‘To be sure, whateffer—I wass telling you so,’ said Mrs. Maclean, with a pretty reproduction of the Highland accent of “Sheila,” ‘but you must not be too appreciative of the Australian Highlander, or you will make me conceited. Who is to follow on? It is your turn, I am sure, Mr. Eric.’
‘I thought I was to be let off,’ pleaded that young gentleman; ‘but how about a trifle of poetry as a change?’
‘I vote for “Bonnie Dundee,”’ said Corisande. ‘There is such a “lilt” about it, and it is above all such a record of dear Sir Walter’s undying pluck and energy, as he wrote it with the expectation of ruin, soon to be converted into certainty, hanging over his head. You see he writes on the 22nd December—December of all months in the year! in Scotland, too!—“The air of ‘Bonnie Dundee’ running in my head to-day, I wrote a few verses to it before dinner. I wonder if they are good. Ah, poor Will Erskine, thou couldst and would have told me.” Fancy writing a noble ballad like that when he was in a sense “expecting the bailiffs.” How few men in his circumstances could have done it—fewer still could have produced work with the lifelike spirit of the great ballad, the clash of the kettle—drums, and the pathetic ending—
‘Till on Ravelston’s cliffs and on Clermiston’s lea
Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny Dundee.
‘“On December 25 arrived here, Abbotsford, last night, at seven. Our halls are silent now, [430] ]compared to last year, but let us be thankful. But come; let us see. I shall write out ‘The Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee,’ sketch a preface to La Roche—Jacquelin, for Constable’s Miscellany—and try sketch notes for the Waverley Novels. Together with letters and by-business it will be a good day’s work.” One would think so indeed.’
Eric Banneret had a fresh voice with a fairly good ear, and his unaffected, hearty way of trolling out his favourite ditties, sea-songs, camp ‘chanties,’ and such, was effective. When he came to—
‘Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;
Come open the West Port, and let me gang free,