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O, DEAREST Marjorie, staye at home,

For derkis the gaite you haif to goe;
And theris ane snaike adowne the glenne,

Hath frichtenit mee and many moe.
“ His leggis are lyke two pillars talle,

And stille and stalwarde is his stryde;
His faice is rounder nor the mone,

And, och, his muthe is awsum wyde !
“ I saw him stande, the oder nychte,

Y clothed in his gryzely shroude;
With ane fote on ane shadowe plaicit,

The oder on a misty cloude.
“ Als far asunder were his limbis,

On the firste storye of the ayre,
Ane shippe colde haif sailit thru betweine,

With all hir coloris flying fayre.
« He noddit his heide againste the hevin,

Als if in reverende mockerye ;
Then fauldit his armis upon his breste,

And aye he shoke his berde at mee.
And he poyuted to my Marjorie's cotte,

And be his motione semit to saye,
In yon swete home goe seike thy lotte,

For there thyne yirthlye lotte I lay.'
“Myne very herte it quaikit for dredde,

And turnit als colde als beryl stone;
And the moudyis cheipit belowe the swairde,

For feire their littil soulis were gone.
“ The cushat and the corbye craw

Fledde to the highest mountayne heichte ;
And the littil burdyis tryit the saime,

But felle downe on the yirthe with frychte.
“ But there wals ane shaimfulle heronshu,

Wals sytting be the plashy shore,
With meager eyne watching powhoodis,

And oder fyshis, lesse or more;
“ But quhan she sawe that gryzelye sychte

Stande on the billowe of the wynde;
Graice, als she flapperit and she fiewe,

And lefte ane stremorye tracke behynde !
“ And aye she rairit als she were wode,

For outter terror and dismaye ;
And lefte ane skelloche on the cloude,

I toke it for the milkye waye.


“ Had I not seine that heydeous sychte,

Quhat I had done I colde not saye; But at that heronis horryde frychte,

I'll lauche until myne dying daye. “ Then, deirest Marjorie, staye at home,

And raither courte ane blynke with mee; For gin you se that awsome sychte,

Yourselfe againe you will nevir bee." “ But I haif maide ane tryste this nychte

I may not brikke, if take myne lyffe ; So I will runne myne

riske and

goe; With maydin spyritis haif no stryffe. “ Haif you not hearit, Sir Dominye,

That faice of vyrgin beris ane charme, And neither ghaiste, nor manne, nor beaste,

Haif any power to doe hir harme?" “ Yes, there is ane, sweite Marjorie,

Will stande thy frende in derksum evin ; For vyrgin beautie is on yirthe

The brychtest teipe wee haif of hevin. 66 The collie couris upon the swairde

To kisse hir fuite with kindlye eye; The maskis will not moofe his tung,

But wag his tayle, if she pass bye ; “ The edder hath not power to stang ;

The sleue-wormis harmlesse als ane eile; The burlye taed, the eske, and snaike,

Can not soe moche als wounde hir heile. “ The angelis lofe to se hir goode,

And watche her wayis in bowre and halle ; The devillis paye her sum respeck,

And Gode lofis hir, that is beste of alle.” “ Then, soothe, I'll taike myne chance, and wende

To keipe myne tryste, quhateuir may bee ; Quhy wolde ane virtuous maydin dredde

The tale of ane craizit dominye?”

“ Ochon, ochon, deire Marjorie,

But of your virtue you are vaine ! Yet you are in ane wonderous haiste,

In runnyng into toyle and payne. “For maydinis virtue, at the beste,

(May Hee that maide her kynde, forgive hir!) Is ìyke the blewe-belle of the waste,

Swete, swete a whyle, and gone for ever! “ It is lyke qubat maydin moche admyris,

Ane bruckle sette of cheenye store ; But ane fals stumbil, sterte, or steppe,

And downe it fallis for evermore ! “ It is lyke the floryde Eden roze,

That peryshithe withoute recallyng ; And aye the lovelyer that it growis,

It weris the neirer to the fallyng.

“ It is lyke the flauntyng mornyng skie,

That spreddis its blushes farre before; But plash there comis ane storme of raine,

And all its glorye then is ouir. “ Then bee not proude, swete Marjorie,

Of that whiche hathe no sure abode: Man littil knowis qubat lurkis withynne ;

The herte is onlye knowne to God.” But Marjorie smylit ane willsum smyle,

And drewe her frocke up to hir kne; And lychtlye downe the glenne sho flewe,

Though the teire stode in the Dominyis ee. Sho had not gone ane myle but ane;

Qubille up there stertis ane droichel mapne, And hee lokit rewfulle in hir face,

And sayis, “ Fayre mayde, quhare be you gaunne ?" “ I am gaunne to meite myne owne true lofe,

So, Maister Brownie, saye your reide ; I know you haif not power to hurte

One syngil hayre of vyrginis heide." The Brownie gaif ane goustye laughe,

And said, “Quhat wysdome you doo lacke! For if you reche your owne trewe lofe,

I maye haif power quhan you come backe.” Then nexte sho mette ane eldron daime,

Ane weirdly wytche I wot wals shee; For though sho wore ane human faice,

It wals ane gruesum sychte to se. “Staye, prettye mayde, quhat is youre haiste?

Come, speike with mee before you goe; For I haif newis to telle to you,

Will maike youre very herte to glowe. “ You claime that vyrginis haif ane charme,

That holdes the universe at baye: Alas! poore foole, to snare and harme,

There is none so lyabil als thaye. “ It is lofe that lyftis up womanis soule,

And gifs bir eyis ane bevinlye sway; Then, wolde you bee ane blyssit thyng,

Indulge in lofe without delaye. “You goe to meite youre owne true lofe,

I kpowe it welle als welle can bee; But, or you passe ane bowshotte on,

You will meite ane thryce als good als hee. “ And hee wille presse youre lillye hand,

And hee will kisse your cheike and chynne,
And you moste goe to bower with him,

For he is the youthe youre lofe moste wynne.
And you moste doo quhat he desyris,

And greate goode fortune you shall fynde ;
But quhen you reche youre owne true lofe,

Keipe closse your secret in youre mynde."

Awaye wente Marjorie, and awaye

With lychter steppe and blyther smyle; That nychte to meite hir owne true lofe,

Sho wolde haif gane ane thousande myle. She had not passit ane bowshotte on

Until ane youth, in manlye trim, Came up and pressit the comelye maye

To turne into ane bower with him.

He promysit hir ane gowne of sylke,

Ane mantil of the cramosye,
And cheyne of golde aboute his necke,

For ane hour of hir companye.
He tooke hir lillye hande in his,

And kissit it with soche fervencye, That the poore maye began to blushe,

And durste not lift hir modeste ee.

Hir littil herte began to beatte,

And flutter moste disquyetlie, Sho lokit eiste, sho lokit weste,

And alle to se quhat sho colde se.

Sho lokit up to Hevin abone,

Though scaircelye knowyng how or why; Sho hevit ane syghe--the daye wals wonne, And brycht resolf bemit in hir

eye. The first sterne that sho lokit upon,

Ane teire stode on its browe for shaime; It drappit it on the flore of Hevin,

And aye its blushes wente and caime.

Then Marjorie, in ane momente thochte,

That blissit angelis mighte her se; And often sayit withynne her herte,

Doth Godis owne plennitis blushe for mee? That they shall nevir doe againe

Leille virtue still shall bee myne guyde.“ Thou stranger youthe, passe on thy waye ;

With thee I will not turn asyde. “ The Angel of the Glenne is wrothe,

And quhare shall maydin fynde remeide? See quhat ane heydeous canopye

He is spreddyng high abofe our heide !" “ Take thou no dredde, swete Marjorie ;

It is lofis owne courtaine spredde on high ; Ane tymeous vaile for maydinis blushe,

Yon littil crombe-clothe of the skie. "All the goode angelis take delichte

Swete womanis happinesse to se;
And quhare colde thyne be soe complete

Als in the bower this nychte with me?"
Poor Marjorie durste no answer make,

But stode als meike als captif dofe ; Her truste fyxit on hir Maker kynde,

Hir eyis upon the Hevin abofe.

That wyckede wychte (for sure no youthe,

But Demon of the Glenne wals hee)
Had no more power, but spedde awaye,

And left the mayden on hir knee.
Then, all you vyrginis swete and yongue,

Quhan the firste whisperingis of synne
Begynne to hanker on your myndis,

Or steile into the soule withynne, Keipe aye the eyis on Heuin abone,

Bothe of youre bodye and youre mynde ; For in the strengthe of Gode alone,

Ane womanis weaknesse strengthe shalle fynde. And quhan you goe to bowir or delle,

And knowe noe human eye can see, Thynke of ane eye that neuir slepis,

And angelis weipyng over thee. For manne is but ane selfyshe maike,

And littil reckis of maydinis woe, And all his pryde is to advyse

The gaite sho is farre ower app to goe. Awaye wente bonnye Marjorie,

With all hir blossomis in the blychte ;
Sho had not gone ane bowshotte on,

Before sho saw ane awesum sychte.
It wals ane maike of monsterous mychte,

The terror of the sonnis of menne;
That by Sir Dominye wals hychte,

The Gyaunt Spyrit of the Glenne.
His maike wals lyke ane moneshyne cloudde

That fillit the glenne with human forme;
With his graye lockis he brushit the hevin,

And shoke them farre abone the storme; And gurly, gurly wals his loke,

From eyne that semit two borrelis blue; And shaggy wals his sylyer berde

That down the ayre in stremoris flewe. Och, but that mayde wals harde bystedde,

And mazit and modderit in dismaye ! For bothe the guestis of hevin and helle

Semyt hir fonde passage to belaye. Quban the Greate Spyrit sawe her dredde,

And that sho wiste not quhat to saye,
His faice assumit ane mylder shaidde,

Lyke midnychte meltyng into daye.
Poore waywarde, airtlesse, aymless thyog,

Quhare art thou gayng, canst thou tell ?
The Spyrit said—" Is it thyne wille

To rinne with open eyne to helle? “I am the guardianne of this glenne,

And it is myne sovereygne joie to see The wycked manne runne on in synne,

Rank, ruthless, gaunte, and gredilye;

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