"Ye'se aiblins be acquent wi' yon auld sang:—
Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braff,
That wander through the bloomin' heather.
Aweel, A was born on the braes o' Yarra. Ye ken, the time's gane lang wi' me sin' A rin aboot the braes, an' pu'd the gowans fine. Ay, mun!"
"A-y-y, mun!" rejoined my companion, echoing my home-sick sigh. "D'ye ken-A wadna' thocht ye was a Selkirksheer mon. A wad hae thocht ye was frae Lanarksheer, ir aiblins frae"—
"Whaur micht ye be frae yirsel'?" I interrupted desperately.
He seemed about to reply, but checked himself, and looked at me absently; then he turned to the fire, took his canister from the shelf, and mechanically measured out a handful of tea. He stood gazing into the fire till recalled to himself by the boiling of the billy; then a triumphant smile invaded his stern features; he took the billy off the crook, threw the tea into it, clapped both hands on my shoulders, and quoted with fine effect that lucid passage from Burns:—
Bye attour, ma gutcher has
A heigh hoose an' a leigh
A' firbye ma bony sel',
The lad o' Ecclefechan!
"Ha-ha-ha! The lad o' Ecclefechan, ye ken-no the lass o' Ecclefechan! Losh! A hae whiles laffit mysen gey near daft at yon! The lad o' Ecclefechan!" He gave way to another burst of hilarity, in which I sincerely joined. "A henna' thocht aboot yon a towmond syne," he continued, wiping the dew of merriment from his eyes; "bit ye hae brocht it bock the nicht. The lad o' Ecclefechan! ha-ha-ha! Ay, mun; A'm frae Ecclefechan, an' ma feyther afore me. Syne, A hae been a' ip an' doon Ayrsheer, frae yin fair till anither wi' nowte. Brawly dae A ken Mossgeil, an' Mauchline, an' Loughlea, an' the auld Brig o' Doon, firbye a wheen ither spotes ye 'se aiblins hear tell o'."
"Ye'll hae seen Alloway Kirk?" I conjectured.
"Seen't! ay," he replied magnificently. "A thocht naethin' o"t!"