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The Spike or Victoria University College Review 1931


page 33


Fair Maisie's doon to Yennerdale
Wi'oot her father's ken,
An' there she spied the Faerie court,
Come ridin' through the glen.

First she heard the siller horns,
And then the horses' tread,
An' then she spied the men-at-arms.
Were ridin' at their head.

Their spears were grasses long and straight,
Their targes bark o' rowan tree;
Their helmets shells o' ousel's eggs,
An' they guarded the Queen o' Faerie.

Her coach was all o' walnut shells,
A thorn her axle pin;
Her shafts were o' the hazel twigs,
Wi' puddocks harnessed in.

The Faeric lookit roond aboot,
Where Maisie knelt wi' bendit head.
"What mortal woman's bidin' here,
An' what's your will of us?" she said.

"Against his father and mother's will
Young Alexander loo'ed me true;
Though his folk an' mine were aye at feud,
I trow I loo'ed young Saunders too.

"O Queen an if ye ever loo'ed,
Have pity on my miserie,
For I can niether spin nor sleep
Sin Saunders sailed to Germanie.

"I daur na send him word or gift,
For I fear my brithers bauld:
An' I can find no messengere,
But would sell my trust for gold.

"Queen, ye have many a henchman true
That none can see or hear—
O grant me one of your viewless knichts
To be my messengere!"

"An' if I grant ye man o' mine
Your messengere to be,
To carry your word to your ain true love,
What teind will ye pay to me?"

"O I will weave ye a silken coat,
A' straiked wi siller thread;
An' I will give ye the ruby stanes,
That glimmer roond my heid.

"I'll set a bowl of the new white milk
Wi' oot my window sill,
Where a' your knichts and men-at-arms
May stop and drink their fill."

"My men-at-arms hae drink enow,
An' I hae coats baith rich an' fair;
I care na' for the ruby stones
That glimmer round your yellow hair.

"But gin ye'd hae a man o' mine
To be your henchman true,
To carry your word to you air, true love,
'Tis this I'd hae ye do.

"Ye maun gang by nicht to Yenner Kirk,
When there's nae priest to see;
Wi' the holie water fill a cup
An' bring it here to me.

"It's no the powers o' hell I dread,
But I hae dochters seven;
An' gin they were sained like mortal babes,
They might win through the gate o' heaven."

L. M. Puckridge.

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