Without reply, Alister took a stone by the wayside, and Ian one a couple of yards from him. This was his song.
LOVE'S HISTORY.
Love, the baby,
Toddled out to pluck a flower;
One said, "No, sir;" one said, "Maybe,
At the evening hour!"
Love, the boy,
Joined the boys and girls at play;
But he left them half his joy
Ere the close of day.
Love, the youth,
Roamed the country, lightning-laden;
But he hurt himself, and, sooth,
Many a man and maiden!
Love, the man,
Sought a service all about;
But he would not take their plan,
So they cast him out.
Love, the aged,
Walking, bowed, the shadeless miles,
Bead a volume many-paged,
Full of tears and smiles.
Love, the weary,
Tottered down the shelving road:
At its foot, lo, night the starry
Meeting him from God!
"Love, the holy!"
Sang a music in her dome,
Sang it softly, sang it slowly,
"—Love is coming home!"
Ere the week was out, there stood above the dead stag a growing cairn, to this day called Carn a' cabrach mor. It took ten men with levers to roll one of the boulders at its base. Men still cast stones upon it as they pass.