“I mintit at naething else,” said he, “but I hae an unreverent kind o’ tongue that nought ever serous–like fa’s frae, let my frame o’ mind be as it will; an’ troth I haena command o’ language for a job like this. I trow the prelates hae the best way after a’, for they get prayers ready made to their hands, an’ disna need to affront their Maker wi’ blunders.”
“How can ye speak sae the night, David? or how can sic a thought hover round your heart as to flee out at random that gate? If ye will read prayers, there’s a book, read them out o’ that; if the words o’ God winna suit the cases o’ his ain creatures, how can ye trow the words o’ another man can do it? But pray wi’ the heart, an’ pray in humility, and fearna being accepted.”
“That’s true; but yet ane maks but a poor figure wi’ the heart by itsel.”
“Wow, Davie, man,” quoth Maysey, his wife, “an’ ye mak but a poor figure indeed, when we’re a’ in sic a plight! Ye hear the woman speaks gude truth; an’ ye ken yoursel ye fenced us against the Brownie afore, but no against Kirky’s ghaist; tak the beuk like a man, an’ pit the fence o’ scripture faith round us for that too.”
Stupid as Maysey was, she knew the way to her husband’s heart. Davie could not resist such an appeal—he took the Bible; sung the 143d psalm, from beginning to end, at Nanny’s request; and likewise, by her direction, read the 20th of Revelations; then kneeling down on his bare knees, legs, and feet, as he fled from the kitchen, on the damp miry floor of the milk–house, he essayed a strong energetic prayer as a fence against the invading ghost. But as Davie acknowledged, he had an irreverend expression naturally, that no effort could overcome, (and by the bye, there is more in this than mankind are in general aware of,) and the more he aimed at sublimity, the more ludicrous he grew, even to common ears. There is scarcely a boy in the country who cannot recite scraps of Davie Tait’s prayer; but were I to set all that is preserved of it down here, it might be construed as a mockery of that holy ordinance, than which nothing is so far from my heart or intention; but, convinced as I am that a rude exhibition in such a divine solemnity is of all things the most indecent and unbecoming, I think such should be held up to ridicule, as a warning to all Christians never to ask ignorance or absurdity to perform this sacred duty in public. The sublime part of it therefore is given, which was meant as a fence against the spirit that had set up his rest so near. To such as are not acquainted with the pastoral terms, the meaning in some parts may be equivocal; to those who are, the train of thinking will be obvious.—It is part of a genuine prayer.
“But the last time we gathered oursels before thee, we left out a wing o’ the hirsel by mistake, an’ thou hast paid us hame i’ our ain coin. Thou wart sae gude than as come to the sheddin thysel, an’ clap our heads, an’ whisper i’ our lugs, ‘dinna be disheartened, my puir bits o’ waefu’ things, for though ye be the shotts o’ my hale fauld, I’ll take care o’ ye, an’ herd ye, an’ gie ye a’ that ye hae askit o’ me the night.’ It was kind, an’ thou hast done it; but we forgot a principal part, an’ maun tell thee now, that we have had another visitor sin’ ye war here, an’ ane wha’s back we wad rather see than his face. Thou kens better thysel than we can tell thee what place he has made his escape frae; but we sair dread it is frae the boddomless pit, or he wadna hae ta’en possession but leave. Ye ken, that gang tried to keep vilent leasehaud o’ your ain fields, an’ your ain ha’, till ye gae them a killicoup. If he be ane o’ them, O come thysel to our help, an’ bring in thy hand a bolt o’ divine vengeance, het i’ the furnace o’ thy wrath as reed as a nailstring, an’ bizz him an’ scouder him till ye dinna leave him the likeness of a paper izel, until he be glad to creep into the worm–holes o’ the earth, never to see sun or sterns mair. But, if it be some puir dumfoundered soul that has been bumbased and stoundit at the view o’ the lang Hopes an’ the Downfa’s o’ Eternity, comed daundering away frae about the laiggen girds o’ Heaven to the waefu’ gang that he left behind, like a lost sheep that strays frae the rich pastures o’ the south, an’ comes bleating back a’ the gate to its cauld native hills, to the very gair where it was lambed and first followed its minny, ane canna help haeing a fellow–feeling wi’ the puir soul after a’, but yet he’ll find himsel here like a cow in an unco loan. Therefore, O furnish him this night wi’ the wings o’ the wild gainner or the eagle, that he may swoof away back to a better hame than this, for we want nane o’ his company. An’ do thou give to the puir stray thing a weel–hained heff and a beildy lair, that he may nae mair come straggling amang a stock that’s sae unlike himsel, that they’re frightit at the very look o’ him.
“Thou hast promised in thy Word to be our shepherd, our guider an’ director; an’ thy word’s as gude as some men’s aith, an’ we’ll haud thee at it. Therefore take thy plaid about thee, thy staff in thy hand, an’ thy dog at thy fit, an’ gather us a’ in frae the cauld windy knowes o’ self–conceit—the plashy bogs an’ mires o’ sensuality, an’ the damp flows o’ worldly–mindedness, an’ wyse us a’ into the true bught o’ life, made o’ the flakes o’ forgiveness and the door o’ loving–kindness; an’ never do thou suffer us to be heftit e’ening or morning, but gie lashin’ meals o’ the milk o’ praise, the ream o’ thankfu’ness, an’ the butter o’ good–works. An’ do thou, in thy good time an’ way, smear us ower the hale bouk wi’ the tar o’ adversity, weel mixed up wi’ the meinging of repentance, that we may be kiver’d ower wi’ gude bouzy shake–rough fleeces o’ faith, a’ run out on the hips, an’ as brown as a tod. An’ do thou, moreover, fauld us ower–night, an’ every night, in within the true sheep–fauld o’ thy covenant, weel buggen wi’ the stanes o’ salvation, an’ caped wi’ the divots o’ grace. An’ then wi’ sic a shepherd, an’ sic a sheep–fauld, what hae wi’ to be feared for? Na, na! we’ll fear naething but sin!—We’ll never mair scare at the poolly–woolly o’ the whaup, nor swirl at the gelloch o’ the ern; for if the arm of our Shepherd be about us for good, a’ the imps, an’ a’ the powers o’ darkness, canna wrang a hair o’ our tails.”
All the family arose from their knees with altered looks. Thus fenced, a new energy glowed in every breast. Poor Maysey, proud of her husband’s bold and sublime intercession, and trusting in the divine fence now raised around them, rose with the tear in her eye, seized the lamp, and led the way, followed by all the rest, to retake the apartment of Kirky’s ghost by open assault. Nanny, whose faith wont to be superior to all these things, lagged behind, dreading to see the sight that she had seen on the Saturday night before; and the bold intercessor himself kept her company, on pretence of a sleeping leg; but, in truth, his faith in his own intercession and fence did not mount very high. All the apartment was searched—every chest, corner, and hole that could be thought of—every thing was quiet, and not so much as a mouse stirring!—not a bed–cover folded down, nor the smallest remembered article missing! All the family saw Kirky’s ghost enter in his own likeness, and heard him speak in his wonted tongue, except old Nanny. It was a great and wonderful victory gained. They were again in full possession of their own house, a right which they never seemed before to have duly appreciated. They felt grateful and happy; and it was hinted by Maysey, Dan, and uncle Nicholas, that Davie Tait would turn out a burning and a shining light in these dark and dismal times, and would supersede Messrs Renwick, Shields, and all the curates in the country. He had laid a visible ghost, that might be the devil for aught they knew to the contrary; and it was argued on all hands, that “Davie was nae sma’ drink.”
The whole of the simple group felt happy and grateful; and they agreed to sit another hour or two before they went to sleep, and each one read a chapter from the Bible, and recite a psalm or hymn. They did so, until it came to Nanny’s turn.