It was the time when lilies blow,
And clouds are highest up in air,
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe
To give his cousin, Lady Clare.
I trow they did not part in scorn:
Lovers long-betroth'd were they:
They two will wed the morrow morn;
God's blessing on the day!
"He does not love me for my birth,
Nor for my lands so broad and fair;
He loves me for my own true worth,
And that is well," said Lady Clare.
In there came old Alice the nurse,
Said, "Who was this that went from thee?" "It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, "To-morrow he weds with me."
"O, God be thank'd!" said Alice the nurse,
"That all comes round so just and fair;
Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands,
And you are not the Lady Clare."
"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse,
Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?"
"As God's above," said Alice the nurse,
"I speak the truth: you are my child.
The old Earl's daughter died at my breast;
I speak the truth, as I live by bread!
I buried her like my own sweet child,
And put my child in her stead."
Falsely, falsely have ye done,
O mother," she said, "if this be true;
To keep the best man under the Sun
So many years from his due."
Nay, now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret for your life,
And all you have will be Lord Ronald's,
When you are man and wife."
"I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by."
"Nay, now, my child," said Alice the nurse,
"But keep the secret all ye can."
She said, "Not so; but I will know
If there be any faith in man.”
"Nay, now, what faith?" said Alice the nurse;
"The man will cleave unto his right."
"And he shall have it," the lady replied,
"Though I should die to-night."
"Yet give one kiss to your mother dear!
Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee."
"O mother, mother, mother,” she said,
"So strange it seems to me.
Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear,
My mother dear, if this be so,
And lay your hand upon my head,
And bless me, mother, ere I go."
She clad herself in a russet gown,
She was no longer Lady Clare:
She went by dale, and she went by down,
With a single rose in her hair.
The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought
Leapt up from where she lay,
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand,
And follow'd her all the way.
Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: "O Lady Clare, you shame your worth! Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the Earth?"
"If I come drest like a village maid,
I am but as my fortunes are:
I am a beggar born," she said,
"And not the Lady Clare."
"Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald,
"For I am yours in word and in deed;
Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald,
"Your riddle is hard to read."
O, and proudly stood she up!
Her heart within her did not fail: She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale.
He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn;
He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood:
And I," said he, “the next in blood,
If you are not the heiress born,
And I," said he, "the lawful heir,
We two will wed to-morrow morn,
And you shall still be Lady Clare."
"MACLAINE! you've scourged me like a hound:
You should have struck me to the ground;
You should have play'd a chieftain's part;
You should have stabb'd me to the heart.
You should have crush'd me unto death:
But here I swear with living breath
That for this wrong which you have done
I'll wreak my vengeance on your son,
On him, and you, and all your race!
He said, and bounding from his place,
He seized the child with sudden hold, -
A smiling infant, three years old,
And, starting like a hunted stag,
He scaled the rock, he clomb the crag,
And reach'd, o'er many a wide abyss,
The beetling seaward precipice;
And, leaning o'er its topmost ledge,
He held the infant o'er the edge :
"In vain thy wrath, thy sorrow vain ;
No hand shall save it, proud Maclaine!"
With flashing eye and burning brow
The mother follow'd, heedless how,
O'er crags with mosses overgrown,
And stair-like juts of slippery stone.
But midway up the rugged steep
She found a chasm she could not leap,
And, kneeling on its brink, she raised
Her supplicating hands, and gazed.
"O, spare my child, my joy, my pride! O, give me back my child!" she cried: "My child! my child!" with sobs and tears She shriek'd upon his callous ears.
"Come, Evan," said the trembling chief,
His bosom wrung with pride and grief,
"Restore the boy, give back my son,
And I'll forgive the wrong you've done."
"I scorn forgiveness, haughty man!
You've injured me before the clan;
And nought but blood shall wipe away
The shame I have endured to-day."
And, as he spoke, he raised the child
To dash it 'mid the breakers wild,
But, at the mother's piercing cry,
Drew back a step, and made reply:
"Fair lady, if your lord will strip,
And let a clansman wield the whip
Till skin shall flay, and blood shall run,
I'll give you back your little son."
The lady's cheek grew pale with ire,
The chieftain's eyes flash'd sudden fire;
He drew a pistol from his breast,
Took aim,
then dropp'd it, sore distress'd.
“I might have slain my babe instead.
Come, Evan, come," the father said,
And through his heart a tremor ran;
"We'll fight our quarrel man to man.'
"Wrong unavenged I've never borne,"
Said Evan, speaking loud in scorn;
"You've heard my answer, proud Maclaine:
I will not fight you, think again."
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