“One would think you were talking about wine! Does age improve poetry as well?”
“I ken naething aboot wine, my leddy. Miss Horn gae me a glaiss the ither day, an’ it tastit weel, but whether it was merum or mixtum, I couldna tell mair nor a haddick. Doobtless age does gar poetry smack a wee better; but I said auld only ’cause there’s sae little new poetry that I care aboot comes my gait. Mr Graham’s unco ta’en wi’ Maister Wordsworth—no an ill name for a poet; do ye ken onything aboot him, my leddy?”
“I never heard of him.”
“I wadna gie an auld Scots ballant for a barrowfu’ o’ his. There’s gran’ bits here an’ there, nae doobt, but it’s ower mim-mou’ed for me.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“It’s ower saft an’ sliddery-like i’ yer mou’, my leddy.”
“What sort do you like then?”
“I like Milton weel. Ye get a fine mou’fu’ o’ him. I dinna like the verse ’at ye can murle (crumble) oot atween yer lips an’ yer teeth. I like the verse ’at ye maun open yer mou’ weel to lat gang. Syne it’s worth yer while, whether ye unnerstan’ ’t or no.”
“I don’t see how you can say that.”
“Jist hear, my leddy! Here’s a bit I cam upo’ last nicht: