"It sings and chatters in summer, and growls and cries and grumbles in winter, or after rain up in Glashgar." "Div ye think the burn's ony happier i' the summer, mem ?" "No, Donal; the burn has no life in it, and therefore can't be happier one time than another." "Weel, mem, I wad jist like to speir what waur it is to fancy yersel' a burn, than to fancy the burn a body, ae time singin' an' chatterin', an' the neist growlin' an' grum'lin'." "Well, but, Donal, can a man be a burn ?" "Weel, mem, no--at least no i' this warl', an' at 'is ain wull.

But whan ye're lyin' hearkenin' to the burn, did ye never imagine yersel' rinnin' doon wi' 't--doon to the sea ?" "No, Donal; I always fancy myself going up the mountain where it comes from, and running about wild there in the wind, when all the time I know I'm safe and warm in bed." "Weel, maybe that's better yet--I wadna say," answered Donal; "but jist the nicht, for a cheenge like, ye turn an' gang doon wi' 't--i' yer thouchts, I mean.

Lie an' hearken he'rty till 't the nicht, whan ye're i' yer bed; hearken an' hearken till the soon' rins awa' wi' ye like, an' ye forget a' aboot yersel', an' think yersel' awa' wi' the burn, rinnin', rinnin', throu' this an' throu' that, throu' stanes an' birks an' bracken, throu' heather, an' plooed lan' an' corn, an' wuds an' gairdens, aye singin', an' aye cheengin' yer tune accordin', till it wins to the muckle roarin' sea, an' 's a' tint.
An' the first nicht 'at the win' 's up an' awa', dee the same, mem, wi' the win'.

Get up upo' the back o' 't, like, as gien it was yer muckle horse, an' jist ride him to the deith; an' efter that, gien ye dinna maybe jist wuss 'at ye was a burn or a blawin' win'-- aither wad be a sair loss to the universe--ye wunna, I'm thinkin', be sae ready to fin' fau't wi' the chield 'at made yon bit sangy." "Are you vexed with me, Donal ?--I'm so sorry!" said Ginevra, taking the earnestness of his tone for displeasure.
"Na, na, mem.

Ye're ower guid an' ower bonny," answered Donal, "to be a vex to onybody; but it wad be a vex to hear sic a cratur as you speykin' like ane o' the fules o' the warl', 'at believe i' naething but what comes in at the holes i' their heid." Ginevra was silent.