David Haggart. Why so? Is not his tower just beneath our feet?
Myself. You mean the auld ruin by the side of Nor Loch—the ugly stane bulk, from the foot of which flows the spring into the dyke, where the watercresses grow?
David Haggart. Just sae, Geordie.
Myself. And why were ye thinking of him? The English hanged him long since, as I have heard say.
David Haggart. I was thinking that I should wish to be like him.
Myself. Do ye mean that ye would wish to be hanged?
David Haggart. I wad na flinch from that, Geordie, if I might be a great man first.
Myself. And wha kens, Davie, how great you may be, even without hanging? Are ye not in the high road of preferment? Are ye not a bauld drummer already? Wha kens how high ye may rise? perhaps to be general, or drum-major.
David Haggart. I hae na wish to be drum-major; it were na great things to be like the doited carle, Elsethan-gude, as they call him; and, troth, he has nae his name for naething. But I should have nae objection to be a general, and to fight the French and Americans, and win myself a name and a fame like Willie Wallace, and do brave deeds, such as I have been reading about in his story book.
Myself. Ye are a fule, Davie; the story book is full of lies. Wallace, indeed! the wuddie rebel! I have heard my father say that the Duke of Cumberland was worth twenty of Willie Wallace.