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                                     To Corsbie Keep rode Young Gledha’
                                        As the moon broke owre the brae;
                                     He lighted him down at Corsbie Ford,
                                        And tethered his steed to the slae.

                                     He cast his sword at the rown-tree root,
                                        His dirk upon the heath;
                                     He set his foot to Corsbie Craig,
                                        And climbed it in a breath.

                                     Proud Maisie stood by the high copestane;
                                        The stane and she were still.
                                     The moonlicht dazzled in .ler een ;
                                        Her thoughts were on the hill.

                                     She turned, to see a shape 0′ man
                                        Rise black against the wa’;
                                     Before her heart could gie a gliff
                                        She kent the Young Gledha’.

                                     ‘Now Christ you save and sain, fair may;
                                        Now Christ you sain and save!
                                     Who would have speech 0′ your father’s bairn
                                        Must speel in his ain grave.’

                                     ‘What seeks the fae of my father’s race
                                        In my father’s house wi’ me ?
                                     When the gled swoops at the doocot door
                                        He may spare his courtesie.’



                                     ‘The gled may learn 0’ the doo, Maisie;
                                        I come by fair moonlicht.
                                     When your clan were last at my father’s yett,
                                        Ye cam’ at mirk midnicht.

                                     ‘Ye cam’ unbid at midnicht black,
                                        And made a red hearthstane ;
                                     0′ a’ that were 0′ my father’s blood
                                        Ye left but me alane.’

                                     ‘Ere the tod draws to the roost, Gledha’,
                                        He should ken his road to go.
                                     My father’s step sounds on the stair;
                                        My brethren watch below.’

                                     ‘I carena for your brethren’s spears,
                                        Nor for your father’s brand,
                                     If I must fa’ by a Crichton’s blade,
                                        I ’11 fa’ here, where I stand.

                                     ‘I met you low by the water-side;
                                        I met you high on the hill ;
                                     And there I got my deadly hurt.
                                        Your hand must heal or kill.

                                     ‘My sword lies at the rown-tree root;
                                        My dirk is on the heath.
                                     But pu’ the pin from your hair, Maisie,
                                        And mak my heart its sheath.’

                                     ‘To shame my birth—or slay my love;
                                        It is a bitter rede!’
                                     ‘You may well forsake your living kin
                                        When I forsake my dead.’



                                     He’s taen her by the middle sma’;
                                        He’s kissed her, lip and e’e.
                                     She’s led him down the hidden way
                                        Was kent to none but three.

                                     He’s buckled on his goodly blade
                                        When to the wood they wan;
                                     He’s borne her safe through Eden Water,
                                        Though red, like blood, it ran.

                            .                         .                         .                         .

                                     ‘Hark to that eerie cry, Maisie,
                                        That rises from the spate! ‘
                                     ‘It’s but my father’s angry hounds;
                                        They’re lowsed an oor owre late.’

                                     ‘Hark to that farawa chime, Willie,
                                        Comes wandering down the fell! ‘
                                     ‘Gin it hadna been for our bridal bed,
                                        ‘Twould saired me for my knell.’

                                                                                                JOHN GEDDIE.


MLA citation:

Geddie, John. “Gledha’s Wooing.” The Evergreen: A Northern Seasonal, vol. 1, Spring 1895, pp. 116-118. Evergreen Digital Edition, edited by Lorraine Janzen Kooistra, 2016-2018. Yellow Nineties 2.0, Ryerson University Centre for Digital Humanities, 2019.