HEATHER ALE A GALLOWAY LEGEND FR 'ROM the bonny bells of heather Was sweeter far than honey, In their dwellings underground. There rose a king in Scotland, A fell man to his foes, He hunted them like roes. Summer came in the country, Red was the heather bell; But the manner of the brewing Was none alive to tell. 10 20 30 40 In graves that were like children's The Brewsters of the Heather Lay numbered with the dead. The king in the red moorland And the bees hummed, and the curlews The king rode, and was angry, Black was his brow and pale, And lack the Heather Ale. It fortuned that his vassals, The king sat high on his charger, And there on the giddy brink— HEATHER ALE There stood the son and father And they looked high and low; The heather was red around them, The sea rumbled below. And up and spoke the father, Shrill was his voice to hear: "I have a word in private, A word for the royal ear. "Life is dear to the aged, And honour a little thing; Quoth the Pict to the king. 50 60 His voice was small as a sparrow's, And shrill and wonderful clear: "I would gladly sell my secret, Only my son I fear. "For life is a little matter, And death is nought to the young; And I dare not sell my honour Under the eye of my son. Take him, O king, and bind him, And it's I will tell the secret They took the son and bound him, And a lad took him and swung him, 70 |