"But you have heard our maidens chaunt it,—have you not? God bless them! Sweet, dear, sweet, sweet creatures! Why, Sir, that song happens to be mine; and I think I may say, without vanity, it is as good a thing of the kind as you ever heard? Eh?"
"Faith, I believe it is," said Charlie—not knowing well what to say, for he had heard no song whatever; and then turning to the rest, while the poet was enlarging on the excellency of his song, he said, in an under voice, "Gude faith, the poet's either gaen clean daft, or else he's drunk. What shall I say to him?"
The poet tapped him on the shoulder, seeing he was not paying attention.
"It is not for this, I say, that I judge the piece worthy of attention; nor yet what it shows of ability, hability, docility, or any of the terms that end in ility; nor for its allegory, category, or any of the terms that end in ory. Neither is it for its versification, imagination, nor any of the thousand abominable terms that end in ation. No, sir, the properties of all my songs, I am thankful to Saint Martin, end in icity and uity. You know the song, Yardbire?"
"O yes. Quite weel."
What do you think of the eleventh verse? Let me see. No, it is the thirteenth verse." "Good Friday! are there so many?" "Hem—m—m. The tenth is, the Ox-eye, I am sure of that. The eleventh is the Mill-stone. The twelfth, the Cloudberry and the Shepherd Boy. The thirteenth, is the Gander and Water-Wagtail. It is the fourteenth. What do you think of the fourteenth? Ay, it is the Gowans and the Laverock that you will like best. You remember that, I am sure?"
"O yes; to be sure I do,"—(Aside,) "Good Lord, the poet's horn mad! Heard ever any body the like o' this?"
"How is this it runs? Ay,
When the bluart bears a pearl,
And the daisy turns a pea,
And the bonny lucken gowan
Has fauldit up his ee,
Then the laverock frae the blue lift,
Doops down and thinks nae shame
To woo his bonny lassie,
When the kye come hame.
"The song is good, and the music of the song also is delectable," said the friar; "but the voice of the singer is like a sweet psaltery that hath lost a string, and hath its belly rent by the staff of the beater. Lo, I would even delight to hear the song from beginning to end." "Sing it, poet, and let it stand for the tale," cried two of them at once. "That I will not," answered he; "I will tell my tale in my own style, and my own manner, as the rest have done: nevertheless, if my throat were not so dry, I would sing the song." "It is plain what he wants," said Charlie. "'Tis the gate wi' a' the minstrels,—wet the whistle, or want the spring."