Daft Ailie cam' in by the auld brig-en'
As the sunlicht, saft an' sweet,
Fell doon on the laigh, white wa's o' the toon,
An' the lang, quate, single street.
It fell on her sair-worn, wrinkled face,
An' on her thin gray hair;
But the licht that lay in her een was a licht
That shouldna hae been there.
An' aye she lookit roun' an' roun',
An' aye a waefu' smile
Lay on her lips, that were thin an' white,
As she mum'led an' sang the while.
Then the weans cam' rinnin' oot o' the schule—
The schule had scaled for the nicht—
An' they a' cam' roun' Daft Ailie, an' cried
An' laup in their mad delicht.
Then they took a haud o' each ither's han's,
And made her gang in the ring,
An' they danced roun' aboot her, an' sang a sang
That made the hooses ring.
But when they had danced an' jamp their fill,
They closer an' closer drew,
Cryin', 'Ailie, afore we let you oot,
Ye maun make us a bonnie boo.'
Then she boo'd to them a' as they stood aroun',
Wi' the boo o' a leddy born,
An' said, 'O, weanies, baith ane an' a',
Ye maun come to my bridal the morn.
But I maun away to the auld wud brig,
An' sit 'neath the rowan tree,
An' there I will wait till my bonnie bridegroom
Comes ower to marry me.'
'An' what is your bonnie bridegroom like,
Is he strong, an' braid, an' braw?
An' wha is he that will come an' tak'
Auld Ailie frae us a'?'
'Oh, my ain bridegroom is tall an' fair,
An' straucht as a hazel tree,
An' licht is the touch o' his han' in mine,
When he speaks in the gloamin' to me.
An' weel he likes me, I ken, an' weel
Can he whisper his manly voo;
An' weel I like to listen to him—
I can hear his voice the noo.
I saw ane laid oot in white deid-claes,
But my een were unco dim,
An' I couldna hear a word that was said,
Though they tauld me it was him.
But I turn'd my heid frae the cauld, white deid,
That was quate as quate could be,
An' turn'd an' gaed doon to the brig, to wait
For my bridegroom comin' to me.
But I sometimes think he is unco lang,
An' I weary a' the day,
Waitin' here for my bonnie bridegroom to come
An' tak his Ailie away.'
'But, Ailie, Ailie,' the weans cry out,
'Your hair is grey an' thin,
An' your cheeks are sae sunk that nae bonnie bridegroom
Will come sic a bride to win.'
'O, weanies, weanies! haud a' your tongues;
Ye dinna ken what ye say;
My cheek is reid, an' my e'e is bricht,
For I'm twenty-ane this day.
But I maun away to the auld wud brig,
An' sit 'neath the rowan tree;
Dinna gang to the schule the morn, but come
An' see my bridegroom an' me.'
Then they let her oot o' the ring, an' she gangs
Wi' the same strange, waefu' smile,
Doon the lang quate street, an' she sings a sang
As they follow her a' the while.
But she hauds her way to the en' o' the toon,
An' aye she sorts her hair,
Wi' the same wild licht flaffin' up in her een
That shouldna hae been there.
O, weans! O, weans! gang a' to your hames,
An' let puir Ailie alane;
She gangs to sit by the auld wud brig
To settle her wan'erin' brain.
She sits for hoors by that auld, frail brig,
Ow'r the braid, deep, dookin' pool,
But a weary, weary wait she will hae,
As she sings her sangs o' dool;
For nae bonnie bridegroom will ever come
To tak' her by the han',
Save ane that comes frae the lan' o' the deid,
When the last lang breath is drawn.
But weel I min' that, in a' the toon,
The brawest amang them a'
Was Ailie, wha noo gangs frae hoose to hoose,
Giein' ilka body a ca'.
Her cheeks had the saft, sweet bloom o' youth,
An' gowden her lang, thick hair,
An' bricht was the look o' her bonnie blue e'e,
For a sweet life-dream was there.
Ay, weel micht they glance like the simmer licht,
When the sun gangs doon in the west,
For the first pure dream o' love was there,
And it wadna gie her rest.
But her bridal day cam' quickly roun',
An' mirth an' daffin' was rife,
As we sat ben the room for the hoor to come
That wad see sweet Ailie a wife.
An' O! but she lookit bonnie an' braw
In the flush o' her maiden pride;
An' should I live to a hunner lang years,
I shall ne'er see a bonnier bride.
But waes me! whaten a storm cam' on
On that happy afternoon;
The Nith rase up wi' an angry sough,
An' reid wi' wrath cam' doon.
The nicht drappit doon, and it grew sae dark
That the hill abune the brae,
Where ye gather in simmer the berries sae black,
Was hid as if ta'en away.
An' never a single star was seen
In the heaven sae dark an' wide,
Yet lichtly the bridegroom cam' doon the path,
To claim his winsome bride.
The lave that were wi' him they talkit an' lauch'd
In a' their youth an' glee,
Till they cam' to the brig ow'r the dookin' pool,
By the lang, braid rowan tree.
Then the young gudeman that was soon to be
Gaed on't wi' a lichtsome spang;
An' he cried to the lave to come on behin',
For Ailie wad think them lang.
But alake! what a cry gaed up through the nicht,
To the heicht o' the stars aboon—
Sic a cry never rase to their flickerin' licht
Save frae lips o' men that droon.
For half o' the brig had been torn away
By the angry strength o' the spate,
An' the young bridegroom slippit ow'r in the dark
To his quick an' awfu' fate.
They faun' him next day in the minister's holm,
Where the water had flung him oot;
An' they brocht him up to the far toon-en',
But they happit his bridal suit.
They laid him doon, an' they took it aff,
An' dress'd him frae heid to feet
In the dress they pit on when we're wedded to death—
The lang, white windin' sheet.
Then Ailie cam' in, but O, what a change
Had come on her through the nicht;
Her gowden hair had a scance o' gray,
An' her een had a strange wild licht.
An' aye she lookit, an' turn'd roun' an' roun',
While they watch'd her a' the while;
'O, where is my bonnie bridegroom?' she ask'd,
An' her lips had a waefu' smile.
'O, Ailie, this is your bonnie bridegroom
That lies in the airms o' death;
Will ye no tak' a look at his face, an' kiss
The lips that hae nae breath?'
'O haud your tongues, haud a' your tongues,
Dinna tell sic lees to me;
I will gang mysel' to the auld wud brig,
My ain bridegroom to see.
I will wait by the rowan tree till he comes—
I ken that he winna be late,
An' I'll sing the sangs I hae heard him sing,
They will cheer me as I wait.'
So she turn'd an' gaed doon to the auld wud brig,
As ye see her gang the noo,
Wi' the same waefu' smile on her thin white lips,
An' the sorrow upon her broo.
An' aye she wan'ers aboot the brig,
Ye may see her late an' sune,
Still waitin' for him wha is in his grave,
An' the green, green grass abune.
Then, weanies, weanies, gang a' to your hames,
An' let puir Ailie be;
Ye little ken what a weird she drees,
By the auld braid rowan tree.