"He desires me to tell you," said Lady Galbraith, "that he was a stranger, and you folk of Daurside took him in, and if ever he can do a kindness to you or yours, he will.--He desires me also to say, that you ought not to be left ignorant that you have a poet of your own, born and bred among you--Donal Grant, the son of Robert and Janet, the friend of Sir Gilbert's heart, and one of the noblest of men. And he begs you to allow me to read you a poem he had from him this very morning--probably just written. It is called The Laverock. I will read it as well as I can. If any of you do not like poetry, he says--I mean Sir Gilbert says--you can go to the kitchen and light your pipes, and he will send your wine there to you."She ceased. Not one stirred, and she read the verses--which, for the sake of having Donal in at the last of my book, I will print.
Those who do not care for verse, may--metaphorically, I would not be rude--go and smoke their pipes in the kitchen.
THE LAVEROCK. (lark)
THE MAN SAYS:
Laverock i' the lift, (sky)
Hae ye nae sang-thrift, 'At ye scatter't sae heigh, an' lat it a' drift?
Wasterfu' laverock!
Dinna ye ken 'At ye hing ower men Wha haena a sang or a penny to spen'?
Hertless laverock!
But up there, you, I' the bow o' the blue, Haud skirlin' on as gien a' war new! (keep shrilling)Toom-heidit laverock! (empty-headed)
Haith! ye're ower blythe:
I see a great scythe Swing whaur yer nestie lies, doon i' the lythe, (shelter)Liltin' laverock!
Eh, sic a soon'!
Birdie, come doon--
Ye're fey to sing sic a merry tune, (death-doomed)Gowkit laverock! (silly)
Come to yer nest;
Yer wife's sair prest;
She's clean worn oot wi' duin' her best, Rovin' laverock!
Winna ye haud?
Ye're surely mad!
Is there naebody there to gie ye a daud? (blow)Menseless laverock!
Come doon an' conform;
Pyke an honest worm, An' hap yer bairns frae the muckle storm, Spendrife laverock!
THE BIRD SINGS:
My nestie it lieth I' the how o' a han'; (hollow)The swing o' the scythe 'Ill miss 't by a span.
The lift it's sae cheerie!
The win' it's sae free!
I hing ower my dearie, An' sing 'cause I see.
My wifie's wee breistie Grows warm wi' my sang, An' ilk crumpled-up beastie Kens no to think lang.
Up here the sun sings, but He only shines there!
Ye haena nae wings, but Come up on a prayer.
THE MAN SINGS:
Ye wee daurin' cratur, Ye rant an' ye sing Like an oye o' auld Natur' (grandchild)Ta'en hame by the King!
Ye wee feathert priestie, Yer bells i' yer thro't.
Yer altar yer breistie Yer mitre forgot--Offerin' an' Aaron, Ye burn hert an' brain An' dertin' an' daurin Flee back to yer ain Ye wee minor prophet, It's 'maist my belief 'At I'm doon i' Tophet, An' you abune grief!
Ye've deavt me an' daudit, (deafened) (buffeted)An' ca'd me a fule:
I'm nearhan' persuaudit To gang to your schule!
For, birdie, I'm thinkin'
Ye ken mair nor me--
Gien ye haena been drinkin', An' sing as ye see.
Ye maun hae a sicht 'at Sees geyan far ben; (considerably) (inwards)An' a hert for the micht o' 't Wad sair for nine men! (serve)Somebody's been till Roun to ye wha (whisper)Said birdies war seen till E'en whan they fa'!
After the reading of the poem, Sir Gilbert and Lady Galbraith withdrew, and went towards the new part of the house, where they had their rooms. On the bridge, over which Ginevra scarcely ever passed without stopping to look both up and down the dry channel in the rock, she lingered as usual, and gazed from its windows. Below, the waterless bed of the burn opened out on the great valley of the Daur; above was the landslip, and beyond it the stream rushing down the mountain. Gibbie pointed up to it. She gazed a while, and gave a great sigh. He asked her--their communication was now more like that between two spirits: even signs had become almost unnecessary--what she wanted or missed. She looked in his face and said, "Naething but the sang o' my burnie, Gibbie." He took a small pistol from his pocket, and put it in her hand; then, opening the window, signed to her to fire it. She had never fired a pistol, and was a little frightened, but would have been utterly ashamed to shrink from anything Gibbie would have her do. She held it out, Her hand trembled. He laid his upon it, and it grew steady. She pulled the trigger, and dropped the pistol with a little cry. He signed to her to listen. A moment passed, and then, like a hugely magnified echo, came a roar that rolled from mountain to mountain, like a thunder drum. The next instant, the landslip seemed to come hurrying down the channel, roaring and leaping: it was the mud-brown waters of the burn, careering along as if mad with joy at having regained their ancient course. Ginevra stared with parted lips, delight growing to apprehension as the live thing momently neared the bridge. With tossing mane of foam, the brown courser came rushing on, and shot thundering under. They turned, and from the other window saw it tumbling headlong down the steep descent to the Lorrie. By quick gradations, even as they gazed, the mud melted away; the water grew clearer and clearer, and in a few minutes a small mountain-river, of a lovely lucid brown, transparent as a smoke-crystal, was dancing along under the bridge. It had ceased its roar and was sweetly singing.
"Let us see it from my room, Gibbie," said Ginevra.
They went up, and from the turret window looked down upon the water.
They gazed until, like the live germ of the gathered twilight, it was scarce to be distinguished but by abstract motion.
"It's my ain burnie," said Ginevra, "an' it's ain auld sang! I'll warran' it hasna forgotten a note o' 't! Eh, Gibbie, ye gie me a'
thing!"
"Gien I was a burnie, wadna I rin!" sang Gibbie, and Ginevra heard the words, though Gibbie could utter only the air he had found for them so long ago. She threw herself into his arms, and hiding her face on his shoulder, clung silent to her silent husband. Over her lovely bowed head, he gazed into the cool spring night, sparkling with stars, and shadowy with mountains. His eyes climbed the stairs of Glashgar to the lonely peak dwelling among the lights of God; and if upon their way up the rocks they met no visible sentinels of heaven, he needed neither ascending stairs nor descending angels, for a better than the angels was with them.
