Donal rose, replying,
“Think ye sae, sir? I thoucht I was in auld Scotlan’ still—here as weel ’s upo’ Glashgar. But may be my jography buik’s some auld-fashioned.—Didna ye un’erstan’ me, mem?” he added, turning to Ginevra.
“Every word, Donal,” she answered.
Donal followed his host contented.
Gibbie took his place, and began to teach Ginevra the finger alphabet. The other girls found him far more amusing than Donal—first of all because he could not speak, which was much less objectionable than speaking like Donal—and funny too, though not so funny as Donal’s clothes. And then he had such a romantic history! and was a baronet!
In a few minutes Ginevra knew the letters, and presently she and Gibbie were having a little continuous talk together, a thing they had never had before. It was so slow, however, as to be rather tiring. It was mainly about Donal. But Mrs. Sclater opened the piano, and made a diversion. She played something brilliant, and then sang an Italian song in strillaceous style, revealing to Donal’s clownish ignorance a thorough mastery of caterwauling. Then she asked Miss Kimble to play something, who declined, without mentioning that she had neither voice nor ear nor love of music, but said Miss Galbraith should sing—“for once in a way, as a treat.—That little Scotch song you sing now and then, my dear,” she added.
Ginevra rose timidly, but without hesitation, and going to the piano, sang, to a simple old Scotch air, to which they had been written, the following verses. Before she ended, the minister, the late herd-boy, and the dumb baronet were grouped crescent-wise behind the music-stool.
I dinna ken what’s come ower me!
There’s a how (hollow) whaur ance was a hert;
I never luik oot afore me,
An’ a cry winna gar me stert;
There’s naething nae mair to come ower me,
Blaw the win’ frae ony airt. (quarter)
For i’ yon kirkyaird there’s a hillock,
A hert whaur ance was a how;
An’ o’ joy there’s no left a mealock—(crumb)
Deid aiss (ashes) whaur ance was a low; (flame)
For i’ yon kirkyaird, i’ the hillock,
Lies a seed ’at winna grow.
It’s my hert ’at hauds up the wee hillie—
That’s hoo there’s a how i’ my breist;
It’s awa doon there wi’ my Willie,
Gaed wi’ him whan he was releast;
It’s doon i’ the green-grown hillie,
But I s’ be efter it neist.
Come awa, nichts and mornin’s,
Come ooks, years, a’ time’s clan;
Ye’re walcome ayont a’ scornin’:
Tak me till him as fest as ye can.
Come awa, nichts an’ mornin’s,
Ye are wings o’ a michty span!
For I ken he’s luikin’ an’ waitin’,
Luikin’ aye doon as I clim’:
Wad I hae him see me sit greitin’,
I’stead o’ gaein’ to him?
I’ll step oot like ane sure o’ a meetin’,
I’ll traivel an’ rin to him.
Three of them knew that the verses were Donal’s. If the poet went home feeling more like a fellow in blue coat and fustian trowsers, or a winged genius of the tomb, I leave my reader to judge. Anyhow, he felt he had had enough for one evening, and was able to encounter his work again. Perhaps also, when supper was announced, he reflected that his reception had hardly been such as to justify him in partaking of their food, and that his mother’s hospitality to Mr. Sclater had not been in expectation of return. As they went down the stair, he came last and alone, behind the two whispering school-girls; and when they passed on into the dining-room, he spilt out of the house, and ran home to the furniture-shop and his books.
When the ladies took their leave, Gibbie walked with them. And now at last he learned where to find Ginevra.