Classic Poem

W HENE'ER the gowden sun gaed doun,
An' gloomie ev'nin' fell,
Frae a fireless flame o' azure hue,
By foot o' Pert's kirke bell,

Ane winsome boy there wont to come,
With slae black eyne an' hair;
His cheiks an' lips were deadlie pale,
An' head an' feet were bare.

Though lang at ween the kirke and furde
This sprite a-wanderin' went,
Nae livin' either heard its tale,
Or cause o' mourning kent.

But ae dark nicht ane miller chiel'
Had langst the road to gae,
The lad kept rinnin' by his side,
Lamentin' o'er his wae.

An' when they reach'd the kirkeyarde style,
He cry'd—“O list to me;
An' set ane harmless murdert boy,
Frae lanelie wand'rin' free!”

The sturdie miller aft heard tell
That sic a sprite was seen;
Though laith to bide ane ghastlie ca',
At last he's courage ta'en.

An' 'bout himsell wi' hazel staff,
He made ane roundlie score;
Then said—“My lad, in name o' Gude,
What do ye wander for?”

The laddie ga'e ane eldritch screech—
Ane wulsome look an' bauld;
An' aye's he spak the thunder roll'd,
An' fire flauchts ne'er devaul'd.

“There, there's the cairn!” the laddie scream'd,
“Whare life was ta'en frae me;
For whilk ane guiltless hireman died
Hie on yon wither'd tree—
Whase life the murd'rer swore awa',
To save's ain infamie:

“But, ho!” mair shrillie cried the boy,
With eye on lordlie grave;
“Come forth thou perjur'd laird o' Pert,
Thy name it winna save!

“Not all thy gifts to hallie kirke,
Or alms thou didst bestow,
Will lay the clouds o' sin an' shame
That round thy mem'rie flow!”

On this ane grizzlie form appear'd,
An' frae the kirke wa' hied—
“Ah! there's the murd'rous laird o' Pert!”
The laddie tremblin' cried.

The hoary sprite was mute, an' fain
Wad flown to whence it came;
But aye's it near'd the darksome grave,
There rose a smoth'rin' flame;

An' by that flame, frae hallie kirke
The laird's rich gifts were thrown;
While sprites of ancient kith an' kin,
Thus sang in waefu' tone—

“Sin' Heav'n denies thee an' thy wealth,
Sae surelie too shall we;
For though thou be our ain brither,
We hate all perjurie!

“An' frae our fam'lie tomb for aye,
Thy name it shall be ta'en:
An' but in page of blude an' shame,
Nae trace o' thee'll be seen!”
. . . . .

Bereft of friends, an' hopes of peace,
With grief the laird was pained;
His sprite flew here, an' then flew there,
But peace it ne'er obtained;

Till frae the Esk ane frichtsome fiend,
With joyful clamour flies,
An' fondly graspt the Laird, as gin,
He'd been it's weddit prize!

An' just's they fled, a siller cloud
Drew round the guiltless boy,
That bore him frae this land of woe
To shades of heav'nlie joy!