'Do the verses he sings,' asked Waverley, 'belong to old Scottish
poetry, Miss Bradwardine?'
'I believe not,' she replied. 'This poor creature had a brother, and
Heaven, as if to compensate to the family Davie's deficiencies, had
given him what the hamlet thought uncommon talents. An uncle contrived
to educate him for the Scottish kirk, but he could not get preferment
because he came from our GROUND. He returned from college hopeless and
broken-hearted, and fell into a decline. My father supported him till
his death, which happened before he was nineteen. He played beautifully
on the flute, and was supposed to have a great turn for poetry. He was
affectionate and compassionate to his brother, who followed him like
his shadow, and we think that from him Davie gathered many fragments of
songs and music unlike those of this country. But if we ask him where
he got such a fragment as he is now singing, he either answers with wild
and long fits of laughter, or else breaks into tears of lamentation;
but was never heard to give any explanation, or to mention his brother's
name since his death.'
'Surely,' said Edward, who was readily interested by a tale bordering on
the romantic, 'surely more might be learned by more particular inquiry.
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