After we had taken her home we generally repaired to Turkey's
mother, with whom we were sure of a kind reception. She was a patient
diligent woman, who looked as if she had nearly done with life, and
had only to gather up the crumbs of it. I have often wondered since,
what was her deepest thought--whether she was content to be unhappy,
or whether she lived in hope of some blessedness beyond. It is
marvellous with how little happiness some people can get through the
world. Surely they are inwardly sustained with something even better
than joy.
"Did you ever hear my mother sing?" asked Turkey, as we sat together
over her little fire, on one of these occasions.
"No. I should like very much," I answered.
The room was lighted only by a little oil-lamp, for there was no flame
to the fire of peats and dried oak-bark.
"She sings such queer ballads as you never heard," said Turkey. "Give
us one, mother; do."
She yielded, and, in a low chanting voice, sang something like this:--
Up cam' the waves o' the tide wi' a whush,
And back gaed the pebbles wi' a whurr,
Whan the king's ae son cam' walking i' the hush,
To hear the sea murmur and murr.
The half mune was risin' the waves abune,
An' a glimmer o' cauld weet licht
Cam' ower the water straucht frae the mune,
Like a path across the nicht.
[Illustration]
What's that, an' that, far oot i' the grey
Atwixt the mune and the land?
It's the bonny sea-maidens at their play--
Haud awa', king's son, frae the strand.
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