"That one is nonsense, Donal," she said. "Isn't it now? How could a man be a burn, or a wind, or the sun? But poets are silly. Papa says so."In his mind Donal did not know which way to look; physically, he regarded the ground. Happily at that very moment Hornie caused a diversion, and Gibbie understood what Donal was feeling too well to make even a pretence of going after her. I must, to his praise, record the fact that, instead of wreaking his mortification upon the cow, Donal spared her several blows out of gratitude for the deliverance her misbehaviour had wrought him. He was in no haste to return to his audience. To have his first poem thus rejected was killing. She was but a child who had so unkindly criticized it, but she was the child he wanted to please; and for a few moments life itself seemed scarcely worth having. He called himself a fool, and resolved never to read another poem to a girl so long as he lived.
By the time he had again walked through the burn, however, he was calm and comparatively wise, and knew what to say.
"Div ye hear yon burn efter ye gang to yer bed, mem?" he asked Genevra, as he climbed the bank, pointing a little lower down the stream to the mountain brook which there joined it.
"Always," she answered. "It runs right under my window.""What kin' o' a din dis't mak'?" he asked again.
"It is different at different times," she answered. "It sings and chatters in summer, and growls and cries and grumbles in winter, or after rain up in Glashgar.""Div ye think the burn's ony happier i' the summer, mem?""No, Donal; the burn has no life in it, and therefore can't be happier one time than another.""Weel, mem, I wad jist like to speir what waur it is to fancy yersel' a burn, than to fancy the burn a body, ae time singin' an'
chatterin', an' the neist growlin' an' grum'lin'.""Well, but, Donal, can a man be a burn?"
"Weel, mem, no--at least no i' this warl', an' at 'is ain wull. But whan ye're lyin' hearkenin' to the burn, did ye never imagine yersel' rinnin' doon wi' 't--doon to the sea?""No, Donal; I always fancy myself going up the mountain where it comes from, and running about wild there in the wind, when all the time I know I'm safe and warm in bed.""Weel, maybe that's better yet--I wadna say," answered Donal; "but jist the nicht, for a cheenge like, ye turn an' gang doon wi' 't--i'
yer thouchts, I mean. Lie an' hearken he'rty till 't the nicht, whan ye're i' yer bed; hearken an' hearken till the soon' rins awa'
wi' ye like, an' ye forget a' aboot yersel', an' think yersel' awa'
wi' the burn, rinnin', rinnin', throu' this an' throu' that, throu'
stanes an' birks an' bracken, throu' heather, an' plooed lan' an'
corn, an' wuds an' gairdens, aye singin', an' aye cheengin' yer tune accordin', till it wins to the muckle roarin' sea, an' 's a' tint.
An' the first nicht 'at the win' 's up an' awa', dee the same, mem, wi' the win'. Get up upo' the back o' 't, like, as gien it was yer muckle horse, an' jist ride him to the deith; an' efter that, gien ye dinna maybe jist wuss 'at ye was a burn or a blawin' win'--aither wad be a sair loss to the universe--ye wunna, I'm thinkin', be sae ready to fin' fau't wi' the chield 'at made yon bit sangy.""Are you vexed with me, Donal?--I'm so sorry!" said Ginevra, taking the earnestness of his tone for displeasure.
"Na, na, mem. Ye're ower guid an' ower bonny," answered Donal, "to be a vex to onybody; but it wad be a vex to hear sic a cratur as you speykin' like ane o' the fules o' the warl', 'at believe i' naething but what comes in at the holes i' their heid."Ginevra was silent. She could not quite understand Donal, but she felt she must be wrong somehow; and of this she was the more convinced when she saw the beautiful eyes of Gibbie fixed in admiration, and brimful of love, upon Donal.
The way Donal kept his vow never to read another poem of his own to a girl, was to proceed that very night to make another for the express purpose, as he lay awake in the darkness.
The last one he ever read to her in that meadow was this:
What gars ye sing, said the herd laddie, What gars ye sing sae lood?
To tice them oot o' the yerd, laddie, The worms, for my daily food.
An' aye he sang, an' better he sang, An' the worms creepit in an' oot;An' ane he tuik, an' twa he loot gang, But still he carolled stoot.
It's no for the worms, sir, said the herd, They comena for yer sang.
Think ye sae, sir? answered the bird, Maybe ye're no i' the wrang.
But aye &c.
Sing ye yoong sorrow to beguile Or to gie auld fear the flegs?
Na, quo' the mavis; it's but to wile My wee things oot o' her eggs.
An' aye &c.
The mistress is plenty for that same gear, Though ye sangna ear' nor late.
It's to draw the deid frae the moul' sae drear, An' open the kirkyard gate.
An' aye &c.
Na, na; it's a better sang nor yer ain, Though ye hae o' notes a feck, 'At wad mak auld Barebanes there sae fain As to lift the muckle sneck!
But aye &c.
Better ye sing nor a burn i' the mune, Nor a wave ower san' that flows, Nor a win' wi' the glintin' stars abune, An' aneth the roses in rows;An' aye &c.
But I'll speir ye nae mair, sir, said the herd.
I fear what ye micht say neist.
Ye wad but won'er the mair, said the bird, To see the thouchts i' my breist.
And aye he sang, an' better he sang, An' the worms creepit in an' oot;An' ane he tuik, an' twa he loot gang, But still he carolled stoot.
I doubt whether Ginevra understood this song better than the first, but she was now more careful of criticizing; and when by degrees it dawned upon her that he was the maker of these and other verses he read, she grew half afraid of Donal, and began to regard him with big eyes; he became, from a herd-boy, an unintelligible person, therefore a wonder. For, brought thus face to face with the maker of verses, she could not help trying to think how he did the thing;and as she felt no possibility of making verses herself, it remained a mystery and an astonishment, causing a great respect for the poet to mingle with the kindness she felt towards Nicie's brother.
