This pathetic little production produced much applause. And now stoups of claret circled round the table, certainly in an increased ratio of rapidity. Nor was the native Fairntosh neglected; for some, who complained that claret was too cold for a Caledonian stomach, accordingly fortified the same with some simple potations of their native spirit.
The wish of the company now seemed to be for a song that partook of a martial nature; and the following was sung by one of the clan of Johnstone:—
war song.
Health to the chieftain on hill or in hall,
Whose front no foeman could ever appal!
The first and foremost his foes to attack,
His face they all know—they ne'er saw his back!
The targe his pillow, his couch the heather,
Defying claymore, dirk, and the weather.