THE ORPHAN MAID

November's hail-cloud drifts away,
November's sun-beam wan
Looks coldly on the castle gray,
When forth comes Lady Anne.

The orphan by the oak was set,
Her arms, her feet, were bare;
The hail-drops had not melted yet
Amid her raven hair.

" And, dame," she said, " by all the ties
That child and mother know,
Aid one who never knew these joys, —
Relieve an orphan's woe."

The lady said, " An orphan's state
Is hard and sad to bear;
Yet worse the widowed mother's fate,
Who mourns both lord and heir.

" Twelve times the rolling year has sped
Since, while from vengeance wild
Of fierce Strathallan's chief I fled,
Forth's eddies whelmed my child."

" Twelve times the year its course has borne,"
The wandering maid replied;
" Since fishers on Saint Bridget's morn
Drew nets on Campsie side.

" Saint Bridget sent no scaly spoil;
An infant, well-nigh dead,
They saved and reared in want and toil,
To beg from you her bread."

That orphan maid the lady kissed,
" My husband's looks you bear;
Saint Bridget and her morn be blessed!
You are his widow's heir."

They 've robed that maid, so poor and pale,
In silk and sandals rare;
And pearls, for drops of frozen hail,
Are glistening in her hair.