Heart Songs. Jean Blewett
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He smiled well-pleased, and said, “True, Neil, true,
But I was handsomer far nor you!
Just coort the maiden, an’ never mind
A squint or freckle, since luve is blind,
Or ought to be in a case like this,
For ’tis na’ a chance I’d hae ye miss.
“She’s na’ sae braw as her cousin Kate,
But ’tis wi’ Janet I’d hae ye mate,
For Kate, puir lassie, she has nae land,
Her face is her fortune, understand,
She live’s wi’ Janet, who loves her much,
And fond o’ pictures, an’ books, an’ such;
Gie her gude-day when you chance to meet,
But mind an’ yer cousin Janet greet
Wi’ warmer words, and a gallant air,
Go win’ ye a wife—an’ a warld o’ care!”
Neil listened closest to what was said
Of Kate, the penniless, pretty maid,
And when at length he came to the place
’Twas Kate that in his eyes found grace,
While Janet viewed him with conscious pride,
As one who would some day be his bride.
He stopped with them for many a day,
A favorite he of old Allan Gray;
They walked together over the hill,
And through the valley, solemn and still,
The old man showed him acres wide
That would go with Janet as a bride,
Then spoke of the cousin, poor but fair, The blue of her eyes, her golden hair, “She’ll hae no flocks, an’ she’ll hae no land, She’ll hae no plenishin’ rich an’ grand, But gin’ she stood in her—scanty dress, What man o’ mettle would luve her less?”
The youth’s heart warmed to the logic old—
O, what worth was land, what worth was gold,
What worth anything under the skies
Save the lovelight in a lassie’s eyes?
Janet pestered him day after day,
Did he walk out, why, she went that way,
Did he come in to rest him awhile,
She was waiting with beaming smile;
He never could get a step nearer Kate,
Janet was there like the hand of fate.
She was so cross-eyed, that none could say
Whether or not she looked his way.
But one day it chanced that, going to mill,
He overtook Kate under the hill.
Would she mount behind, and ride along?
Perhaps she would, there was nothing wrong—
So he helped her up with trembling arm,
O, surely the day is close and warm!
Whoa mare! go steady! no need for haste
When two soft arms are about his waist;
Neil, shame on him, pressed her finger-tips,
Then turned he about and pressed her lips!
On the road the hawthorn blossom white
Scattered itself just in sheer delight,
A bird was singing a tender rhyme
Of meadow, mate, and the nesting-time,
The hill looked beautiful in the glow
That heaven flung on the world below.
Ah me! if that ride could last a week,
Her gold hair blowing against his cheek,
As they rode to mill, say the world-wise,
Nay, rode in the lane of paradise.
Travel that way, though your hair grow white,
You never forget the journey quite!
Next day, Neil went to the old home place
And met his stern father face to face;
Boldly enough he unfolded the tale,
Though maybe his cheek was sometimes pale,
He would marry Kate, and her alone,
He had tried to care for the other one,
But she squinted so, her hair was red,
And freckles over her face were spread;
In all the world there was none for him
But his Kate. Then laughed that old man grim,
“Your mither, lad, was a stubborn jade,
A stubborn an’ handsome dark-eyed maid,
An’ in a’ our battles she’s always won,
An’ Neil, you are just your mither’s son;
But I haven’a lived through a’ my days
And just learnt nothing, heaven be praised!
Hark now, a gaed to your uncle’s hame
An’ bargained wi’ him afore ye came,
A’ saw yer Kate an’ like’t her weel,
A luik o’ your mither I could spell
In her bonny face, a woman to win
By ony means, that is short o’ sin,
Sae I tellit him to let Kate be
The lassie puir an’ o’ low degree,
An’ sort gie ye to understand
That Janet was owner o’ the land.
Why need I gie mesel’ sic a task? Ye stiff-neck fellow, ye needna ask, Gin ye was coaxed, ye wouldna move— Ye’d be too stubborn tae fa’ in love; Like a’ the Campbells ye’ll hae yer way, Yer mither’s hae’d hers mony a day.
’Tis glad ye should be this day—my word!
Tak’ time right now to thank the Lord,
Yer father’s wisdom gat ye a bride
An’ plenty o’ worldly gear besides.”
Ah, thankful enough was Neil that day,
The joy leaped up in his eyes of gray,
But not for his father’s wisdom great,
Though maybe it had gotten him Kate—
Not for the land, and not for the gold—
Not for the flocks that slept in the fold,
“Thank heaven,” he said, with a glow and thrill,
“Thank heaven for the day I rode to mill.”
At Joppa
PERCHANCE the day was fair as this—
The eastern world is full of glow,
With warmer sun, and bluer sky,
And richer bloom than we can show—
At Joppa quaint, beside the sea,
When Simon Peter went to pray.
I