This is the sum and substance of some conversations held while rambling among these scenes, going in and out of arches, climbing into nooks and through loopholes, picking moss and ivy, and occasionally retreating under the shadow of some arch, while the skies were indulging in a sudden burst of emotion. The poor woman who acted as our guide, ensconcing herself in a dry corner, stood like a literal Patience on a monument, waiting for us to be through; we were sorry for her, but as it was our first and last chance, and she would stay there, we could not help it.
Near by the abbey is a square, modern mansion, belonging to the Earl of Buchan, at present untenanted. There were some black, solemn yew trees there, old enough to have told us a deal of history had they been inclined to speak; as it was, they could only drizzle.
As we were walking through the yard, a bird broke out into a clear, sweet song.
"What bird is that?" said I.
"I think it is the mavis," said the guide. This brought up,—
"The mavis wild, wie mony a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest."
And also,—
"Merry it is in wild green wood,
When mavis and merle are singing."