to the recollection
of the man, at least--they are covered with grass, and wild flowers
grow all about them, through which the wind harps and carps over your
head, filling your sense with the odours of a little modest yellow
tufty flower, for which I never heard a name in Scotland: the English
call it Ladies' Bedstraw.

They got over the dyke into the field and sat down.

"Ye see it's no lickit eneuch yet," said Mr Cupples, and began.

"O lassie, ayont the hill!
Come ower the tap o' the hill;
Or roun' the neuk o' the hill;
For I want ye sair the night.
I'm needin' ye sair the nicht,
For I'm tired and sick o' mysel'.
A body's sel' 's the sairest weicht.
O lassie, come ower the hill.

Gin a body cud be a thocht o' grace,
And no a sel' ava!
I'm sick o' my heid and my han's and my face,
And my thouchts and mysel' and a'.
I'm sick o' the warl' and a';
The licht gangs by wi' a hiss;
For throu' my een the sunbeams fa',
But my weary hert they miss.

O lassie, ayont the hill!
Come ower the tap o' the hill,
Or roun' the neuk o' the hill,
For I want ye sair the nicht.

For gin ance I saw yer bonnie heid,
And the sunlicht o' yer hair,
The ghaist o' mysel' wad fa' doon deid,
And I'd be mysel' nae mair.
I wad be mysel' nae mair,
Filled o' the sole remeid,
Slain by the arrows o' licht frae yer hair,
Killed by yer body and heid.
O lassie, ayont the hill! &c.

But gin ye lo'ed me, ever so sma'
For the sake o' my bonny dame,
Whan I cam' to life, as she gaed awa',
I could bide my body and name.
I micht bide mysel', the weary same,
Aye settin' up its heid,
Till I turn frae the claes that cover my frame,
As gin they war roun' the deid.
O lassie, ayont the hill! &c.

But gin ye lo'ed me as I lo'e you,
I wad ring my ain deid knell;
My sel' wad vanish, shot through and through
By the shine o' your sunny sel'.
By the shine o' your sunny sel',
By the licht aneath your broo,
I wad dee to mysel', and ring my bell,
And only live in you.

O lassie, ayont the hill!
Come ower the tap o' the hill,
Or roun' the neuk o' the hill,
For I want ye sair the night.
I'm needin' ye sair the nicht,
For I'm tired and sick o' mysel;
A body's sel' 's the sairest weicht!
O lassie, come ower the hill."

"Isna it raither metapheesical, Mr Cupples?" asked Alec.

"Ay is't. But fowk's metapheesi