Page:Poems Forrest.djvu/97

I would set a bruise on her shoulder white,
For the sake of the son I yet may bear;
 For she may live thro' a dozen lives
And still keep only as smooth and fair.
 She grows not grey as do decent wives.

Grandfeyther there, though he's bent and old,
His weak lids dropped when he saw her pass;
 But I ken he could see in the darkened pane
A woman's shape in the clouded glass,
 For he looked again and again.

Jean is bringing a length of rope;
Nancy cuts her a thorny stick.
 Nancy never will be a wife;
Her days burn down like a smoking wick.
 But Marget brings a knife.

Will the men turn out to save the witch?
Not they! They'll sulk in the fields and byre.
 Only I like not Sandy's looks;
And his big, grey e'en, like a smouldering fire,
 As he watches among the stooks.

The kirk gives them to our arms, and so
'Tis like enough they remember this;
 Are fain to forget the foolish cling
Of that they gained thro' a devil's kiss,
 And not by candle and priest and ring.

Then kilt your kirtles! Come guid wives a'!
Her cot lies snug in the bracken reach;
 Let us drive her down to the grey North Sea;
The cauld North Sea and the barren beach,
 And let them prove whether witch she be!