"Ye've heard a lilting at our ewes-milking."
How few of the present generation have ever heard of this "lilting," except in song. It is the gayest and sunniest season of the year. The young lambs, in their sportive whiteness, are coursing it, and bleating it, responsive to their dams, on the hill above. The old ewes on the plain are marching—
"The labour much of man and dog"—
to the pen or fold. The response to the clear-toned bleat of their woolly progeny is given, anon and anon, in a short, broken, low bass. It is the raven conversing with the jack-daw! All is bustle, excitement, and badinage.
"Weer up that ewe, Jenny, lass. Wha kens but her woo may yet be a blanket for you and ye ken wha to sleep in!"
"Haud yer tongue, Tammie, and gang hame to yer books and yer schoolin. Troth, it will be twa days ere the craws dirty your kirk riggin!"
Wouf, wouf, wouf!—hee, hee, hee!—hoch, hoch, hoch!—there in they go, and in they are, their horny heads wedged over each other, and a trio of stout, well-made damsels, with petticoats tied up "à la breeches," tugging away at their well-filled dugs.
"Troth, Jenny, that ewe will waur ye; 'od I think ye hae gotten haud o' the auld tup himsel. He's as powerfu, let me tell ye, as auld Francie, wham ye kissed sae snug last nicht ayont the peat-mou."
"Troth, at weel, Tam, ye're a fearfu liar. They wad be fonder than I am o' cock birds wha wad gie tippence for the stite o' a howlet."
"Howlet here, howlet there, Jenny, ye ken weel his auld brass will buy you a new pan."