But I think that Geordie must have been hardly hit, and I will tell you why. Going into the stable on the evening of the second day, Sandie was surprised to find Geordie sitting with his back to the dusty cobwebby window, and a slate in his hand.
He was so thoroughly absorbed, that he neither saw our hero nor heard his footsteps.
So Sandie made bold to peep over Geordie’s shoulder, and, to his intense surprise, he found he was writing verses. That they possessed but little literary merit, the following specimen will prove:—
BONNIE TIBBIE MORRISON.
O Tibbie, Tibbie Morrison,
I lo’e ye as my life,
And I would range the warld o’er
To mak’ ye my guid wife.
When ye are near, my Tibbie dear,
The sun seems shinin’ bright;
When Tibbie’s far awa’ frae me,
’Tis blackest, darkest night.
A ploughman lad is all my rank,
Sma’, sma’s my penny fee,
But I would gie it a’ awa’
For a love blink frae your e’e.
Tibbie, Tibbie! Tibbie!! TIBBIE!!!
Will ever ye be mine?
Will e’er I hold ye to my heart,
My wife and valentine?
“Why, Geordie, man!” cried Sandie, “is it as bad as that with you?”
Geordie sprang up as if shot, and grew as red as a beet. He tried to hide the slate.