“Tamm hersell an’ she do ony siccan’ a sing!” said John Smith doggedly, and with powerful emphasis and action.—“She’ll as soon eat ta cuach!”
“What! are you a loyal subject, and refuse to drink the health of the Duke of Cumberland!—the King’s own brother!” exclaimed the Pensassenach energetically.
“Ou troth—ou aye,—she be loyals eneugh till her ain Kings,” said John, “an’ she’ll no grudge to trink gallons till her. But for ta titter mans, fod but she’s wussin’ her nasins ava but a goot clink on ta croon,” and with that John walked off, with a countenance so expressive of dissatisfaction and determination, as rendered it evident that it would be quite hopeless to call him back.
“He is an obstinate disloyal mule!” cried the Pensassenach, giving full way to her anger.
“A reyal dour ass as I ever cam’ across,” said the packman; “an’ siccan’ reyal fine speerits too. The cheild thought naething o’ hammerin’ awa’ and keepin’ a’ huss loyal fouk frae our drap drink.—It’s weel that he’s awa. My certy, I rauken that there’s nae ither body here that’ll be sae dooms foolish as to refuse that gude brandy, let what toast there may be soomin’ on the tap o’ the brimmer.”
“I trust that that fellow is the only disloyal man about the place,” said the Pensassenach.—“If it be otherwise I’ll have all such Jacobite knaves turned off this farm. We shall have none other but good loyal subjects here, I promise you, now that the Duke and his gallant army are coming among us.”
This hint was not lost on the rest of the company; for whatever their private political opinions might have been, they preferred swallowing the good brandy in peace, let the tasse be prefaced by whatsoever toast the Pensassenach pleased, rather than be martyrs, like John Smith, and risk the loss of the liquor and their places, by any heroic and straightforward declaration of their sentiments. We sometimes see such folk in common life, even at the present time, gentlemen. Many, then, were the toasts of the same character that went round.—Liberally did the Pensassenach make her enlivening eau-de-vie to circulate. The huge bonfire was again and again supplied by the willing revellers. They were wise enough to see that the endurance of the joviality of the night must, in all probability, be measured by that of the fire, and so they laboured and sweated like horses to keep it going. Loud were the shouts, and many were the antic tricks performed around its blazing circle, all of which were to be attributed to the mirth-inspiring spirit. The packman was particularly joyous and hilarious, and his loquacity increased as he became elevated with the liquor. At last the Pensassenach, wishing gradually to wind up the festivities of the night, proposed another toast.
“Now, come,” said she, filling the cuach, “Let us drink confusion to the rebels!”
“Hurrah! a capital toast!” cried the packman, whilst his cheer was blindly echoed by the more than half-intoxicated crowd around him.
“Then here I drink it as my most cordial wish,” said the Pensassenach, sipping a little of the liquor in token of her earnestness and sincerity.