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.

He drew the latch, and quietly entered;
  There some one spinning merrilie! 
A faltering question then he ventured: 
  “My name, kind sir, is Marjorie.” 
“Great God!” he cried, in voice all trembling,
  And sank upon a crazy chair,
And tried to trace a strange resembling
  In her who sat beside him there.

A maiden she still young and buxom,
  Nor change but what ten years may bring,
Her hair still of the glossy flaxen,
  Her eyes still blue as halcyon’s wing. 
He traced the lines, he knew each feature
  Of all her still unfaded charms;
And now this long lost, worshipped creature
  Is locked fast in his loving arms.

“Look up! look up! thy fear controlling,
  It is thy Willie’s voice that calls:” 
She oped her eyes—­now wildly rolling
  All o’er his face the lustrous balls—­
“It is, it is—–­oh, powers most holy! 
  And I had heard that thou wert dead;
And here, in spite of melancholy,
  I still spin for my daily bread.”

“’Twas Friar John wrote me a letter,
  He said he saw thee on thy bier;
And sore I mourned with tears, oh bitter! 
  For one I ever loved so dear.” 
“Oh, wae befa’ that wicked friar,
  Who sairly tried my love to gain;
Wae, wae befa’ that wicked liar,
  Wha brought on us sae meikle pain.”

Then Willie said, with tears encumbered,
  “Cheer up, cheer up, dear Marjorie,
For I have gold in sums unnumbered,
  And it shall all belong to thee.” 
“And art thou true, and still unmarried? 
  And is thy bodie not a seim? 
And is it true my ears have carried,
  Or is it a’ a lying dream?”

“All, all is true, my dearest hinny,
  What thou’rt to me I am to thee,
Our years on earth may still be many,
  And quickly we shall wedded be.” 
“Ah, weel! ah, weel!” and sighing, sobbing,
  She on his breast her head hath lain;
And as he felt her bosom throbbing,
  He kissed her ower and ower again.

And he has bought a noble mansion,
  And stocked it with all things genteel
Of costly price—­nor need we mention
  The rock and reel and spinning-wheel;
And he has bought a noble carriage,
  With servants in gay liverie,
I trow there was an unco marriage
  In the ancient wynd of Saint Marie.