“As streams of water in the south, Our bondage, Lord, recall.” 
     ­Psalm cxxvi. (Scots Metrical Version).

It was at the ford of the Clachlands Water in a tempestuous August, that I, an idle boy, first learned the hardships of the Lammas droving.  The shepherd of the Redswirehead, my very good friend, and his three shaggy dogs, were working for their lives in an angry water.  The path behind was thronged with scores of sheep bound for the Gledsmuir market, and beyond it was possible to discern through the mist the few dripping dozen which had made the passage.  Between raged yards of brown foam coming down from murky hills, and the air echoed with the yelp of dogs and the perplexed cursing of men.

Before I knew I was helping in the task, with water lipping round my waist and my arms filled with a terrified sheep.  It was no light task, for though the water was no more than three feet deep it was swift and strong, and a kicking hogg is a sore burden.  But this was the only road; the stream might rise higher at any moment; and somehow or other those bleating flocks had to be transferred to their fellows beyond.  There were six men at the labour, six men and myself and all were cross and wearied and heavy with water.

I made my passages side by side with my friend the shepherd, and thereby felt much elated.  This was a man who had dwelt all his days in the wilds and was familiar with torrents as with his own doorstep.  Now and then a swimming dog would bark feebly as he was washed against us, and flatter his fool’s heart that he was aiding the work.  And so we wrought on, till by midday I was dead-beat, and could scarce stagger through the surf, while all the men had the same gasping faces.  I saw the shepherd look with longing eye up the long green valley, and mutter disconsolately in his beard.

“Is the water rising?” I asked.

“It’s no rising,” said he, “but I likena the look o’ yon big black clud upon Cairncraw.  I doubt there’s been a shoor up the muirs, and a shoor there means twae mair feet o’ water in the Clachlands.  God help Sandy Jamieson’s lambs, if there is.”

“How many are left?” I asked.

“Three, fower, ­no abune a score and a half,” said he, running his eye over the lessened flocks.  “I maun try to tak twae at a time.”  So for ten minutes he struggled with a double burden, and panted painfully at each return.  Then with a sudden swift look up-stream he broke off and stood up.  “Get ower the water, every yin o’ ye, and leave the sheep,” he said, and to my wonder every man of the five obeyed his word.

And then I saw the reason of his command, for with a sudden swift leap forward the Clachlands rose, and flooded up to where I stood an instant before high and dry.

“It’s come,” said the shepherd in a tone of fate, “and there’s fifteen no ower yet, and Lord kens how they’ll dae’t.  They’ll hae to gang roond by Gledsmuir Brig, and that’s twenty mile o’ a differ.  ’Deed, it’s no like that Sandy Jamieson will get a guid price the morn for sic sair forfochen beasts.”

Then with firmly gripped staff he marched stoutly into the tide till it ran hissing below his armpits.  “I could dae’t alone,” he cried, “but no wi’ a burden.  For, losh, if ye slippit, ye’d be in the Manor Pool afore ye could draw breath.”

And so we waited with the great white droves and five angry men beyond, and the path blocked by a surging flood.  For half an hour we waited, holding anxious consultation across the stream, when to us thus busied there entered a newcomer, a helper from the ends of the earth.

He was a man of something over middle size, but with a stoop forward that shortened him to something beneath it.  His dress was ragged homespun, the cast-off clothes of some sportsman, and in his arms he bore a bundle of sticks and heather-roots which marked his calling.  I knew him for a tramp who long had wandered in the place, but I could not account for the whole-voiced shout of greeting which met him as he stalked down the path.  He lifted his eyes and looked solemnly and long at the scene.  Then something of delight came into his eye, his face relaxed, and flinging down his burden he stripped his coat and came toward us.

“Come on, Yeddie, ye’re sair needed,” said the shepherd, and I watched with amazement this grizzled, crooked man seize a sheep by the fleece and drag it to the water.  Then he was in the midst, stepping warily, now up, now down the channel, but always nearing the farther bank.  At last with a final struggle he landed his charge, and turned to journey back.  Fifteen times did he cross that water, and at the end his mean figure had wholly changed.  For now he was straighter and stronger, his eye flashed, and his voice, as he cried out to the drovers, had in it a tone of command.  I marvelled at the transformation; and when at length he had donned once more his ragged coat and shouldered his bundle, I asked the shepherd his name.

“They ca’ him Adam Logan,” said my friend, his face still bright with excitement, “but maist folk ca’ him ‘Streams o’ Water.’”

“Ay,” said I, “and why ’Streams of Water’?”

“Juist for the reason ye see,” said he.

Now I knew the shepherd’s way, and I held my peace, for it was clear that his mind was revolving other matters, concerned most probably with the high subject of the morrow’s prices.  But in a little, as we crossed the moor toward his dwelling, his thoughts relaxed and he remembered my question.  So he answered me thus: 

“Oh, ay; as ye were sayin’, he’s a queer man Yeddie-aye been; guid kens whaur he cam frae first, for he’s been trampin’ the countryside since ever I mind, and that’s no yesterday.  He maun be sixty year, and yet he’s as fresh as ever.  If onything, he’s a thocht dafter in his ongaein’s, mair silent-like.  But ye’ll hae heard tell o’ him afore?” I owned ignorance.

“Tut,” said he, “ye ken nocht.  But Yeddie had aye a queer crakin’ for waters.  He never gangs on the road.  Wi’ him it’s juist up yae glen and doon anither and aye keepin’ by the burn-side.  He kens every water i’ the warld, every bit sheuch and burnie frae Gallowa’ to Berwick.  And then he kens the way o’ spates the best I ever seen, and I’ve heard tell o’ him fordin’ waters when nae ither thing could leeve i’ them.  He can weyse and wark his road sae cunnin’ly on the stanes that the roughest flood, if it’s no juist fair ower his heid, canna upset him.  Mony a sheep has he saved to me, and it’s mony a guid drove wad never hae won to Gledsmuir market but for Yeddie.”

I listened with a boy’s interest in any romantic narration.  Somehow, the strange figure wrestling in the brown stream took fast hold on my mind, and I asked the shepherd for further tales.

“There’s little mair to tell,” he said, “for a gangrel life is nane o’ the liveliest.  But d’ye ken the langnebbit hill that cocks its tap abune the Clachlands heid?  Weel, he’s got a wee bit o’ grund on the tap frae the Yerl, and there he’s howkit a grave for himsel’.  He’s sworn me and twae-three ithers to bury him there, wherever he may dee.  It’s a queer fancy in the auld dotterel.”

So the shepherd talked, and as at evening we stood by his door we saw a figure moving into the gathering shadows.  I knew it at once, and did not need my friend’s “There gangs ‘Streams o’ Water’” to recognise it.  Something wild and pathetic in the old man’s face haunted me like a dream, and as the dusk swallowed him up, he seemed like some old Druid recalled of the gods to his ancient habitation of the moors.

II-

Two years passed, and April came with her suns and rains and again the waters brimmed full in the valleys.  Under the clear, shining sky the lambing went on, and the faint bleat of sheep brooded on the hills.  In a land of young heather and green upland meads, of faint odours of moor-burn, and hill-tops falling in clear ridges to the sky-line, the veriest St. Anthony would not abide indoors; so I flung all else to the winds and went a-fishing.

At the first pool on the Callowa, where the great flood sweeps nobly round a ragged shoulder of hill, and spreads into broad deeps beneath a tangle of birches, I began my toils.  The turf was still wet with dew and the young leaves gleamed in the glow of morning.  Far up the stream rose the grim hills which hem the mosses and tarns of that tableland, whence flow the greater waters of the countryside.  An ineffable freshness, as of the morning alike of the day and the seasons, filled the clear hill-air, and the remote peaks gave the needed touch of intangible romance.

But as I fished I came on a man sitting in a green dell, busy at the making of brooms.  I knew his face and dress, for who could forget such eclectic raggedness? ­and I remembered that day two years before when he first hobbled into my ken.  Now, as I saw him there, I was captivated by the nameless mystery of his appearance.  There was something startling to one accustomed to the lack-lustre gaze of town-bred folk, in the sight of an eye as keen and wild as a hawk’s from sheer solitude and lonely travelling.  He was so bent and scarred with weather that he seemed as much a part of that woodland place as the birks themselves, and the noise of his labours did not startle the birds that hopped on the branches.

Little by little I won his acquaintance ­by a chance reminiscence, a single tale, the mention of a friend.  Then he made me free of his knowledge, and my fishing fared well that day.  He dragged me up little streams to sequestered pools, where I had astonishing success; and then back to some great swirl in the Callowa where he had seen monstrous takes.  And all the while he delighted me with his talk, of men and things, of weather and place, pitched high in his thin, old voice, and garnished with many tones of lingering sentiment.  He spoke in a broad, slow Scots, with so quaint a lilt in his speech that one seemed to be in an elder time among people of a quieter life and a quainter kindliness.

Then by chance I asked him of a burn of which I had heard, and how it might be reached.  I shall never forget the tone of his answer as his face grew eager and he poured forth his knowledge.

“Ye’ll gang up the Knowe Burn, which comes down into the Cauldshaw.  It’s a wee tricklin’ thing, trowin’ in and out o’ pools i’ the rock, and comin’ doun out o’ the side o’ Caerfraun.  Yince a merrymaiden bided there, I’ve heard folks say, and used to win the sheep frae the Cauldshaw herd, and bile them i’ the muckle pool below the fa’.  They say that there’s a road to the ill Place there, and when the Deil likit he sent up the lowe and garred the water faem and fizzle like an auld kettle.  But if ye’re gaun to the Colm Burn ye maun haud atower the rig o’ the hill frae the Knowe heid, and ye’ll come to it wimplin’ among green brae faces.  It’s a bonny bit, rale lonesome, but awfu’ bonny, and there’s mony braw trout in its siller flow.”

Then I remembered all I had heard of the old man’s craze, and I humoured him.  “It’s a fine countryside for burns,” I said.

“Ye may say that,” said he gladly, “a weel-watered land.  But a’ this braw south country is the same.  I’ve traivelled frae the Yeavering Hill in the Cheviots to the Caldons in Galloway, and it’s a’ the same.  When I was young, I’ve seen me gang north to the Hielands and doun to the English lawlands, but now that I’m gettin’ auld I maun bide i’ the yae place.  There’s no a burn in the South I dinna ken, and I never cam to the water I couldna ford.”

“No?” said I.  “I’ve seen you at the ford o’ Clachlands in the Lammas floods.”

“Often I’ve been there,” he went on, speaking like one calling up vague memories.  “Yince, when Tam Rorison was drooned, honest man.  Yince again, when the brigs were ta’en awa’, and the Black House o’ Clachlands had nae bread for a week.  But oh, Clachlands is a bit easy water.  But I’ve seen the muckle Aller come roarin’ sae high that it washed awa’ a sheepfold that stood weel up on the hill.  And I’ve seen this verrà burn, this bonny clear Callowa, lyin’ like a loch for miles i’ the haugh.  But I never heeds a spate, for if a man just kens the way o’t it’s a canny, hairmless thing.  I couldna wish to dee better than just be happit i’ the waters o’ my ain countryside, when my legs fail and I’m ower auld for the trampin’.”

Something in that queer figure in the setting of the hills struck a note of curious pathos.  And towards evening as we returned down the glen the note grew keener.  A spring sunset of gold and crimson flamed in our backs and turned the clear pools to fire.  Far off down the vale the plains and the sea gleamed half in shadow.  Somehow in the fragrance and colour and the delectable crooning of the stream, the fantastic and the dim seemed tangible and present, and high sentiment revelled for once in my prosaic heart.

And still more in the breast of my companion.  He stopped and sniffed the evening air, as he looked far over hill and dale and then back to the great hills above us.  “Yen’s Crappel, and Caerdon, and the Laigh Law,” he said, lingering with relish over each name, “and the Gled comes doun atween them.  I haena been there for a twalmonth, and I maun hae anither glisk o’t, for it’s a braw place.”  And then some bitter thought seemed to seize him, and his mouth twitched.  “I’m an auld man,” he cried, “and I canna see ye a’ again.  There’s burns and mair burns in the high hills that I’ll never win to.”  Then he remembered my presence, and stopped.  “Ye maunna mind me,” he said huskily, “but the sicht o’ a’ thae lang blue hills makes me daft, now that I’ve faun i’ the vale o’ years.  Yince I was young and could get where I wantit, but now I am auld and maun bide i’ the same bit.  And I’m aye thinkin’ o’ the waters I’ve been to, and the green heichs and howes and the linns that I canna win to again.  I maun e’en be content wi’ the Callowa, which is as guid as the best.”

And then I left him, wandering down by the streamside and telling his crazy meditations to himself.

III-

A space of years elapsed ere I met him, for fate had carried me far from the upland valleys.  But once again I was afoot on the white moor-roads; and, as I swung along one autumn afternoon up the path which leads from the Glen of Callowa to the Gled, I saw a figure before me which I knew for my friend.  When I overtook him, his appearance puzzled and troubled me.  Age seemed to have come on him at a bound, and in the tottering figure and the stoop of weakness I had difficulty in recognising the hardy frame of the man as I had known him.  Something, too, had come over his face.  His brow was clouded, and the tan of weather stood out hard and cruel on a blanched cheek.  His eye seemed both wilder and sicklier, and for the first time I saw him with none of the appurtenances of his trade.  He greeted me feebly and dully, and showed little wish to speak.  He walked with slow, uncertain step, and his breath laboured with a new panting.  Every now and then he would look at me sidewise, and in his feverish glance I could detect none of the free kindliness of old.  The man was ill in body and mind.

I asked him how he had done since I saw him last.

“It’s an ill world now,” he said in a slow, querulous voice.

“There’s nae need for honest men, and nae leevin’.  Folk dinna heed me ava now.  They dinna buy my besoms, they winna let me bide a nicht in their byres, and they’re no like the kind canty folk in the auld times.  And a’ the countryside is changin’.  Doun by Goldieslaw they’re makkin’ a dam for takin’ water to the toun, and they’re thinkin’ o’ daein’ the like wi’ the Callowa.  Guid help us, can they no let the works o’ God alane?  Is there no room for them in the dirty lawlands that they maun file the hills wi’ their biggins?”

I conceived dimly that the cause of his wrath was a scheme for waterworks at the border of the uplands, but I had less concern for this than his strangely feeble health.

“You are looking ill,” I said.  “What has come over you?”

“Oh, I canna last for aye,” he said mournfully.  “My auld body’s about dune.  I’ve warkit it ower sair when I had it, and it’s gaun to fail on my hands.  Sleepin’ out o’ wat nichts and gangin’ lang wantin’ meat are no the best ways for a long life”; and he smiled the ghost of a smile.

And then he fell to wild telling of the ruin of the place and the hardness of the people, and I saw that want and bare living had gone far to loosen his wits.  I knew the countryside, and I recognised that change was only in his mind.  And a great pity seized me for this lonely figure toiling on in the bitterness of regret.  I tried to comfort him, but my words were useless, for he took no heed of me; with bent head and faltering step he mumbled his sorrows to himself.

Then of a sudden we came to the crest of the ridge where the road dips from the hill-top to the sheltered valley.  Sheer from the heather ran the white streak till it lost itself among the reddening rowans and the yellow birks of the wood.  The land was rich in autumn colour, and the shining waters dipped and fell through a pageant of russet and gold.  And all around hills huddled in silent spaces, long brown moors crowned with cairns, or steep fortresses of rock and shingle rising to foreheads of steel-like grey.  The autumn blue faded in the far sky-line to white, and lent distance to the farther peaks.  The hush of the wilderness, which is far different from the hush of death, brooded over the scene, and like faint music came the sound of a distant scytheswing, and the tinkling whisper which is the flow of a hundred streams.

I am an old connoisseur in the beauties of the uplands, but I held my breath at the sight.  And when I glanced at my companion, he, too, had raised his head, and stood with wide nostrils and gleaming eye revelling in this glimpse of Arcady.  Then he found his voice, and the weakness and craziness seemed for one moment to leave him.

“It’s my ain land,” he cried, “and I’ll never leave it.  D’ye see yon broun hill wi’ the lang cairn?” and he gripped my arm fiercely and directed my gaze.  “Yon’s my bit.  I howkit it richt on the verrà tap, and ilka year I gang there to make it neat and ordlerly.  I’ve trystit wi’ fower men in different pairishes that whenever they hear o’ my death, they’ll cairry me up yonder and bury me there.  And then I’ll never leave it, but be still and quiet to the warld’s end.  I’ll aye hae the sound o’ water in my ear, for there’s five burns tak’ their rise on that hillside, and on a’ airts the glens gang doun to the Gled and the Aller.”

Then his spirit failed him, his voice sank, and he was almost the feeble gangrel once more.  But not yet, for again his eye swept the ring of hills, and he muttered to himself names which I knew for streams, lingeringly, lovingly, as of old affections.  “Aller and Gled and Callowa,” he crooned, “braw names, and Clachlands and Cauldshaw and the Lanely Water.  And I maunna forget the Stark and the Lin and the bonny streams o’ the Creran.  And what mair?  I canna mind a’ the burns, the Howe and the Hollies and the Fawn and the links o’ the Manor.  What says the Psalmist about them?

‘As streams o’ water in the South, Our bondage Lord, recall.’

Ay, but yen’s the name for them.  ‘Streams o’ water in the South.’”

And as we went down the slopes to the darkening vale I heard him crooning to himself in a high, quavering voice the single distich; then in a little his weariness took him again, and he plodded on with no thought save for his sorrows.

IV-

The conclusion of this tale belongs not to me, but to the shepherd of the Redswirehead, and I heard it from him in his dwelling, as I stayed the night, belated on the darkening moors.  He told me it after supper in a flood of misty Doric, and his voice grew rough at times, and he poked viciously at the dying peat.

In the last back-end I was at Gledfoot wi’ sheep, and a weary job I had and little credit.  Ye ken the place, a lang dreich shore wi’ the wind swirlin’ and bitin’ to the bane, and the broun Gled water choked wi’ Solloway sand.  There was nae room in ony inn in the town, so I bude to gang to a bit public on the Harbour Walk, where sailor-folk and fishermen feucht and drank, and nae dacent men frae the hills thocht of gangin’.  I was in a gey ill way, for I had sell’t my beasts dooms cheap, and I thocht o’ the lang miles hame in the wintry weather.  So after a bite o’ meat I gangs out to get the air and clear my heid, which was a’ rammled wi’ the auction-ring.

And whae did I find, sittin’ on a bench at the door, but the auld man Yeddie.  He was waur changed than ever.  His lang hair was hingin’ over his broo, and his face was thin and white as a ghaist’s.  His claes fell loose about him, and he sat wi’ his hand on his auld stick and his chin on his hand, hearin’ nocht and glowerin’ afore him.  He never saw nor kenned me till I shook him by the shoulders, and cried him by his name.

“Whae are ye?” says he, in a thin voice that gaed to my hert.

“Ye ken me fine, ye auld fule,” says I.  “I’m Jock Rorison o’ the Redswirehead, whaur ye’ve stoppit often.”

“Redswirehead,” he says, like a man in a dream.  “Redswirehead!  That’s at the tap o’ the Clachlands Burn as ye gang ower to the Dreichil.”

“And what are ye daein’ here?  It’s no your countryside ava, and ye’re no fit noo for lang trampin’.”

“No,” says he, in the same weak voice and wi’ nae fushion in him, “but they winna hae me up yonder noo.  I’m ower auld and useless.  Yince a’body was gled to see me, and wad keep me as lang’s I wantit, and had aye a gud word at meeting and pairting.  Noo it’s a’ changed, and my wark’s dune.”

I saw fine that the man was daft, but what answer could I gie to his havers?  Folk in the Callowa Glens are as kind as afore, but ill weather and auld age had put queer notions intil his heid.  Forbye, he was seeck, seeck unto death, and I saw mair in his een than I likit to think.

“Come in-by and get some meat, man,” I said.  “Ye’re famishin’ wi’ cauld and hunger.”

“I canna eat,” he says, and his voice never changed.  “It’s lang since I had a bite, for I’m no hungry.  But I’m awfu’ thirsty.  I cam here yestreen, and I can get nae water to drink like the water in the hills.  I maun be settin’ out back the morn, if the Lord spares me.”

I mindit fine that the body wad tak nae drink like an honest man, but maun aye draibble wi’ burn water, and noo he had got the thing on the brain.  I never spak a word, for the maitter was bye ony mortal’s aid.

For lang he sat quiet.  Then he lifts his heid and looks awa ower the grey sea.  A licht for a moment cam intil his een.

“Whatna big water’s yon?” he said, wi’ his puir mind aye rinnin’ on waters.

“That’s the Solloway,” says I.

“The Solloway,” says he; “it’s a big water, and it wad be an ill job to ford it.”

“Nae man ever fordit it,” I said.

“But I never yet cam to the water I couldna ford,” says he.  “But what’s that queer smell i’ the air?  Something snell and cauld and unfreendly.”

“That’s the salt, for we’re at the sea here, the mighty ocean.

He keepit repeatin’ the word ower in his mouth.  “The salt, the salt, I’ve heard tell o’ it afore, but I dinna like it.  It’s terrible cauld and unhamely.”

By this time an onding o’ rain was coming up’ frae the water, and I bade the man come indoors to the fire.  He followed me, as biddable as a sheep, draggin’ his legs like yin far gone in seeckness.  I set him by the fire, and put whisky at his elbow, but he wadna touch it.

“I’ve nae need o’ it,” said he.  “I’m find and warm”; and he sits staring at the fire, aye comin’ ower again and again, “The Solloway, the Solloway.  It’s a guid name and a muckle water.”

But sune I gaed to my bed, being heavy wi’ sleep, for I had traivelled for twae days.

The next morn I was up at six and out to see the weather.  It was a’ changed.  The muckle tides lay lang and still as our ain Loch o’ the Lee, and far ayont I saw the big blue hills o’ England shine bricht and clear.  I thankit Providence for the day, for it was better to tak the lang miles back in sic a sun than in a blast o’ rain.

But as I lookit I saw some folk comin’ up frae the beach carryin’ something atween them.  My hert gied a loup, and “some puir, drooned sailor-body,” says I to mysel’, “whae has perished in yesterday’s storm.”  But as they cam nearer I got a glisk which made me run like daft, and lang ere I was up on them I saw it was Yeddie.

He lay drippin’ and white, wi’ his puir auld hair lyin’ back frae his broo and the duds clingin’ to his legs.  But out o’ the face there had gane a’ the seeckness and weariness.  His een were stelled, as if he had been lookin’ forrit to something, and his lips were set like a man on a lang errand.  And mair, his stick was grippit sae firm in his hand that nae man could loose it, so they e’en let it be.

Then they tell’t me the tale o’t, how at the earliest licht they had seen him wanderin’ alang the sands, juist as they were putting out their boats to sea.  They wondered and watched him, till of a sudden he turned to the water and wadit in, keeping straucht on till he was oot o’ sicht.  They rowed a’ their pith to the place, but they were ower late.  Yince they saw his heid appear abune water, still wi’ his face to the other side; and then they got his body, for the tide was rinnin’ low in the mornin’.  I tell’t them a’ I kenned o’ him, and they were sair affected.  “Puir cratur,” said yin, “he’s shurely better now.”

So we brocht him up to the house and laid him there till the folk i’ the town had heard o’ the business.  Syne the procurator-fiscal came and certifeed the death and the rest was left tae me.  I got a wooden coffin made and put him in it, juist as he was, wi’ his staff in his hand and his auld duds about him.  I mindit o’ my sworn word, for I was yin o’ the four that had promised, and I ettled to dae his bidding.  It was saxteen mile to the hills, and yin and twenty to the lanely tap whaur he had howkit his grave.  But I never heedit it.  I’m a strong man, weel-used to the walkin’ and my hert was sair for the auld body.  Now that he had gotten deliverance from his affliction, it was for me to leave him in the place he wantit.  Forbye, he wasna muckle heavier than a bairn.

It was a long road, a sair road, but I did it, and by seven o’clock I was at the edge o’ the muirlands.  There was a braw mune, and a the glens and taps stood out as clear as midday.  Bit by bit, for I was gey tired, I warstled ower the rigs and up the cleuchs to the Gled-head; syne up the stany Gled-cleuch to the lang grey hill which they ca’ the Hurlybackit.  By ten I had come to the cairn, and black i’ the mune I saw the grave.  So there I buried him, and though I’m no a releegious man, I couldna help sayin’ ower him the guid words o’ the Psalmist ­

“As streams of water in the South,
  Our bondage, Lord, recall.”

So if you go from the Gled to the Aller, and keep far over the north side of the Muckle Muneraw, you will come in time to a stony ridge which ends in a cairn.  There you will see the whole hill country of the south, a hundred lochs, a myriad streams, and a forest of hill-tops.  There on the very crest lies the old man, in the heart of his own land, at the fountain-head of his many waters.  If you listen you will hear a hushed noise as of the swaying in trees or a ripple on the sea.  It is the sound of the rising of burns, which, innumerable and unnumbered, flow thence to the silent glens for evermore.

The Gipsy’s song to the lady Cassilis.

“Whereupon the Faas, coming down from the Gates of Galloway, did so bewitch my lady that she forgat husband and kin, and followed the tinkler’s piping.” ­Chap-book of the Raid of Cassilis.

  The door is open to the wall,
  The air is bright and free;
  Adown the stair, across the hall,
  And then-the world and me;
  The bare grey bent, the running stream,
  The fire beside the shore;
  And we will bid the hearth farewell,
  And never seek it more, My love,
  And never seek it more.

  And you shall wear no silken gown,
  No maid shall bind your hair;
  The yellow broom shall be your gem,
  Your braid the heather rare. 
  Athwart the moor, adown the hill,
  Across the world away;
  The path is long for happy hearts
  That sing to greet the day, My love,
  That sing to greet the day.

  When morning cleaves the eastern grey,
  And the lone hills are red
  When sunsets light the evening way
  And birds are quieted;
  In autumn noon and springtide dawn,
  By hill and dale and sea,
  The world shall sing its ancient song
  Of hope and joy for thee, My love,
  Of hope and joy for thee.

  And at the last no solemn stole
  Shall on thy breast be laid;
  No mumbling priest shall speed thy soul,
  No charnel vault thee shade. 
  But by the shadowed hazel copse,
  Aneath the greenwood tree,
  Where airs are soft and waters sing,
  Thou’lt ever sleep by me, My love,
  Thou’lt ever sleep by me.