"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