Win’ that blaws the simmer plaid,
Ower the hie hill’s shouthers laid,
Green wi’ gerse, an’ reid wi’ heather,
Welcome wi’ yer soul-like weather!
Mony a win’ there has been sent
Oot ’aneth the firmament;
Ilka ane its story has;
Ilka ane began an’ was;
Ilka ane fell quaiet an’ mute
Whan its angel wark was oot.
First gaed ane oot ower the mirk,
Whan the maker gan to work;
Ower it gaed and ower the sea,
An’ the warl’ begud to be.
Mony ane has come an’ gane
Sin’ the time there was but ane:
Ane was great an’ strong, an’ rent
Rocks an’ mountains as it went
Afore the Lord, his trumpeter,
Waukin’ up the prophet’s ear;
Ane was like a steppin’ soun’
I’ the mulberry taps abune;
Them the Lord’s ain steps did swing,
Walkin’ on afore his king;
Ane lay doon like scoldit pup
At his feet an’ gatna up,
Whan the word the maister spak
Drave the wull-cat billows back;
Ane gaed frae his lips, an’ dang
To the earth the sodger thrang;
Ane comes frae his hert to mine,
Ilka day, to mak it fine.
Breath o’ God, oh! come an’ blaw
Frae my hert ilk fog awa’;
Wauk me up, an’ mak me strang,
Fill my hert wi’ mony a sang,
Frae my lips again to stert,
Fillin’ sails o’ mony a hert,
Blawin’ them ower seas dividin’
To the only place to bide in.
“Eh, Mr. Warlock! is that you singin’ o’ the Sawbath day?” said the voice of a young woman behind him, in a tone of gentle raillery rather than expostulation.
Cosmo turned and saw Elspeth, his master’s daughter already mentioned.
“Whaur’s the wrang o’ that, Miss Elsie?” he answered. “Arena we tellt to sing an’ mak melody to the Lord?”
“Ay, but i’ yer hert, no lood oot—’cep’ it be i’ the kirk. That’s the place to sing upo’ Sundays. Yon wasna a psalm-tune ye was at!”
“Maybe no. Maybe I was a bit ower happy for ony tune i’ the tune-buiks, an’ bude to hae ane ’at cam o’ ’tsel’!”
“An’ what wad mak ye sae happy—gien a body micht speir?” asked Elspeth, peeping from under long lashes, with a shy, half frightened, sidelong glance at the youth.
She was a handsome girl of the milkmaid type, who wore a bonnet with pretty ribbons, thought of herself as a young lady, and had many admirers, whence she had grown a little bold, without knowing it.
“Ye haena ower muckle at hame to make ye blithe, gien a’ be true,” she added sympathetically.
“I hae a’ thing at hame to make me blithe—’cep’ it be a wheen mair siller,” answered Cosmo; “but maybe that’ll come neist—wha kens?”