"Nancy, darling," I said, "have ye risen in the middle of the night to tear down the idols of your childhood? Let me see the book," I cried, for a bit of rhyme was a choicer draught to me than a glass of an old vintage.
"Let me read ye this," she said--I can remember now the slant white light of a late moon coming in through the casement, the honeysuckle's breath, and her face, half in light, half in shadow, as she read the Epistle to Davie. As I listened I sat upright, more engrossed, wider eyed; and when she came to those two stanzas, the greatest of their kind ever penned, I was off my feet with her, and on my oath we sat till the purpling flush came in the east, in an ecstasy of appreciation of him "who walked in glory and in joy behind his plow upon the mountain-side":
"What tho', like commoners of air, We wander out, we know not where, _But_ either house or hall _without_ Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales, an' foaming floods Are free alike to all In days when daisies deck the ground, And blackbirds whistle clear, With honest joy our hearts will bound, To see the coming year: On _braes_ when we please then, _heights_. We'll sit an' _sowth_ a tune; _whistle softly_ _Syne_ rhyme till't, we'll time _till't_, _afterwards. to it._ An' sing't when we hae done."
"Oh, Jock," she says, "I've done it often; haven't you?"
"It's no in titles nor in rank; It's no in wealth like Lon'non bank. To purchase peace and rest; It's no in makin' muckle mair It's no in books, it's no in _lear_ _learning_ To make us truly blest: If happiness hae not her seat An' centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest; Nae treasures nor pleasures Could make us happy lang; The heart ay's the part ay That makes us right or wrang." --BURNS, 1785.
"It's just grand," I said, "Nancy; and there're no two ways of it."
"There's about all there is of life in this little book, and it's made my rhyming-ware cheap. Do you think," she says, coming over to kiss me before I sent her off to bed, "do you think I can ever meet wi' Mr. Burns?"
"If you want it, you shall," I said; "unless the man himself objects. We'll have him up to Stair; and now forget him and get some rest, Little Flower."