She turnt her face frae the drivin' win'

66

Quhat's that aheid?” quo' she,

The skipper he threw himsel' frae the win', An' he brayt the helm alee.

"Put to yer han', my lady fair!

Haud up her heid," quo' he;

"Gin she dinna face the win' a wee mair, It's faurweel to you an' me!"

To the tiller the lady she laid her han',

An' the ship brayt her cheek to the blast ; They joukit the berg, but her quarter scraped, An' they luikit at ither aghast.

Quo the skipper: "Ye are a lady fair,
An' a princess gran' to see;

But war ye a beggar, a man wud sail
To the hell i' yer company."

She liftit a pale an' a queenly face;

Her een flashed, an' syne they swam : “An' what for no to the hevin?" she says— An' she turnt awa' frae him.

Bot she tuik na her han' frae the gude ship's helm

Till the day begouth to daw;

An' the skipper he spak, but what was said. It was said atween them twa.

An' syne the gude ship she lay to,
Wi' Scotlan' hyne un'er the lee ;
An' the king cam up the cabin-stair,
Wi' wan face an' bluidshot ee.

Laigh loutit the skipper upo' the deck
"Stan' up, stan' up," quo' the king;
"Ye're an honest loun-an' beg me a boon
Quhan ye gie me back this ring."

Lowne blew the win'; the stars cam oot;
The ship turnt frae the north;

An' or ever the sun was up an' aboot,
They war intil the firth o' Forth.

Quhan the gude ship hung at the pier-heid,
And the king stude steady o' the lan'-
"Doon wi' ye, skipper-doon!" he said,
"Hoo daur ye afore me stan' ?”

The skipper he loutit on his knee;
The king his blade he drew:

Quo the king, "Noo mynt ye to contre me ?— I'm aboord my vessel noo!

“Gien I hadna been yer verra gude lord

I wad hae thrawn yer neck!

Bot-ye wha loutit Skipper o' Doon,

Rise up Yerl o' Waterydeck."

"Yer grace is great;

The skipper he rasena :

Yer will it can heize or ding;

Wi' ae wee word ye hae made me a yerl—
Wi' anither mak me a king.”

"I canna mak ye a king," quo' he,
"The Lord alane can do that;
I snowk leise-majesty, my man!

Quhat the Sathan wad ye be at?"

Glowert at the skipper the doutsum king,
Jalousin' aneth his croon;

Quo' the skipper, "Here is yer grace's ring—
An' yer dochter is my boon."

The black blude shot intil the king's faceHe wasna bonny to see :

"The rascal skipper! he lichtlies oor grace!— Gar hang him heigh on yon tree."

Up sprang the skipper an' aboord his ship;
Cleikit up a bytin' blade;

An' hackit at the cable that held her to the

pier,

An' thoucht it maist ower weel made.

The king he blew shill in a siller whustle;
An' tramp, tramp, doon the pier,
Cam twenty men on twenty horses,
Clankin' wi' spur and spear.

At the king's fute fell his dochter fair : "His life ye wadna spill!”

"Ye daur stan' twixt my hert an' my hate?" “I daur, wi' a richt gude will!”

"Ye was aye to yer faither a thrawart bairn; But, my lady, here stan's the king; Luikna him i' the angry face,

A monarch's anither thing."

"I lout to my father for his grace,
Low on my bendit knee;

But I stan' an' luik the king i̇' the face,
For the skipper is king o' me."

She turnt, she sprang upo' the deck;
The cable splashed i' the Forth,
Her wings sae braid the gude ship spread
And flew east, an' syne flew north.

Now was not this a king's dochter--
A lady that feared no skaith?

An' a woman wi' quhilk a man micht sail
Prood intil the port o' Death?

G. MACDONALD.

S Old Sir Walter =

(A Story of 1734)

STOUT Sir Walter was old but hearty :
A velvet cap on his long grey hair,
A full white rose at his gold-laced button :
Many were laughing, but none looked gayer.

Such a beast was his jet black hunter,
Silver-spotted with foam and froth,
Brawny in flank and fiery-blooded,
Stung by the spur to a curbless wrath!

Gaily blowing his horn, he scrambled
Over the stone wall four feet two;
See saw over the old park railing,

Shaking the thistle-head rich with dew.

A long black face the sour Whig huntsman
Pulled, when he saw Sir Walter come
Trotting up gay by the oak wood cover.

Why when he cheered did they all sit dumb?

Why when he flung up his hat and shouted,
"God save King George!" they bawling cried,
As a Justice, drawing a long-sealed parchment,
Rode up grim to Sir Walter's side.