The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan :: :: University of Virginia Library

O Widow Mysie, smiling, soft, and sweet!
O Mysie, buxom as a sheaf of wheat!
O Mysie, Widow Mysie, late Monroe,
Foul fall the traitor-face that served me so!
O Mysie Love, a second time a bride,
I pity him who tosses at your side—
Who took, by honied smiles and speech misled,
A beauteous bush of brambles to his bed!

You saw her at the ploughing match, you ken,
Ogling the whisky and the handsome men:
The smiling woman in the Paisley shawl,
Plump as a partridge, and as broad as tall,
With ribbons, bows, and jewels fair to see,
Bursting to blossom like an apple-tree,
Ay, that was Mysie,—now two score and ten,
Now Madam Love of Bungo in the Glen!
Ay, that was Mysie, tho' her looks no more
Dazzle with beams of brightness as of yore!—
The tiny imps that nested in her eyes,
Winning alike the wanton and the wise,
Have ta'en the flame that made my heart forlorn
Back to the nameless place, where they were born.

O years roll on, and fair things fade and pine!—
Twelve sowings since and I was twenty-nine:
With ploughman's coat on back, and plough in hand,
I wrought at Bungo on my father's land,
And all the neighbour-lassies, stale or fair,
Tried hard to net my father's son and heir.
My heart was lightsome, cares I had but few,
I climb'd the mountains, drank the mountain dew,
Could sit a mare as mettlesome as fire,
Could put the stone with any in the shire,

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Had been to college, and had learn'd to dance,
Could blether thro' my nose like folks in France,
And stood erect, prepared for friend or foe,
Whisker'd, well-featured, tight from top to toe.

‘A marriageable man, for every claim
Of lawful wedlock fitted,’ you exclaim?
But, sir, of all that men enjoy or treasure,
Wedlock, I fancied, was the driest pleasure.
True; seated at some pretty peasant's side,
Under the slanted sheaves I loved to hide,
Lilting the burthen of a Scottish tune,
To sit, and kiss perchance, and watch the moon,
Pillow'd on breasts like beds of lilies white
Heaving and falling in the pale moonlight;
But rather would have sat with crimson face
Upon the cutty-stool with Jean or Grace,
Than buy in kirk a partner with the power
To turn the mother-milk of Freedom sour.

I loved a comely face, as I have said,
But sharply watch'd the maids who wish'd to wed,—
I knew their arts, was not so cheaply won,
They loved my father's Siller, not his Son.
Still, laughing in my sleeve, I here and there
Took liberties allow'd my father's heir,
Stole kisses from the comeliest of the crew,
And smiled upon the virgin nettles too.
So might the game have daunder'd on till this,
And lasted till my father went to bliss,—
But Widow Mysie came, as sly as sin,
And settled in the ‘William Wallace’ Inn.

The Inn had gone to rack and loss complete
Since Simpson drown'd himself in whisky neat;
And poor Jock Watt, who follow'd in his shoes,
Back'd by the sourest, gumliest of shrews,
(The whisky vile, the water never hot,
The very sugar sour'd by Mistress Watt,)
Had found the gossips, grumbling, groaning, stray
To Sandie Kirkson's, half a mile away.
But hey! at Widow Mysie's rosy face,
A change came o'er the spirits of the place,
The fire blazed high, the shining pewter smiled,
The glasses glitter'd bright, the water boil'd,
Grand was the whisky, Highland born and fine,
And Mysie, Widow Mysie, was divine!

O sweet was Widow Mysie, sweet and sleek!
The peach's blush and down were on her cheek,
And there were dimples in her tender chin
For Cupids small to hunt for kisses in;
Dark-glossy were her ringlets, each a prize,
And wicked, wicked were her beaded eyes;
Plump was her figure, rounded and complete,
And tender were her tiny tinkling feet!
All this was nothing to the warmth and light
That seem'd to hover o'er her day and night;—
Where'er she moved, she seem'd to soothe and please
With pleasant murmurs as of humble-bees;
Her small plump hands on public missions flew
Like snow-white doves that flying croon and coo;
Her feet fell patter, cheep, like little mice;
Her breath was soft with sugar and with spice;
And when her finger—so!—your hand would press,
You tingled to the toes with loveliness,
While her dark eyes, with lessening zone in zone,
Flasht sunlight on the mirrors of your own,
Dazzling your spirit with a wicked sense
That seem'd more heavenly-born than innocence!

Sure one so beauteous and so sweet had graced
And cheer'd the scene, where'er by Fortune placed;
But with a background of the pewter bright,
Whereon the fire cast gleams of rosy light,
With jingling glasses round her, and a scent
Of spice and lemon-peel where'er she went,
What wonder she should to the cronies seem
An angel, in a cloud of toddy steam?
What wonder, while I sipt my glass one day,
She, and the whisky, stole my heart away?

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She was not loath!—for, while her comely face
Shone full on other haunters of the place,
From me she turn'd her head and peep'd full sly
With just the corner of her roguish eye,
And blush'd so bright my toddy seem'd to glow
Beneath the rosy blush and sweeter grow;
And once, at my request, she took a sip,
And nectar'd all the liquor with her lip.
‘Take heed! for Widow Mysie's game is plain,’
The gossips cried, but warn'd me all in vain:
Like sugar melting at the toddy's kiss,
My very caution was dissolved in bliss,
Fear died for ever with a mocking laugh,
And Mysie's kisses made his epitaph.

Kisses? Ay, faith, they follow'd score on score,
After the first I stole behind the door,
And lingered softly on these lips of mine
Like Massic whisky drunk by bards divine.
But O! the glow, the rapture, and the glee,
That night she let me draw her on my knee—
When bliss thrill'd from her to my fingertips,
Then eddied wildly to my burning lips,
From which she drank it back with kisses fain,
Then blush'd and glow'd and breathed it back again—
Till, madden'd with the ecstasy divine,
I clasp'd her close and craved her to be mine,
And thrilling, panting, struggling up to fly,
She breathed a spicy ‘Yes’ with glistening eye,
And while my veins grew fire, my heart went wild,
Fell like a sunbeam on my heart, and smiled!

The deed thus done, I hied me home, you say,
And rued my folly when I woke next day?
Nay! all my business was to crave and cry
That Heaven would haste the holy knot to tie,
Though ‘Mysie lass,’ I said, ‘my gold and gear
Are small, and will be small for many a year,
Since father is but fifty years and three,
And tough as cobbler's wax, though spare and wee!’
‘Ah, Tam,’ she sigh'd, ‘there's nothing there to rue—
The gold, the gear, that Mysie wants is you!’
And brightly clad, with kisses thrilling through me,
Clung like a branch of trembling blossoms to me.

I found my father making up his books,
With yellow eyes and penny-hunting looks.
‘Father,’ I said, ‘I'm sick of single life,
And will, if you are willing, take a wife.’
‘Humph,’ snapt my father, ‘(six and four are ten,
And ten are twenty)—Marry? who? and when?’
‘Mistress Monroe,’ I said, ‘that keeps the inn.’
At that he shrugg'd his shoulders with a grin:
‘I guess'd as much! the tale has gone the round!
Ye might have stay'd till I was underground!
But please yourself—I've nothing to refuse,
Choose where you will—you're old enough to choose;
But mind,’ he added, blinking yellow eye,
‘I'll handle my own guineas till I die!
Frankly I own, you might have chosen worse,
Since you have little siller in your purse—
The Inn is thriving, if report be true,
And Widow Mysie has enough for two!’

‘And if we wait till he has gone his way,
Why, Mysie, I'll be bald, and you'll be gray,’
I said to Mysie, laughing at her side.
‘Oh, let him keep his riches,’ she replied,
‘He's right! there's plenty here for you and me!
May he live long; and happy may he be!’
‘O Mysie, you're an angel,’ I return'd,
With eye that glisten'd dewily and yearn'd.
Then running off she mixed, with tender glee,
A glass of comfort—sat her on my knee—
‘Come, Tam!’ she cried, ‘who cares a fig for wealth—
Ay, let him keep it all, and here's his health!’
And added, shining brightly on my breast,
‘Ah, Tam, the siller's worthless—Love is best!’

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O Widow Mysie, wert thou first sincere,
When tender accents trembled on mine ear,
Like bees that o'er a flower will float and fleet,
And ere they light make murmurs soft and sweet?
Or was the light that render'd me unwise,
Guile's—the sly Quaker with the downcast eyes?
O Widow Mysie, not at once are we
Taught the false scripture of Hypocrisy!
Even pink Selfishness has times, I know,
When thro' his fat a patriot's feelings glow;
Falsehood first learns her nature with a sigh,
And nurses bitterly her first-born Lie!

Days pass'd; and I began, to my amaze,
To see a colder light in Mysie's gaze;
Once when, with arm about her softly wound,
I snatch'd a kiss, she snapt and flusht and frown'd;
But oftener her face a shadow wore,
Such as had never darken'd it before;
I spoke of this, I begg'd her to explain,—
She tapt my cheek, and smiled, and mused again.
But, in the middle of my love-alarm,
The Leech's watch went ‘tick’ at Bungo Farm;
My father sicken'd, and his features cold
Retain'd the hue, without the gleam, of gold.

Then Mysie soften'd, sadden'd, and would speak
Of father's sickness with a dewy cheek;
When to the Inn I wander'd. unto me,
Lightly, as if she walk'd on wool, came she,
And ‘Is he better?’ ‘Is he changed at all?’
And ‘Heaven help him!’ tenderly would call.
‘So old—so ill—untended and alone!
He is your father, Tam,—and seems my own!’
And musing stood, one little hand of snow
Nestling and fluttering on my shoulder—so!
But father sicken'd on, and then one night,
When we were sitting in the ingle-light,
‘O Tam,’ she cried, ‘I have it!—I should ne'er
Forgive myself for staying idly here,
While he, your father, lack'd in his distress
The love, the care, a daughter's hands possess—
He knows our troth—he will not say me nay;
But let me nurse him as a daughter may,
And he may live, for darker cases mend,
To bless us and to join us in the end!’
‘But, Mysie—’ ‘Not a word, the thing is plann'd,’
She said, and stopt my mouth with warm white hand.
She went with gentle eyes that very night,
Stole to the chamber like a moonbeam white;
My father scowl'd at first, but soon was won—
The keep was carried, and the deed was done.

O Heaven! in what strange Enchanter's den
Learnt she the spells wherewith she conquer'd inen?
When to that chamber she had won her way,
The old man's cheek grew brighter every day;
She smooth'd the pillows underneath his head,
She brought sweet music roundabout his bed,
She made the very mustard-blisters glow
With fire as soft as youthful lovers know,
The very physic bottles lost their gloom
And seem'd like little fairies in the room,
The very physic, charm'd by her, grew fine,
Rhubarb was nectar, castor-oil was wine.
Half darkly, dimly, yet with secret flame
That titillated up and down his frame,
The grim old man lay still, with hungry eye
Watching her thro' the room on tiptoe fly;—
She turn'd her back—his cheek grew dull and dim!
She turn'd her face—its sunshine fell on him!
Better and better every day grew he,
Colder and colder grew his nurse to me,
Till up he leapt, with fresher new life astir,
And only sank again—to kneel to her!

‘Mysie!’ I cried, with flushing face, too late
Stung by the pois'nous things whose names I hate,
Which in so many household fires flit free,
The salamanders, Doubt and Jealousy,—

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‘Mysie!’—and then, in accents fierce and bold,
Demanded why her looks had grown so cold?
She trembled, flush'd, a tear was in her eye,
She dropt her gaze, and heaved a balmy sigh,
Then spoke with tender pauses low and sad:
Had I a heart? She knew full well I had.
Could I without a conscience-qualm behold
My white-hair'd father, weak, untended, old,
Who had so very short a time to live,
Reft of the peacea woman's hands can give?
‘Mysie!’ I shriek'd, with heart that seem'd to rend,
With glaring eyes, and every hair on end.
Clasping her little hands, ‘O Tam,’ she cried,
‘Save for my help your father would have died;
Bliss! to have saved your filial heart that sorrow!
But for my help, why, he may die to-morrow.
Go, Tam!—this weak warm heart I cannot trust
To utter more—be generous! be just!
I long have felt—I say it in humility—
A sort of—kind of—incompatibility!
Go, Tam! Be happy! Bless you! Wed another!
And I shall ever love you!—as a mother!’

Sir, so it was. Stunn'd, thunder-stricken, wild,
I raved, while father trembled, Mysie smiled;
O'er all the country-side the scandal rang,
And ere I knew, the bells began to clang;—
And shutting eyes and stopping ears, as red
As ricks on fire, I blushing turn'd and fled.
Twelve years have pass'd since I escaped the net,
And father, tough as leather, lingers yet,
A gray mare rules, the laugh has come to me,
I sport, and thank my stars that I am free!
If Mysie likes her bargain ill or well,
Only the Deil, who won it her, can tell;
But she, who could so well his arts pursue,
May learn a trick to cheat her Teacher too.