“Now,” said the Pensassenach, filling the cuach again to the brim, “I drink health and success to his Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland, and confusion to all his enemies!”—and, kissing the cup merely, she handed it to the packman.
“Weel, mem, here’s wussin’ that same wi’ a’ my heart!” cried Mr. Dallas, and off went every drop of his brimmer.
“Now, John,” said the Pensassenach, filling the cuach again to the lip, “now, John Smith, it is your turn. Come, man, drink the toast—health and success to the Duke and his brave fellows.”
“Na!” said John, turning away as if the cup had contained vinegar or verjuice—“na!—Teel be on her an she do!”
“What do you mean, John?” demanded the Pensassenach in a mingled tone of surprise and displeasure. “Will you refuse to drink my toast?”
“Hoot, man, dinna refuse to drink the leddy’s toast,” said the packman. “That gude brandy wad wash down ony toast ava, let alane siccan’ a grand man, and a hero, like the Duke o’ Cummerland.—Od, man, an ye had seen him as I hae seen him, ridin’ at the head o’ his men, wi’ as muckle gold lace and reyal Genowa velvet aboot him as might serve to cover a papish pupit wi’, ye wad say he was the grandest man that ever ye seed.—Come, man, drink success till him, and confusion till a’ his yennemies!”
“Surely you will not refuse to drink success to that brave army in which my brother John serves?” said the Pensassenach,—“and to that noble and gallant Prince who commands it?”
“She’ll no grudge to trink hail bottals till ta helts o’ Captain Shon, because she’s her broder,” said Smith in a positive manner.—“But fint ae drops wull she tak’ to wuss ony helts to ta titter man an’ his fouks!”
“Tuts, nonsense man,” said the packman; “ye’re just a reyal guse.—Come awa! drink the Duke’s health—the brandy’s just parteeklar gude.”
“Why should you hesitate?” said his mistress.—“Come, drink the Duke’s health.”