“Maybe he was, but it spiled the wark; we wadna aloo that in the coal tred,” said Duffy. “He didna ken what compeetition was. I’ve seen things in my ain tred a knacky chap could mak’ a fine sang aboot if he was jist lettin’ him-sel’ go.”
“Then for mercy’s sake aye keep a grip o’ yersel’,” said Erchie. “Mind ye hae a wife dependin’ on ye!”
“And then,” said Duffy, “he was a bit o’ the la-di-da. There’s naething o’ the la-di-da aboot me.”
“There is not!” admitted Erchie, frankly.
“But Burns, although he was a plewman to tred, went aboot wi’ a di’mond ring spilin’ folks’ windows. If he saw a clean pane o’ gless he never lost the chance o’ writin’ a bit verse on’t wi’ his di’mond ring. It was gey chawin’ to the folk the windows belanged to, but Burns never cared sae lang’s he let them see he had a rale di’mond ring that wad scratch gless.”
“It was the fashion at the time, Duffy,” said Erchie. “Nooadays when a poet has an idea for twa lines he keeps it under the bed till it sproots into a hale poem, and then he sends it to a magazine, and buys his wife, or somebody else’s, a di’mond ring wi’ whit he gets for’t. Writin’ on window-panes is no’ the go ony langer. It’s oot o’ date.”
“But I’m no’ runnin’ doon the chap,” said Duffy. “Only I aye thocht it was him that wrote ‘Dark Lochnagar.’ Are ye shair it wasna?”
Erchie nodded. “Nor ‘Rollin’ Hame to Bonnie Scotland’ either. He was far ower busy writin’ sangs aboot the Marys, and the Jeans, and the Peggys at the time to write aboot ony o’ yer ‘Dark Lochnagars.’”
“So he was,” admitted Duffy. “Yon’s a rare yin aboot Mary—‘Kind, kind, and gentle is she—
.... kind is my Mary,