THE DEATH-BRIDGE OF THE TAY By WILL CARLETON, Lecturer, Journalist, Author, Poet. Born in From "Farm Festivals," by Will Carleton. Copyright, 1881, 1898, by Harper & Brothers, New York. The night and the storm fell together upon the old town of Dundee, And, trembling, the mighty firth-river held out its cold hand toward the sea. Like the dull-booming bolts of a cannon, the wind swept the streets and the shores; It wrenched at the roofs and the chimneys, it crashed 'gainst the windows and doors; Like a mob that is drunken and frenzied, it surged through the streets up and down, And screamed the sharp, shrill cry of Murder! o'er river and hill-top and town. It leaned its great breast 'gainst the belfries, it perched upon minaret and dome Then sprang on the shivering firth-river, and tortured its waves into foam. 'Twas a night when the landsman seeks shelter, and cares not to venture abroad; When the sailor clings close to the rigging, and prays for the mercy of God. Along the shore-line creeps the city, in crouching and sinuous shape, With firesides so soon to be darkened, and doors to be shaded with crape! To the south, like a spider-thread waving, there curves, for a two-mile away, This world's latest man-devised wonder,—the far-famous bridge of the Tay. It stretches and gleams into distance; it creeps the broad stream o'er and o'er, Till it rests its strong, delicate fingers in the palm of the opposite shore. But look! through the mists of the southward, there flash to the eye, clear and plain, Like a meteor that's bound to destruction, the lights of a swift-coming train! * * * * 'Mid the lights that so gayly are gleaming yon city of Dundee within, Is one that is waiting a wanderer, who long o'er the ocean has been. His age-burdened parents are watching from the window that looks on the firth, For the train that will come with their darling,—their truestloved treasure on earth. "He'll be comin' the nicht," says the father, for sure the handwritin's his ain; The letter says, 'Ha' the lamp lichted-I'll come on the seven-o'clock train. For years in the mines I've been toiling, in this wonderfu' West, o'er the sea; My work has brought kingly wages; there's plenty for you an' for me. Your last days shall e'en be your best days; the high stepping youngster you knew, Who cost so much care in his raising, now'll care for himself and for you. Gang not to the station to meet me; ye never need run for me more; But when ye shall hear the gate clickit, ye maun rise up an' open the door. We will hae the first glow of our greeting when nae one o' strangers be nigh, We will smile out the joy o' our meeting on the spot where we wept our good-bye. Ye maun put me a plate on the table, an' set in the auld place a chair; An' if but the good Lord be willing, doubt never a bit I'll be there. So sit ye an' wait for my coming (ye will na' watch for me in vain), An' see me glide over the river, along o' the roar of the train. Ye may sit at the southernmost window, for I will come hame from that way; I will fly where I swam, when a youngster, across the broad Firth o' the Tay.' So they sit at the southernmost window, the parents, with hand clasped in hand, And gaze o'er the tempest-vexed waters, across to the storm-shaken land. They see the bold acrobat-monster creep out on the treacherous line; Its cinder-breath glitters like star-dust, its lamp-eyes they glimmer and shine. It braces itself 'gainst the tempest-it fights for each inch with the foe With torrents of air all around it-with torrents of water below. But look! look! the monster is stumbling, while trembles the fragile bridge-wall They struggle like athletes entwining-then both like a thunderbolt fall! Down, down through the dark the train plunges, with speed unaccustomed and dire; It glows with its last dying beauty-it gleams like a hailstorm of fire! No wonder the mother faints death-like, and clings like a clod to the floor; No wonder the man writhes in frenzy, and dashes his way through the door! He fights his way out through the tempest; he is beaten and baffied and tossed; He cries, "The train's gang off the Tay brig! lend help here to look for the lost!"' Oh, little to him do they listen, the crowds to the river that flee; The news, like the shock of an earthquake, has thrilled through the town of Dundee. Like travelers belated, they're rushing to where the bare station-walls frown; Suspense twists the blade of their anguish, like maniacs they run up and down. Out, out, creep two brave, sturdy fellows, o'er danger-strewn buttress and piers; They can climb 'gainst that blast, for they carry the blood of old Scotch mountaineers. But they leave it along as they clamber; they mark all their hand-path with red; Till they come where the torrent leaps bridgeless, dancing over its dead. a grave A moment they gaze down in horror; then creep from the death-laden tide, With the news, "There's nae help for our loved ones, save God's mercy for them who have died!" How sweetly the sunlight can sparkle o'er graves where our best hopes have lain ! How brightly its gold beams can glisten on faces that whiten with pain! Oh, never more gay were the wavelets, and careless in inno cent glee, And never more sweet did the sunrise shine over the town of Dundee. But though the town welcomed the morning, and the firth threw its gold lances back, On the hearts of the grief-stricken people death's cloud rested heavy and black. And the couple who waited last evening their man-statured son to accost, Now laid their heads down on the table, and mourned for the boy that was lost. "'Twas sae sad," moaned the crushed, aged mother, each word dripping o'er with a tear, 66 Sae far he should come for to find us, and then he should perish sae near! O Robin, my bairn! ye did wander far from us for mony a day, And when ye ha' come back sae near us, why could na' ye come a' the way?" "I hae come a' the way," said a strong voice, and a bearded and sun-beaten face Smiled on them the first joyous pressure of one long and filial embrace: "I cam' on last nicht far as Newport; but Maggie, my bride that's to be, She ran through the storm to the station, to get the first greeting o' me. I leaped from the carriage to kiss her; she held me sae fast and sae ticht, The train it ran off and did leave me; I could na' get over the nicht. I tried for to walk the brig over, my head it was a' in a whirl; I could na'-ye know the sad reason—I had to go back to my girl! I hope ye'll tak' kindly to Maggie; she's promised to soon be my wife; |