Nay, one she thought too much for him; So took she all away,

In hope that in her court, good king,

He would no longer stay.

"Am I rewarded thus," quoth he,

"In giving all I have

Unto my children, and to beg

For what I lately gave?
I'll go unto my Gonorell:
My second child, I know,
Will be more kind and pitiful,
And will relieve my woe."

Full fast he hies then to her court;
Who, when she heard his moan,
Returned him answer, that she grieved
That all his means were gone;
But no way could relieve his wants;
Yet, if that he would stay

Within her kitchen, he should have

What scullions gave away.

When he had heard with bitter tears,

He made his answer then; "In what I did, let me be made

Example to all men.

I will return again," quoth he,

"Unto my Regan's court; She will not use me thus, I hope,

But in a kinder sort."

Where when he came she gave command

To drive him thence away:

When he was well within her court

(She said) he would not stay.

King Lear and His Three Daughters.

Then back again to Gonorell

The woeful king did hie,

That in her kitchen he might have

What scullion boys set by.

But there of that he was denied,
Which she had promised late;
For once refusing, he should not
Come after to her gate.

Thus 'twixt his daughters for relief
He wandered up and down;
Being glad to feed on beggar's food,
That lately wore a crown.

And calling to remembrance then

His youngest daughter's words,

That said the duty of a child

Was all that love affords;

But doubting to repair to her
Whom he had banished so,

Grew frantic mad; for in his mind
He bore the wounds of woe:

Which made him rend his milkwhite locks

And tresses from his head,

And all with blood bestain his cheeks,

With age and honour spread.

To hills and woods and watery founts
He made his hourly moan,

Till hills and woods and senseless things
Did seem to sigh and groan.

Even thus possest with discontents,
He passed o'er to France,
In hopes from fair Cordelia there

To find some gentler chance;

173

Most virtuous dame! which when she heard

Of this her father's grief,

As duty bound she quickly sent

Him comfort and relief:

And by a train of noble peers,
In brave and gallant sort,

She

gave

in charge he should be brought

To Aganippus' court;

Whose royal king with noble mind

So freely gave consent

To muster up his knights at arms,
To fame and courage bent.

And so to England came with speed,

To repossess King Lear

And drive his daughters from their thrones By his Cordelia dear.

Where she, true-hearted noble queen,

Was in the battle slain;

Yet he, good king, in his old days,

Possest his crown again.

But when he heard Cordelia's death,

Who died indeed for love

Of her dear father, in whose cause
She did this battle move,
He swooning fell upon her breast,

From whence he never parted:

But on her bosom left his life,
That was so truly hearted.

OLD BALLAD.

The Cottar's Saturday Night

175

THE COTTAR'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

m

Y loved, my honoured, much respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride I scorn each selfish end; My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise : To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,

The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways:

What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween.

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh:
The shortening winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The blackening trains o' craws to their repose:
The toil-worn cottar frae his labour goes,

This night his weekly moil is at an end,
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;

The expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise an' glee.

His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily,

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,

Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile,
An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil.
Belyve the elder bairns come drappin in,
At service out, among the farmers roun';

Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
A cannie errand to a neebor town:

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,

In youthful bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown, Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee,

To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

Wi' joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet,
An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers:
The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet;
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears;
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view.
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers,
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ;

The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

Their master's an' their mistress's command,
The younkers a' are warned to obey;
"An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand,
An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play:

An' O! be sure to fear the Lord alway!

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night! Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,

Implore his counsel and assisting might :

They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!"

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,
Tells how a neebor lad cam' o'er the moor,
To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek: