 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
612
LADY GRANGE
O the villain! to leave me here
On this desolate rock far out at sea,
Among red-shanked Celts, with their freckles and warts,
And gannets and kittiwakes, puffins and scarts,
Which are all that I have for company.
On this desolate rock far out at sea,
Among red-shanked Celts, with their freckles and warts,
And gannets and kittiwakes, puffins and scarts,
Which are all that I have for company.
Never a word of their Erse I know,
I might as well talk to the screaming gulls:
And the big waves crash on the rocks all day,
And growl through the night, like beasts of prey
Worrying over rib-bones and skulls.
I might as well talk to the screaming gulls:
And the big waves crash on the rocks all day,
And growl through the night, like beasts of prey
Worrying over rib-bones and skulls.
The poor folk mean to be kind in their way;
But I cannot breathe in their peatsmoked rooms,
Nor eat of their oily, ill-cooked food,
Nor sleep at night, for the vermin brood
You might sweep from the bed with their heather brooms.
But I cannot breathe in their peatsmoked rooms,
Nor eat of their oily, ill-cooked food,
Nor sleep at night, for the vermin brood
You might sweep from the bed with their heather brooms.
O my Lord Grange, I held you once
For a good man truly, with wit and sense:
But I know you now for a rogue ingrain,
And how can you ever show face again
Among men of honour and reverence?
For a good man truly, with wit and sense:
But I know you now for a rogue ingrain,
And how can you ever show face again
Among men of honour and reverence?
Four of your gillies, bare-legged loons,
Broke into my chamber, and bound me fast;
Gagged me, and carried me out of town,
Hither and thither, and up and down,
To land me here on this rock at last.
Broke into my chamber, and bound me fast;
Gagged me, and carried me out of town,
Hither and thither, and up and down,
To land me here on this rock at last.
But you dare not keep me always here;
I know the Mac Leod will set me free,
When he learns, as he shall, that a lady born
Lies on his desolate isle, forlorn,
Moaning her fate to the moaning sea.
I know the Mac Leod will set me free,
When he learns, as he shall, that a lady born
Lies on his desolate isle, forlorn,
Moaning her fate to the moaning sea.
What will he think of my Lord of Grange,
When the wrongs I have borne shall come to light?
And what will the rest of the Fifteen say
Of their brother Judge, when they have to lay
The Law down about him, and do me right?
When the wrongs I have borne shall come to light?
And what will the rest of the Fifteen say
Of their brother Judge, when they have to lay
The Law down about him, and do me right?
I have shielded him long, as a wife will do,
But now I will speak out all the truth;
He is come of a traitorous, viperous tribe,
And is falser and baser than tongue can describe,
Though his looks are so fair, and his tongue so smooth.
But now I will speak out all the truth;
He is come of a traitorous, viperous tribe,
And is falser and baser than tongue can describe,
Though his looks are so fair, and his tongue so smooth.
The hypocrite! think of him reading for hours
His Bible at nights, when the lamps come in,
While his madame creeps stealthily up the back stairs,
And hears him ere long at his evening prayers,
Loudly bewailing his load of sin.
His Bible at nights, when the lamps come in,
While his madame creeps stealthily up the back stairs,
And hears him ere long at his evening prayers,
Loudly bewailing his load of sin.
And then, too, he must have his prophet-maids,
Who reel off their dreams to him by the yard
In a dingy back-shop in the Potter-row,
To freshen his faith when it waxes low,
And to fool him out of a fine reward.
Who reel off their dreams to him by the yard
In a dingy back-shop in the Potter-row,
To freshen his faith when it waxes low,
And to fool him out of a fine reward.
We Chievellys are said to be rash and hot,
Ready enough with a word and a blow,
And their hands, I allow, have with blood been stained
Of some they have stabbed, and some they have brained,
But they count not a hypocrite yet that I know.
Ready enough with a word and a blow,
613
Of some they have stabbed, and some they have brained,
But they count not a hypocrite yet that I know.
But he! he's a hollow pretence all through,
There is nothing he will not deceive you about;
He lies to the Kirk in his pious words,
He lies to the King, and the Court, and the lords,
And he lied to me, till I found him out.
There is nothing he will not deceive you about;
He lies to the Kirk in his pious words,
He lies to the King, and the Court, and the lords,
And he lied to me, till I found him out.
Hear him sentence a witch to be burned,
Or a Border thief to be hanged for a cow,
What a God-fearing man you would take him for!
Yet I think that the country would profit more
If it were his own neck that should “rax the tow.”
Or a Border thief to be hanged for a cow,
What a God-fearing man you would take him for!
Yet I think that the country would profit more
If it were his own neck that should “rax the tow.”
And oh, the tasses of usquebagh!
And the gallons of potent wine he drinks!
And his nasty stories, and filthy jokes,
As he soaks his carcase, and slowly strokes
His great fat paunch, and leers and winks!
And the gallons of potent wine he drinks!
And his nasty stories, and filthy jokes,
As he soaks his carcase, and slowly strokes
His great fat paunch, and leers and winks!
Was ever a woman so vilely wed?
Was ever a wife abused like me?
Cast forth alone among gulls and seals,
And jabbering Celts, with their lines and creels,
And the dreary call of the moaning sea?
Was ever a wife abused like me?
Cast forth alone among gulls and seals,
And jabbering Celts, with their lines and creels,
And the dreary call of the moaning sea?
I cannot get rid of that moaning call;
Go where I may, it follows me still:
It rings in my ears the whole day long,
And haunts my dreams with its wailing song,
Till I wish there was something near to kill.
Go where I may, it follows me still:
It rings in my ears the whole day long,
And haunts my dreams with its wailing song,
Till I wish there was something near to kill.
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