THE SKELETON IN ARMOR I was discarded! Should not the dove so white "Scarce had I put to sea, Bearing the maid with me, Among the Norsemen ! When on the white sea-strand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen. "Then launched they to the blast, Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind failed us; And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us. "And as to catch the gale Round veered the flapping sail, Death! was the helmsman's hail, Midships with iron keel Struck we her ribs of steel; Down her black hulk did reel Through the black water! 79 "As with his wings aslant, Bore I the maiden. "Three weeks we westward bore, Stands looking seaward. "There lived we many years; Time dried the maiden's tears; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother; Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies; Ne'er shall the sun arise On such another! "Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen! The sunlight hateful! THE FAREWELL In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, Oh, death was grateful! "Thus, seamed with many scars, My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Thus the tale ended. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 81 THE FAREWELL It was a' for our rightfu' King We e'er saw Irish land. Now a' is done that men can do, My love and native land farewell, For I maun cross the main, For I maun cross the main. He turned him right and round about And gae his bridle-reins a shake, With adieu for evermore, My dear; With adieu for evermore. The sodger from the wars returns, Never to meet again, My dear; Never to meet again. When day is gane, and night is come, I think on him that's far awa', The lee-lang night, and weep. Unknown. ADAM O' GORDON IT fell about the Martinmas, When the wind blew shrill and cold, Said Adam o' Gordon to his men, "We maun draw to a hold. "And whatna hold shall we draw to, My merry men and me? ADAM O GORDON We will go to the house of Rodes, The lady stood on her castle wall; There she was aware of a host of men "Oh, see ye not, my merry men all, She had no sooner buskit herself, The lady ran to her tower-head, "Give o'er your house, ye lady fair, "I winna give o'er, ye false Gordon, And if ye burn my ain dear babes, 83 |