“She’ll have gone home to Lady Allardyce, I’m thinking,” said I.
“That’ll be it,” said he.
“Then I’ll gang there straight,” says I.
“But ye’ll be for a bite or ye go?” said he.
“Neither bite nor sup,” said I. “I had a good waucht of milk in by Ratho.”
“Aweel, aweel,” says Doig. “But ye’ll can leave your horse here and your bags, for it seems we’re to have your up-put.”
“Na, na,” said I. “Tamson’s mear[17] would never be the thing for me this day of all days.”
Doig speaking somewhat broad, I had been led by imitation into an accent much more countrified than I was usually careful to affect—a good deal broader indeed than I have written it down; and I was the more ashamed when another voice joined in behind me with a scrap of a ballad:
| “Gae saddle me the bonny black, Gae saddle sune, and mak’ him ready, For I will down the Gatehope-slack, An’ a’ to see my bonny leddy.” |