THE INEBRIETY OF THE SOBER. 179 ower the bank, he has played wallop into the water, or is aiblins been fun' lyin in the middle o' the road, wi' his neck dislocate, the doctors canna tell hoo; or ayont the wa' wi' his harns' stickin on the coupin-stane. North. Or foot in stirrup, and face trailing the pebbly mire, swept homewards by a spanking half-bred, and disentangled at the door by shriek and candle-light. Shepherd. Had he been in the habit o' takin his glass like a Christian, he wad hae ridden like a Centaur; and instead o' havin been brought hame a corp, he wuld hae been staggerin geyan steady into the parlour, wi' a' the weans ruggin at his pouches for fairins, and his wife half angry, half pleased, helping him tidily and tenderly aff wi' his big boots; and then by-and-by mixing him the bowster cupand then 2 Tickler. Your sober man, on every public occasion of festivity, is uniformly seen, soon after "the Duke of York and the Army," led off between two waiters, with his face as white as the table-cloth, eyes upwards, and a ghastly smile about his gaping mouth, that seems to threaten unutterable things before he reach the lobby. North. He turns round his head at the "three times three," with a loyal hiccup, and is borne off a speechless martyr to the cause of the Hanoverian Succession. Shepherd. I wad rather get fou five hunder times in an ordinar way like, than ance to expose mysel sae afore my fellow-citizens. Yet, meet my gentleman next forenoon in the Parliament House, or in a bookseller's shop, or in Princes Street, arm-in-arm wi' a minister, and he hauds up his face as if naething had happened, speaks o' the pleasant party, expresses his regret at having been obliged to leave it so soon, at the call of a client, and, ten to ane, denounces you to his cronies for a drunkard, who exposes himself in company, and is getting constantly into scrapes that promise a fatal termination. North. Hush! The minstrels ! Shepherd. Maist delightfu' music! O, sir, hoo it sweetens, and strengthens, and merrifies as it comes up the avenue! Are they Foreigners? North. An itinerant family of Savoyards. Harns-brains. 2 Fairins-presents. 180 A PARTY OF MINSTRELS. Shepherd. Look at them-Look at them! What an outlandish, toosy-headed, wee sunbrunt deevil o' a lassie that, playin her antics, heel and head, wi' the tambourine. Yon's a darlin wi' her thoom coquet-coquettin on the guitaur, and makin music without kennin 't-a' the while she is curtshyin, and singin wi' lauchin rosy mouth, and then blushin because we're glowering on her, and lettin fa' her big black een on the grun', as if a body were askin for a kiss! That maun be her younger sister, as dark as a gypsey, that hafflins lassie wi’ the buddin breast, her that's tinklin on the triangle that surely maun be o' silver, sae dewy sweet the soun'! Safe us, only look at the auld man and his wife! There's mony a comical auld woman in Scotland, especially in the Heelans, but I never saw the match o' that ane. She maun be mony hunder year auld, and yet her petticoats as short as a playactress dancin on the stage. Gude legs too-thin ankles, and a thick calve-girl, wife, and witch a' in ane, and only think o't,— playin on a base drum! Savyaurds! It'll be a mountainous kintra theirs for sic a lang-backed, short-thee'd, sinewy and muscular, hap-and-stap-jump o' a bouncin body as that man o' hers, wi' the swarthy face and head harlequinaddin on the Pan's-pipes, could never hae been bred and born on a flat-But whish-whish-they're beginning to play something pathetic! Tickler. Music is the universal language. Shepherd. It's a lament that the puir wandering creturs are singing and playin about their native land. I wush I may hae ony change in my pocket Tickler. They are as happy in their own way as we are in ours, my dear James. May they find their mountain cottage unharmed by wind or weather on their return, and let us join our little subscription Shepherd. There's a five-shillin crown-piece for mine. Tickler. And mine. Shepherd. I'll gie't to them.—(Shepherd leaps out.)—There, my bonny bloomin brunette wi' the raven hair, that are just perfectly beautifu', wanderin wi' your melody hameless but happy, and may nae hand untie its snood till your bridal night in the hut on the hill, when the evening marriage dance and song are hushed and silent, and love and innocence in their lawfu' delight lie in each other's arms-If your sweetheart's a shepherd, so am I Tickler. Hallo, Hogg-no whispering. Here, give each of them a tumbler of punch, and God be with the joyous Savoyards. Shepherd. Did you see, sirs, hoo desperate thirsty they a' were-nae wonner, singin frae morn to night a' up and doun the dusty streets and squares. Yet they askt for naething, contented creturs!-Hear till them singin awa doun the avenue "God save the King," in compliment to us and our country. A weel-timed interlude this, Mr North, and it has putten me in a gran' mood for a sang. North and Tickler. A song—a song—a song! (SHEPHERD sings.) MY BONNY MARY.1 Where Yarrow rows among the rocks, Around his breast so brisk an' airy, "O Mary, thou'rt sae mild an' sweet, Than beat a lonely thing without thee. I see thee in the evening beam, A radiant glorious apparition; I see thee in the midnight dream, By the dim light of heavenly vision. "When over Benger's haughty head The morning breaks in streaks sae bonny, For quiet rest I get nae ony. How sweet the brow on Brownhill cheek, Rise frae the cot where dwells my Mary. "When Phoebus mounts outower the muir, And round their shepherd form'd a ring. With cautious step and prospect wary, To steal a sight o' bonny Mary. "When midnight draws her curtain deep, "The exile may forget his home, Where blooming youth to manhood grew, The bee forget the honeycomb, Nor with the spring his toil renew; The sun may lose his light and heat, Tickler. Equal to anything of Burns'. North. Not a better in all George Thomson's collection. 1 Haps-wraps. THE REV. CÆSAR MALAN. 183 Thank ye, James-God bless you, James-give me your hand-you're a most admirable fellow-and there's no end to your genius. Shepherd. A man may be sair mistaen about mony things -such as yepics, and tragedies, and tales, and even lang-set elegies about the death o' great public characters, and hymns, and odds, and the like-but he canna be mistaen about a sang. As soon's it's doun on the sclate, I ken whether it's gude, bad, or middlin-if ony o' the twa last, I dight it out wi' my elbow-if the first, I copy't ower into write, and then get it aff by heart, when it's as sure o' no being lost as if it were engraven on a brass-plate; for though I hae a treacherous memory about things in ordinar, a' my happy sangs will cleave to my heart till my dying day, and I shouldna wonder gin I was to croon a verse or twa frae some o' them on my death-bed. North. Once more we thank you, my dear James. There, the chill is quite gone. and I think I have been almost as happy in this bowl as you have been in your inimitable lyric. Tickler. What think you, Kit, of the Rev. Cæsar Malan ?1 North. What think you, Timothy, of his audience? Shepherd. A French sermon in a chapel in Rose Street o' Embro' for purchasing the freedom o' a black wench in the West Indies! He maun hae been a man o' genius that first started the idea, for it's a'thegither out o' the ordinary course o' nature. Was you there, Mr Tickler? Tickler. I was. But you will pardon me, James, when I tell you how it happened. I was going to order a cheese at Mrs M'Alpine's shop, when I found myself unexpectedly walking in a hurried procession. Being in a somewhat passive mood, for the cheese had been a mere passing thought, I sailed along with the stream, and ere long found myself sitting in a pew between two very good-looking middle-aged women, in Dunstable bonnets, streaming with ribbons, and tastily enveloped in half-withdrawn green veils, that on either side descended to my shoulder. Shepherd. Mr North, did you ever ken ony chiel fa' on his feet at a' times like Mr Tickler? He never gangs out to walk in the Meadows, or doun to Leith, or roun' the Calton, or up Arthur's Seat, or out-by yonder to Duddistone, but he 1 An eminent clergyman of Geneva. |