"The old earl's daughter died at my breast;

I speak the truth, as I live by bread! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead."

"Falsely, falsely have ye done,

O mother," she said, "if this be true,
To keep the best man under the sun
So many years from his due."

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife.”

"If I'm a beggar born," she said,
"I will speak out, for I dare not lie.
Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold,
And fling the diamond necklace by."

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret all you can."

She said, "Not so: but I will know
If there be any faith in man."

"Nay now, what faith?" said Alice the nurse, "The man will cleave unto his right." "And he shall have it," the lady replied, "Though I should die to-night."

"Yet give one kiss to your mother dear
Alas, my child, I sinned for thee."
"O mother, mother, mother," she said,

"Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear,
My mother dear, if this be so,
And lay your hand upon my head,
And bless me, mother, ere I go."

She clad herself in a russet gown,

She was no longer Lady Clare:

She went by dale, and she went by down,
With a single rose in her hair.

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought
Leaped up from where she lay,
Dropped her head in the maiden's hand,
And followed her all the way.

Down stepped Lord Ronald from his tower:
"O Lady Clare, you shame your worth!
Why come you dressed like a village maid,
That are the flower of the earth?"

"If I come dressed like a village maid,

I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born," she said, And not the Lady Clare.”

"Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald,
"For I am yours in word and in deed.
Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald,
"Your riddle is hard to read."

O, and proudly stood she up!

Her heart within her did not fail; She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale.

He laughed a laugh of merry scorn:

He turned and kissed her where she stood:

"If you are not the heiress born,

And I," said he, "the next in blood

"If you are not the heiress born,
And I,” said he, “the lawful heir,
We two will wed to-morrow morn,
And you shall still be Lady Clare."

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

GLENKINDIE

ABOUT Glenkindie and his man,
A false ballant hath long been writ;
Some bootless loon had written it,
Upon a bootless plan:

But I have found the true at last,
And here it is, so hold it fast!

'Twas made by a kind damosel

Who loved him and his man right well:

Glenkindie, best of harpers, came

Unbidden to our town;

And he was sad, and sad to see,
For love had worn him down.

It was love, as all men know,

The love that brought him down,
The hopeless love for the King's daughter,
The dove that heired a crown.

Now he wore not that collar of gold,
His dress was forest green,

His wondrous fair and rich mantle
Had lost its silvery sheen.

But still by his side walked Rafe, his boy,

In goodly cramoisie:

Of all the boys that ever I saw,

The goodliest boy was he.

O Rafe the page! O Rafe the page!
Ye stole the heart frae me:

O Rafe the page! O Rafe the page!
I wonder where ye be;

We ne'er may see Glenkindie more,
But may we never see thee?

Glenkindie came within the hall,
We set him on the dais,

And gave him bread, and gave him wine,
The best in all the place.

We set for him the guest's high chair,
And spread the naperie:

Our Dame herself would serve for him,

And I for Rafe, perdie!

But down he sat on a low, low stool,
And thrust his long legs out,

And leaned his back to the high chair,

And turned his harp about.

He turned it round, he stroked the strings,
He touched each tirling-pin,

He put his mouth to the sounding-board
And breathed his breath therein.

And Rafe sat over against his face,

And looked at him wistfullie:

I almost grat ere he began,

They were so sad to see.

The very first stroke he strack that day,
We all came crowding near;

And the second stroke he strack that day,
We all were smit with fear.

The third stroke that he strack that day,
Full fain we were to cry;

The fourth stroke that he strack that day,
We thought that we would die.

No tongue can tell how sweet it was,

How far, and yet how near,

We saw the saints in Paradise,

And bairnies on their bier.

And our sweet Dame saw her good lord

She told me privilie

She saw him as she saw him last,

On his ship upon the sea.

Anon he laid his little harp by,

He shut his wondrous eyes;

We stood a long time like dumb things,
Stood in a dumb surprise.

Then all at once we left that trance,
And shouted where we stood;

We clasped each other's hands and vowed
We would be wise and good.

Soon he rose up and Rafe rose too,

He drank wine and broke bread;

He clasped his hands with our trembling Dame,
But never a word he said.

They went,-Alack and lack-a-day!
They went the way they came.

I followed them all down the floor,
And oh but I had drouth

To touch his cheek, to touch his hand,
To kiss Rafe's velvet mouth!

But I knew such was not for me.

They went straight from the door;

We saw them fade within the mist,
And never saw them more.

William Bell Scott [1811-1890]

"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX"

[16-]

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;

"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;

"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through;

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,

And into the midnight we galloped abreast.