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Updated: May 6, 2025
Then there was the story of Bobby's devotion to Auld Jock's memory to be told the days when he faced starvation rather than desert that grave, the days when he lay cramped under the fallen table-tomb, and his repeated, dramatic escapes from the Pentland farm. His never broken silence in the kirkyard was only to be explained by the unforgotten orders of his dead master.
The doggie's i' the lodge wi' the caretaker, wha's fair ill, an' he canna be seen the day. But gang aroond the kirk an' ye can see Auld Jock's grave that he's aye guarded. There's nae stave to it, but it's neist to the fa'en table-tomb o' Mistress Jean Grant. A gude day to ye. Hae ye got a' that, man? Weel, cheer up.
All the concession he was willing to make to old age and bad weather was to sleep under the fallen table-tomb. Greyfriars on a dripping autumn evening! A pensive hour and season, everything memorable brooded there. Crouched back in shadowy ranks, the old tombs were draped in mystery. The mist was swirled by the wind and smoke smeared out, over their dim shapes.
On that mid-April morning, when the rising sun gilded the Castle turrets and flashed back from the many beautiful windows of Heriot's Hospital, Tammy bundled his books under the table-tomb of Mistress Jean Grant, went over to the rear of the Guildhall at the top of the Row, and threw a handful of gravel up to Ailie's window. Because of a grandmither, Ailie, too, dwelt on a low level.
And when she was seated on the table-tomb he came up to her and let her look at his collar, and he stood under her caress, although she spoke to him in fey English, calling him a darling little dog. Then, entirely contented with her company, he lay down, his eyes fixed upon her and lolling his tongue.
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