John the Second was different cloth. He had wings⁠—but the wings of the moth. Courtly, unlucky, clever and wise, There was a Stuart in his eyes, A gambler that played against loaded dice. He could harrow the water and plough the sand, But he could not do the thing at hand. A fencing-foil too supple for use, A racing colt that must run at loose. And the Wingate acres had slipped away If it had not been for Elspeth Mackay. She was his wife, and her heart was bold As a broad, bright guinea of Border gold. Her wit was a tartan of colored weather. Her walk was gallant as Highland heather. And whatever she had, she held together.