mere pretence.

When the main part of the dinner was over, Sir Gilbert and his lady
stood at the head of the table, and, he speaking by signs and she
interpreting, made a little speech together. In the course of it
Sir Gibbie took occasion to apologize for having once disturbed the
peace of the country-side by acting the supposed part of a broonie,
and in relating his adventures of the time, accompanied his wife's
text with such graphic illustration of gesture, that his audience
laughed at the merry tale till the tears ran down their cheeks.
Then with a few allusions to his strange childhood, he thanked the
God who led him through thorny ways into the very arms of love and
peace in the cottage of Robert and Janet Grant, whence, and not from
the fortune he had since inherited, came all his peace.

"He desires me to tell you," said Lady Galbraith, "that he was a
stranger, and you folk of Daurside took him in, and if ever he can
do a kindness to you or yours, he will.--He desires me also to say,
that you ought not to be left ignorant that you have a poet of your
own, born and bred among you--Donal Grant, the son of Robert and
Janet, the friend of Sir Gilbert's heart, and one of the noblest of
men. And he begs you to allow me to read you a poem he had from him
this very morning--probably just written. It is called The
Laverock. I will read it as well as I can. If any of you do not
like poetry, he says--I mean Sir Gilbert says--you can go to the
kitchen and light your pipes, and he will send your wine there to
you."

She ceased. Not one stirred, and she read the verses--which, for
the sake of having Donal in at the last of my book, I will print.
Those who do not care for verse, may--metaphorically, I would not
be rude--go and smoke their pipes in the kitchen.

THE LAVEROCK. (lark)

THE MAN SAYS:

Laverock i' the lift, (sky)
Hae ye nae sang-thrift,
'At ye scatter't sae heigh, an' lat it a' drift?
Wasterfu' laverock!

Dinna ye ken
'At ye hing ower men
Wha haena a sang or a penny to spen'?
Hertless laverock!

But up there, you,
I' the bow o' the blue,
Haud skirlin' on as gien a' war new! (keep shrilling)
Toom-heidit laverock! (empty-headed)

Haith! ye're ower blythe:
I see a great scythe
Swing whaur yer nestie lies, doon i' the lythe, (shelter)
Liltin' laverock!

Eh, sic a soon'!
Birdie, come doon--
Ye're fey to sing sic a merry tune, (death-doomed)
Gow