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"Hearken till this than," said Donal. He took his book from the grass, and read, in a chant, or rather in a lilt, the Danish ballad of Chyld Dyring, as translated by Sir Walter Scott.
"Her eldest daughter then she sped To fetch Child Dyring out of bed"; instead of Jamieson's And, still worse, "Out from their chest she stretch'd her bones And rent her way through earth and stones"; where Jamieson is not only more literal, but more forcible, "Wi' her banes sae stark a bowt she gae Hath riven both wall and marble gray." The original is better than either,
The wind blew gentle, the sun shone bright, all nature closed softly round the two, and the soul whose children they were was nearer than the one to the other, nearer than sun or wind or daisy or Chyld Dyring. To his amazement, Donal saw the tears gathering in Gibbie's eyes. He was as one who gazes into the abyss of God's will sees only the abyss, cannot see the will, and weeps.
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