And we between her wings will sit, while Night
And Day, and Storm and Calm, pursue their flight,
Our ministers, along the boundless Sea,
Treading each other's heels, unheededly.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

XXXIV

MY BONNY MARY

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
And fill it in a silver tassie;
That I may drink, before I go,

A service to my bonnie lassie.
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith;

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry;

The ship rides by the Berwick-law,

And I maun leave my bonny Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
The glittering spears are rankèd ready;
The shouts o' war are heard afar,

The battle closes thick and bloody;
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore
Wad mak' me langer wish to tarry;
Nor shout o' war that's heard afar,—

It's leaving thee, my bonny Mary!
ROBERT BURNS.

XXXV

BALLAD OF THE BIRD-BRIDE

(ESKIMO)

THEY never come back, though I loved them well;

I watch the South in vain ;

The snow-bound skies are blear and gray,
Waste and wide is the wild gull's way,

And she comes never again.

Years agone, on the flat, white strand,
I won my sweet sea-girl:

Wrapped in my coat of the snow-white fur,
I watched the wild birds settle and stir,
The gray gulls gather and whirl.

One, the greatest of all the flock,

Perched on an ice-floe bare,

Called and cried as her heart were broke,

And straight they were changed, that fleet bird-folk, To women young and fair.

Swift I sprang from my hiding-place,

And held the fairest fast;

I held her fast, the sweet, strange thing:
Her comrades skirled, but they all took wing,
And smote me as they passed.

I bore her safe to my warm snow house;
Full sweetly there she smiled;

And yet, whenever the shrill winds blew,
She would beat her long white arms anew,
And her eyes glanced quick and wild.

But I took her to wife, and clothed her warm
With skins of the gleaming seal;

Her wandering glances sank to rest

When she held a babe to her fair, warm breast,

And she loved me dear and leal.

Together we tracked the fox and the seal,

And at her behest I swore

That bird and beast my bow might slay
For meat and for raiment, day by day,
But never a gray gull more.

A weariful watch I kept for aye

'Mid the snow and the changeless frost :

Woe is me for my broken word!
Woe, woe's me for my bonny bird,
My bird and the love-time lost!

Have ye forgotten the old keen life?
The hut with the skin-strewn floor?
O winged white wife, and children three,
Is there no room left in your hearts for me,
Or our home on the low sea-shore?

Once the quarry was scarce and shy,

Sharp hunger gnawed us sore,

My spoken oath was clean forgot,

My bow twanged thrice with a swift, straight shot, And slew me sea-gulls four.

The sun hung red on the sky's dull breast,

The snow was wet and red;

Her voice shrilled out in a woeful cry,

She beat her long white arms on high, "The hour is here," she said.

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She beat her arms, and she cried full fain
As she swayed and wavered there.
"Fetch me the feathers, my children three,
Feathers and plumes for you and me,
Bonny gray wings to wear !"

They ran to her side, our children three,
With the plumage black and gray;
Then she bent her down and drew them near,
She laid the plumes on our children dear,
'Mid the snow and the salt sea-spray.

"Babes of mine, of the wild wind's kin,
Feather ye quick, nor stay.

Oh, oho! but the wild winds blow!
Babes of mine, it is time to go:

Up, dear hearts, and away!

And lo! the gray plumes covered them all,
Shoulder and breast and brow.

I felt the wind of their whirling flight:
Was it sea or sky? was it day or night?
It is always night-time now.

Dear, will you never relent, come back?
I loved you long and true.

O winged white wife, and our children three,
Of the wild wind's kin though ye surely be,
Are ye not of my kin too?

Ay, ye once were mine, and, till I forget,
Ye are mine for ever and aye,
Mine, wherever your wild wings go,
While shrill winds whistle across the snow

And the skies are blear and gray.

GRAHAM ROSAMUND TOMSON.

XXXVI

JOCK OF HAZELDEAN

"WHY weep ye by the tide, ladie?
Why weep ye by the tide ?

I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye sall be his bride :
And ye sall be his bride, ladie,

Sae comely to be seen

But aye she loot the tears down fa',
For Jock of Hazeldean.

"Now let this wilful grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale ;
Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And lord of Langley-dale;
His step is first in peaceful ha',

His sword in battle keen".

But aye she loot the tears down fa',
For Jock of Hazeldean.

"A chain o' gold ye sall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair;

Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair;

And you, the foremost o' them a',

Shall ride our forest queen'

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But aye she loot the tears down fa',
For Jock of Hazeldean.