Part III
Now by the embers’ fitful flame,
Two women whisper’d long,
Concerning strange accounts that came
Of Yeddie in the throng.
“Oh! Janet, if ye cou’d ha’ seen
The face of yon pair lad—
Ye’d easy tell where he had been,
To be so truly glad.
“An’ had ye seen his face so bright,
Ye ne’er wou’d ha’ forgot;
It shon’ jist like a candle light,
When comin’ in the cot.
“He seem’d with joy almost to cap,
And full up to the brim;
He said he’d go aloft and sleep,
As he had supp’d wi Him.”
“Noo, Molly,” answer’d granny’s guest,
“That’s even like Himsel’!
When once He sat Him down to rest
A little, on the well.
“When His disciples brought Him meat,
An’ press’d Him sairly—then
He said that He had food to eat
Of which they dinna ken!
“In town or city, vale or hill,
From morning unti’ night;
The doin’ o’ His Father’s will,
Was a’ His soul’s delight.”
And thus these lowly women spake,
Concerning One they knew,
Desiring much, for His dear sake,
Some little thing to do.
Next morning rose the aged dame,
And bustled in her cot,
To have all right when Yeddie came—
And so the breakfast got.
While from the stack she fetch’d the peat,
And water from the spring;
Still empty was poor Yeddie’s seat—
A most unusual thing.
She call’d, and call’d, and listen’d too,
But still no sound could catch,
Except the wind, that whistled through
An opening in the thatch.
Her voice alone was all she heard,
But still she call’d again,
For as poor Yeddie had not stirr’d.
Her heart was full of pain.
And up the ladder, rude and weak
The aged woman went;
But Yeddie did not move, or speak
As low o’er him she bent.
Half sitting, half upon one knee
The earthen vessel fell:
But Yeddie, he was gone to be
For ever “wi’ Himsel’.”
And soon the tidings spread abroad,
O’er hill, and moor, and dell,
That Yeddie now was with the Lord,
Whom he had loved so well.
A strange sensation o’er her crept
When raising up his head,
For she discover’d, while she slept,
Poor Yeddie’s spirit fled!
And many a countenance look’d sad,
And many an eye was dim;
Yet while they mourn’d the happy lad,
They bless’d the Lord for him.
In “certain hope” they laid his dust,
To wait the coming day,
When Jesus—Yeddie’s joy and trust—
Will call His saints away.
No marble slabs form Yeddie’s tomb,
Nor weeping willows wave;
The thistle and the heather bloom
Alone may mark his grave.
And granny, who was left behind,
More deeply had to prove,
That God is merciful and kind,
To those who trust His love.
G.C.
Deadness in the heart of a saint will damp his zeal, if not cleared by daily watchfulness. Look, therefore, narrowly whence thy cooling comes; perhaps thy heart is too much let out upon the world in the day.
William Gurnall