His ewes are in the fauld
And his sheep are lying still."
Softly, softly, pianissimo, my boy! These lines must be sung so, not loudly like the other verses. Andrew knows the touch.
"But he downa gang to rest,
For his heart is in a flame
To meet his bonnie lassie,
When the kye come hame."
And so we parted from our shepherd, the chorus of our song reaching him over the moors till he faded out of sight. I am sure we wish him weel. Happiness is not all in the higher walks of life; and surely in virtue's paths the cottage leaves the palace far behind.
Another song followed, which I thought equally appropriate, for it tells us that "Ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew." Ah, the shepherd's drops of the dew of life are often what princes vainly sigh for.
Arthur's Seat.