'No, no, Lotty. I were honly a-clearin' o' my throat. Let me see—yes, this is it:
Your eyes is red, your cheeks is blue,
Your lips is of a creamy hue.'
Lotty had to laugh again in spite of herself.
'Wait a bit, miss,' said Chops. 'I think I've got 'em a bit mixed. It were the cheeks—no, the lips, that was'——
'Chops, look down yonder. The recall is hoisted. I'm off for rehearsal.'
And away ran Lotty down the brae, singing, with Wallace barking in front, and poor Chops nowhere. She hadn't got half-way down the knoll, however, before she stopped, and, shading the light from her eyes with her upraised hand, gazed seawards. By her side hung in their case a pretty pair of small field-glasses, a present from the whole strength of the company on her last birthday. These she now speedily focussed on a boat that was just rounding a point of land and standing in for the bay—a tiny dingy skiff of yellow polished oak or teak apparently, and under snow-white sails: a main, a gaff, and a saucy bit of a jib.
'What a darling little boat!' cried the child, clapping her hands with delight, 'and coming towards our camp too!'
Lotty, when glad, could no more help bursting into song than the mavis can on a bright May morning.
'But he's coming, oh, he's coming,
With his boat across the sea,
To wed a little maiden shy,
And the little maiden's me.'
Not very grammatical verse, it must be owned, but poets are allowed liberties with the English language. Anyhow, Lotty took some.