Classic Poem

PART IV.

Sweet as R OSEBANK'S woods and river
Cool when simmer's sunbeams dart,
Came ilk word, and cooled the fever
That lang burned at W ILLIE'S heart.

Silent stept he on, poor fallow!
Listening to his guide before,
O'er green know and flowery hallow,
Till they reached the cot-house door.

Laigh it was; yet sweet, tho' humble!
Deckt wi' honeysuckle round;
Clear below Esk's waters rumble,
Deep glens murmuring back the sound.

Melville's towers, sae white and stately,
Dim by gloamin glint to view;
Through Lasswade's dark woods keek sweetly
Skies sae red, and lift sae blue!

Entering now, in transport mingle
Mother fond and happy wean,
Smiling round a canty ingle,
Bleazing on a clean hearth-stane.

" Soldier, welcome! — come, be cheerie! —
Here ye'se rest, and tak your bed —
Faint, — waes me! ye seem, and weary,
Pale's your cheek, sae lately red! "

" Changed I am, " sighed W ILLIE till her;
" Changed, nae doubt, as changed can be!
Yet, alas! does JeanIE M ILLER
Nought o' W ILLIE G AIRLACE see! "

Hae ye markt the dews o' morning
Glittering in the sunny ray,
Quickly fa', when, without warning,
Rough blasts came, and shook the spray?

Hae ye seen the bird fast fleeing
Drap, whan pierced by death mair fleet?
Then, see Jean , wi' colour deeing,
Senseless drap at W ILLIE'S feet!

After three lang years affliction,
(A' their waes now hushed to rest,)
Jean ance mair, in fond affection,
Clasps her W ILLIE to her breast:

Tells him a' her sad — sad sufferings!
How she wandered, starving poor,
Gleaning Pity's scanty offerings
Wi' three bairns frae door to door!

How she served — and toiled — and fevered,
Lost her health, and syne her bread!
How that grief, whan scarce recovered,
Took her brain, and turned her head!

How she wandered round the county
Mony a live-lang night her lane!
Till at last an angel's bounty
Brought her senses back again:

Gae her meat, — and claise, — and siller;
Gae her bairnie's wark and lear;
Lastly, gae this cot-house till her,
Wi' four sterling pounds a-year!

W ILLIE , harkening, wiped his een aye;
" Oh! what sins hae I to rue!
But say, wha's this angel, JeanIE ? "
" Wha, " quo' JeanIE , " but B UCCLEUGH ! "

Here, supported, cheered, and cherished,
Nine blest months, I've lived, and mair;
Seen these infants clad and nourished!
Dried my tears; and tint despair;

Sometimes serving, sometimes spinning,
Light the lanesome hours gae round;
Lightly, too, ilk quarter rinning
Brings yon angel's helping pound!

" Eight pounds mair, " cried W ILLIE , fondly,
" Eight pounds mair will do nae harm!
And, O Jean ! gin friends were kindly,
Twall pounds soon might stock a farm.

" There, ance mair, to thrive by plewin,
Freed frae a' that peace destroys,
Idle waste and drunken ruin!
W AR , and a' its murdering joys! "

Thrice he kissed his lang-lost treasure!
Thrice ilk bairn; but cou'dna speak:
Tears of love, and hope, and pleasure
Streamed in silence down his cheek!