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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.
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