GAEIN' AND COMIN'.
Whan Andrew frae Strathbogie gaed,
The lift was lowerin' dreary;
The sun he wadna lift his heid;
The win' blew laich and eerie.
In's pouch he had a plack or twa,
I vow he hadna mony;
Yet Andrew like a lintie sang,
For Lizzie was sae bonny!
O Lizzie, Lizzie, bonnie lassie!
Bonnie, saucy hizzie!
What richt had ye to luik at me,
And drive me daft and dizzy?
Whan Andrew to Strathbogie cam',
The sun was shinin' rarely;
He rade a horse that pranced and sprang—
I vow he sat him fairly.
And he had gowd to spend and spare,
And a heart as true as ony;
But's luik was doon, and his sigh was sair,
For Lizzie was sae bonny!
O Lizzie, Lizzie, bonny hizzie!
Ye've turned the daylicht dreary.
Ye're straucht and rare, ye're fause and fair—
Hech! auld John Armstrong's dearie!"
His voice was mellow, and ought to have been even. His expression was perfect.
The kettle was boiling. Mr Cupples made his toddy, and resumed his story.
"As sune's I was able, I left my mither greitin'—God bless her!—and cam to this toon, for I wasna gaein' to be eaten up with idleset as weel's wi' idolatry. The first thing I tuik till was teachin'. Noo that's a braw thing, whan the laddies and lassies want to learn, and hae questons o' their ain to speir. But whan they dinna care, it's the verra deevil. Or lang, a'thing grew grey. I cared for naething and naebody. My verra dreams gaed frae me, or cam only to torment me, wi' the reid hert o' them changed to yallow and grey.
"Weel, ae nicht I had come hame worn oot wi' warstlin' to gar bairns eat that had no hunger, I spied upo' the table a bottle o' whusky. A frien' o' mine—a grocer he was—had sent it across the street to me, for it was hard upo' Hogmanay. I rang the bell incontinent. Up comes the lass, and says I, 'Bell, lat's hae a kettlefu' o' het water.' And to mak' a lang story short, I could never want het water sin syne. For I hadna drunken aboon a twa glaiss, afore the past began to revive as gin ye had come ower't wi' a weet sponge. A' the colours cam' oot upo' 't again, as gin they had never turned wan and grey; and I said to mysel' wi' pride: 'My leddy canna, wi' a' her breedin' and her bonnie skin, haud Cosmo Cupples frae lo'ein' her.' And I followed aboot at her again throu a' the oots and ins o' the story, and the past was restored to me.—That's hoo it appeared to me that nicht.—Was't ony wonner that the first thing I did whan I cam' hame the neist nicht was to ring for the het water? I wantit naething frae Providence or Natur' but jist that the colour michtna be a' ta'en oot o' my life. The muckle deevil was in't, that I cudna stan' up to my fate like a man, and, gin my life was to cast the colour, jist tak my auld cloak aboot me, and gang on content. But I cudna. I bude to see things bonnie, or my strength gaed frae me. But ye canna slink in at back doors that gait. I was pitten oot, and oot I maun bide. It wasna that lang afore I began to discover that it was a' a delusion and a snare. Whan I fell asleep, I wad dream whiles that, openin' the door into ane o' thae halls o' licht, there she was stan'in' lauchin' at me. And she micht hae gane on lauchin' to a' eternity—for onything I cared. And—ten times waur—I wad whiles come upon her greitin' and repentin', and haudin' oot her han' to me, and me carin' no more for her than for the beard o' a barley-stalk. And for makin' a sang—I jist steikit my lugs (stopped my ears) whan I heard a puir misguidit canary singin' i' the sunshine. And I begud to hear a laich lauch far awa', and it cam' nearer and nearer ilka week, till it was ringin' i' my verra lug. But a' that was naething compairateevely. I' the mids o' a quaiet contemplation, suddenly, wi' an awfu' stoon, a ghaistly doobt pat it's heid up i' my breist, and cried: 'It's a' fause. The grey luik o' life's the true ane, and the only aspec' ye hae a richt to see.' And efter that, a' the whusky in Glenlivat cudna console me.—Luik at me noo. Ye see what I am. I can whiles sing an auld sang—but mak' a new ane!—Lord, man! I can hardly believe 'at ever I made a sang i' my life. Luik at my han' hoo it trimles. Luik at my hert. It's brunt oot. There's no a leevin' crater but yersel' that I hae ony regaird for, sin my auld mither deid. Gin it warna for buiks, I wad amaist cut my throat. And the senawtus disna think me bye and aboon half a proper companion for buiks even; as gin Cupples micht corrup' Milton himsel, although he was ten feet ower his heid bottled in a buik. And whan I saw ye poor oot the whusky in that mad-like mainner, as gin 't had been some sma' tipple o' penny ale, it jist drave me mad wi' anger."
"Weel, Mr Cupples," Alec ventured to say, "what for dinna ye sen' the bottle to the devil?"