Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume XXIV. by Revised by Alexander Leighton

R >> Revised by Alexander Leighton >> Wilson\'s Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume XXIV.

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IV.

Some moral thrusts can stab the heart,
And love bestowed returned in hate
May play with some a deadlier part
Than strokes that seem of sterner fate.
In yonder vault down by the aisle
Thou'lt read the good Sir Gregory's name--
His death the sequel of the tale
Inscribed upon that pictured frame.
Yet not forgot while rustic swain
Atunes his throat to melodie,
And warbles forth the soft refrain,
"Alace! alace I for Dowielee."

V.

Her father dead, Burde Olive fair--
Her mother's image--grows apace,
And oft she throws in pensive care
A glance upon that crape-veiled face:
She wonders what may be beneath.
But fears to lift the veil to know;
Her father with his latest breath
Forbade it, on the pain of woe,
Till she to eighteen years had grown,
With woman's wisdom duly fraught,
When she might take that picture down
And learn the lesson which it taught.
Yet as she sat within the bower
That bore a mother's sacred name,
She felt the heart's divining power
And guessed the face within the frame--
Her mother's! who they said was dead:
And hence the crape--appropriate sign.
But why debarred the simple meed
To look upon her face divine,
And as she looked revive again
Those lines that had been once impressed
By love upon her infant brain,
And never thence to be defaced?
Not ever fairest painted theme,
Or triumph of the graver's art,
Could match the image of her dream
Enshrined within a daughter's heart--
So gently kind, so sweetly fair:
They were the features she assigned
To creatures of yon upper air
When they look down on humankind:
And oft she sighed that morn would shine
When that dark crape she could remove,
And she would feast those eydent eyne
On those that taught her first to love;
And oft she scanned her own sweet face,
Reflected to her anxious view,
To see if therein she could trace
Those lineaments--the _first_ she knew.

VI.

On Time's swift wing the years have passed:
The morn has come, the hour is now,
When she would feast her heart at last
By looking on that sacred brow!
She took the picture from the nail,
She held it in her trembling hands,
She lifted up the envious veil,--
And there confessed the mother stands.
The charm is wrought! that painted gleam
Brought up the lines impressed of yore,
As flash of the bright morning beam
On twilight things seen long before.
Her mother seemed from death returned;
She kissed the lips, the cheeks, the chin;
She sobbed, she sighed, she laughed--she mourned
To think it was a painted sign;
And then at last she turned it round,
As if she feared her sire's decree,
And there, in written words, she found
The dreaded curse of Dowielee:

THE CURSE.

"Than Olive who more beautiful
In all that nature could bestow?
Than Olive who more dutiful
When first she pledged that holy vow?
What is she now, by sin entoiled?
Dark spirits of yon woods declare,
Where I in anguish wander wild,
The victim of a dark despair.

"Thank Heaven, I leave no son my heir,
Who might another Olive see,
And think her as his mother fair--
Fair, but yet a mystery--
With heart so like some alcove deep,
Where nightingales may sing their song,
And roses blow, and--serpents creep,
To sting him as I have been stung.

"The secrets of the living rock,
Deep hid from man's divining rod,
A spark may open, and the shock
Bring forth an ingot or a toad:
The secret that is kept for years,
One stroke of fate yields to the sight;
And if the toad a jewel wears,
That jewel may have lost its light.

"Begone ye hopes of tender ties,
Of smiling home with wife and child,
Of all love's tender sympathies,
That once a rugged soul beguiled!
In vain may Beauty deck her crown,
And winning Goodness try her plan,
I trust no more--the guile of ONE
Hath changed me to a savage man.

"If in this world I smile again,
Twill be to see the charming eye
Like _hers_--the smile--each effort plain,
And think I can them all defy.
You tell me these are Nature's ways,
But Nature tells me to beware;
And while each angler smiling plays,
So shall I play to shun the snare.

"Mocked by the glamour of the eye,
I dread all things surpassing fair;
The sweetest flower but makes me sigh
To think there may be poison there.
Were I inclined to change my part,
And seek again domestic peace,
I'd seek for beauties in the heart,
Though seen through a _revolting_ face.

"By the heart-pulses of my love,
By all the things once dear to me,
By every tree within the grove,
By every bird upon the tree,
By every tint upon its wing,
By every note of melodie
That close by HER I've heard it sing,
_Cursed be the dame of Dowielee_."

VII.

Burde Olive sat at the evening hour
Within her mother's painted bower:
It was a ruthless winter night.
When beasts and birds cowered with affright
From brattling winds that, roving free,
Moaned in the woods of Dowielee.
A wanderer knelt beside her chair,
And spoke these words of tearful prayer:

THE APPEAL.

"When Justice sought the skies above,
She left on earth her sister, LOVE,
And heaven-born MERCY staid behind
On purpose to console mankind.
The silly sheep that left one day
The winter's beild and went astray,
Did not, when weary, worn, and old,
Seek all in vain the shepherd's fold!
And He, the Shepherd without sin,
Felt for the contrite Magdalene,
And gave her hope--her sin forgiven--
That she would join the fold in heaven:
And shall my Olive while on earth
Forgive not her who gave her birth?
Oh! turn on me a smiling face,
Forgiving eyes--a look of grace."

But Olive turned her face away--
Her father's spirit whispered Nay--
His hastened death, his curse forbade:
She trembled and was sore afraid;
Yet father's daughter, meek and mild,
Was she not, too, the mother's child?

Then _he_ was gone, and _she_ was here:
Her eye acknowledges the tear
Of brooding nature all confessed--
She falls upon the wanderer's breast!
No more the veil obscures the frame--
The curse is taken from the name.

XVII.

THE BALLAD OF MAID MARION.

Maid Marion laid her down to sleep,
Maid Marion could do nought but weep,
For thinking of that happy time
When she was in her early prime,
When in her glass she looked so fair
With lily-lire and golden hair.

Full many a year had rolled away,
Since _he_ left her that weary day,
When, poor in love and rich in gear,
She cast him off without a tear;
When, poor in gear, tho' rich in love,
He left her o'er the sea to rove.

His ship was never heard of more,
And she must now his death deplore.
Now, poor in gear and rich in love,
She saw him looking from above,
With mild reproof in his dark eyes,
And still that love she dared despise.

"Oh that that day had never been--
That I that day had never seen!
Wae fa the gowd that took its flight,
Wae fa' the love I feel this night,
Wae fa' the pride that made me mad,
And this regret that makes me sad."

And still she turned and aye she mourned,
And aye the briny tear it burned:
A spendthrift father in the grave,
A mother buried with the lave,
And he, her Willie, also gone,
And she left weeping here alone.

And still she tried to fall asleep,
But aye the thoughts their revels keep:
Hark, "one" knurrs from the ancient clock,
Long yet ere crowing of the cock--
That sound which sends to their repose
The ghosts that mourn their human woes.

A faint beam from the waning moon
Can scarcely more than show the gloom;
All is so still and silent round,
The foot of ghost might raise a sound.
Hush! there's a rustling near the bed--
She heard the curtain drawn aside.

With trembling fear she turned to see
Amid the gloom who there might be,
And thought she yet could dimly trace
The outlines of that well-known face
Of him, now dead, who loved her dear,
And she had scorned through pride of gear.

"Oh Marion dear!" the words came plain:
"Maid Marion, dear," it said again;
"Remember you of that auld time
I tried sae sair thy love to win,
And for that I was lowly born
Thou treated my true love with scorn?"

"Ah, Willie, Willie! I do thee fear,
It is thine angry ghost I hear;
I saw thee looking from on high,
I saw red anger in thine eye;
Come thou my cruel heart to chide,
Or claim me for thy heavenly bride?"

"No, Marion dear!" the shade replied,
"I dinna come thy heart to chide.
A spendthrift father left thee poor,
But Heaven has added to my store.
Thou hast been punished for thy pride,
And I am come to claim my bride."

"Oh fearful shade! the cock will craw;
It's mair than time thou wert awa.
Gae back into the ocean deep
Where thou and thy companions sleep."
But still the angry spirit said,
"I come to claim thee for my bride."

Sore, sore she wept, and shook with dread,
"I've meikle sin upon my head,
And, oh! I am unfit to dee,
And go to heaven thy bride to be.
Leave me! oh leave me! flit away,
And give me peace to weep and pray."

Now something touched Maid Marion's arm,
She felt the touch both kind and warm;
The spirit took her by the hand,
She felt the touch both kind and bland.
The spirit kissed Maid Marion's mou',
Oh! how it thrilled her body through.

The spirit laughed in that odd way
Which spirits do when they are gay;
For there are spirits good and bad--
The good are aye a merry squad.
No body-pains their hearts to vex,
No worldly cares their minds perplex.

"Nae ghaist am I, Maid Marion dear,
My soul's well cased in fleshly gear;
I have a heart still warm and free,
Enough of gowd for thee and me;
And if thou wilt give up thy scorn,
Trow-la! I'll marry thee the morn."

XVIII.

THE BALLAD OF ROSEALLAN CASTLE.

Yonder Roseallan's Castle old!
Which time has changed to iron grey,
Whose high crenelles, o'ergrown with mould,
Are crumbling silently away.
Soft comes the thought that, years before,
Now hid by time's obscuring pall,
Some tiny foot had tript the floor,
Some silver voice had filled the hall.

There was a time in long past years--
It seems to me an age of dreams--
My grandam filled my itching ears
With all Roseallan's storied themes:
Of how Sir Baldwin dearly loved
The last of all Roseallan's maids;
And how in moonlight nights they roved
Among Roseallan's sylvan shades.

But there was one with envious eyes,
Deep set in visage pale and wan,
Resolved, whoe'er should win the prize,
Sir Baldwin should not be the man.
He took his aim--too deadly straight,
Yet not unseen by Annabel,
Who sprang before her favoured knight,
And died for him she loved so well.

How she who thus so bravely died
Was last of all her honoured name,
The only hope that fate supplied
To keep alive her house's fame.
And then the screeching bird of night
Would mope upon the crumbling walls,
And chirking whutthroats claim the right
To gambol in the ancient halls.

In yonder vault, deep down below,
Half choked with hoary eglantine,
Sleep side by side in lengthened row
The proud Roseallan's noble line.
The hairy wing-mouse flutters there,
The owl mopes as in days of yore,
Strange eldritch sounds salute the ear,
Unholy things crawl on the floor.

How oft alone at midnight hour
I stand within that silent tomb,
What time the moon with waning power
Is struggling through increasing gloom,
On one sole bier _his_ tears would fall,
For _her_ his groans come evermore,
Whose silver voice once filled the hall,
Whose feet once lightly tript the floor.

XIX.

THE BALLAD OF THE TOURNAY.

In the castle of Kildrennie,
Up in her chamber high,
There sat the fair Burde Annie,
And with her County Guy--
Come lately from the east,
As far as Palestine,
Where he had sent to his long rest
Many a bold Saracen.

Sir Guy his burning love hath told,
And a favour he hath won,
For lo! a ring of virgin gold
Shines there his finger on.
And they have pledged the solemn yea,
Each on the bended knee,
That on the coming Beltane day
They two shall wedded be.

Burde Annie viewed, to hide her tears,
The red sun setting still,
And lo! behold two cavaliers
Came riding up the hill:
The one he was Sir Hudibras
Come of a noble clan;
The other no less noble was--
The brave Sir Gallachan.

The first bore on his shield outspread
Two bones in cross moline,
And for his crest ane bluidy head,
Erased from Saracen.
The other carried, nobler far,
All in a field of gold,
A flaming bolt of Jupiter,
For crest ane tiger bold.

And up they rode, and up they rode,
Till they came to the lawn
Which spread before the castle broad,
And there they made a stand;
And there they spied Burde Annie
Up in her chamber high,
But for the breadth of her bodie
They could not see Sir Guy.

Burde Annie waved her lily hand,
And threw a kiss a-down--
For Hudibras or Gallachan
Was meant the priceless boon?
For sure it was a priceless boon,
When neither could espy
That when she threw that kiss a-down
She winkit to Sir Guy.

"That kiss divine, I trow, is mine,"
Cried doughty Hudibras;
"I am the man," cried Gallachan,
"And sure thou art ane ass."
Such words to hear were ill to bear
By any valiant knight;
And each drew forth his sword o' weir,
And stood prepared for fight.

They startit, they partit,
Then on each other sprang;
They lungit, they plungit,
Till all the welkin rang.
They ogglit, they gogglit,
Amidst the dread deray;
They chirnit, they girnit,
Like bluidy beasts of prey.

They rattlit, they brattlit,
Each cuirass upon;
They hackit, they thwackit,
Each other's morion.
They reel it, they wheelit,
And quick came round again;
They burstit, they thrust it,
With all their might and main.

They smeekit, they reek it,
Like to ane smouldering kiln;
They peghit, they sighit,
Each other's blood to spill,
They trampit, they stampit,
Like animals run wud;
They flarit, they glarit,
With eyne yred with bluid.

At length, to end the bluidy deeds,
They raised their falchions keen,
And down upon each other's heads
They clove them to the chin.
But 'tis not true, as I've heard tell,
And I do not believe
That when these doughty lovers fell,
_One laughed within her sleeve_.

But I have also heard it said,
And I again it say,
And I would like to see the head
With tongue in't to say nay--
That as these pates lay on the ground
(As there they yet may lie),
_One eye in each cloved head was found
Fixed on that chamber high_.

XX.

THE BALLAD OF GOLDEN COUNSEL.

Come Mary and Martha, Jeanie and Jenny,
And sit down and listen, baith ane and a',
To me, wha may very weel be your grannie,
And aiblins may ken ae thing or twa.

This world is no so sweet and so bonnie
As you in your young hearts may suppose;
There's aloes in it as weel as honey,
And aye some prickles on ilka rose.

Young lasses I think are something like fillies
Let out in a field to idle and eat,
To graze by the gowans and drink by the willows,
And never to dream of a bridle _a bit_.

It's no what ye eat, it's no what you drink, dears,
It's no your bonnets, or ribbons, or skirts,
The trinkets ye wear, or the siller ye clink, dears--
There's something, I wean, far nearer your hearts.

Your thoughts are mair of him you will marry,
What the colour may be of his hair,
Whether aye cheery, or sometimes chary,
What his complexion, or dark or fair.

But men they are gude, and men they are ill, dears,
You may get the leal or the lazy loon;
A lover is aft like a gilded pill, dears,
The bitter comes after it's gulped doon.

I fear ye hae little of power to choose him,
The husband is settled for you abune;
But you've power in holy bands to noose him
_Before ye let him tak' aff his shune_.

For a maid who is silly and stoops to folly,
And finds ower late that she is betrayed,
I ken nae cure for her melancholy
But a coffin--and let it be quickly made.

A braw lover cam' to my minnie's shieling
When I was as young as you now may be,
Sae saft, like a loon wha's bent on stealing,
And he tirled and whispered secretlie.

"Oh let me in this ae night, Jenny,
And I will for ever thy true love be;
Oh let me in this ae night, hinny,
And I will come back and marry thee!"

"Gae back and awa, for this my will is,
My mither lies gleg wi' half-closed ee,
And bids me beware of faithless billies,
Who will steal my heart and awa frae me flee."

"For mercy's sake! this ae night, Jenny,
Oh let me scoug frae the wind and rain,
And holy vows I will plight thee, hinny,
That thou wilt be for ever mine ain."

I opened the door so saft and sleeky,
For fear my mither should hear the din,
And he has ta'en aff his shune so creaky,
And I've led him into my cosy ben.

Our speckled cock crew loud and early,
The day was dawing o'er forest green,
And I let him out as wily and warily
As ever I let him in yestreen.

"Now, fare thee well, my winsome Jenny,
For I am a baron of high degree;
Now, fare thee well for ever, my hinny,
For the wife of a baron thou ne'er canst be."

With a ha! ha! ha! and a tra-la-lalla,[A]
He stroked the red beard on his chin,
With a ha! ha! ha! and a tra-la-lalla,
And I have never seen him again.

[Footnote A: The reader may here recollect the fine ballad of
Buerger, "Der Ritter und sein Liebchen;" and the verse--

Drauf ritt der Ritter hop sa! sa!
Und strich sein Bartchen trallala;
Sein Leibchen sah ihn reiten
Und hoerte noch von weiten
Sein Lachen ha! ha! ha!
]

[The maidens thought the humour gala,
And, laughing, they chorused to the strain,
"With a ha! ha! ha! and a tra-la-lalla,
And you have never seen him again."]

Now, dears! if your lovers you would not lose them,
Tak' counsel--it is not an hour ower sune:
Be sure that in holy bands ye noose them
_Before you let them tak' aff their shune_.

[The maidens thought they would amuse them,
And, laughing, they chorused to the tune,
"Oh yes, we in holy bands will noose them
_Before we let them tak' aff their shune_."]

XXI.

THE BALLAD OF MATRIMONY.

"Come, now tell me, Clarabella,
How that wondrous thing befell,
Why you took that sorry fellow,
Leaving me who loved you well?
It was, good faith! a sad miscarriage,
And cost me many a pang of pain;
Indeed, when I heard of your marriage,
I vowed I ne'er would love again."

"Well, I don't mind, since you're pathetic,
And so the reason you shall hear:
Th' affair was one of arithmetic--
A matter of so much a year.
His father left five thousand good
Of pounds per annum, as you know,
And you possessed, I understood,
Of yearly thousands only two."

"Well, why did I, who knew of Cupid,
Display so much stupid-ity
As not to know--the thing was lucid--
From Cupid comes Cupid-ity?"
"But not too late," cried Clarabella:
"My husband dear has gone to heaven;
He left the five to me, good fellow!
And five and two, you know, make seven."

I laughed and bowed to Clarabella,
And quickly homewards bent my way,
And there became a rustic fellow,
And donned a suit of hodden-grey.
And then I hired me to a farmer,
Concealing every sign of pelf,
One Hodge, who had a pretty charmer,
Who might love me for myself.

I laid bold siege to fair Lucinda,
And tho' she loved another swain
(I had observed them through the window),
I was resolved her love to gain
Then I would be a lucky fellow,
Assured one loved me for my merit,
And not, like widowed Clarabella,
For the lucre _I_ inherit.

At length I boldly purposed marriage,
And found Lucinda at my call,
And soon thereafter in my carriage
I drove my wife to Border Hall.
Well! she wondered at the mansion,
And all the grandeur that was there,
The servants bowing all attention
To the lady of their squire.

I had a call from Clarabella,
Who said my choice was very good;
But though her speech was calm and mellow,
I thought her in an envious mood.
Indeed I had some small suspicion
She had avenged a woman's grudge,
And had conveyed my true condition
To the ears of Farmer Hodge.

Sometime thence I met Bill Hedger,
Who knew me spite of my changed dress.
"Squoire," said he, "I think I'd wager
There is a something thee doan't guess;
Lucinda's father knew by letter
Thee wert a squoire in low disguise,
And she, altho' _she loiked me better_,
Agreed to take the richer prize."

XXII.

THE SONG OF ROSALIE.

Row on! row on! to flowing Tay,
Thou Dighty, who art dear to me;
For here upon thy flowery brae
I parted last frae Rosalie.
Her hair, so rich in gowden hue,
Ilk plait was like a gowden string,
Her eyne were like the bonnie blue
That shines upon the halcyon's wing.

There is a worm that loves the bud,
And there is one that loves the bloom,
And there is one that seeks its food
Within the dark and silent tomb.

Thou speckled thrush, with tuneful throat,
Who sing'st within yon greenwood dell;
Sing on, for every trembling note
Brings back the voice I loved so well.
Thou little pansy, raise thy head,
And turn thine azure eye to me,
And so remind me of the dead,
My dearest, long lost Rosalie.

There is a worm that loves the bud,
And there is one that loves the bloom,
And there is one that seeks its food
Within the dark and dreary tomb.

Thou lambkin on yon hillock's brow,
That sportest in thy gamesome mood,
Play on! for thou remind'st me now
Of one as innocent and good;
All emblems dear, for thoughts you bring
Of her who loved you all to see,
When through the woods in early spring
Ilk bird seemed calling "Rosalie."

But there's a worm that loves the bud,
And there is one that loves the bloom,
And there is one that seeks its food
Within the dark and dreary tomb.

Far have I roamed for years and years,
As from my thoughts I fain would stray;
But here once more I weep my tears
O'er her now mouldering in the clay.
Oh! would that happy day were come
When death shall set my spirit free,
And I shall rise to yonder home,
And be again with Rosalie,

Where is no worm to gnaw the bud,
And none to blight the youthful bloom;
Where spirits sing in joyful mood,
"Behold our triumph o'er the tomb!"

XXIII.

THE BALLAD OF THE WORLD'S VANITY.

I.

Mournfully maundering,
Life's last moments squandering,
Weary, weary, wandering,
Through this world of sin,
Hermit-shade! I call thee;
Lead me to the valley--
That mysterious alley,
Where I may creep in.

World of strange illusion!
Fancy-born delusion!
Reason-bred confusion!
Phantasmagoria!
Love, where shall I find thee?
Faith, how shall I bind thee?
Truth, who has defined thee?
Changing every day.

Streets of hurry scurry!
Fields of fire and fury!
Homes of wear and worry!
Passing quickly by;
Pleasure a wild snatching,
Dying in the catching,
Pain eternal watching
With relentless eye.

Sorrow, old Sin's daughter!
Screams of eldritch laughter!
Burning tears thereafter!
I've felt the vanity;
Still the hope pursuing,
The pursuit ever rueing,
Possession still undoing
The hope's fond prophecy.

II.

Sun! I've seen thy grandeur,
Scenes of gorgeous splendour,
Visions passing wonder
In ocean, sea, and sky;
Thunders o'er us pealing,
Earthquakes 'neath us reeling,
Fiery comets wheeling
Through all immensity.

Virtue! man has crowned thee,
For beautiful he found thee;
Yet millions have disowned thee,
And seek dark Vice's way,
Hypocrisy, deep-hooded,
Injustice still obtruded,
Stern Cruelty, cold-blooded,
Make brother man their prey.

Kind Love's pure affection!
Pity's benediction!
Charity's sweet action!
All blessed urbanities;
Man on man still preying;
Bleating lambkins slaying!
Devouring blood, and saying
All soft humanities.

III.

Dreaming, doubting, moping,
Hopelessly still hoping,
Dimly, darkly groping
My being's mystery;
This sobbing and this sighing,
This laughing and this crying,
This living and this dying--
Man's mortal history!

Why this wild contention?
This mocking, cruel invention--
What the deep intention?
Who shall give replies?
Demons wildly sporting,
God's beautiful distorting,
Or His own hand extorting
Sin-born penalties?

IV.

Those with whom I started
Oceans wide have parted:
Some are broken-hearted,
Some lie in the clay;
Those I once heard prattle,
For whom I shook the rattle,
Engaged in life's vain battle,
Push me off the way.

The world's laugh it jeers me,
Their looks they seem to fear me,
I hear them whisper near me,
"Old man, why linger here?"
She who loved me dearly,
Wandered with me cheerily,
Is now a phantom merely,
Seen through memory's tear.

Pale ghost, flitting yonder!
With drooping head you wander.
Deep in thought you ponder
Why I stay from thee;
Cease those hands to beckon,
Vain, vain, may you reckon;
Alas! I cannot quicken
Death's desired decree.

Weary, weary wandering,
Life's last moments squandering,
Weary, weary wandering
Through this world of sin,
None can undeceive me,
None but ONE relieve me,
None but ONE receive me,
His peace to enter in.

XXIV.

THE SIEGE: A DRAMATIC TALE.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.--SIR ALEXANDER SETON, Governor of Berwick;
RICHARD and HENRY, his sons. PROVOST RAMSAY. HUGH ELLIOT, a
traitor. KING EDWARD. EARL PERCY. MATILDA, wife of Seton; etc.

SCENE I.--_A Street--the Market-place_.

_Enter_ SIR ALEXANDER SETON, RICHARD _and_ HENRY
(_his sons_), PROVOST RAMSAY, HUGH ELLIOT, _and others of
the People_.

_Provost Ramsay_.--Brither Scotchmen! it is my fixed an'
solemn opinion, that the King o' England has entered into a
_holy alliance_ wi' the enemy o' mankind! An' does he
demand us to surrender!--to gie up our toun!--our property!--our
lives!--our liberty!--to Southern pagans, that hae entered into
compact wi' the powers o' the air! Surrender! No, Scotchmen!
While we breathe, we will breathe the _breath o' Freedom!_
as it soughs down the Tweed, between the heathery hills o' our
ain auld country! I am but provost o' Berwick, Sir Alexander,
an' ye are its governor; an' in a time like this, the power o'
defending or surrendering the gates is yours; but though ye gie
up the keys this very hour, an' were every stane o' the walls
turned are upon anither--here!--the power to defend this
market-place is mine!--and _here_ will I stand, while this
hand can wield a sword, or a Scotchman is left to die by my
side!

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