III

And now—­nor dream nor wild conceit—­
  Though faltering, as before—­
Through tears he paints her, as is meet,
  Tracing the dear face o’er
With lilied patience meek and sweet
  As Mother Mary wore.

MY MARY

My Mary, O my Mary! 
  The simmer-skies are blue;
The dawnin’ brings the dazzle,
  An’ the gloamin’ brings the dew,—­
The mirk o’ nicht the glory
  O’ the moon, an’ kindles, too,
The stars that shift aboon the lift.—­
  But nae thing brings me you!

Where is it, O my Mary,
  Ye are biding a’ the while? 
I ha’ wended by your window—­
  I ha’ waited by the stile,
An’ up an’ down the river
  I ha’ won for mony a mile,
Yet never found, adrift or drown’d,
  Your lang-belated smile.

Is it forgot, my Mary,
  How glad we used to be?—­
The simmer-time when bonny bloomed
  The auld trysting-tree,—­
How there I carved the name for you,
  An’ you the name for me;
An’ the gloamin’ kenned it only
  When we kissed sae tenderly.

Speek ance to me, my Mary!—­
  But whisper in my ear
As light as ony sleeper’s breath,
  An’ a’ my soul will hear;
My heart shall stap its beating
  An’ the soughing atmosphere
Be hushed the while I leaning smile
  An’ listen to you, dear!

My Mary, O my Mary! 
  The blossoms bring the bees;
The sunshine brings the blossoms,
  An’ the leaves on a’ the trees;
The simmer brings the sunshine
  An’ the fragrance o’ the breeze,—­
But O wi’out you, Mary,
  I care nae thing for these!

[Illustration:  (THE AULD TRYSTING-TREE)]

We were sae happy, Mary! 
  O think how ance we said—­
Wad ane o’ us gae fickle,
  Or ane o’ us lie dead,—­
To feel anither’s kisses
  We wad feign the auld instead,
An’ ken the ither’s footsteps
  In the green grass owerhead.

My Mary, O my Mary! 
  Are ye daughter o’ the air,
That ye vanish aye before me
  As I follow everywhere?—­
Or is it ye are only
  But a mortal, wan wi’ care?—­
Syne I search through a’ the kirkyird
  An’ I dinna find ye there!

[Illustration:  (MY MARY—­TAILPIECE)]

HOME AT NIGHT

When chirping crickets fainter cry,
And pale stars blossom in the sky,
And twilight’s gloom has dimmed the bloom
And blurred the butterfly: 

When locust-blossoms fleck the walk,
And up the tiger-lily stalk
The glow-worm crawls and clings and falls
And glimmers down the garden-walls: 

When buzzing things, with double wings
Of crisp and raspish flutterings,
Go whizzing by so very nigh
One thinks of fangs and stings:—­

O then, within, is stilled the din
Of crib she rocks the baby in,
And heart and gate and latch’s weight
Are lifted—­and the lips of Kate.