Sir Gibbie Part 49

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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed, 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 G.o.d; 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.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] It amuses a Scotchman to find that the word cakes, as in "The Land of Cakes," is taken, not only by foreigners, but by some English people--as how, indeed, should it be otherwise?--to mean compositions of flour, more or less enriched, and generally appreciable; whereas, in fact, it stands for the dryest, simplest preparation in the world. The genuine cakes is--(My grammar follows usage: cakes is; broth are.)--literally nothing but oatmeal made into a dough with cold water and dried over the fire--sometimes then in front of it as well.

[2] Metrical paraphrases of pa.s.sages of Scripture, always to be found at the end of the Bibles printed for Scotland.

[3] See Sir Thomas d.i.c.k Lauder's account of the Morayshire Floods in 1829 (1st Ed., p. 181)--an enchanting book, especially to one whose earliest memories are interwoven with water-floods. For details in such kind here given, I am much indebted to it. Again and again, as I have been writing, has it rendered me miserable--my tale showing so flat and poor beside Sir Thomas's narrative. Known to me from childhood, it wakes in me far more wonder and pleasure now, than it did even in the days when the marvel of things came more to the surface.