There was never a sign to see,
  But a misty shore an’ low;
Never a word spak’ we,
  But the boat she lichtened slow,
An’ a cauld sigh stirred my hair,
  An’ a cauld hand touched my wrist,
An’ my heart sank cauld and sair
  I’ the mirk an’ the saft sea-mist.

Then the wind raise up wi’ a maen,
  (’Twas a waefu’ wind, an’ weet). 
Like a deid saul wud wi’ pain,
  Like a bairnie wild wi’ freit;
But the boat rade swift an’ licht,
  Sae we wan the land fu’ sune,
An’ the shore showed wan an’ white
  By a glint o’ the waning mune.

We steppit oot owre the sand
  Where an unco’ tide had been,
An’ Black Donald caught my hand
  An’ coverit up his een: 
For there, in the wind an’ weet,
  Or ever I saw nor wist,
My Jean an’ her weans lay cauld at my feet,
  In the mirk an’ the saft sea-mist.

An’ it’s O for my bonny Jean! 
  An’ it’s O for my bairnies twa,
It’s O an’ O for the watchet een
  An’ the steps that are gane awa’—­
Awa’ to the Silent Place,
  Or ever I saw nor wist,
Though I wot we twa went face to face
  Through the mirk an’ the saft sea-mist.

KEITH OF RAVELSTON:  SYDNEY DOBELL

The murmur of the mourning ghost
  That keeps the shadowy kine,
“Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
  The sorrows of thy line!”

Ravelston, Ravelston,
  The stile beneath the tree,
The maid that kept her mother’s kine,
  The song that sang she!

She sang her song, she kept her kine,
  She sat beneath the thorn
When Andrew Keith of Ravelston
  Rode through the Monday morn;

His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,
  His belted jewels shine! 
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
  The sorrows of thy line!

Year after year, where Andrew came,
  Comes evening down the glade,
And still there sits a moonshine ghost
  Where sat the sunshine maid.

Her misty hair is faint and fair,
  She keeps the shadowy kine;
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
  The sorrows of thy line!

I lay my hands upon the stile,
  The stile is lone and cold. 
The burnie that goes babbling by
  Says naught that can be told.

Yet, stranger! here from year to year,
  She keeps her shadowy kine;
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
  The sorrows of thy line!

Step out three steps where Andrew stood,—­
  Why blanch thy cheeks for fear? 
The ancient stile is not alone,
  ’Tis not the burn I hear!

She makes her immemorial moan,
  She keeps her shadowy kine,
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
  The sorrows of thy line!

THE FETCH:  DORA SIGERSON SHORTER

“What makes you so late at the tryst,
  What caused you so long to be? 
I have waited a weary time
  For the hour you promised me.”