Whose pen out-prickt the sharpest sword,

How couldst thou now have practised it I)

For me, it doth suffy to tell

How Miss and Master Mumble-Hymn

Desart the kirk and ran pell-mell
A-lanthorning, wi' horn and glim.
To solve the riddle, if they might.
Of why their Shepherd stay'd so late ;

When, blanched and breathless, thro' the night.
The sexton screamed ..." At Roman Gate , , j

With merry-make, round Witches' Pool,

Nine devils dance in cloaks o' mud ;
And, hoisty-foisty, i' the stool,

These poor old eyes beheld me lud!"



110 SATYRS AND SUNLIGHT

Small need to stretch an idle tale

(To-morrow, stretcht this neck will be),

But, when I trowl my stirrup-ale,

" God speed the lass who coached wi' me ! "



SATYRS AND SUNLIGHT 111



LAMENT

MY unicorn . . . my unicorn is dead,
He with the swift long flanks and kingly head,
The great, tall, spiring horn . . . the yellow-eyed.
Fierce-bearded husband of the forest side.
The moon of love creeps through our trysting-tree
(O may it never shine again on me) ;
The pears and barley that I stole to-night
Fill the slow wind with odorous delight.
My unicorn . . . my unicorn is dead.
These rocks will ne'er re-echo to his tread ;

No more he'll crush me in his passion's drouth.
Nor crop the wildings from my warm, wet mouth.
He was so strong, so battailous and proud.
The leopard trembled when his challenge loud
Pealed down the chff, and shook the satyrs' caves.
High on Oreema o'er the river waves.
My unicorn . . . my unicorn is dead ;
The women of the wood will make his bed.
And weep ... for he was monarch over them . ..
