New Zealand Verse/Maisrie
LXXXVI.
Maisrie.
Maisrie sits in the Gled’s Nest Tower,
A’ her lane in the fine June weather.
The wind steals up an’ the wind wins owre,
An’ its sang is “O for the wild west heather,
Maisrie, Maisrie!
A’ her lane in the fine June weather.
The wind steals up an’ the wind wins owre,
An’ its sang is “O for the wild west heather,
Maisrie, Maisrie!
“O hae ye mind o’ blue Loch Linn
That rocked ye to sleep, the bairn o’ the shieling?
An’ hae ye mind o’ the sea-mews’ din
When the sun dips red an’ they’re hameward wheeling,
Maisrie, Maisrie?
That rocked ye to sleep, the bairn o’ the shieling?
An’ hae ye mind o’ the sea-mews’ din
When the sun dips red an’ they’re hameward wheeling,
Maisrie, Maisrie?
“Hae ye forgotten the Yule by the sea,
Maisrie o’ Linn, before ye were Lady?
The dance to the pipes an’ the lilting free,
An’ your ain heart licht under Highland plaidie,
Maisrie, Maisrie?
Maisrie o’ Linn, before ye were Lady?
The dance to the pipes an’ the lilting free,
An’ your ain heart licht under Highland plaidie,
Maisrie, Maisrie?
“O hae ye mind o’ the fisher-folk
That lo’ed an’ tined ye because ye were bonnie?
The hame hearth-stane wi’ its bleeze an’ smoke,
An’ the mither that held ye dearest of ony,
Maisrie, Maisrie?
That lo’ed an’ tined ye because ye were bonnie?
The hame hearth-stane wi’ its bleeze an’ smoke,
An’ the mither that held ye dearest of ony,
Maisrie, Maisrie?
“Or hae ye forgotten great Ben Mhor,
His cleft black heid whaur storm-reeks gather;
The snaw-wings faulding him hind an’ fore?
Wad ye your garden o’ roses rather,
Maisrie, Maisrie?”
His cleft black heid whaur storm-reeks gather;
The snaw-wings faulding him hind an’ fore?
Wad ye your garden o’ roses rather,
Maisrie, Maisrie?”
Maisrie looks o’er park an’ hind;
But her thochts are far when nicht is fa’ing:—
“A waefu’ sough has the dowie wind,
That comes to me as an owlet ca’ing
‘Maisrie, Maisrie.’
But her thochts are far when nicht is fa’ing:—
“A waefu’ sough has the dowie wind,
That comes to me as an owlet ca’ing
‘Maisrie, Maisrie.’
“Siller is bricht an’ pearls are fine;
But the shells o’ Loch Linn to me were dearer:
An’ o’ a’ the lilts I hae heard sin syne
The fisherman’s voice sang aye the clearer
‘Lost Lady Maisrie!’
But the shells o’ Loch Linn to me were dearer:
An’ o’ a’ the lilts I hae heard sin syne
The fisherman’s voice sang aye the clearer
‘Lost Lady Maisrie!’
“An’ I hae mind o’ great Ben Mhor,
That I an’ my sisters climbed thegither;
For ae look o’ his drifting hoar
My garden of roses fast might wither
An’ dee, for Maisrie!
That I an’ my sisters climbed thegither;
For ae look o’ his drifting hoar
My garden of roses fast might wither
An’ dee, for Maisrie!
“She sighs frae the kirkyaird by the sea—
My mither, that lies by the rowan shady—
‘There’s rest, bonnie bairnie, here wi’ me,
For the fisher-wife an’ the weary lady,
Maisrie, Maisrie!’”
My mither, that lies by the rowan shady—
‘There’s rest, bonnie bairnie, here wi’ me,
For the fisher-wife an’ the weary lady,
Maisrie, Maisrie!’”