But when he laid him on his pillow,
His fancy sought the farthest east,
And conjured up some lonely willow
That waved o'er her he loved the best.
Change still--a passion changed to pity!
No other solace would he have--
A wish to see his native city,
And sit and weep o'er Marjory's grave.
To see that house, yea, buy the sheiling
In that old wynd of St. Marie,
A hermit there to live and dwell in,
Then sleep beside his Marjorie.
VI.
Blow soft, ye winds, and tender-hearted
This hermit waft to yonder shore,
From which for sordid gold he parted
Ten weary years and one before.
Ho! there's the pier where last he left her,
That dear, loved one, to weep alone,
And for that love of gold bereft her
Of all the pleasures she could own.
He's now within the ancient borough!
He sought the well-known White Horse Inn,
And there he laid him down in sorrow,
Some strengthening confidence to win;
Then up the street, with none to greet him,
He held his sad and sorrowing way,
When lo! who should be there to meet him
But Friar John?--who slunk away.
Strange thing! but lo! the sacred sheiling
In that old wynd of St. Marie--
The window where with mirthful feeling
He tap't the sign to Marjorie.
He sought the lobby dark and narrow,
Groped gently for the well-known door,
Where he might hear of his winsome marrow,
Who died there many years before.
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