"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, "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, "Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret all you can." She said, "Not so: but I will know "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 "Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare: She went by dale, and she went by down, The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Down stepped Lord Ronald from his tower: "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, 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, Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892] GLENKINDIE ABOUT Glenkindie and his man, But I have found the true at last, '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, It was love, as all men know, The love that brought him down, Now he wore not that collar of gold, His wondrous fair and rich mantle 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! O Rafe the page! O Rafe the page! We ne'er may see Glenkindie more, Glenkindie came within the hall, And gave him bread, and gave him wine, We set for him the guest's high chair, Our Dame herself would serve for him, And I for Rafe, perdie! But down he sat on a low, low stool, And leaned his back to the high chair, And turned his harp about. He turned it round, he stroked the strings, He put his mouth to the sounding-board 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, And the second stroke he strack that day, The third stroke that he strack that day, The fourth stroke that he strack that day, 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, Then all at once we left that trance, We clasped each other's hands and vowed Soon he rose up and Rafe rose too, He drank wine and broke bread; He clasped his hands with our trembling Dame, They went,-Alack and lack-a-day! I followed them all down the floor, To touch his cheek, to touch his hand, But I knew such was not for me. They went straight from the door; We saw them fade within the mist, 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. |