The idea of Turkey wagging his head in a pulpit made me laugh.
“Wait till you see,” resumed Mrs. Duff, somewhat offended at my reception of her prophecy. “Folk will hear of him yet.”
“I didn’t mean he couldn’t be a minister, Mrs. Duff. But I don’t think he will take to that.”
Here Elsie came back, and lifting the lid of the pot, examined the state of its contents. I got hold of her hand, but for the first time she withdrew it. I did not feel hurt, for she did it very gently. Then she began to set the white deal table in the middle of the floor, and by the time she had put the plates and spoons upon it, the water in the pot was boiling, and she began to make the porridge, at which she was judged to be first-rate—in my mind, equal to our Kirsty. By the time it was ready, her father and Turkey came in. James Duff said grace, and we sat down to our supper. The wind was blowing hard outside, and every now and then the hail came in deafening rattles against the little windows, and, descending the wide chimney, danced on the floor about the hearth; but not a thought of the long, stormy way between us and home interfered with the enjoyment of the hour.
After supper, which was enlivened by simple chat about the crops and the doings on the farm, James turned to me, and said:
“Haven’t you got a song or a ballad to give us, Ranald? I know you’re always getting hold of such things.”
I had expected this; for, every time I went, I tried to have something to repeat to them. As I could not sing, this was the nearest way in which I might contribute to the evening’s entertainment. Elsie was very fond of ballads, and I could hardly please her better than by bringing a new one with me. But in default of that, an old one or a story would be welcomed. My reader must remember that there were very few books to be had then in that part of the country, and therefore any mode of literature was precious. The schoolmaster was the chief source from which I derived my provision of this sort. On the present occasion, I was prepared with a ballad of his. I remember every word of it now, and will give it to my readers, reminding them once more how easy it is to skip it, if they do not care for that kind of thing.
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“Bonny lassie, rosy lassie, Ken ye what is care? Had ye ever a thought, lassie, Made yer hertie sair?” Johnnie said it, Johnnie luikin’ Into Jeannie’s face; Seekin’ in the garden hedge For an open place. “Na,” said Jeannie, saftly smilin’, “Nought o’ care ken I; For they say the carlin’ Is better passit by.” “Licht o’ hert ye are, Jeannie, As o’ foot and ban’! Lang be yours sic answer To ony spierin’ man.” “I ken what ye wad hae, sir, Though yer words are few; Ye wad hae me aye as careless, Till I care for you.” “Dinna mock me, Jeannie, lassie, Wi’ yer lauchin’ ee; For ye hae nae notion What gaes on in me.” “No more I hae a notion O’ what’s in yonder cairn; I’m no sae pryin’, Johnnie, It’s none o’ my concern.” “Well, there’s ae thing, Jeannie, Ye canna help, my doo— Ye canna help me carin’ Wi’ a’ my hert for you.” Johnnie turned and left her, Listed for the war; In a year cam’ limpin’ Hame wi’ mony a scar. Wha was that was sittin’ Wan and worn wi’ care? Could it be his Jeannie Aged and alter’d sair? Her goon was black, her eelids Reid wi’ sorrow’s dew: Could she in a twalmonth Be wife and widow too? Jeannie’s hert gaed wallop, Ken ‘t him whan he spak’: “I thocht that ye was deid, Johnnie: Is’t yersel’ come back?” “O Jeannie, are ye, tell me, Wife or widow or baith? To see ye lost as I am, I wad be verra laith,” “I canna be a widow That wife was never nane; But gin ye will hae me, Noo I will be ane.” His crutch he flang it frae him, Forgetful o’ war’s harms; But couldna stan’ withoot it, And fell in Jeannie’s arms. |
“That’s not a bad ballad,” said James Duff. “Have you a tune it would go to, Elsie?”
Elsie thought a little, and asked me to repeat the first verse. Then she sung it out clear and fair to a tune I had never heard before.