Doobtless age does gar poetry
smack a wee better; but I said auld only 'cause there's sae little
new poetry that I care aboot comes my gait. Mr Graham's unco ta'en
wi' Maister Wordsworth--no an ill name for a poet; do ye ken
onything aboot him, my leddy?"
"I never heard of him."
"I wadna gie an auld Scots ballant for a barrowfu' o' his. There's
gran' bits here an' there, nae doobt, but it 's ower mim mou'ed
for me."
"What do you mean by that?"
"It's ower saft an' sliddery like i' yer mou', my leddy."
"What sort do you like then?"
"I like Milton weel. Ye get a fine mou'fu' o' him. I dinna like
the verse 'at ye can murle (crumble) oot atween yer lips an' yer
teeth. I like the verse 'at ye maun open yer mou' weel to lat gang.
Syne it's worth yer while, whether ye unnerstan' 't or no."
"I don't see how you can say that."
"Jist hear, my leddy! Here's a bit I cam upo' last nicht:
His volant touch,
Instinct through all proportions, low and high,
Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue.
Hear till 't! It's gran'--even though ye dinna ken what it means
a bit."
"I do know what it means," said Florimel. "Let me see: volant means
--what does volant mean?"
"It means fleein', I suppose."
"Well, he means some musician or other."
"Of coorse: it maun be Jubal--I ken a' the words but fugue; though
I canna tell what business instinct an' proportions hae there."
"It's describing how the man's fingers, playing a fugue--on the
organ, I suppose,--"
"A fugue 'll be some kin' o' a tune, than? That casts a heap o'
licht on't, my leddy--I never saw an organ: what is 't like?"
"Something like a pianoforte.
Pages:
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143