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Dwelling of David Mackaye and his daughters Elspie and Bella,
Sends up a column of smoke the Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich.
And of the older twain, the elder was telling the younger,
How on his pittance of soil he lived, and raised potatoes,
Barley, and oats, in the bothie where lived his father before him;
Yet was smith by trade, and had travelled making horse-shoes
Far, in the army had seen some service with brave Sir Hector,
Wounded soon, and discharged, disabled as smith and soldier;
He had been many things since that, drover, school-master,
Whitesmith, but when his brother died childless came up hither;
And although he could get fine work that would pay, in the city,
Still was fain to abide where his father abode before him.
And the lassies are bonnie,-I'm father and mother to them,
Bonnie and young; they're healthier here, I judge, and safer:
I myself find time for their reading, writing, and learning.
So on the road they walk by the shore of the salt sea water,
Silent a youth and maid, and elders twain conversing.
This was the letter that came when Adam was leaving the cottage.
If you can manage to see me before going off to Dartmoor,
Come by Tuesday's coach through Glencoe (you have not seen it)
Stop at the ferry below, and ask your way (you will wonder,
There however I am) to the Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich.
And on another scrap, of next day's date, was written.
It was by accident purely I lit on the place; I was going
Quietly, travelling homeward, by one of these wretched coaches;
One of the horses cast a shoe; and a farmer passing
Said, Old David's your man; a clever fellow at shoeing
Once; just up by the firs; they call it Toper-na-fuosich.
So I saw and spoke with David Mackaye, our acquaintance.
When we came to the journey's end, some five miles further,
In my unoccupied evening I walked back again to the bothie.
But on a final crossing, still later in date was added.
Come as soon as you can; be sure and do not miss me.
Who would have guessed I should find my haven and end of my travel,
Here, by accident too, in the bothie we laughed about so?
Who would have guessed that here would be she whose glance at Rannoch
Turned me in that mysterious way; yes, angels conspiring,
Slowly drew me, conducted me, home, to herself; the needle
Which in the shaken compass flew hither and thither, at last, long
