“Ah, human hearts are strangely cast,
    Time softens grief and pain;
  Like reeds that shiver in the blast,
    They bend to rise again.

  “But she in silence bowed her head,
    To none her sorrow would impart;
  Earth’s faithful arms enclose the dead,
    And hide for aye her broken heart!”

Our man James came to me to request the loan of one of the horses, to attend a funeral.  M—–­ was absent on business, and the horses and the man’s time were both greatly needed to prepare the land for the fall crops.  I demurred; James looked anxious and disappointed; and the loan of the horse was at length granted, but not without a strict injunction that he should return to his work the moment the funeral was over.  He did not come back until late that evening.  I had just finished my tea, and was nursing my wrath at his staying out the whole day, when the door of the room (we had but one, and that was shared in common with the servants) opened, and the delinquent at last appeared.  He hung up the new English saddle, and sat down by the blazing hearth without speaking a word.

“What detained you so long, James?  You ought to have had half an acre of land, at least, ploughed to-day.”

“Verra true, mistress.  It was nae fau’t o’ mine.  I had mista’en the hour.  The funeral didna’ come in afore sun-down, and I cam’ awa’ directly it was ower.”

“Was it any relation of yours?”

“Na, na, jist a freend, an auld acquaintance, but nane o’ mine ain kin.  I never felt sare sad in a’ my life, as I ha’ dune this day.  I ha’ seen the clods piled on mony a heid, and never felt the saut tear in my e’en.  But, puir Jeanie! puir lass.  It was a sair sight to see them thrown doon upon her.”

My curiosity was excited; I pushed the tea-things from me, and told Bell to give James his supper.

“Naething for me the night, Bell—­I canna’ eat—­my thoughts will a’ rin on that puir lass.  Sae young—­sae bonnie, an’ a few months ago as blythe as a lark, an’ now a clod o’ the earth.  Hout we maun all dee when our ain time comes; but, somehow, I canna’ think that Jeanie ought to ha’ gane sae sune.”

“Who is Jeanie Burns?  Tell me, James, something about her.”

In compliance with my request, the man gave me the following story.  I wish I could convey it in his own words, but though I can perfectly understand the Scotch dialect when spoken, I could not write it in its charming simplicity:  that honest, truthful brevity, which is so characteristic of this noble people.  The smooth tones of the blarney may flatter our vanity, and please us for the moment; but who places any confidence in those by whom it is employed.  We know that it is only uttered to cajole and decieve, and when the novelty wears off, the repetition awakens indignation and disgust; but who mistrusts the blunt, straightforward speech of the land of Burns—­for good or ill, it strikes home to the heart.