So, let his name through Europe ring

A man of mean estate

Who died, as firm as Sparta's king,

Because his soul was great.

F. H. Doyle

XCV

THE SANDS OF DEE

'O Mary, go and call the cattle home,-
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home
Across the sands o' Dee!'

The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam,
And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see ;

The blinding mist came down and hid the land— And never home came she.

'Oh, is it weed or fish or floating hair-
A tress o' golden hair,

O' drownéd maiden's hair,
Above the nets, at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Across the stakes on Dee.'

They row'd her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel crawling foam,

The cruel hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea:

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,

Across the sands o' Dee.

C. Kingsley

XCVI

LOST ON SCHIHALLION

Shepherd

Oh wherefore cam ye here, Ailie?
What has brocht you here?

Late and lane on this bleak muir and eerie,

A wild place this to be

For a body frail as ye,

Wi' the nicht and yon storm-clouds sae near ye.

Ailie

Oh dinna drive me back,

I canna leave my track,

Though nicht and the tempest should close o'er me. The warld I've left behind,

And there's nocht I care to find

Save Schihallion and high heaven that are afore me.

Shepherd

Oh speak nae word o' driving,
But wherefore art thou striving

For the thing that canna be, puir Ailie?
Ye had better far return,

Where the peat-fires bienly burn,
And your friends wait ye down at Bohalie.

Ailie

The warld below is cauld and bare,
Up yonder's the place for prayer;
There the vision on my soul will break clearer,
My friends will little miss me,

And there's only One can bless me,
To Him on the hill-top I'll be nearer.

Shepherd

Schihallion's sides sae solid and steep,
And his snow-drifts heap on heap,

What mortal would dream the nicht o' scaling?

Gin the heart pray below,

From nae mountain-top will go

Your prayer to heaven with cry more prevailing.

Ailie

Weak am I and frail, I ken,

But there's might that's not of men To bear me up-sae na mair entreat me ; Be the snow-drifts ne'er sae deep,

I have got a tryst to keep

Wi' the angels that up yonder wait to meet me.

The Shepherd home is gone,

And she went on alone;

Night cam, but she cam not to Bohalie ;
They socht her west and east

Neist day and then the neist
On Schihallion's head they found puir Ailie.

Stiff with ice her limbs and hair,
And her hands fast closed in prayer,
And her white face to heaven meekly turning ;
Down they bore her to her grave,

And they knew her soul was safe

In the home for which sae lang she had been yearning.

J. C. Shairt

XCVII

THE BALLAD OF KEITH OF RAVELSTON

The murmur of the mourning ghost

That keeps the shadowy kine ;—

Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

Ravelston, Ravelston,

The merry path that leads
Down the golden morning hill
And through the silver meads;

Ravelston, Ravelston,

The stile beneath the tree,

The maid that kept her mother's kine,
The song that Sang she!

She sang her song, she kept her kine,
She sat beneath the thorn,

When Andrew Keith of Ravelston
Rode thro' the Monday morn.

His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,
His belted jewels shine !--

Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

Year after year, where Andrew came,
Comes evening down the glade;
And still there sits a moonshine ghost
Where sat the sunshine maid.

Her misty hair is faint and fair,
She keeps the shadowy kine ;-

Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!

I lay my hand upon the stile,
The stile is lone and cold,
The burnie that goes babbling by
Says nought that can be told.

Yet, stranger! here, from year to year,
She keeps her shadowy kine;—

Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

She makes her immemorial moan,
She keeps her shadowy kine ;--
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

S. Dobell

XCVIII

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS When the young hand of Darnley lock'd in hers Had knit her to her northern doom-amid The spousal pomp of flags and trumpeters, Her fate look'd forth and was no longer hid A jealous brain beneath a southern crown Wrought spells upon her; from afar she felt The waxen image of her fortunes melt Beneath the Tudor's eye, while the grim frown Of her own lords o'ermaster'd her sweet smilesAnd nipt her growing gladness, till she mourn'd, And sank, at last, beneath their cruel wiles; But, ever since, all generous hearts have burn'd To clear her fame, yea, very babes have yearn'd Over this saddest story of the isles.

XCIX

C. Tennyson-Turner

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN

Come, dear children, let us away;
Down and away below!

Now my brothers call from the bay,
Now the great winds shoreward blow,
Now the salt tides seaward flow;
Now the wild white horses play,
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
Children dear, let us away!

This way, this way!

Call her once before you goCall once yet!

In a voice that she will know : 'Margaret! Margaret!'

Children's voices should be dear

(Call once more) to a mother's ear;
Children's voices, wild with pain-
Surely she will come again!
Call her once and come away;