“Indeed I do not,” replied Lucy; “yet it is so full of his peculiar force of expression and feeling, that it is difficult to believe it to have been written by any one else.”
“I have been told,” said Jessie, “that this song was found among his papers after his death. This may be the reason why you have not seen it in your volume.”
The conversation having once turned upon the subject of the writings of Ayrshire’s immortal bard, whose fame was then spreading far and wide over the habitable globe, it dwelt for some time upon the attractive theme; and the tall pines were already beginning to cast their lengthened shadows over the lawn, ere the merchant remembered that Dame Christie might be “wearyin’” for his return, and perhaps scold him for exposing himself and his daughter to the perils of the Mooshanne stump–studded track in the dusk of the evening. The chaise having been ordered to the door, David Muir put on his hat and cloak, while Jessie donned her bonnet and shawl; and a few minutes saw them jogging steadily away on their return to Marietta.
For some time, neither broke the silence of the deep forest through which they were driving, for each had their own subject for meditation. Jessie, whose spirit was softened by the songs of her father–land, and had been touched by the gentle kindness of Lucy’s manner towards her, looked steadily towards the west; and while she thought that she was admiring the gigantic hemlock pines, whose huge limbs now came out in bold relief from the ruddy saffron sky beyond, her musings blended in sweet, but vague, confusion the banks of Allan, Doon, and Ayr, with those of the river beside her, and pictured the “Jamies,” “Willies,” and other “braw, braw lads” of Scottish minstrelsy, in the form of no less a personage than Harry Gregson.
She was roused from her reverie by the voice of her father, whose meditations had taken quite a different direction, as will be seen by the conversation that ensued between them.
“Jessie, it’s a gae bonnie house, yon Mooshanne, an’ the mailen’s[71] the best in th’ haill territory.”
“Indeed, father, it is a very pretty house, and most kind are those who live in it.”
“Wad ye no’ like to live in it yoursel, Jessie?”
“To say truth, father, I would rather live in a smaller house that I might call my own.”