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 metapheesical. True, they dinna aye ken't. I wad
to God I cud get that sel' o' mine safe aneath the yird, for it jist
torments the life oot o' me wi' its ugly face. Hit and me jist stan's
an' girns at ane anither."
"It'll tak a heap o' Christianity to lay _that_ ghaist, Mr Cupples.
That I ken weel. The lassie wadna be able to do't for ye.
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