Classic Poem

MARY:

Margery, my dear,
Margery Mackintosh,

'Tis a year this week
since thou wert wedded;

Then to thine homestead
went the great folk,

Mackenzie went there,
and MacLeod,

Mackinnon went there,
and MacDonald.

MACDONALD'S LADY:

Listen, Mary,
hide not this from me:

What is yon ship
off the coastland?

MARY:

Plague on thine asking!
why should I hide it?

What is yonder but
the ship of my little one? —

A well of wine
down in her stern,

A well of sweet water
in her stem.

She hath drawn alongside
Mackenzie's ship,

She hath outsailed
the ship of the Isle.

Plague on thine asking!
why should I tell it not?

What is yonder
but the ship of kings

Whereon are played
the three pipes? —

Roderick, young
MacLeod of silver cups,

His right shoulder
silk encompasseth,

His left shoulder
thousands encompass.

My darling would ascend
the summit of high peaks;

With thee the pipe
briskly playing in the pursuit,

Bright sword-blades
that would make carnage,

Brown targes
pierced and shattered.

Roderick, Roderick,
Roderick of yonder dun,

Thou art my mirth
and my merry music,

Thou art my rosary
and the comb of my hair,

Thou art my fruit-garden
wherein are apples.

Where is the one
like unto thee,

Since Finn liveth not
nor Ossian,

Brown Diarmaid nor
Goll nor Oscar?

As I sat
above a seal-haunted strait,

Looking toward Hirt
of blue birds,

Came a wheedler,
a saucy wheedler,

And wishing to gossip
asked of me

What was the custom
of that race of Leod?

Him I gave
my answer due,

(Well did I know
the custom of the MacLeods):

Wine they broach
and ale they drink

And with liquor thrice-brewed
they fill the stoup:

A timely aid
To a feast's enjoyment!

Thou woman over yonder
by the water's edge,

It is because
thou comest from Trotternish

That to-day thou art left
without a mantle!

MACDONALD'S LADY:

By thine hand,
thou black-mouthed quean,

I lack not
gold nor treasure;

My black gown
is new in my chest,

And as for my kerchief,
— thou'lt not get it!

MARY:

Many's the broad
big-rumped carle

And many's the roguish
saucy carlin

Would come over
from Donald's palace

To tell that the court
had sat upon him,

That the Lowland folk
had locked him up.

Off with you, away with you,
cowardly rabble,

That are come over
from Glen Haultin!

Off with you into the sea
like the gulls,

Away with you into the heather
like the sparrows,

For fear the goodly
MacLeod may see you!

A muzzle on thee
and all thy kind!

Leave this land,
the MacLeods' land,

Take your plaint
to MacDonald's court!