THE HIGHLAND BALLAD

“Do please tell me, grandmother dear, what would close wounds better,

so a man, though badly wounded, would not die, no matter?” —

““Well, for healing open wounds there’s something worth applying,

magic springtime juice of ribwort, lamb’s tongue, is worth trying.”” —

“Do please tell me, grandmother dear, what salve’s good for easing

a head sorely aching, burning, fever for appeasing?” —

““For a sunstroke such as that, there is no lotion other

than fresh leaves of strawberries wild, in woodland there to gather.””

So up-sprang, off-ran the child, into the fields surrounding —

“Give me your juice please, lamb’s tongue sweet, painful wounds for confounding!”

Then from the field, off to the woods, through hawthorn, thistle, briar —

“Give me your fresh young leaves oh please, dear strawberry, to quench fire!”

Now having gathered everything, to the church the child races:

there Christ spread on the cross before the altar the child faces.

“As I anoint your godly chest, and swab your side most gently,

so may your body heal again, my treasured Jesus, saintly —

I lay fresh woodland leaves upon your head, your cheeks, so duly,

so that your head will be no longer sunstruck, pained so cruelly!”

High o’er the church great bells out to the land are pealing, tolling,

folks gather, beat their breast, bow down, a miracle extolling:

what the child’s soul had hoped for, willed,

had, by God’s grace, been fulfilled.

Till this day the highland village has their Martyr, painted,

his side free of wounds, his brow by scars no longer tainted,

and lily white’s the morning glow upon his body, sainted.