“Few compliments between us pass,
I ca’ him aye my Hieland laddie,
An’ he ca’s me his Lawland lass,
An’ rows me in his tartan plaidie”—
as she sung it, was a thing to be remembered. When she had finished and the sincere applause was over, which took the shape of little complimentary speeches to her, and expressions of mutual delight to one another, rather than the noisy demonstration which had followed my uncle’s songs, my uncle said, “Eh, Mattie—hoots! excuse me. Eh, Mrs. Dickson, there’s no’ a fail’d inch o’ ye. That sang was like caller air; it was jist grand, splendid a’thegither. It’s taen the breath frae me completely. I daurna sing after that.”
“THE FARMER’S INGLE.”
“Come away, Mr. Martin,” said she; “a bargain’s a bargain. Come away wi’ the ‘Farmer’s Ingle,’” which he did. And I give the song as he sang it, as, although common in country districts in my young days, it is little sung now. The chorus was well known to us all, and we did join in it:—
“Let Turks triumph, let tyrants pray,
Let poets sing melodiously,
Let Turks triumph and priests live single,