Ye banks and braes and streams around
The Castle of Montgomery,
Green be your woods and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie,
There summer first unfolds her robes,
And there the langest tarry,
For there I took the last farewell
O’ my sweet Highland Mary.
At the foot of the hill on which stood Castle Montgomery flowed the River
Doon, winding and twisting itself through richly wooded scenery on its
way to Ayr Bay. On the hillside of the stream stood the old stone dairy,
covered with ivy and shaded by overhanging willows. Within its cool,
shady walls the merry lassies sang at their duties, with hearts as light
and carefree as the birds that flew about the open door. Their duties
over for the day, they had returned to their quarters in the long, low
wing of the castle, and silence reigned supreme over the place, save for
the trickling of the Doon splashing over the stones as it wended its
tuneful way to join the waters of the Ayr.
Suddenly the silence was broken; borne on the evening breeze came the
sound of a sweet, high voice singing:
“Oh where and oh where is my Highland laddie gone,”
sang the sweet singer, plaintively from the hilltop. Nearer and nearer
it approached as the owner followed the winding path down to the river’s
bank. Suddenly the drooping willows were parted, and there looked out the
fairest face surely that mortal eyes had ever seen.
About sixteen years of age, with ringlets of flaxen hair flowing
unconfined to her waist, laughing blue eyes, bewitchingly overarched by
dark eyebrows, a rosebud mouth, now parted in song, between two rounded
dimpled cheeks, such was the bonnie face of Mary Campbell, known to all
around as “Highland Mary.” Removing her plaidie, which hung gracefully
from one shoulder, she spread it on the mossy bank, and, casting herself
down full length upon it, her head pillowed in her hand, she finished
her song, lazily, dreamily, letting it die out, slowly, softly floating
into nothingness. Then for a moment she gave herself up to the mere joy
of living, watching the leaves as they fell noiselessly into the stream
and were carried away, away until they were lost to vision. Gradually her
thoughts became more centered. That particular spot was full of sweet
memories to her. It was here, she mused dreamily, that she and Robert had
parted a year ago. It was here on the banks of the Doon they so often had
met and courted and loved, and here it was they had stood hand in hand
and plighted their troth, while the murmuring stream seemed to whisper
softly, “For eternity, for all eternity.” And here in this sequestered
spot, on that second Sunday of May, they had spent the day in taking a
last farewell. Would she ever forget it? Oh, the pain of that parting!
Her eyes filled with tears at the recollection of her past misery. But
she brushed them quickly away with a corner of her scarf. He had promised
to send for her when he was getting along well, and she had been waiting
day after day for that summons, full of faith in his word. For had he not
said as he pressed her to his heart:
“I hae sworn by the heavens to my Mary,
I hae sworn by the heavens to be true.
And so may the heavens forget me,
When I forget my vow.”
A whole year had passed. She had saved all her little earnings, and now
her box was nearly filled with the linen which she had spun and woven
with her own fair hands, for she did not mean to come dowerless to her
husband. In a few months, so he had written in his last letter, he would
send for her to come to him, and they would start for the new country,
America, where gold could be picked up in the streets (so she had heard
it said). They could not help but prosper, and so the child mused on
happily. The sudden blast of a horn interrupted her sweet day dreams,
and, hastily jumping to her feet, with a little ejaculation of dismay
she tossed her plaidie over her back, and, filling her pail from the
brook, swung it lightly to her strong young shoulder.
“An’ it’s o’ in my heart, I wish him safe at home,”
she trilled longingly, as she retraced her steps up the winding path,
over the hill, and back to the kitchen, where, after giving the pail into
the hand of Bess, the good-natured cook, she leaned against the lintel
of the door, her hands shading her wistful eyes, and gazed long and
earnestly off to where the sun was sinking behind the horizon in far-off
Irvine. So wrapped was she in her thoughts she failed to hear the whistle
of Rory Cam, the Posty, and the bustle and confusion which his coming had
created within the kitchen. The sharp little shrieks and ejaculations of
surprise and delight, however, caused her to turn her head inquiringly.
Looking through the open door, she saw Bess in the center of a gaping
crowd of servants, reading a letter, the contents of which had evoked
the delight of her listeners. “An’ he’ll be here this day,” cried Bess
loudly, folding her letter. “Where’s Mary Campbell?” she demanded,
looking around the room.
“Here I am, Bess,” said Mary, standing shyly at the door.
“Hae ye heard the news, then, lassie?” asked Bess, grinning broadly.
“Nay; what news?” inquired Mary, wondering why they all looked at her so
knowingly.
“I’ve just had word frae my sister in Irvine, an’ she said——” Here Bess
paused impressively. “She said that Rob Burns was burnt out o’ his place,
an’ that he would be comin’ hame to-day.” Bess, who had good-naturedly
wished to surprise Mary, was quite startled to see her turn as white as
a lily and stagger back against the door with a little gasp of startled
surprise.
“Are ye sure, Bess?” she faltered, her voice shaking with eagerness.
“It’s true as Gospel, lassie; I’ll read ye the letter,” and Bess started
to take it out, but with a cry of joy Mary rushed through the door like a
startled fawn, and before the astonished maids could catch their breath
she had lightly vaulted over the hedge and was flying down the hill and
over the moor toward Mossgiel farm with the speed of a swallow, her
golden hair floating behind her like a cloud of glorious sunshine. On,
on she sped, swift as the wind, and soon Mossgiel loomed up in the near
distance. Not stopping for breath, she soon reached the door, and without
pausing to knock burst into the room.
Mrs. Burns had put the house in order and, with a clean ’kerchief and cap
on, sat patiently at her wheel, waiting for Robert to come home, while
Souter quietly sat in the corner winding a ball of yarn from the skein
which hung over the back of the chair, and looking decidedly sheepish.
When Mary burst in the door so unceremoniously they both jumped
expectantly to their feet, thinking surely it was Robert.
“Why, Mary lass, is it ye?” said Mrs. Burns in surprise. “Whatever brings
ye over the day? not but we are glad to have ye,” she added hospitably.
“Where is he, Mistress Burns, where’s Robbie?” she panted excitedly, her
heart in her voice.
“He isna’ here yet, lassie,” replied Mrs. Burns, with a sigh. “But sit ye
doon. Take off your plaidie and wait for him. There’s a girlie,” and she
pushed the unresisting girl into a chair.
“Ye’re sure he isna’ here, Mistress Burns?” asked Mary wistfully, looking
around the room with eager, searching eyes.
“Aye, lassie,” she replied, smiling; “if he were he wouldna’ be hidin’
from ye, dearie, and after a year of absence, too. But I ken he will
be here soon noo.” And she went to the window and looked anxiously out
across the moor.
“It seems so lang since he left Mossgiel, doesna’ it, Mistress Burns?”
said Mary with a deep sigh of disappointment.
“An’ weel ye might say that,” replied Mrs. Burns. “For who doesna’ miss
my laddie,” and she tossed her head proudly. “There isna’ another like
Robbie in all Ayrshire. A bright, honest, upright, pure-minded lad, whom
any mither might be proud of. I hope he’ll return to us the same laddie
he was when he went awa’.” The anxious look returned to her comely face.
An odd little smile appeared about the corners of Souter’s mouth as he
resumed his work.
“Weel, noo, Mistress Burns,” he asked dryly, “do ye expect a healthy lad
to be out in this sinful world an’ not learn a few things he didna ken
before? ’Tis only human nature,” continued the old rogue, “an’ ye can
learn a deal in a year, mind that, an’ that reminds me o’ a good joke.
Sandy MacPherson——”
“Souter Johnny, ye keep your stories to yoursel’,” interrupted Mrs. Burns
with a frown. Souter’s stories were not always discreet.
“Irvine and Mauchline are very gay towns,” continued Souter
reminiscently. “They say some of the prettiest gurls of Scotlan’ live
there, an’ I hear they all love Robbie Burns, too,” he added slyly,
looking at Mary out of the corner of his eye.
“They couldna help it,” replied Mary sweetly.
“An’ ye’re nae jealous, Mary?” he inquired in a surprised tone, turning
to look into the flushed, shy face beside him.
“Jealous of Robert?” echoed Mary, opening her innocent eyes to their
widest. “Nay! for I ken he loves me better than any other lassie in the
world.” And she added naïvely, “He has told me so ofttimes.”
“Ye needna fear, Mary,” replied Mrs. Burns, resuming her place at the
wheel. “I’ll hae no ither lass but ye for my daughter, depend on’t.”
“Thank ye, Mistress Burns,” said Mary brightly. “I ken I’m only a simple
country lass, but I mean to learn all I can, so that when he becomes a
great man he’ll no be ashamed of me, for I ken he will be great some
day,” she continued, her eyes flashing, the color coming and going in
her cheek as she predicted the future of the lad she loved. “He’s a born
poet, Mistress Burns, and some day ye’ll be proud of your lad, for genius
such as Rabbie’s canna always be hid.” Mrs. Burns gazed at the young girl
in wonder.
“Oh, if someone would only encourage him,” continued Mary earnestly, “for
I’m fair sure his heart is set on rhyming.”
“I ne’er heard of a body ever makin’ money writin’ verses,” interposed
Souter, rubbing his chin reflectively with the ball of soft yarn.
“Ah, me,” sighed Mrs. Burns, her hands idle for a moment, “I fear the
lad does but waste his time in such scribbling. Who is to hear it? Only
his friends, who are partial to him, of course, but who, alas, are as
puir as we are, and canna assist him in bringin’ them before the public.
The fire burns out for lack of fuel,” she continued slowly, watching the
flickering sparks die one by one in the fireplace. “So will his love
of writin’ when he sees how hopeless it all is.” She paused and sighed
deeply. “He maun do mair than write verses to keep a wife and family
from want,” she continued earnestly, and she looked sadly at Mary’s
downcast face. “And, Mary, ye too will hae to work, harder than ye hae
ever known, even as I have; so hard, dearie, that the heart grows sick
and weary and faint in the struggle to keep the walf awa’.”
“I am no afraid of hard work,” answered Mary bravely, swallowing the
sympathetic tears which rose to her eyes. “If poverty is to be his
portion I shall na shrink from sharin’ it wi’ him,” and her eyes shone
with love and devotion.
Mrs. Burns rose and put her arms lovingly about her. “God bless ye,
dearie,” she said softly, smoothing the tangled curls away from the broad
low brow with tender, caressing fingers.
“Listen!” cried Mary, as the wail of the bagpipes was heard in the
distance. “’Tis old blind Donald,” and running to the window she threw
back the sash with a cry of delight. “Oh, how I love the music of the
pipes!” she murmured passionately, and her sweet voice vibrated with
feeling, for she thought of her home so far away in the Highlands and the
dear ones she had not seen for so long.
“Isna he the merry one this day,” chuckled Souter, keeping time with his
feet and hands, not heeding the yarn, which had slipped from the chair,
and which was fast becoming entangled about his feet.
“It’s fair inspirin’!” cried Mary, clapping her hands ecstatically.
“Doesna it take ye back to the Highlands, Souter?” she asked happily.
“Aye, lassie,” replied Souter. “But it’s there among the hills and glens
that the music of the pipes is most entrancin’,” he added loyally, for
he was a true Highlander. The strains of the “Cock of the North” grew
louder and louder as old Donald drew near the farm, and Mary, who could
no longer restrain her joyous impulse, with a little excited laugh, her
face flushing rosily, ran to the center of the room, where, one hand on
her hip, her head tossed back, she began to dance. Her motion was harmony
itself as she gracefully swayed to and fro, darting here and there like
some elfin sprite, her bare feet twinkling like will-o’-the-wisps, so
quickly did they dart in and out from beneath her short plaid skirt. With
words of praise they both encouraged her to do her best.
Louder and louder the old piper blew, quicker and quicker the feet of the
dancer sped, till, with a gasp of exhaustion, Mary sank panting into the
big armchair, feeling very warm and very tired, but very happy.
“Ye dance bonnie, dearie, bonnie,” exclaimed Mrs. Burns delightedly,
pouring her a cup of tea, which Mary drank gratefully.
“Oh, dearie me,” Mary said apologetically, putting down her empty cup,
“whatever came o’er me? I’m a gaucie wild thing this day, for true, but
I canna held dancin’ when I hear the pipes,” and she smiled bashfully
into the kind face bent over her.
“Music affects me likewise,” replied Souter, trying to untangle the yarn
from around his feet, but only succeeding in making a bad matter worse.
“Music always goes to my feet like whusky, only whusky touches me here
first,” and he tapped his head humorously with his forefinger.
“Souter Johnny, ye skellum!” cried Mrs. Burns, noticing for the first
time the mischief he had wrought. “Ye’re not worth your salt, ye
ne’er-do-weel. Ye’ve spoiled my yarn,” and she glared at the crestfallen
Souter with fire in her usually calm eye.
“It was an accident, Mistress Burns,” stammered Souter, awkwardly
shifting his weight from one foot to the other in his efforts to free
himself from the persistent embrace of the clinging yarn.
With no gentle hand Mrs. Burns shoved him into a chair and proceeded to
extricate his feet from the tangled web which held him prisoner. Soon she
freed the offending members and rose to her feet. “Noo gang awa’,” she
sputtered. “Ye’ve vexed me sair. Gang out and help Gilbert. I canna bide
ye round.” Souter took his Tam O’Shanter, which hung over the fireplace,
and ambled to the door.
“Very weel,” he said meekly, “I’ll go. Souter Johnny can take a hint
as weel as the next mon,” and he closed the door gently behind him and
slowly wended his way across the field to where Gilbert was sitting,
dreamily looking across the moor.