ut for him Scots saddles might have been empty and every beast safe
over Liddel.

The picture fairly ravished him. It carried him over the six miles of
bent and down by the wood of hazel to where the Cleuch lay huddled in
its nook of hill. It brought him to the door of his own silent
dwelling. As he pushed into the darkness his heart suddenly sank...

With fumbling hands he kindled a rushlight. The peat fire had long
gone out and left only a heap of white ashes. The gruel by the bed had
been spilled and was lying on the floor. Only the jug of water was
drained to the foot.

His wife lay so still that he wondered. A red spot burned in each
cheek, and, as he bent down, he could hear her fast breathing. He
flashed the light on her eyes and she slowly opened them.

"The coo, Sim," she said faintly. "Hae ye brocht the coo?"

The rushlight dropped on the floor. Now he knew the price of his
riding. He fell into a fit of coughing.

PLAIN FOLK

Since flaming angels drove our sire
From Eden's green to walk the mire,
We are the folk who tilled the plot
And ground the grain and boiled the pot.
We hung the garden terraces
That pleasured Queen Semiramis.
Our toil it was and burdened brain
That set the Pyramids o'er the plain.
We marched from Egypt at God's call
And drilled the ranks and fed them all;
But never Eschol's wine drank we,--
Our bones lay 'twixt the sand and sea.
We officered the brazen bands
That rode the far and desert lands;
We bore the Roman eagles forth
And made great roads from south to north;
White cities flowered for holidays,
But we, forgot, died far away.
And when the Lord called folk to Him,
And some sat blissful at His feet,
Ours was the task the bowl to brim,
For on this earth even saints must eat.
The serfs have little need to think,
Only to work and sleep and drink;
A rover's life is boyish play,
For when cares press he rides away;
The king sits on his ruby throne,
And calls the whole wide world his own.
But we, the plain folk, noon and night
No surcease of our toil we see;
We cannot ease our cares by flight,
For Fortune holds our loves in fee.
We are not slaves to sell our wills,
We are not kings to ride the hills,
But patient men who jog and dance
In the dull wake of circumstance;
Loving our little patch of sun,
Too weak our homely dues to shun,
Too nice of conscience, or too free,
To pr