So she sat down on the stone parapet of the little bridge—on this hushed, still, shining morning that was quite summer-like in its calm—and opened the paper with not a little curiosity. And well enough she understood the meaning of the little piece: she knew that the Mackays[#] used to live about here; and was not Strath-Naver but a few miles off; and this the very Mudal river running underneath the bridge on which she was sitting? But here are the verses she read—and he had entitled them [#] Pronounced _Mackise_, with the accent on the second syllable. _ACROSS THE SEA._ _In Nova Scotia’s clime they’ve met_ _To keep the New Year’s night;_ _The merry lads and lasses crowd_ _Around the blazing light._ _But father and mother sit withdrawn_ _To let their fancies flee_ _To the old, old time, and the old, old home_ _That’s far across the sea._ _And what strange sights and scenes are these_ _That sadden their shaded eyes?_ _Is it only thus they can see again_ _The land of the Mackays?_ _O there the red-deer roam at will:_ _And the grouse whirr on the wing;_ _And the curlew call, and the ptarmigan_ _Drink at the mountain spring;_ _And the hares lie snug on the hillside:_ _And the lusty blackcock crows;_ _But the river the children used to love_ _Through an empty valley flows._ _Do they see again a young lad wait_ _To shelter with his plaid,_ _When she steals to him in the gathering dusk._ _His gentle Highland maid?_ _Do they hear the pipes at the weddings;_ _Or the low sad funeral wail_ _As the boat goes out to the island,_ _And the pibroch tells its tale?_ _O fair is Naver’s strath, and fair_ _The strath that Mudal laves;_ _And dear the haunts of our childhood,_ _And dear the old folks’ graves;_ _And the parting from one’s native land_ _Is a sorrow hard to dree:_ _God’s forgiveness to them that sent us_ _So far across the sea!_ _And is bonnie Strath-Naver shining,_ _As it shone in the bygone years?—_ _As it shines for us now—ay, ever—_ _Though our eyes are blind with tears._