“Thank ye, sir, thank ye,” said Thorburn; “and ye’ll no’ be offended if I ax ye to gie me a grip o’ yer han’.” And the smith laid hold of the Doctor’s proffered hand, so small and white, with his own hand, so large and powerful—“God reward ye, sir, for we canna! And noo, Doctor,” the smith continued, “I maun oot wi’t! Since ye hae been so kind as gie us that fine bit o’ English poetry, I canna help gieing you a bit o’ Scotch, for Scotch poetry has been a favourite reading o’ mine, and there’s a verse that has been dirling a’ day in my heart. This is it:—
‘It’s dowie at the hint o’ hairst,
At the wa’-gang o’ the swallow,
When the winds blaw cauld,
And the burns run bauld,
And the wuds are hanging yellow;
But oh! it’s dowier far to see
The wa’-gang o’ ane the heart gangs wi’,
The dead set o’ a shining e’e,
That closes the weary warld on thee!’