Thrang at skippin' stanes—
Auld Granny Grey Pow,
Gather hame the weans.
The singer's voice sang this verse of the Poet of the Iron Road[6] so gaily that Cleg felt that his quarters for the night were assured. He was about to step within when a new voice spoke.
"'Deed and it micht serve ye better a deal, Poet Jock, gin ye wad set doon your feet and lift your Bible to tak' a lesson to yoursel', instead o' rantin' there at a gilravage o' vain sangs—aye, even wastin' your precious time in makkin' them, when ye micht be either readin' the Company's rules or thinkin' aboot the concerns o' your never-dying sowl!"
"You haud your tongue, Auld Chairlie," cried the singer, pausing a moment, but not turning round; "gin ye hadna missed thae troots the nicht and lost your otter to the keepers in Loch Spellanderie, ye wadna hae been sitting there busy wi' Second Chronicles!"
And again the singer took up his ranting melody:
Bring in Rab to get him washed,
Weel I ken the loon,
Canna do unless he be