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قراءة كتاب Legends of the North: The Guidman O' Inglismill and The Fairy Bride
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Legends of the North: The Guidman O' Inglismill and The Fairy Bride
class="i4">The girss was saft an' springy, ilka blade
Glancin' wi' dew, wi' emerald-green inlaid;
The air was sharp, the lift was blue an' clear,
An' Inglis fussled as he cross'd the muir;
But noo an' than he mantit in his sang
An' thocht: "Saul! the Guidwife was nae far wrang.
Sin' we war' wed I've had nae cause o' grief;
Troth—it's o'er true—I maun turn o'er a leaf.
A couthie wife an' cantie she has been;
I maun gie o'er sic rants, an' that's be seen.
never heckles me but for my guid;
I sall gang sober hame—I will indeed.
Whan we war' wed, withoot ae word o' pride,
She was the bonniest lass on Ugie's side;
In a' the warld—she's bonniest aye to me,
In a' the warld—a better canna be."
For Earl or Beggar, Ploughman, Laird, or King;
But, ah! how oft our best resolves are vain;
We fall, resolve, fall and resolve again.
No hearts are adamant, no minds are steel;
Let none condemn poor Inglis who can feel
A woman's love, or tries to drown desires,—
"All tempers yield or soften in those fires."
The safest plan and best—as wise folks think—
Is ne'er to mell with rogues, or love, or drink.
Came sheep and owsen, shelts, and stirks, and kye;
Goodwives and men, and lads and lasses fair,
Cracking their jokes, or courting pair and pair.
Below the Windmill Brae, the gazer's eye
Roams o'er a glorious sight of sea and sky;
The land throws forth its arms as if to press
The smiling ocean in a fond embrace;
Or when the wintry waves, with angry roar,
Dash in wild fury on the rock-bound shore,
That bars all entrance, save to driving foam,—
Guarding from harm or hurt the dear old home.
No glorious oaks, no forest glades ye show;
No minster hoar, no pile of classic fame,
To lure the pilgrim by a world-wide name.
One boast is thine—that boast beyond compare—
"Men that are true, and maidens fairly fair."
Far have I roamed since first in early life
I left that home to face the world's sore strife,—
From Arctic shores to India's golden strand,
O'er many a country, many a classic land!
How dear the Geddle and the Pinkie Braes,
Where bloomed the buttercup! I knew the ways
Where meadow-queens, perfuming all the air,
Held gentle converse with sea-daisies fair;
Where first the laverock and the blackbird sang;
Where first the earliest, bonniest bluebells sprang;—
And, till the fight of life's last battle's fought,
Of thee I'll dream as I have dreamt and thought.
"Ay! Lundie, man, hoo's a'? Na! Mains; you there?
Hoo's a' your folk?" "Oh! fine, man; hoo's your ain?"
"Brawly—meat-hale and hearty; whaur' ye gain?"
"Man, things are deein' gran'—horn, corn, an' woo—
Come roun' to Luckie's, an' we'll weet oor mou'."
"Na, Lundie, man! I think I'll need to try
An' haud by't some the day." Quo Lundie, "Fye!
re grown John Tamson's man—a' in a fizz,
lse your mither's milk is i' your nizz."
el! we's hae ae stoup—nae mair the nicht;
omised to gang hame for once a' richt—
ye your wa's, an' shortly I'll be roun';
I'm gain for tea an' troke doun thro' the toun,
To speak for beef, a Sunday's frock to Mari'n,
An' syne to Jamie Rhind's to buy some fairin'."