"And what have you got to say to me, Geordie?"
"If ye're the man I think ye are,
And ye're name begins wi' a D,
Just tak ye tae yer soople shanks,
And tramp alang wi' me,"
quavered the idiot, who, like many others, had a natural turn for poetry.
"And where are we going to, Geordie, my man?" said I in a soothing voice.
"Ye'll find that when we get there," replied the bauldy.
"Hey the bonnie gill-stoup!
Ho the bonnie gill-stoup!
Gie me walth o' barley bree,
And leeze me on the gill-stoup!"
"But you can at least tell me who sent you here, Geordie?" said I, anxious for further information before intrusting myself to such erratic guidance.
He of the gill-stoups lifted up his voice and sang—
"Cam' ye by Tweedside,
Or cam' ye by Flodden?
Met ye the deil
On the braes o' Culloden?
"Three imps o' darkness
I saw in a neuk,
Riving the red-coats,
And roasting the Deuk.
"Quo' ane o' them—'Geordie,
Gae down to the brig,
I'm yaup for my supper,
And fetch us a Whig.'"
"Ha! ha! ha! Hoo d'ye like that, my man? Queer freends ye've gotten noo, and ye'll need a lang spune to sup kail wi' them. But come awa'. I canna stand here the haill nicht listening to your havers."