O lover who loves me,
Art thou half so fleet?
Where the sheep climb, the kye go,
There shall we meet!"
There was something so penetratingly sweet and joyous in the song that it stirred every bird on the hillside. The larks rose through the mist till they swam into the sunflood; the linties and shilfas and yellow-yites sent thrilling notes from gorse-bush to gorse-bush and from rowan to rowan. In the birk-shaws, the cries of the merles sounded like shrill flutes.
To and fro went the sweet voices. Now the man's on Tornideon would ring blithely, now the woman's on Iolair respond.
At last, as the cattle moved up the slopes, with the spreading sheep in advance, the shepherding voices fell further apart. Instinct led the kye to the sunlight, for all living things have their joy through the eyes.
"Sorcha, Sorcha, Sorcha!" came ringing through the mist: "Sorcha-mo-ciatach-nio-nag!"
"Tha, Ailean-a-ghaolach!" came back, with a ripple of laughter, the laughter of joy.[3]
"Ah mo cailin geal, mo nighean donn, duit ciat mhor!"