Then Marjory, with eye so tearful,
  Whispered in dark Willie’s ear,
“Thou wilt not go and leave me careful,
  Friendless, lanely, starving here;
My minnie God hath gien a warning,
  And I can do nae mair than spin,
And slowly, slowly comes the earning
  That with my wheel I daily win.”

“Oh fear not, Marjory dear—­content ye,
  Blackfriar John hath to me sworn,
That man of God will kindly tent ye
  Until that I again return;
And he has promised fair to write me
  Of how ye live and prosper twain,
And I will faithfully requite ye
  With my true love to you again.”

II.

Dark Willie took his sad departure,
  And left at home his Marjory dear
To doubt and fear from every quarter,
  Weep—­weeping sadly on the pier;
And o’er the sea, all dangers scorning,
  And o’er the sea he boldly sailed,
Until upon the fortieth morning
  The promised land at length he hailed.

Now! thou one of the fateful sisters
  That spins for man the silver thread,
Spin one of gold that glints and glisters
  For one who stands in meikle need;
Spin it quick and spin it finely,
  Till Willie’s golden fortune’s made,
And send him back to Marjory kindly,
  Who spins at home for daily bread.

There was a rich old Spanish senor,
  Who bore dark Willie’s Spanish name,
And came to feel the kindly tenor
  Of plighted friendship’s sacred claim: 
He gave his right hand to dark Willie,
  With shares of a great companie,
Which sent forth goods far o’er the billow,
  In ships that sailed on every sea.

Don Pedro had an only daughter,
  The Donna Clara, passing fair,
Who, when her sire took his departure,
  Would be her father’s only heir: 
Her eyes, so like two sterns of even,
  Shining the murky clouds among,
And black her ringlets as the raven,
  That o’er her marble shoulders hung.

Oh Willie!  Willie! have thou care, man! 
  And give unto thine heart a stay,
For there are witcheries working there, man,
  May steal that heart of thine away. 
No need! to him blue eyes are glowing,
  To him most beautiful of all,
No need! for flaxen hair is flowing
  To keep his loving heart in thrall.

III.

A year had passed, and he had written
  Of loving letters more than one,
The while gold pieces still remitting
  All to holy Blackfriar John;
Yet still no answer had he gotten;
  And as the days still passed away,
He fell to musing, and deep thought on
  What had caused the strange delay.

What now to him those golden pieces
  That he so fastly now could earn? 
Ah, love like his gives no releases,
  However Clara’s eyes might yearn;
He wandered hither, wandered thither,
  By sad forebodings nightly tossed;
He wandered now, he wandered ever,
  In mournful musing sadly lost.