and the graven letters, and the sword and shield, sleep "Piers
Cockburn and Marjory his wife." Not a hundred yards off was the
castle-door where they hanged him; this is the tomb of the ballad,
and the lady that buried him rests now with her wild lord.


Oh, wat ye no my heart was sair,
When I happit the mouls on his yellow hair;
Oh, wat ye no my heart was wae,
When I turned about and went my way! {7}


Here too hearts have broken, and there is a sacredness in the shadow
and beneath these clustering berries of the rowan-trees. That
sacredness, that reverent memory of our old land, it is always and
inextricably blended with our memories, with our thoughts, with our
love of you. Scotchmen, methinks, who owe so much to you, owe you
most for the example you gave of the beauty of a life of honour,
showing them what, by heaven's blessing, a Scotchman still might be.

Words, empty and unavailing--for what words of ours can speak our
thoughts or interpret our affections! From you first, as we
followed the deer with King James, or rode with William of Deloraine
on his midnight errand, did we learn what Poetry means and all the
happiness that is in the gift of song. This and more than may be
told you gave us, that are not forgetful, not ungrateful, though our
praise be unequal to our gratitude. Fungor inani munere!