Poems (Hinxman)/Fair Ismay of the Mill
FAIR ISMAY OF THE MILL.
Fair Ismay sits at the spinning wheel Beside her father's mill;But oft doth hang the idle thread, And oft her foot is still.
There is light in the glance of her wandering eye, As she looks on the purple moor,On the wood that droops to the glassy loch, And the valley's emerald floor.
Who is this in such sore speed Comes pressing up the hill?"O haste!" he cries, with panting breath, "Fair Ismay of the Mill!
"The young lord lies upon the rocks, He has fallen with his steed,—A dying man, alas! is he, And prays thee come with speed."
Forth then stept the miller's dame,— "And this is news of woe!But wherefore, I pray, should daughter of mine To the young lord's death-bed go?"
"O whither else should I go?" she cried, "O mother, let be!" she cried;She skims like a frighted bird let loose Along the steep brae side.
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They have drawn him from the stony hill Into a sheltered nook,—A sward where slender birches group Beside a falling brook.
The mossy stones lie round like sheep, The wild rose trails her wreath,The harebells hang their clustering heads Beside that bed of death.
The scarèd huntsmen stand aloof, By his browsing steed each one,Bat the grey-haired father, kneeling, weeps, Over his dying son.
Fair Ismay, silent, pale, and swift, Comes gliding to the place,She lifts his head upon her knees, And wipes the death-dewed face.
"Hear now!" he said, with low, clear voice, And the hunters all drew nigh,"This woman is a wedded wife, Her lawful husband I.
"I married her at St. Ninian's shrine, This will the priest avow,And thou, my wife, before all eyes The bridal token show."
She drew a ribbon from her breast, And, in the chequered shade,The little ring before all eyes Its glittering answer made.
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