A LEGEND OF MONTROSE.
13
"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 born,"
The wandering maid replied,
"Since fishers on St Bridget's morn
Drew nets on Campsie side.
"St 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.[1]
- ↑ The admirers of pure Celtic antiquity, notwithstanding the elegance of the above translation, may be desirous to see a literal version from the original Gaelic,
