e faem,
For they draw us as they list;
We maun bear the deid folk hame
Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.

"But how can I gang the nicht,
When I'm new come hame frae sea?
When my heart is sair for the sicht
O' my lass that langs for me?"
"O your lassie lies asleep,
An' sae do your bairnes twa;
The cliff-path's stey and steep,
An' the deid folk cry an' ca'."

O sae hooly steppit we,
For the nicht was mirk an' lown,
Wi' never a sign to see,
But the voices all aroun'.
We laid to the saut sea-shore,
An' the boat dipped low i' th' tide,
As she micht hae dipped wi' a score,
An' our ain three sel's beside.

O the boat she settled low,
Till her gunwale kissed the faem,
An' she didna loup nor row
As she bare the deid folk hame;
But she aye gaed swift an' licht,
An' we naething saw nor wist,
Wha sailed i' th' boat that nicht
Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.

There was never a sign to see,
But a misty shore an' low;
Never a word spak' we,
But the boat she lichtened slow,
An' a cauld sigh stirred my hair,
An' a cauld hand touched my wrist,
An' my heart sank cauld and sair
I' the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.

Then the wind raise up wi' a maen,
('Twas a waefu' wind, an' weet).
Like a deid saul wud wi' pain,
Like a bairnie wild wi' freit;
But the boat rade swift an' licht,
Sae we wan the land fu' sune,
An' the shore showed wan an' white
By a glint o' the waning mune.

We steppit oot owre the sand
Where an unco' tide had been,
An' Black Donald caught my hand
An' coverit up his een:
For there, in the wind an' weet,
Or ever I saw nor wist,
My Jean an' her weans lay cauld at my feet,
In the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.

An' it's O for my bonny Jean!
An' it's O for my bairnies twa,
It's O an' O for the watchet een
An' the steps that are gane awa'--
Awa' to the Silent Place,
Or ever I saw nor wist,
Though I wot we twa went face to face
Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.

KEITH OF RAVELSTON: SYDNEY DOBELL

The murmur of the mourning ghost
That keeps the shadowy kine,
"Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!"

Ravelston, Ravelston,
The stile beneath the tree,
The maid that kept her mother's kine,
The song that sang she!

She sang her song, she kept her kine,
She sat beneath the thorn
When Andrew Keith of Ravelston
Rode through the Monday morn;

His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,
His belted j