I dinna mind what ma luve was in—
‘And I ma’sel in cramoisie,’
sang Merton, who had the greatest fear of being asked local questions about Moss End and Motherwell. ‘I dinna ken what cramoisie is, ma’sel’,’ he added. ‘Hae a drink!’
‘Man, ye’re a bonny singer,’ said the rough, who, hitherto, had taken no hand in the conversation.
‘Ma faither was a precentor,’ said Merton, and so, in fact, Mr. Merton père had, for a short time, been—of Salisbury Cathedral.
They were approaching Portobello, where Merton rushed to the window, thrust half of his body out and indulged in the raucous and meaningless yells of the festive artisan. Thus he tided over a rather prolonged wait, but, when the train moved on, the inquiring
rough returned to the charge. He was suspicious, and also was drunk, and obstinate with all the brainless obstinacy of intoxication.
‘Aw ’m sayin’,’ he remarked to Merton, ‘you’re no Lairdie Bower.’
‘Hear till the man! Aw ’m Tammy Hamilton, o’ Moss End in Lanerick. Aw ’m ganging to see ma Jean.
‘For day or night
Ma fancy’s flight
Is ever wi’ ma Jean—
Ma bonny, bonny, flat-footed Jean,’