HEATHER ALE. 



"For life is a little matter, 



And death is naught to the young; 

 And I dare not sell my honour 



Under the eye of my son. 

 Take him, O king, and bind him, 



And cast him far in the deep ; 

 And it's I will tell the secret 



That I have sworn to keep." 



Then they took the son and bound him 



Neck and heels in a thong, 

 And a lad took him and swung him, 



And flung him far and strong. 

 And the sea swallowed his body, 



Like that of a child of ten ; 

 And there on the cliff stood the father, 



Last of the dwarfish men. 



"True was the word I told you; 



Only my son I feared ; 

 For I doubt the sapling courage 



That goes without the beard. 

 But now in vain is the torture 



Fire shall never avail: 

 Here dies in my bosom 



The secret of Heather Ale." 



"Mr. Stevenson's ballad of the Heather Ale has 

 a fairly accurate setting," says MacRitchie in "The 

 Scottish Antiquary," "although there is no warrant 

 for the leading incident of the last of the Picts and 

 the lost recipe. As far back as 1443 a man of high 

 107 



