When the main part of the dinner was over, Sir Gilbert and his lady stood at the head of the table, and, he speaking by signs and she interpreting, made a little speech together. In the course of it Sir Gibbie took occasion to apologize for having once disturbed the peace of the country-side by acting the supposed part of a broonie, and in relating his adventures of the time, accompanied his wife’s text with such graphic illustration of gesture, that his audience laughed at the merry tale till the tears ran down their cheeks. Then with a few allusions to his strange childhood, he thanked the God who led him through thorny ways into the very arms of love and peace in the cottage of Robert and Janet Grant, whence, and not from the fortune he had since inherited, came all his peace.
“He desires me to tell you,” said Lady Galbraith, “that he was a stranger, and you folk of Daurside took him in, and if ever he can do a kindness to you or yours, he will.—He desires me also to say, that you ought not to be left ignorant that you have a poet of your own, born and bred among you—Donal Grant, the son of Robert and Janet, the friend of Sir Gilbert’s heart, and one of the noblest of men. And he begs you to allow me to read you a poem he had from him this very morning—probably just written. It is called The Laverock. I will read it as well as I can. If any of you do not like poetry, he says—I mean Sir Gilbert says—you can go to the kitchen and light your pipes, and he will send your wine there to you.”
She ceased. Not one stirred, and she read the verses—which, for the sake of having Donal in at the last of my book, I will print. Those who do not care for verse, may—metaphorically, I would not be rude—go and smoke their pipes in the kitchen.
THE LAVEROCK. (lark)
THE MAN SAYS:
Laverock i’ the lift, (sky)
Hae ye nae sang-thrift,
’At ye scatter ’t sae heigh, an’ lat it a’ drift?
Wasterfu’ laverock!
Dinna ye ken
’At ye hing ower men
Wha haena a sang or a penny to spen’?
Hertless laverock!
But up there, you,
I’ the bow o’ the blue,
Haud skirlin’ (keep shrilling) on as gien a’ war new!
Toom-heidit (empty-headed) laverock!
Haith! ye’re ower blythe:
I see a great scythe
Swing whaur yer nestie lies, doon i’ the lythe, (shelter)
Liltin’ laverock!
Eh, sic a soon’!
Birdie, come doon—
Ye’re fey (death-doomed) to sing sic a merry tune,
Gowkit (silly) laverock!
Come to yer nest;
Yer wife’s sair prest;
She’s clean worn oot wi’ duin’ her best,
Rovin’ laverock!
Winna ye haud?
Ye’re surely mad!
Is there naebody there to gie ye a daud? (blow)
Menseless laverock!
Come doon an’ conform;
Pyke an honest worm,
An’ hap yer bairns frae the muckle storm,
Spendrife laverock!
THE BIRD SINGS:
My nestie it lieth
I’ the how (hollow) o’ a han’;
The swing o’ the scythe
’Ill miss ’t by a span.
The lift it’s sae cheerie!
The win’ it’s sae free!
I hing ower my dearie,
An’ sing ’cause I see.
My wifie’s wee breistie
Grows warm wi’ my sang,
An’ ilk crumpled-up beastie
Kens no to think lang.
Up here the sun sings, but
He only shines there!
Ye haena nae wings, but
Come up on a prayer.
THE MAN SINGS:
Ye wee daurin’ cratur,
Ye rant an’ ye sing
Like an oye (grandchild) o’ auld Natur
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 (deafened) me an’ daudit, (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 (considerably) far ben; (inwards)
An’ a hert for the micht o’ ’t
Wad sair (serve) for nine men!
Somebody’s been till
Roun to ye wha (whisper)
Said birdies war seen till
E’en whan they fa’!