Duncan’s comin’, Donald’s comin’, &c.
Turning round to the direction from whence the sound seemed to proceed, I perceived I was in the neighbourhood of the “Auld Kirk Yard;” where, by the light from his lantern, I could discover the old grave-digger at work—his bald head, with single white and silvery-crisped forelock, making transits over the dark line of the grave, like a white-crested dove, or a sea-gull, flaunting over the yawning gulf.
One stride, and I had cleared the wall of the Auld Kirk Yard.
“You seem merry, old boy!—You are conscious, I presume, that this world has few troubles that can affect you in your present situation—the grave.”
“I was takin’ my medicine to keep my heart up, sir; but I wasna merry: yet I’m content wi’ my station, and am a thocht independent. I court the company o’ nae man alive; I boo to nae man breathin’—I quarrel nane wi’ my neebours;—yet am I sought after by high and low, rich and puir; the king himsel maun come under my rule—this rod of airn;—though I’m grown frail and feckless afore my time: for healthy as my looks be, I’m aye, aye at death’s door; our work, ye see, sir, ’s a’ below the breath; and that’s a sair trade for takin’ the wind oot o’ a body. Then, I hae my trials,—sair visitations, sic as fa’ to the lot o’ nae man on this side the grave but mysel! It’s true, that when the wind gaes round merrily to the east, I get a sma’ share o’ what’s gaun; but just look at that yird, sir,—as bonnie a healthy yird as ane could delight to lie in;—neist, look at that spear,—a fortnight’s rust upon that dibble! Mind, I downa complain;—Live, and let live, say I!
“But what’s the use of talkin’ sae to a life-like, graceless, thochtless, bairn-getting parish?—the feck o’ whom, after having lived on the fat o’ the kintra-side, naething will sair, but they maun gang up to the town to lay their banes amang the gentles, and creesh some hungry yird wi’ their marrow! The fa’ o’ the leaf is come and gane; an’ saving some twa or three consumptions—for whilk the Lord be thankit, as a sma’ fend—tak the parish a’ ower head—frae head to tail—and for ane that gaes out at my gate-end, ye’ll find a score come in at the howdie’s!”
“Damna famæ majora quam quæ æstimari possint.”[[17]]
[17]. The loss of reputation is greater than can be reckoned.
“I hae lost my Gaelic, sir; but ye speak like a sensible man. The fame o’ the place is just as ye say, there’s ower mony merry pows in’t. But see, there’s a sober pow, wi’ a siller clasp on’t.”
“With all due gravity, may I ask, whose property was that?”