The Orphan Maid

November's hail-cloud drifts away,     November's sunbeam wan     Looks coldly on the castle grey,     When forth comes Lady Anne.     The orphan by the oak was set,     Her arms, her feet, were bare;     The hail drops had not melted yet,     Amid her raven hair.     "And, dame," she said, "by all the ties     That child and mother know,     Aid one who never knew these joys,     Relieve an orphan's woe."     The lady said, "An orphan's state     Is hard and sad to bear;     Yet worse the widow'd mother's fate     Who mourns both lord and heir.     "Twelve times the rolling year has sped,     Since, when from vengeance wild     Of fierce Strathallan's Chief I fled     Forth's eddies whelm'd my child."     "Twelve times the year its course has borne,"     The wandering maid replied;     "Since fishers on Saint Bridget's morn     Drew nets on Campsie side.     "Saint Bridget sent no scaly spoil;     An infant, wellnigh dead,     They saved, and rear'd in want and toil,     To beg from you her bred."     That orphan maid the lady kiss'd,     "My husband's looks you bear;     Saint Bridget and her morn be bless'd!     You are his widow's heir."     They've robed that maid, so poor and pale     In silk and sandals rare;     And pearls, for drops of frozen hail,     Are glistening in her hair.