I lay my hands upon the stile,
The stile is lone and cold.
The burnie that goes babbling by
Says naught that can be told.

Yet, stranger! here from year to year,
She keeps her shadowy kine;
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!

Step out three steps where Andrew stood,--
Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?
The ancient stile is not alone,
'Tis not the burn I hear!

She makes her immemorial moan,
She keeps her shadowy kine,
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!


THE FETCH: DORA SIGERSON SHORTER

"What makes you so late at the tryst,
What caused you so long to be?
I have waited a weary time
For the hour you promised me."

"Oh, glad were I here by your side,
Full many an hour ago,