at last a voice from the darkness replied with, "Gae yer ways ti bed, there's naebody wantin' ye." So having this gracious permission, and as I was shivering with cold, I groped round the room until I recovered my couch, and again turned in; and being now fully aroused, lay wondering what this nocturnal visitation might portend. There now commenced a series of knocking and shaking of window-shutters, of which all my cogitations could not furnish a solution. I could not suppose those noises to proceed from a burglar, for had anyone intended breaking into the premises, he would scarcely have announced that intention by rousing the household with such a variety of unnecessary noises. These disturbances had continued, so far as I could guess, for about two hours, when there came another crash against my window-panes, and the voice cried, "Eh, Maggie—Maggie, ma woman, are ye waukin'?" I now began to smell a rat. In short, this was neither more nor less than a Cumberland courtship; for it is by no means uncommon for a young spinster to admit her enamoured swain after the family have retired for the night, and give him an opportunity of furthering his tender suit before the kitchen fire, which is never allowed to go out, but is packed with the gathering coal, and well happed[1] on the top with damp peat.
.png)
Bewcastle. See p. 268.
Our swain now became vocal, and in the changes of the wind I could catch snatches of a rude serenade, running, or rather limping, somewhat as follows:
Oh! are ye sleeping, Maggie?
Oh! are ye sleeping, Maggie?
Loud's the linn the weary din
That's roaring o'er the warlock craigie.
The rain is fa'in heavy, Maggie,
The night is moonless, dark, and dreary;
The wind is blawing stour, Maggie,
The cry o' howlet maks me eerie.
The lassie leugh ti hear his sang,
An' smoor'd amang the blankets nearly,
But couldna gar him linger lang,
For, oh! she loo'd the laddie dearly.
Then up she rose an' let him in,
Aside he flung his drookit plaidie.
What care I for mirk an' din,
Now a'm wi' my bonny leddy?
From this he changed to the following strain, of a somewhat more melancholy cast than the above:
Lassie, but I'm weary, weary,
Lassie, but the night is eirey,
Let me in, an' a'll na' steir ye,
Let me in, my ain, ain dearie.
- ↑ Covered up.
