heroines of old plays and romances. But few could have
abode the test suggested by the 'witch woman' or cruel stepmother, whose
experience had taught her that 'much a lady young will do, her ain true
love to win':

'"Tak' ye the burning lead,
And drap a drap on her white bosom
To try if she be dead."'

And Lord William, at St. Mary's Kirk, was more fortunate than Romeo in
the vault of the Capulets; for when he rent the shroud from the face the
blood rushed back to the cheeks and lips, 'like blood-draps in the
snaw,' and the 'leeming e'en' laughed back into his own:

'"Gie me a chive o' your bread, my love,
And ae glass o' your wine,
For I hae fasted for your love
These weary lang days nine."'

_The Nut-brown Bride_ and _Fair Janet_ might also be identified as among
the Yarrow lays, if only it were granted that there is but one 'St.
Mary's Kirk.' In the former, the balladist treats, with dramatic fire
and fine insight into the springs of action, the theme that

'To be wroth with those we love
Doth work like madness in the brain.'

As in Barbara Allan, a word spoken amiss sets division between two
hearts that had beat as one:

'Lord Thomas spoke a word in jest,
Fair Annet took it ill.'

In haste he consults mother and brother whether he should marry the
'Nut-brown Maid, and let Fair Annet be,' and so long as they praise the
tochered lass he scorns their counsel; he will not have 'a fat fadge by
the fire.' But when his sister puts in a word for Annet his resentment
blazes up anew; he will marry her dusky rival in despite. With a heart
not less hot, we may be sure, his forsaken love dons her gayest robes,
and at St. Mary's Kirk she casts the poor brown bride into the shade in
dress as well as in looks. Small wonder if the bride speaks out with
spite when her bridegroom reaches across her to lay a red rose on
Annet's knee. The words between the two angry women are like
rapier-thrusts, keen and aimed at the heart. 'Where did ye get the
rose-water that maks your skin so white?' asks the bride; and when
Annet's swift retort goes home, she can only respond with the long
bodkin drawn from her hair. The word in jest costs the lives of three.
Fair Janet's is another tragic wedding; love, and jealousy, and guilt
again hold tryst in the little kirk whose grey walls are scarce to be
traced on the green platform above the loch. 'I 've seen other days,'
says the pale brid