Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory.’”
The notes of the bugle died away, and all was quiet for a moment; then Walter broke the silence:
“So that’s a Scotch tune, is it, Marian? I heard you singing Scotch words to it—about Wallace and Bruce—and there’s scarcely any story I feel more interest in—unless maybe tales of our own Revolution. They were brave fellows, and I like to think I come of the same stock on mamma’s side at least.”
“Yes, it’s a good stock to come of,” she answered, her eyes kindling; “none better in my esteem; they have always been a liberty-loving, God-fearing race—the great mass o’ them at least. But hark! there’s the bugler at it again; nearer, and playing quite another tune.”
It was a simple little air, played as a prelude, and presently the bugle ceased, and a man’s voice sang:
“Thimble scolding, wife lay dead,
Heigh-ho, says Thimble.
My dearest dear, as Defunctum said,