The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd Centenary Edition. With a Memoir of the Author, by the Rev. Thomas Thomson ... Poems and Life. With Many Illustrative Engravings [by James Hogg] |
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| 5. | CANTO FIFTH. The Christening.
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
CANTO FIFTH. The Christening.
ARGUMENT.
I gat thee in my father's bowerWi' muckle shame and sin,
An' brought thee up in good greenwood
Aneath the heavy rain.
Oft hae I by thy cradle sat,
An' fondly seen thee sleep—
Gae rowe my young son in the silk,
An' lay my lady as white as the milk.
An' lay my lady as white as the milk.
Old Strevline, thou stand'st beauteous on the height,
Amid thy peaceful vales of every dye,
Amid bewildered waves of silvery light
That maze the mind and toil the raptured eye.
Thy distant mountains, spiring to the sky,
Seem blended with the mansions of the blest;
How proudly rise their gilded points on high
Above the morning cloud and man's behest,
Like thrones of angels hung upon the welkin's breast!
Amid thy peaceful vales of every dye,
Amid bewildered waves of silvery light
That maze the mind and toil the raptured eye.
Thy distant mountains, spiring to the sky,
Seem blended with the mansions of the blest;
How proudly rise their gilded points on high
Above the morning cloud and man's behest,
Like thrones of angels hung upon the welkin's breast!
For these I love thee; but I love thee more
For the gray relics of thy martial towers,
Thy mouldering palaces and ramparts hoar,
Throned on the granite pile that grimly lowers,
Memorial of the times, when hostile powers
So often proved thy steadfast patriot worth:
May every honour wait thy future hours,
And glad the children of thy kindred Forth!
I love thy very name, old bulwark of the North.
For the gray relics of thy martial towers,
Thy mouldering palaces and ramparts hoar,
Throned on the granite pile that grimly lowers,
Memorial of the times, when hostile powers
So often proved thy steadfast patriot worth:
May every honour wait thy future hours,
And glad the children of thy kindred Forth!
I love thy very name, old bulwark of the North.
Alas! the winding Forth and golden vale
Caught not the eye of her who sought thy gate;
Her spirits sank, her heart began to fail;
Weeping she came, nor could her tale relate.
Mador she named, and, trembling for her fate,
Watched the tall porter's dark unmeaning stare,
Who jested rudely of her hapless state,
And bade her to some distant country fare,
For such a name as that no Scot did ever bear.
Caught not the eye of her who sought thy gate;
Her spirits sank, her heart began to fail;
Weeping she came, nor could her tale relate.
Mador she named, and, trembling for her fate,
Watched the tall porter's dark unmeaning stare,
Who jested rudely of her hapless state,
And bade her to some distant country fare,
For such a name as that no Scot did ever bear.
Humbly she begged to pass the porch within,
That of the nobles she a view might gain,
And her inquiries cautiously begin;
But all her urgent prayers and tears were vain.
Harsh she was told, “no longer to remain,
For knights and lords would soon be passing by,
And they would be offended at such stain
Upon their knighthood and their honours high:
That such as she seemed made for mischief purposely.”
That of the nobles she a view might gain,
And her inquiries cautiously begin;
But all her urgent prayers and tears were vain.
Harsh she was told, “no longer to remain,
For knights and lords would soon be passing by,
And they would be offended at such stain
Upon their knighthood and their honours high:
That such as she seemed made for mischief purposely.”
No beam of anger rayed her glistening eye,
It sunk like star within the rubied west;
Or like the tinted dew-bell, seen to lie
Upon the rose-leaf tremblingly at rest,
Then softly sinks upon its opening breast—
So sunk her eye, while firmly she replied,
“Since no appeal, nor plea of the distressed,
To Scotland's court may come, whate'er betide,
Thou shalt not drive me hence till I am satisfied.”
It sunk like star within the rubied west;
Or like the tinted dew-bell, seen to lie
Upon the rose-leaf tremblingly at rest,
Then softly sinks upon its opening breast—
So sunk her eye, while firmly she replied,
“Since no appeal, nor plea of the distressed,
To Scotland's court may come, whate'er betide,
Thou shalt not drive me hence till I am satisfied.”
122
Oh, many an eve she wandered round the rock,
In hopes her faithless minstrel to espy;
And many a time to dame and townsman spoke,
With blush obtrusive, and with question shy;
But nor by name, by garb, by minstrelsy,
Nor strict discernment, could she Mador find:
Her fond and ardent hopes began to die;
In cheerless apathy with all mankind,
She only wished to leave the world and shame behind.
In hopes her faithless minstrel to espy;
And many a time to dame and townsman spoke,
With blush obtrusive, and with question shy;
But nor by name, by garb, by minstrelsy,
Nor strict discernment, could she Mador find:
Her fond and ardent hopes began to die;
In cheerless apathy with all mankind,
She only wished to leave the world and shame behind.
Loath to depart and seek a cheerless home,
Down at the base of Strevline's rock she lay;
She wished her head laid in the peaceful tomb;
She kissed her boy, but word she could not say.
She turned her eyes to heaven in act to pray—
Oh, hold those lips, unused to give offence!
That prayer will rise in wild impassioned way;
How have thy woes arisen, and from whence?
Oh search, before thou dar'st accuse Omnipotence!
Down at the base of Strevline's rock she lay;
She wished her head laid in the peaceful tomb;
She kissed her boy, but word she could not say.
She turned her eyes to heaven in act to pray—
Oh, hold those lips, unused to give offence!
That prayer will rise in wild impassioned way;
How have thy woes arisen, and from whence?
Oh search, before thou dar'st accuse Omnipotence!
The worthy Abbot of Dunfermline came;
He marked her beauty, and he heard her weep.
Silent he paused, and eyed her lovely frame;
For churchmen aye observant eye do keep
On female beauty: though devotion deep,
And homilies behove the holy mood,
From rostrum still in wily guise they peep—
For why?—by them 'tis wisely understood,
That to admire the chief of all Heaven's works is good.
He marked her beauty, and he heard her weep.
Silent he paused, and eyed her lovely frame;
For churchmen aye observant eye do keep
On female beauty: though devotion deep,
And homilies behove the holy mood,
From rostrum still in wily guise they peep—
For why?—by them 'tis wisely understood,
That to admire the chief of all Heaven's works is good.
The abbot ne'er had looked on face so meek;
The pleasure that it gave was mixed with pain:
He saw her lift her full blue eyes to speak;
She only sighed and cast them down again,
Then viewed her babe, while tears fell down like rain,
Wiped her young cheek, and back her ringlets threw:
The abbot's honest bosom heaved amain;
A look so lovely ne'er had met his view—
'Twas like a forest rose, wet with untimely dew.
The pleasure that it gave was mixed with pain:
He saw her lift her full blue eyes to speak;
She only sighed and cast them down again,
Then viewed her babe, while tears fell down like rain,
Wiped her young cheek, and back her ringlets threw:
The abbot's honest bosom heaved amain;
A look so lovely ne'er had met his view—
'Twas like a forest rose, wet with untimely dew.
Question respectful, and sincere reply,
Brought on a long and earnest conference.
The tale was told of Mador's perfidy
Which thou hast heard—but still, on some pretence
Of treacherous memory, or lost incidence,
The abbot caused her tell it o'er and o'er;
Then did he stand in long and deep suspense,
As bent some dubious mystery to explore;
As one who little said, but thought and knew much more.
Brought on a long and earnest conference.
The tale was told of Mador's perfidy
Which thou hast heard—but still, on some pretence
Of treacherous memory, or lost incidence,
The abbot caused her tell it o'er and o'er;
Then did he stand in long and deep suspense,
As bent some dubious mystery to explore;
As one who little said, but thought and knew much more.
Still did his eye oppress the gentle dame;
Not on her face, but arm, it seemed to stay;
She weened her boy did this attention claim,
And set his cap, and donned his overlay,
Then watched the abbot's eye—but not that way
It seemed to bend—a trivial ring she wore,
Of silver framed, neglected, old, and gray,
Warped with the unknown mysteries of yore;—
Twas on that ancient ring his eye directly bore.
Not on her face, but arm, it seemed to stay;
She weened her boy did this attention claim,
And set his cap, and donned his overlay,
Then watched the abbot's eye—but not that way
It seemed to bend—a trivial ring she wore,
Of silver framed, neglected, old, and gray,
Warped with the unknown mysteries of yore;—
Twas on that ancient ring his eye directly bore.
“Fair dame,” he said, “did thy betrayer leave
No token of his faith, nor pledge of love?
Did he, like knight, no ring or bracelet give,
Which he was bound to challenge or approve?”
Her thought-bewildered eyes began to move
Now to the ring, now to the abbot's face;
Faint recollections o'er their lustre wove
A still, a doubtful, melancholy grace—
'Twas like an April sky, which dubious shades embrace.
No token of his faith, nor pledge of love?
Did he, like knight, no ring or bracelet give,
Which he was bound to challenge or approve?”
Her thought-bewildered eyes began to move
Now to the ring, now to the abbot's face;
Faint recollections o'er their lustre wove
A still, a doubtful, melancholy grace—
'Twas like an April sky, which dubious shades embrace.
She spread her fair hand trembling in the air—
“Save that old ring, no other pledge have I;
He gave't in moment of distracting care,
When from my arms and danger forced to fly:
Something he said, but of what tendency,
Or what effect, remembrance ne'er could frame.
From the device I nothing may imply;
Nor mark it bears, unless the moulder's name—
Small its avail to me, nor other pledge I claim.”
“Save that old ring, no other pledge have I;
He gave't in moment of distracting care,
When from my arms and danger forced to fly:
Something he said, but of what tendency,
Or what effect, remembrance ne'er could frame.
From the device I nothing may imply;
Nor mark it bears, unless the moulder's name—
Small its avail to me, nor other pledge I claim.”
A glow of anger flushed the abbot's face;
He knew the old dis-valued ring full well;
And much its owner wished he to disgrace,
For he was generous, but shrewdly fell.
“I'll find him out,” he said, “by search or spell,
If in fair Scotland he holds rank or place—
Remain thou here till I our sovereign tell.”
Then up the hill he strode with hurried pace,
And left the lovely dame in sad uncertain case.
He knew the old dis-valued ring full well;
And much its owner wished he to disgrace,
For he was generous, but shrewdly fell.
“I'll find him out,” he said, “by search or spell,
If in fair Scotland he holds rank or place—
Remain thou here till I our sovereign tell.”
Then up the hill he strode with hurried pace,
And left the lovely dame in sad uncertain case.
Scarce was he gone, when on the path she saw,
That leads from vale of Strevline to the town,
A weary wight that toward her did draw,
With hanging hose, and plaid around him thrown;
His grizzled locks waved o'er his cheek so brown;
She thought his stoop and stride too well she knew:
His mournful eyes to earth were fixed down,
Save when a transient glance he upward threw
Where Scotland's palace rose, and her broad banners flew.
That leads from vale of Strevline to the town,
A weary wight that toward her did draw,
With hanging hose, and plaid around him thrown;
His grizzled locks waved o'er his cheek so brown;
She thought his stoop and stride too well she knew:
His mournful eyes to earth were fixed down,
Save when a transient glance he upward threw
Where Scotland's palace rose, and her broad banners flew.
She heard him mutter vow of fell revenge;
Closer to earth she clung, in fear and shame,
Resolved nor word nor look with him to change:
But all unbrookable, as nigh he came,
Her bosom yearned, her heart was in a flame:
Feebly she cried, “My father, turn this way!”
Up stretched the stranger's rough uncourtly frame—
'Twas old Kincraigy, from the banks of Tay,
Who stood like statue grim, in wild and doubtful way.
Closer to earth she clung, in fear and shame,
Resolved nor word nor look with him to change:
But all unbrookable, as nigh he came,
Her bosom yearned, her heart was in a flame:
Feebly she cried, “My father, turn this way!”
Up stretched the stranger's rough uncourtly frame—
'Twas old Kincraigy, from the banks of Tay,
Who stood like statue grim, in wild and doubtful way.
That painful greeting may not be defined;
Nature's own language flowed from either tongue;
Nor fell reproach, nor countenance unkind,
With freezing scowl above their soothings hung:
Both child and mother to his bosom clung;
He wiped her tears, and bade from grief refrain;
“Thou art my child, and thou hast suffered wrong—
How could'st thou leave me, prey to sharpest pain!
But I have found thee now, we ne'er shall part again!”
Nature's own language flowed from either tongue;
Nor fell reproach, nor countenance unkind,
With freezing scowl above their soothings hung:
Both child and mother to his bosom clung;
He wiped her tears, and bade from grief refrain;
“Thou art my child, and thou hast suffered wrong—
How could'st thou leave me, prey to sharpest pain!
But I have found thee now, we ne'er shall part again!”
123
Straight to the royal hall the abbot went,
Where sat the king, his dames, and nobles all;
Scarce did he beckon, scarce his brow he bent,
But raised his hand their sole regard to call,
And thus began, while silence swayed the hall:—
“My liege, I grieve such message here to bring;
But now there waits below your palace wall
The loveliest flower that ever graced the spring,
That ever mounted throne, or shone in courtly ring.
Where sat the king, his dames, and nobles all;
Scarce did he beckon, scarce his brow he bent,
But raised his hand their sole regard to call,
And thus began, while silence swayed the hall:—
“My liege, I grieve such message here to bring;
But now there waits below your palace wall
The loveliest flower that ever graced the spring,
That ever mounted throne, or shone in courtly ring.
“She bears a form of such delightful mould,
I weened before me sylvan goddess stood;
Such beauty these old eyes did ne'er behold:
Nay, smile not, dames—for, by the blessed rood,
What I aver I pledge me to make good.
She's Beauty's self portrayed, and to her breast
Is prest a lovely babe of playful mood.
She has been wronged, betrayed, and sore oppressed,
And, could a heart believe!—the traitor here is guest.”
I weened before me sylvan goddess stood;
Such beauty these old eyes did ne'er behold:
Nay, smile not, dames—for, by the blessed rood,
What I aver I pledge me to make good.
She's Beauty's self portrayed, and to her breast
Is prest a lovely babe of playful mood.
She has been wronged, betrayed, and sore oppressed,
And, could a heart believe!—the traitor here is guest.”
The king was wroth, and rose from off his throne,
Looked round for flush of guilt, then raised his hand:
“By this!” said he, “the knight that so hath done
Shall reparation make, or quit the land.
I hold not light the crime, and do command
A full relation; he who can betray
Such beauty with false vow, and promise bland,
As lieve will dupe his king in treacherous way—
The ruthless traitor's name, and hers, good abbot, say.”
Looked round for flush of guilt, then raised his hand:
“By this!” said he, “the knight that so hath done
Shall reparation make, or quit the land.
I hold not light the crime, and do command
A full relation; he who can betray
Such beauty with false vow, and promise bland,
As lieve will dupe his king in treacherous way—
The ruthless traitor's name, and hers, good abbot, say.”
“Thou art my generous king,” the abbot cried,
“And Heaven will bless thee for this just award!
This feeble arm of mine hath erst been tried,
And for the injured has a foeman dared:
And should the knight your mandate disregard—
'Tis old and nerveless now, and small its power,
But all his skill its vengeance shall not ward—
Beshrew his heart, but he shall rue the hour!
The knight is Mador hight, the dame fair Ila Moore.”
“And Heaven will bless thee for this just award!
This feeble arm of mine hath erst been tried,
And for the injured has a foeman dared:
And should the knight your mandate disregard—
'Tis old and nerveless now, and small its power,
But all his skill its vengeance shall not ward—
Beshrew his heart, but he shall rue the hour!
The knight is Mador hight, the dame fair Ila Moore.”
As e'er you saw the chambers of the west,
When summer suns had journeyed to the main,
Now sallow pale, now momently oppressed
With crimson flush, the prelude of the rain,
So looked the king; and stamped and scowled amain
To stay the abbot's speech, who deigned no heed,
But did, with sharpest acritude, arraign
The low deceit, the doer and the deed,
And lauded much the king for what he had decreed.
When summer suns had journeyed to the main,
Now sallow pale, now momently oppressed
With crimson flush, the prelude of the rain,
So looked the king; and stamped and scowled amain
To stay the abbot's speech, who deigned no heed,
But did, with sharpest acritude, arraign
The low deceit, the doer and the deed,
And lauded much the king for what he had decreed.
“I think I know the wight,” the king replied;
“He is abashed, and will not own it now;
But my adjudgment shall be ratified—
A king hath vowed, and must not break his vow.”
Then looked he round, with smooth deceitful brow,
As he the mark of conscious guilt had seen;
Then, with majestic air and motion slow,
Walked with the abbot forth into the green;
But all unknown the strain of converse them between.
“He is abashed, and will not own it now;
But my adjudgment shall be ratified—
A king hath vowed, and must not break his vow.”
Then looked he round, with smooth deceitful brow,
As he the mark of conscious guilt had seen;
Then, with majestic air and motion slow,
Walked with the abbot forth into the green;
But all unknown the strain of converse them between.
The abbot hasted to his lovely ward—
Judge of his false conjecture and alarms,
When he beheld this nymph of high regard
So fondly folded in a stranger's arms.
But oh, how much they added to her charms,
The filial tears adown her cheek that ran!
The kindest glow the human heart that warms
Played o'er the visage of the holy man;
While he, to sooth his guests, an artful tale began.
Judge of his false conjecture and alarms,
When he beheld this nymph of high regard
So fondly folded in a stranger's arms.
But oh, how much they added to her charms,
The filial tears adown her cheek that ran!
The kindest glow the human heart that warms
Played o'er the visage of the holy man;
While he, to sooth his guests, an artful tale began.
He led them to his home of peace the while,
Where all was rich, yet all in simple guise,
And strove with cheerful converse to beguile
Each latent fear and sorrowful surmise.
Well skilled to read in language of the eyes
What the still workings of the heart might be,
He bade her don those robes of courtly guise,
For they were hers, a gift bestowed free,
And ere the fall of night her minstrel she might see.
Where all was rich, yet all in simple guise,
And strove with cheerful converse to beguile
Each latent fear and sorrowful surmise.
Well skilled to read in language of the eyes
What the still workings of the heart might be,
He bade her don those robes of courtly guise,
For they were hers, a gift bestowed free,
And ere the fall of night her minstrel she might see.
When from the chamber she returned, arrayed
In braided silk and rich embroidery,
The abbot rose, confounded and dismayed,
And old Kincraigy nigh had bent his knee:
An earthly form she scarcely seemed to be;
Such dazzling beauty neither once had seen.
“Fair dame, a lady thou may'st shortly be,”
Said the good abbot, with enraptured mien,
“But Nature meant thee more, she formed thee for a queen!”
In braided silk and rich embroidery,
The abbot rose, confounded and dismayed,
And old Kincraigy nigh had bent his knee:
An earthly form she scarcely seemed to be;
Such dazzling beauty neither once had seen.
“Fair dame, a lady thou may'st shortly be,”
Said the good abbot, with enraptured mien,
“But Nature meant thee more, she formed thee for a queen!”
Scarce had she answer with a blush assayed,
Scarce raised th' astonished babe unto her breast,
When entered Mador with a look that said
His heart was generous and his mind oppressed:
His minstrel garb he wore, and purple crest.
Nought of his woodland flower he could espy,
But one who on a silken couch did rest,
That seemed some form of eastern deity:
The minstrel bowed full low, while wonder dimmed his eye.
Scarce raised th' astonished babe unto her breast,
When entered Mador with a look that said
His heart was generous and his mind oppressed:
His minstrel garb he wore, and purple crest.
Nought of his woodland flower he could espy,
But one who on a silken couch did rest,
That seemed some form of eastern deity:
The minstrel bowed full low, while wonder dimmed his eye.
The shifting hues that sported o'er her face
Were like the streamers of the rosy eve,
And to her beauty lent a nameless grace—
Those blushes could not Mador undeceive.
His fancy made no motion to believe
That e'er his Highland maid had half the charms,
Till the good abbot did his mind relieve,
In pity of a female's fond alarms:
“What, my first love!” he cried, and sprung into her arms.
Were like the streamers of the rosy eve,
And to her beauty lent a nameless grace—
Those blushes could not Mador undeceive.
His fancy made no motion to believe
That e'er his Highland maid had half the charms,
Till the good abbot did his mind relieve,
In pity of a female's fond alarms:
“What, my first love!” he cried, and sprung into her arms.
He kissed her lips, he kissed her burning cheek,
Caressed her young son in the fondest way;
A chain of gold was hung around her neck,
And diamond bracelets shed the sparkling ray;
Such kind and fond endearment did he pay,
The abbot scarce from weeping could refrain:
Nought good or bad could old Kincraigy say;
The farthest corner did his brow sustain,
And when they spoke to him he could not speak again.
Caressed her young son in the fondest way;
A chain of gold was hung around her neck,
And diamond bracelets shed the sparkling ray;
Such kind and fond endearment did he pay,
The abbot scarce from weeping could refrain:
Nought good or bad could old Kincraigy say;
The farthest corner did his brow sustain,
And when they spoke to him he could not speak again.
124
“Thou shalt be mine,” the generous minstrel said;
“If I had known my love's unhappy state,
Not all the land my presence should have staid:
Thou hast been injured, and my blame is great.
This night the holy abbot we'll entreat
To join our hands, then art thou doubly mine;
Then hie thee back to Tay, for I must wait
Our sovereign's will; but do not thou repine,
For all thy native hills, from Tay to Bran, are thine.
“If I had known my love's unhappy state,
Not all the land my presence should have staid:
Thou hast been injured, and my blame is great.
This night the holy abbot we'll entreat
To join our hands, then art thou doubly mine;
Then hie thee back to Tay, for I must wait
Our sovereign's will; but do not thou repine,
For all thy native hills, from Tay to Bran, are thine.
“I have some favour with our monarch's ear,
And he hath kindly granted my request;
If this our son his royal name may bear,
That his shall be an earldom of the best.
I have his signet, and his high behest
To turn the ruthless Albert to the door:
The royal bounds, that border to the west,
He grants thee too—these all are thine secure,
And every dame on Tay shall stoop to Ila Moore.
And he hath kindly granted my request;
If this our son his royal name may bear,
That his shall be an earldom of the best.
I have his signet, and his high behest
To turn the ruthless Albert to the door:
The royal bounds, that border to the west,
He grants thee too—these all are thine secure,
And every dame on Tay shall stoop to Ila Moore.
“Haply to distant land I now may roam,
But next when summer flowers the Highland lea
I will return, and seek my woodland home
Within the bowers of sweet Kinnaird with thee.
There is a lowly spot beneath the tree,
O'ershadowed by the cliff—thou knowest it well!
In that sweet solitude our cot shall be;
There first we loved, and there in love we'll dwell,
And long, long shall it stand, a minstrel's faith to tell.
But next when summer flowers the Highland lea
I will return, and seek my woodland home
Within the bowers of sweet Kinnaird with thee.
There is a lowly spot beneath the tree,
O'ershadowed by the cliff—thou knowest it well!
In that sweet solitude our cot shall be;
There first we loved, and there in love we'll dwell,
And long, long shall it stand, a minstrel's faith to tell.
“When summer eve hath wove her silken screen,
Her fairy net-work of the night and day;
Hath tipt with flame the cone of mountain green,
And dipt the red sun in the springs of Tay;
How sweet with thee above the cliff to stray,
And see the evening stretch her starry zone!
Or, shaded from the sun's meridian ray,
Lie stretched upon the lap of greenwood lone:
Oh, happier shalt thou be for sorrows undergone!”
Her fairy net-work of the night and day;
Hath tipt with flame the cone of mountain green,
And dipt the red sun in the springs of Tay;
How sweet with thee above the cliff to stray,
And see the evening stretch her starry zone!
Or, shaded from the sun's meridian ray,
Lie stretched upon the lap of greenwood lone:
Oh, happier shalt thou be for sorrows undergone!”
Their hands were joined—a mother's heart was blest;
Her son was christened by his sovereign's name;
In gold and scarlet the young imp was dressed,
A tiar on his head of curious frame.
But ne'er on earth was seen a minstrel's dame
Shine in such beauty and such rich array!
An hundred squires and fifty maidens came
Riding on palfreys, sporting all the way,
To guard this splendid dame home to her native Tay.
Her son was christened by his sovereign's name;
In gold and scarlet the young imp was dressed,
A tiar on his head of curious frame.
But ne'er on earth was seen a minstrel's dame
Shine in such beauty and such rich array!
An hundred squires and fifty maidens came
Riding on palfreys, sporting all the way,
To guard this splendid dame home to her native Tay.
Needs not to sing of after joys that fell,
Of years of glory and felicity;
Needs not on time and circumstance to dwell:—
All who have heard of maid of low degree,
Hight Ila Moore, upraised in dignity
And rank all other Scottish dames above,
May well conceive who Mador needs must be,
And trace the winding mysteries of his love;—
To such my tale is told, and such will it approve.
Of years of glory and felicity;
Needs not on time and circumstance to dwell:—
All who have heard of maid of low degree,
Hight Ila Moore, upraised in dignity
And rank all other Scottish dames above,
May well conceive who Mador needs must be,
And trace the winding mysteries of his love;—
To such my tale is told, and such will it approve.
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |