  MACLEOD of Dare called his son to him, MacLeod of Dare looked morose and grim, For he was sending on mission grave This son of his, both handsome and brave, And trembled, thinking, “what if he make In his heedless youth a grave mistake?” ’Twas not for country, nor for the King, Nay, ’twas a much more important thing Than the Church, or State, than feud or strife— The mission was to search out a wife. And young Neil listened with scanty grace, A look of impatience on his face, While the old man told him where to go, Told him what to say, and what to do, “On the morrow ye’ll gang an’ stay Wi’ yer rich auld uncle, Allan Gray; He ’ill gie ye the welcome o’ a son, Ye’ll marry the dochter, there’s but one, She’s worth the winnin’, for in her hand She’s no weel-favored, a homely maid, But guid, an’ properly grave an’ staid.” “But why should I wed a woman plain? You didn’t yourself—” MacLeod was vain, 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, 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 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; 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 |
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