Catch yer naig an’ pu’ his tail;
In his hin’ heel ca’ a nail;
Rug his lugs frae ane anither—
Stan’ up, an’ ca’ the king yer brither.
On and on went the rime, and on and on went the old woman’s voice.
“Weel, there cam’ a time whan an English lord begud to be seen aboot the place, an’ that was nae comon sicht i’ oor puir country. He was a frien’, fowk said, o’ the yoong Markis o’ Lossie, an’ that was hoo he cam to sicht. He gaed fleein’ aboot, luikin’ at this, an’ luikin’ at that; an’ whaur or hoo he fell in wi’ him , I dinna ken, but or lang the twa o’ them was a heap thegither. They playt cairts thegither, they drank thegither, they drave oot thegither—for the auld captain never crossed beast’s back—an’ what made sic frien’s o’ them nobody could imaigine. For the tane was a rouch sailor chield, an’ the tither was a yoong lad, little mair, an’ a fine gentleman as weel ’s a bonny man. But the upshot o’ ’t a’ was an ill ane; for, efter maybe aboot a month or sae o’ sic friendship as was atween them, there cam a nicht ’at brouchtna the captain hame; for ye maun un’erstan’, wi’ a’ his rouch w’ys, an’ his drinkin’, an’ his cairt-playin’, he was aye hame at nicht, an’ safe intil ’s bed, whaur he sleepit i’ the best chaumer i’ the castle. Ay, he wad come hame, aften as drunk as man cud be, but hame he cam. Sleep intil the efternune o’ the neist day he wad, but never oot o’ ’s nain bed—or if no aye in his ain nakit bed , for I fan’ him ance mysel’ lyin’ snorin’ upo’ the flure, it was aye intil ’s ain room, as I say, an’ no in ony strange place drunk or sober. Sae there was some surprise at his no appearin’, an’ fowk spak o’ ’t, but no that muckle, for naebody cared i’ their hert what cam o’ the man. Still whan the men gaed oot to their wark, they bude to gie a luik gien there was ony sign o’ ’m. It was easy to think ’at he micht hae been at last ower sair owertaen to be able to win hame. But that wasna it, though whan they cam upo’ ’m lyin’ on ’s back i’ the howe yon’er ’at luiks up to my daughter’s bit gerse for her coo’, they thoucht he bude to hae sleepit there a’ nicht. Sae he had, but it was the sleep ’at kens no waukin—at least no the kin’ o’ waukin’ ’at comes wi’ the mornin’!”
Cosmo recognized with a shudder his favourite spot, where on his birthday, as on many a day before, he had fallen asleep. But the old woman went on with her story.
“Deid was the auld captain—as deid as ever was man ’at had nane left to greit for him. But thof there was nae greitin’, no but sic a hullabaloo as rase upo’ the discovery! They rade an’ they ran; the doctor cam’, an’ the minister, an’ the lawyer, an’ the grave-digger. But whan a man’s deid, what can a’ the warl’ du for ’im but berry ’im? puir hin’er en’ thof it be to him’ at draws himsel’ up, an’ blaws himsel’ oot! There was mony a conjectur as to hoo he cam by his deith, an’ mony a doobt it wasna by fair play. Some said he dee’d by his ain han’, driven on til ’t by the enemy; an’ it was true the blade he cairriet was lyin’ upo’ the grass aside ’im; but ither some ’at exem’t him, said the hole i’ the side o’ ’im was na made wi’ that. But o’ a’ ’at cam to speir efter ’im, the English lord was nane. He hed vainished the country. The general opinyon sattled doon to this, ’at they twa bude till hae fa’en oot at cairts, an’ fouchten it oot, an’ the auld captain, for a’ his skeel an’ exparience, had had the warst o’ ’t, an’ so there they faun’ ’im.—But I reckon, Cosmo, yer father ’ill hae tellt ye a’ aboot the thing, mony’s the time, or noo, an’ I’m jist deivin’ ye wi’ my clavers, an haudin ye ohn sleepit!”
“Na, Grannie,” answered Cosmo, “he never tellt me what ye hae tellt me noo. He did tell me ’at there was sic a man, an’ the ill en’ he cam til; an’ I think he was jist gaein’ on to tell me mair, whan Grizzie cam to say the denner was ready. That was only yesterday—or the day afore, I’m thinkin’, by this time.—But what think ye could hae been in ’s heid wi’ yon jingle aboot the horsie?”
“Ow! what wad be intil ’t but jist fulish nonsense? Ye ken some fowk has a queer trick o’ sayin’ the same thing ower an’ ower again to themsel’s, wi’oot ony sense intil ’t. There was the auld laird himsel’; he was ane o’ sic. Aye an’ ower again he wad be sayin’ til himsel’, ‘A hun’er poun’! Ay, a hun’er poun’!’ It maittered na what he wad be speikin’ aboot, or wha til, in it wad come!—i’ the middle o’ onything, ye cudna tell whan or whaur,—‘A hun’er poun’!’ says he; ‘Ay, a hun’er poun’!’ Fowk leuch at the first, but sune gat used til ’t, an’ cam hardly to ken ’at he said it, for what has nae sense has little hearin’. An’ I doobtna thae rimes wasna even a verse o’ an auld ballant, but jist a cletter o’ clinkin’ styte (nonsense ) ’at he had learnt frae some blackamore bairn, maybe, an’ cudna get oot o’ ’s heid ony ither gait, but bude to say ’t to hae dune wi’ ’t—jist like a cat whan it gangs scrattin’ at the door, ye hae to get up, whether ye wull or no, an’ lat the cratur oot.”
Cosmo did not feel quite satisfied with the explanation, but he made no objection to it.
“I maun alloo, hooever,” the old woman went on, “’at ance ye get a haud o’ them , they tak a grip o’ you , an’ hae a queer w’y o’ hauntin’ ye like, as they did the man himsel’, sae ’at ye canna get rid o’ them. It comes only at noos an’ thans, but whan the fit’s upo’ me, I canna get them oot o’ my heid. The verse gangs on tum’lin’ ower an’ ower intil ’t, till I’m jist scunnert wi’ ’t. Awa’ it wanna gang, maybe for a haill day, an’ syne it mayna come again for months.”
True enough, the rime was already running about in Cosmo’s head like a mouse, and he fell asleep with it ringing in the ears of his mind.