"Thank you, David. It is pleasant to be made so much of"--and he opened
the door of his room, and cried out, "O how nice it is, Maggie! I will
just wash the salt off my face and then come and breakfast with you; and
toast me a couple of herring, Maggie, for I am as hungry as a fisherman,
and I have not tasted a herring since I left Pittenloch."
Three at a little round table, and only some tea, and fish, and oat cake;
and yet, never was there a gayer meal. After it was over, David was eager
to show Allan what he had accomplished, and the young men went together
into Allan's room to examine lexicons and exercises.
David was full of quick interest, and Allan deserved credit for affecting
a sympathy it was impossible for him to feel. In a little while, some one
began to sing and the voice was singularly clear, and sweetly penetrating.
Allan put down the papers in his hand, and listened like one entranced.
"It's just Maggie, and I'm mair astonished at her. She hasna sung a word
since fayther's death. What for is she singing the noo? It's no kind o'
her, and me wi' yoursel' and the books;" said David very fretfully; for he
did not like to be interrupted in his recitations.
"Hush! hush! I would not lose a syllable for all the Latin language,
David."
[Footnote: Words and air by Alexander Nicholson, LL. O.] [Illustration: Musical notation omitted.] "My heart is yearning to thee, O Skye,
Dearest of islands!
There first the sunshine gladdened my eye,
On the sea spark-ling;
There doth the dust of my dear ones lie,
In the old graveyard.
[Musical notation omitted.] Bright are the golden green fields to me
Here in the lowlands;
Sweet sings the mavis in the thorn tree
Snowy with fragrance;
But oh for a breath of the great North sea
Girdling the mountains!
Good is the smell of the brine that laves
Black rock and skerry;
Where the great palm-leaved tangle waves
Down in the green depths,
And round the craggy bluff, pierced with caves,
Sea-gulls are screaming.
Many a hearth round that friendly shore
Giveth warm welcome;
Charms still are there, as in days of yore,
More than of mountains;
But hearths and faces are seen no more
Once of the brightest.
Many a poor black cottage is there
Grimy with peat smoke;
Sending up in the soft evening air
Purest blue incense,
While the low music of psalm and prayer
Rises to heaven.
Kind were the voices I used to hear
Round such a fireside,
Speaking the mother tongue old and dear,
Making the heart beat
With endless tales of wonder and fear,
Of plaintive singing.