Perhaps he is saying, “I love you best!” Who cares? Who cares? No need to carry a weight on one’s breast, No need to worry and lose one’s rest, Life is a comedy, love is a jest, Who cares? Who cares?
What if he has quite forgotten to keep Old ways--old ways-- There’s a path where the silver moonbeams creep, And the tangled flowers have fallen asleep, And the dew is heavy--the clover deep-- Old ways--old ways!
He’s not coming to-night, no need to wait, Ah me! Ah me! Hark, the clock is chiming the hour of eight, And once on a time he railed at the fate That kept him, if only a half-hour late-- Ah me! Ah me!
But who comes here with a swinging stride? Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Turns she away in her pique and pride, Turns she away, till he says at her side, “There’s but one for me in the world so wide!” Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!
Now in the blossoms the beaded dew slips, Sweetheart! Sweetheart! Someone is kissing two tremulous lips, And there lingers no sign of the past eclipse, Down in the clover a drowsy bee sips, Sweetheart! Sweetheart!
[Illustration: Decorative image unavailable.]
MacLeod of Dare called his son to him, MacLeod of Dare looked morose and grim, For he was sending on mission grave This son of his, both handsome and brave, And trembled, thinking, “what if he make In his heedless youth a grave mistake?” ’Twas not for country, nor for the King, Nay, ’twas a much more important thing Than the Church, or State, than feud or strife-- The mission was to search out a wife.
And young Neil listened with scanty grace, A look of impatience on his face, While the old man told him where to go, Told him what to say, and what to do, “On the morrow ye’ll gang an’ stay Wi’ yer rich auld uncle, Allan Gray; He ’ill gie ye the welcome o’ a son, Ye’ll marry the dochter, there’s but one, She’s worth the winnin’, for in her hand She hauds the deed o’ all o’ his land, She’s no weel-favored, a homely maid, But guid, an’ properly grave an’ staid.”
“But why should I wed a woman plain? You didn’t yourself--” MacLeod was vain, He smiled well-pleased, and said, “True, Neil, true, But I was handsomer far nor you! Just coort the maiden, an’ never mind A squint or freckle, since luve is blind, Or ought to be in a case like this, For ’tis na’ a chance I’d hae ye miss.