senses, when I heard a
voice that sounded miles away, and yet close to my ear:

"Elsie, sing a little song, will you?"

I heard no reply. A pause followed, and then a voice, clear and
melodious as a brook, began to sing, and before it ceased, I was
indeed in a kind of paradise.

[Illustration]

But here I must pause. Shall I be breaking my promise of not a word of
Scotch in my story, if I give the song? True it is not a part of the
story exactly, but it is in it. If my reader would like the song, he
must have it in Scotch or not at all. I am not going to spoil it by
turning it out of its own natural clothes into finer garments to which
it was not born--I mean by translating it from Scotch into English.
The best way will be this: I give the song as something extra--call it
a footnote slipped into the middle of the page. Nobody needs read a
word of it to understand the story; and being in smaller type and a
shape of its own, it can be passed over without the least trouble.

SONG

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the yorlin[1] sings,
Wi' a clip o' the sunshine atween his wings;
Whaur the birks[2] are a' straikit wi' fair munelicht,
And the broom hings its lamps by day and by nicht;
Whaur the burnie comes trottin' ower shingle and stane,
Liltin'[3] bonny havers[4] til 'tsel alane;
And the sliddery[5] troot, wi' ae soop o' its tail,
Is awa' 'neath the green weed's swingin' veil!
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I sang as I saw
The yorlin, the broom, an' the burnie, an' a'!

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the primroses wonn,
Luikin' oot o' their leaves like wee sons o' the sun;
Whaur the wild roses hing like flickers o' flame,
And fa' at the touch wi' a dainty shame;
Whaur the bee swings ower the white clovery sod,
And the butterfly flits like a stray thoucht o' God;
Whaur, like arrow shot frae life's unseen bow,
The dragon-fly burns the sunlicht throu'!
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I sang to see
The rose and the primrose, the draigon and bee!

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the mune luiks doon,
As gin she war hearin' a soundless tune,
Whan the flowers an' the birds are a' asleep,
And the verra burnie gangs creepy-creep;
Whaur the corn-craik craiks in the lang lang rye,
And the nicht is the safter for his rouch cry;
Whaur the wind wad fain lie doon on the slope,
And the verra darkness owerflows wi' hope!
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur, silent, I felt
The mune an' the darkness