No Lady Jane in silks and laces, How fair soever she might be, Could match the face--the nature's graces Of this poor, humble Marjorie: Her eyes they were baith mirk and merry, Her lire was as the lily fair, Her lips were redder than the cherry, And flaxen was her glossy hair.
Ye bucks who wear the coats silk-braided, With satin ribbons at your knee, And cambric ruffles starched and plaited, With cockèd bonnets all ajee, Who walk with mounted canes at even, Up and down so jauntilie, Ye would have given a blink of heaven For one sweet smile from Marjorie.
But Marjory's care was aye her minnie, And day by day she sat and span; Nor did she think it aught but sin aye, To bear the stare of gentleman: She doated on her own dear Willie, For dear to her fond heart was he, Who, though his sire was poor, yet still he Was far above the low degree.
It was aye said his father's father Did claim some Spanish pedigree, Which many well believed, the rather That he was not of our countrie: His skin was brown as nut of hazel, His eye was black as Scottish sloe, And all so bright that it would dazzle The eye that looked that eye into.
There came into his head a notion, Which wrought and wrought within his brain, That he would cross th' Atlantic Ocean, And seek the land of Spanish Main; And there amass a routh of treasure, And then come back with bosom leal To his own Marjory, and release her From rock and reel and spinning wheel.
Up spake the minnie--it did not please her That he should "gae sae far frae hame:" "Thou'lt reap less in yon Abiezer Than thou wilt glean in this Ephraim; For there's a proverb faileth never; A lintie safe within the hand, Though lean and lank, is better ever Than is a fat finch on the wand."
Then Marjory, with eye so tearful, Whispered in dark Willie's ear, "Thou wilt not go and leave me careful, Friendless, lanely, starving here; My minnie God hath gien a warning, And I can do nae mair than spin, And slowly, slowly comes the earning That with my wheel I daily win."
"Oh fear not, Marjory dear--content ye, Blackfriar John hath to me sworn, That man of God will kindly tent ye Until that I again return; And he has promised fair to write me Of how ye live and prosper twain, And I will faithfully requite ye With my true love to you again."
II.
Dark Willie took his sad departure, And left at home his Marjory dear To doubt and fear from every quarter, Weep--weeping sadly on the pier; And o'er the sea, all dangers scorning, And o'er the sea he boldly sailed, Until upon the fortieth morning The promised land at length he hailed.
Now! thou one of the fateful sisters That spins for man the silver thread, Spin one of gold that glints and glisters For one who stands in meikle need; Spin it quick and spin it finely, Till Willie's golden fortune's made, And send him back to Marjory kindly, Who spins at home for daily bread.
There was a rich old Spanish señor, Who bore dark Willie's Spanish name, And came to feel the kindly tenor Of plighted friendship's sacred claim: He gave his right hand to dark Willie, With shares of a great companie, Which sent forth goods far o'er the billow, In ships that sailed on every sea.
Don Pedro had an only daughter, The Donna Clara, passing fair, Who, when her sire took his departure, Would be her father's only heir: Her eyes, so like two sterns of even, Shining the murky clouds among, And black her ringlets as the raven, That o'er her marble shoulders hung.
Oh Willie! Willie! have thou care, man! And give unto thine heart a stay, For there are witcheries working there, man, May steal that heart of thine away. No need! to him blue eyes are glowing, To him most beautiful of all, No need! for flaxen hair is flowing To keep his loving heart in thrall.
III.
A year had passed, and he had written Of loving letters more than one, The while gold pieces still remitting All to holy Blackfriar John; Yet still no answer had he gotten; And as the days still passed away, He fell to musing, and deep thought on What had caused the strange delay.
What now to him those golden pieces That he so fastly now could earn? Ah, love like his gives no releases, However Clara's eyes might yearn; He wandered hither, wandered thither, By sad forebodings nightly tossed; He wandered now, he wandered ever, In mournful musing sadly lost.
But time would tell: there came a letter That filled his soul with dire dismay, And told him his dark fears' abettor, His Marjory's health had flown away: Even as the clay her cheek was paling, Her azure eyes were waxing dim, Her hair unkemp't, and loose, and trailing, And all for hopeless love of him.
Sad harbinger of things to harrow, Another came, ah! soon a day, To tell him his dear winsome marrow From this sad world had passed away. No more for him those eyes so merry, That were to him so sweet to see! No more those lips red as the cherry, That were to him so sweet to pree!
IV.
Alas! there are of things--we see them Without the aid of wizard's spell; But there are other things--we dree them, No art of wizard can foretell: Strange thing the heart where love has power, So tossed with joy or racked with pain! Dark Willie from that fatal hour Seemed fated ne'er to smile again.
In vain now Clara, sembling gladness, Plies the magic of her wile, To draw him off from his great sadness, And cheat him of a loving smile: The more her sympathy she tenders, The more he will by art defy All beauty which but contrast renders With his own dear lost Marjory.
V.
Now Time's big silent, solemn billow Rolls quietly on from year to year: Don Pedro lies on his green pillow, With love-lorn Clara sleeping near. But, ere he died, he did declare it His pleasure when his days were told, And Clara dead, with none to share it, Don William should heir all his gold.
Gift vain, oh vain! would wealth restore him His long-lost Marjory to his arms? Nay, would it wake and bring before him One only of her envied charms? No, it might cause another courtship, A love he could not now control: Great Mammon lured him to his worship, And lorded in his inmost soul.
What though ten years away had stolen? 'Twas not to him all weary time, Who every day was pleased to roll in The tempting Mammon's golden shrine. But when he laid him on his pillow, His fancy sought the farthest east, And conjured up some lonely willow That waved o'er her he loved the best.
Change still--a passion changed to pity! No other solace would he have-- A wish to see his native city, And sit and weep o'er Marjory's grave. To see that house, yea, buy the sheiling In that old wynd of St. Marie, A hermit there to live and dwell in, Then sleep beside his Marjorie.
VI.
Blow soft, ye winds, and tender-hearted This hermit waft to yonder shore, From which for sordid gold he parted Ten weary years and one before. Ho! there's the pier where last he left her, That dear, loved one, to weep alone, And for that love of gold bereft her Of all the pleasures she could own.
He's now within the ancient borough! He sought the well-known White Horse Inn, And there he laid him down in sorrow, Some strengthening confidence to win; Then up the street, with none to greet him, He held his sad and sorrowing way, When lo! who should be there to meet him But Friar John?--who slunk away.
Strange thing! but lo! the sacred sheiling In that old wynd of St. Marie-- The window where with mirthful feeling He tap't the sign to Marjorie. He sought the lobby dark and narrow, Groped gently for the well-known door, Where he might hear of his winsome marrow, Who died there many years before.
He drew the latch, and quietly entered; There some one spinning merrilie! A faltering question then he ventured: "My name, kind sir, is Marjorie." "Great God!" he cried, in voice all trembling, And sank upon a crazy chair, And tried to trace a strange resembling In her who sat beside him there.
A maiden she still young and buxom, Nor change but what ten years may bring, Her hair still of the glossy flaxen, Her eyes still blue as halcyon's wing. He traced the lines, he knew each feature Of all her still unfaded charms; And now this long lost, worshipped creature Is locked fast in his loving arms.
"Look up! look up! thy fear controlling, It is thy Willie's voice that calls:" She oped her eyes--now wildly rolling All o'er his face the lustrous balls-- "It is, it is---oh, powers most holy! And I had heard that thou wert dead; And here, in spite of melancholy, I still spin for my daily bread."
"'Twas Friar John wrote me a letter, He said he saw thee on thy bier; And sore I mourned with tears, oh bitter! For one I ever loved so dear." "Oh, wae befa' that wicked friar, Who sairly tried my love to gain; Wae, wae befa' that wicked liar, Wha brought on us sae meikle pain."
Then Willie said, with tears encumbered, "Cheer up, cheer up, dear Marjorie, For I have gold in sums unnumbered, And it shall all belong to thee." "And art thou true, and still unmarried? And is thy bodie not a seim? And is it true my ears have carried, Or is it a' a lying dream?"