of me you knew. My Love! No more of me you knew. ‘This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain; But she shall bloom in winter snow Ere we two meet again.’ He turned his charger as he spake Upon the river shore, He gave the bridle-reins a shake, Said, ‘Adieu for evermore, My Love! And adieu for evermore.’ THE MAID OF NEIDPATH O LOVERS’ eyes are sharp to see, And lovers’ ears in hearing; And love, in life’s extremity, Can lend an hour of cheering. Disease had been in Mary’s bower And slow decay from mourning, Though now she sits on Neidpath’s tower To watch her love’s returning. All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, Her form decayed by pining, Till through her wasted hand, at night, You saw the taper shining. By fits a sultry hectic hue Across her cheek was flying; By fits so ashy pale she grew Her maidens thought her dying. Yet keenest powers to see and hear Seemed in her frame residing; Before the watch-dog pricked his ear She heard her lover’s riding; Ere scarce a distant form was kenned She knew and waved to greet him, And o’er the battlement did bend As on the wing to meet him.