“ Nay now, my child,” said Alice the nurse, “ But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife.” “If I'm a beggar born,” she said, “ I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by.” “ Nay now, my child,” said Alice the nurse, “But keep the secret all ye can.” She said, “ Not so: but I will know If there be any faith in man.” “ Nay now, what faith ?” said Alice the nurse, “ The man will cleave unto his right.” “ And he shall have it,” the lady replied, “Though I should die to-night.” “ Yet give one kiss to your mother dear! Alas, my child, I sinn’d for thee.” “O mother, mother, mother,” she said, ! “So strange it seems to me. “ Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so, And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go.” She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare ; She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair. lair. Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: “O Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! Why come you dressed like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth?” “ If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are : I am a beggar born,” she said, “ And not the Lady Clare.” “Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald, “ For I am yours in word and in deed. Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald, “ Your riddle is hard to read.” O and proudly stood she up! Her heart within her did not fail : She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale. He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn: He turn’d, and kiss'd her where she stood : “ If you are not the heiress born, And I,” said he, “ the next in blood “ If you are not the heiress born, And I,” said he,“ the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare.” THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. In her ear he whispers gaily, “If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, And I think thou lov’st me well.” She replies, in accents fainter, “There is none I love like thee.” He is but a landscape-painter, And a village maiden she. He to lips that fondly falter, Presses his wi hout reproof; Leads her to the village al'ar, And they leave her father's roof. “I can make no marriage present; Little can I give my wife. And I love thee more than life.” |