The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

Father was killed the year before,
When the Gordons raided the town one day,
And now we were sitting in grief once more,
For the Pest had taken mother away.

There were only three of us now alive,
Me and Willie and little Kate;
Katie was three, and Willie was five,
And I was the oldest, nearly eight.

None of our neighbours came to see
Whether we were alive or dead,
The Plague made all of them cowardly,
And they passed our door with a look of dread.

580

But we had an aunt in Elgin town,
A childless woman, and well to do,
Who was fain to have Willie once for her own,
To brighten the days that lonely grew.

But though we were poor, and it was ill
To win bread for us, and keep us trim,
Mother still clung to her little Will,
And never could bear to part with him.

I saw we must go to Auntie, now;
But the way was long, and the days were hot,
And thieves were on every road, I trow,
And the Plague was in every likely spot.

Yet go we must, so I went and slid
My hand into the crock, where lay
A little purse which mother had hid,
She told me, against a rainy day.

It was not much, but I thought by wit
And thrift and carefulness how to spend,
If the thieves on the road did not come at it,
It would carry us on to our journey's end.

Then, having seen to the children's food,
I told them we would as pilgrims go,
And fare for a while in field and wood
Where the little birds sing, and the daisies grow.

Merry they were these words to hear,
And oh so gaily they questioned me;
Would I build them a nest like the dainty birds,
And rock them to sleep on a swinging tree?

They would hunt the butterflies in the sun,
And for the yellow bee's byke would quest,
And watch how the rabbits sport and run,
And the pewits flutter to hide their nest.

It was early morning still when we
Left the pest-stricken town behind;
Blithe was the blue of the summer sea,
And sweet the breath of the morning wind.

When we came to the Don, we had to go
Along by its side, and across the bridge
That spans the black water, deep and slow,
With bonnie Balgownie upon the ridge.

By this time Katie had weary grown,
So I carried her on my back a while,
Will at my side came toddling on,
And we made in this manner a long Scots mile.

Not far from the road, a bourtree grew
That would shade us well from the noonday heat,
And a wee burn rippled on briskly through
The grass, where we bathed our hands and feet.

There on our bread and milk we dined,
Blithe as the glad birds on the tree,
Which picked up the crumbs that we left behind,
As we waited a little way off to see.

That night, low down among pleasant broom,
In a little hollow we snugly lay,
It was better far than a small close room,
And we slept till long past break of day.

581

Sweet was our bed, and our slumber sweet,
And sweet the breath of hay-scented air;
So I said to the little ones it was meet
That Pilgrims should gather for morning prayer.

Mother had done this every day,
For she said that it made her heart feel strong
To read of the new and living way,
And to sing God's praise in a God-given song.

Some verses then of the Book we read,
And sang together the Shepherd Psalm,
And we all knelt down on the grass, and said
The children's prayer, and were meek and calm.

A short way off I could see a row
Of turf-built huts by the roadside plain,
And hurried me off with speed to know
If milk could be got for the love of gain.

But outside the clachan I heard a cow
Straining her tether, and whisking her tail,
And I said to myself, as I heard her low,
She is waiting the maid and the milking pail.

Straightway into the byre I ran—
I had learnt before with cows to deal—
The milk came free, and I filled my can,
But I left a coin, for I would not steal.

Our fare was good, and we rose to go'
Not through the village, but round about
Among fields where daisies and butter-cups grow,
And we pelted each other with laugh and shout.

To the ford of Ythan we came ere night,
And close to my bosom wee Katie I drew,
Willie held on to my garments tight,
And so together we waded through.

But into Ellon we might not go,
Though the little ones now were weary grown,
They drove us away with a threat or a blow,
For the dread of the plague was in every town.

At a cottage, a good mile off, I spied
A woman sad with a kindly face,
And “O my bonnie, wee bairn,” she cried,
As she lifted up Kate in a fond embrace.

My baby was just like her, she said,
With the sunny face, and the curly pow,
But she lies in the kirkyard cold and dead,
And oh, but my heart is empty now.

She made us food, and she bade us eat,
She cheered our hearts which were sunken low,
She gave to us also store of meat,
And told us truly the way to go.

That night we lay in a warm hay-rick,
And slept till the sun was high above,
And said our prayer in the morning air
With hearts that were full of peace and love.

Another day, and another yet
Passed as we cheerily fared along,
Sometimes racing a little bit,
Sometimes singing a little song.

That was the last of our happy times,
For now to a hamlet I must run,
That lay low down among sickly limes,
To buy us food, for our bread was done.

582

I left the little ones on a bank
With wild thyme and pansies their laps to fill;
The air was hot and heavy and dank,
Yet it gave me somehow a shivering chill.

And when I came to the hamlet, lo!
An awful silence held the street,
Which smote my heart with a boding of woe;
But I said we must have bread to eat.

There were no children out at play,
No women were sitting on step or stair,
Hammer and saw in silence lay,
And there rose no smoke in the sultry air.

There was no gleam of the red peat fires,
No careful mothers had left their bed,
The cattle were moaning in the byres,
And the rats in the gutters lay dying or dead.

Never a dog in the place did bark,
Never a caged bird tried to sing,
All the windows were blind and dark,
And a horror lay brooding on everything.

Only a shambling idiot there
Along the causeway came stumbling on,
And cried with a voice of dull despair,
“Dead, dead! all of them dead and gone.”

Then I turned in terror, and ran with speed
To the bank where I left the bairns at play,
For I felt as if death was in every breath,
And I must get Katie and Willie away.

I told them there was a Dragon there
Down in the hamlet among the trees,
And his breath had poisoned the wholesome air,
And he could devour us all with ease.

We must not go near it, for our lives,
But hurry away to some happier spot,
Where we could break our fast, and make
Sport of the Dragon who found us not.

We took to a path that crossed a moor,
And there for a while we lost our way;
But the air on the moor was clear and pure,
And we fed on ripe cranberries well that day.

At night we lay in a woodland shed
Made of pine branches loosely bound;
The deer lay near on their bracken bed,
And the fox slunk past on his nightly round.

I could not sleep, and when morning broke,
And the light wind whispered among the trees,
And the little ones from their dreams awoke,
They were heavy and fractious and ill to please.

I told them stories, and laughed and sang,
And said in an hour they should eat of the best:
And I showed them how lightly the wild deer sprang
Up to their feet from their bracken nest.

So then they began to leap and run,
And toss their heads, as if they too bore
Branching horns upon forehead dun,
And we took to the weary road once more.

583

Yet did my heaviness still abide
All through the hours of that day of pain;
I had been so careful their steps to guide
Far from the Pest, was it all in vain?

Willie grew better, but little Kate
Fevered more as the sun rose high,
And folk on the road that we, now and then, met
Took to the far side, and hurried by.

And so our sweet little Katie died
That night as the stars came forth once more,
Lying low on my lap, she sighed,
“I'm coming, mother,” and all was o'er.

And weeping low, and wailing loud,
We scraped a shallow grave off the way,
And there, without coffin or sheet or shroud,
Left her alone till the Judgment Day.

What followed after I hardly know,
It is blurred with sorrow, and all confused;
We went on still, but our pace was slow,
And sometimes grossly we were abused.

One day a sturdy beggar whined
For money, he said, to buy him food,
Though I noticed, myself, that the rogue had dined
Better a deal than ever we could.

Therefore I would not give him aught,
And he took from his girdle a gully knife,
And held its point against Willie's throat,
Swearing that straight he would have his life.

There was no help near; so I took out my purse,
Which he snatched from my hand, and all that I had;
It was not much, and that made him curse,
And vow that the coins were false and bad.

What should we do now, robbed of our all?
We could not beg, and we would not steal;
We were among strangers, children small,
And I hardly could either think or feel.

All through the night I lay awake,
And tossed on the sun-baked hardened sod;
And prayed though it seemed as my heart would break,
And I got no farther than just “O God!”

But suddenly came this thought to me, Lord,
When Thy disciples were walking with Thee
Through cornfields, hearkening to Thy word,
And they were an-hungered too, as we,

They plucked the ears of corn, and ate,
And Thou didst never their act forbid;
And may not we now, in like sore strait
Do as Thy servants that day did?

That gave me light then, and as we walked
By the great fields of yellow corn,
We munched the milky groats, and talked
Good words, for it was the Sabbath morn.

584

I thought it right too that we should go
With others to worship God, and pray;
And it did us good, I am sure, although
We mostly slept in the kirk that day.

And ere had sunk that Sabbath sun
We came to Elgin town at last,
And now our pilgrimage was done,
And all our troubles were overpast.

Auntie, it seemed, was known to all,
And they said I could not fail to find
Her house where it stood by the Cloister wall,
With the great Cathedral just behind.

Humbly I knocked at the big oak door,
For it was a stately house to see,
And I, in my fear, did tremble sore
Lest she might be ashamed of me.

Not many minutes we had to wait,
And when she came to us, all I said
Was, “Auntie, this is Willie, and Kate
Died on the road, and mother is dead.”

Kinder greeting could none have had;
Willie she clasped to her bosom, and wept,
Partly sorrowful, partly glad,
Meanwhile my hand in her own she kept.

There was nothing too dainty for us to eat,
Nothing too handsome for us to wear,
With her own hands she washed our feet,
And tenderly combed our matted hair.

When I told her the tale of our pilgrimage,
And how the thief took our purse away,
She uttered some words in a holy rage
Mother would never have let me say.

Soon our troubles were all forgot,
Yet not our sorrows, for when I think
Of mother and Katie, my heart is hot,
And in the night-watch I have tears to drink.

We have all we could wish of meat and drink;
But oh for the mother's guiding hand,
And the little one's smile, which was like a blink
Of sunshine to me in a weary land!