| |
| THE SHADES of eve had crossed the glen | |
| That frowns o’er infant Avonmore, | |
| When, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men, | |
| We stopped before a cottage door. | |
| |
| “God save all here,” my comrade cries, | 5 |
| And rattles on the raised latch-pin; | |
| “God save you kindly,” quick replies | |
| A clear sweet voice, and asks us in. | |
| |
| We enter; from the wheel she starts, | |
| A rosy girl with soft black eyes; | 10 |
| Her fluttering courtesy takes our hearts, | |
| Her blushing grace and pleased surprise. | |
| |
| Poor Mary, she was quite alone, | |
| For, all the way to Glenmalure, | |
| Her mother had that morning gone, | 15 |
| And left the house in charge with her. | |
| |
| But neither household cares, nor yet | |
| The shame that startled virgins feel, | |
| Could make the generous girl forget | |
| Her wonted hospitable zeal. | 20 |
| |
| She brought us in a beechen bowl | |
| Sweet milk that smacked of mountain thyme, | |
| Oat cake, and such a yellow roll | |
| Of butter,—it gilds all my rhyme! | |
| |
| And, while we ate the grateful food | 25 |
| (With weary limbs on bench reclined), | |
| Considerate and discreet, she stood | |
| Apart, and listened to the wind. | |
| |
| Kind wishes both our souls engaged, | |
| From breast to breast spontaneous ran | 30 |
| The mutual thought,—we stood and pledged | |
| THE MODEST ROSE ABOVE LOCH DAN. | |
| |
| “The milk we drink is not more pure, | |
| Sweet Mary,—bless those budding charms!— | |
| Than your own generous heart, I ’m sure, | 35 |
| Nor whiter than the breast it warms!” | |
| |
| She turned and gazed, unused to hear | |
| Such language in that homely glen; | |
| But, Mary, you have naught to fear, | |
| Though smiled on by two stranger-men. | 40 |
| |
| Not for a crown would I alarm | |
| Your virgin pride by word or sign, | |
| Nor need a painful blush disarm | |
| My friend of thoughts as pure as mine. | |
| |
| Her simple heart could not but feel | 45 |
| The words we spoke were free from guile; | |
| She stooped, she blushed, she fixed her wheel,— | |
| ’T is all in vain,—she can’t but smile! | |
| |
| Just like sweet April’s dawn appears | |
| Her modest face,—I see it yet,— | 50 |
| And though I lived a hundred years | |
| Methinks I never could forget | |
| |
| The pleasure that, despite her heart, | |
| Fills all her downcast eyes with light; | |
| The lips reluctantly apart, | 55 |
| The white teeth struggling into sight, | |
| |
| The dimples eddying o’er her cheek, | |
| The rosy cheek that won’t be still:— | |
| O, who could blame what flatterers speak, | |
| Did smiles like this reward their skill? | 60 |
| |
| For such another smile, I vow, | |
| Though loudly beats the midnight rain, | |
| I ’d take the mountain-side e’en now, | |
| And walk to Luggelaw again! | |
| |
