He sang the lines with gusto.
“Stop!” said Erchie, in alarm, “stop! There’s nae deafenin’ in thae ceilin’s, and the folk abin’ll think I’m giein’ Jinnet a leatherin’. Man! I didna think ye kent sae mony o’ Rabbie’s sangs. It’s a credit to ye. I’m shair ye divna need ony book to learn affa.”
“To tell ye the rale sets o’t, Erchie,” said Duffy, “it’s a bate. There’s a chap yonder at the coal hill thrieps doon my throat Burns didna write ‘Dark Lochnagar’ the wye I sing’t, and I want to show him’t in the book?”
“Hoo much is the bate?” asked Erchie.
“Haulf-a-croon,” said Duffy.
“Then sell yin o’ yer horses and pye the money,” said Erchie, “for ye’ve lost the bate. Burns had nae grudge against His countrymen. They did him nae hairm. He didna write ‘Dark Lochnagar’ the wye you sing it, for Burns never made his sangs wi’ a saw; in fact, he never wrote ‘Dark Lochnagar’ at a’; it was put oot by anither firm in the same tred, ca’d Byron.”
“My jove!” said Duffy, “I never kent that afore!”
“There’s lots o’ things ye never kent,” said Erchie. “Seein’ ye’re gaun to eat haggis on Monday nicht, ye micht tell us whit ye ken, no’ aboot Burns’s sangs, but aboot Burns himsel’.”
“There was naething wrang wi’ the chap,” said Duffy, “if he just had stuck to his wark. When I’m sellin’ coal I’m sellin’ coal, and no’ pentin’ pictures. But there was Burns!—if he happened to come on a moose’s nest in the field when he was plewin’, or see a flooer in his road when he was oot workin’ at the hye, he wad stop the plew, or lay doon his rake, and tak’ the efter-noon aff to mak’ a sang aboot the moose or the daisy.”
“A’, and jist wi’ his least wee bit touch,” said Erchie, admiringly. “He was great, that’s whit he was.”