English

PART IV.

Now, see what passion rules thy heart,
An' how thou act'st the parent's part.
If a' be true that I've heard said,
Ye're but a vile, ungratefu' blade:
Ye daut your dames thro' a' the year,
Till ance the clockin' time draws near,
Then, if ane wanders frae the rest,
To hatch her young or right her nest,
Ye follow in your surly flegs,
And paiks the hen and breaks the eggs,
Then leaves her, pain'd in waesome manner,

PART III.

A GAIN , my bird, we'll try to find
The matchless beauties o' your mind.
Frae ither fowls ye stan' abeigh,
An', like a' fools, wad fain be high:
Proud, on a wa', or half-grown tree,
Or chimly tap, ye like to be;
There cock your crest, wi' airy show,
An' squint on scrapin' burds below.
But shou'd the sky begin to low'r,
An' wake your second-sighted pow'r,
Ye then disclose your cow'rdly failin's,

PART II.

B UT still my story is nae done yet —
Perhaps the maist o't is to come yet;
So here I go, be't verse or prose,
To draw my similies to a close.
But faith I fear I've tint my subject,
An' wi' my fancies lost the object;
My bu'rd is no yet full survey'd,
We'll view him on the ither side.
E'en thou, wi' a' thy outward shape,
Thy studded tail an' glossy nape,
Hast e'en thy failin's, cracks an' flaws,

PART I.

Gaudy bird, of gorgeous hue,
How kind has nature been to you,
In formin' a' your feathers fair,
Your weel fledg'd wings, an' stars so rare,
Glancin' by day, but dim by night,
Right fair for show, but dull for light:
Like fickle frien's, when Fortune twines us,
Will shaw their face, an' proffer kindness;
But shou'd Misfortune's gloamin' shade us,
We'll fin', o'er late, thae frien's hae fled us.

But the niest week they lost a quey,
Whilk stray'd awa' to Sandy's fey;
Young Betty blythely gaed to get her,
An' he, as joyfu', saw an' met her;
He spak', she smil'd, and leuk'd fu' sweet —
Twa hearts were ne'er so fond to meet;
He clasp'd her in his arms, an' than
He was a' truly happy man:
But wha' think ye cou'd tell the pow'r,
O'love within that happy hour?
Or how he press'd an' she was kind —
Let lovers picture't i' their mind,
That feel the favours o' sic blisses,

ACT III

A great threshing floor. At the back an old oak, behind it the open country bounded by mountains, the river between. At the left, the house of Lazaro. The door stands wide; under the porch are harvest tools; at the right, the hay-loft and straw-rick .

Scene 1

SCENE 8

Mila remains with eyes fixed, and ear strained to hear the voices. In the brief truce, Lazaro examines the cave, slyly. Far off is heard the song of another company of pilgrims passing through the valley .

Lazaro:

So, woman, thou hast seen how I
Am master here. I give the law.
And now thou art alone with me.
Evening begins, and here, inside,
'Tis almost dark as night. Don't fear,
Don't be afraid, Mila di Codra.

*****

Here in the shepherd's hut thou could'st

Scene 7 Aligi appears on the threshold. Seeing his father he loses every trace of color. Lazaro stops and turns on him. Father and son look at each other fixedly .

Lazaro:

Who is it? Who is it? Aligi?

Aligi:


Father, however didst thou come?

Lazaro:

Is thy blood sucked? that thou art grown
So white? It runs as if strained thin
As whey when it runs through the bag,
Shepherd, thou art so terrified.

Aligi:

What, Father, is your will to do?

Lazaro:

Scene 6 Mila di Codra lets fall the sack torn from the old woman, and looks at the man who has come, standing tall against the light. But recognizing him she gives a cry and takes refuge in the shadow at the back. Then Lazaro di Roio enters, in silence, carrying a cord twisted about his arm, like a herdsman who has set his bull free. One can hear on the stone the hurrying staff of Anna Onna, who escapes .

Lazaro di Roio:

Now, woman, do not be afraid,
Though Lazaro di Roio comes
He brings no sickle in his hand.
He seeks not a revenge on thee.

Scene 4 Mila looks at the woman with quiet sadness, and her desperate resignation makes her voice dull and slow .

Mila:

Pardon me, wanderer of Christ.
Thy charity avails me not.
The oil is spilled, the flask is shattered.
An evil fate is fallen on me.
Tell me what thou wilt have. These things
The shepherd carved with his own hand.
Distaff and spindle, all are new.
Mortar and pestle would'st thou like?
Tell me, for nothing can I tell.
Now am I in the depths of hell.

The Veiled One, with trembling voice: