“The laddie saw the tod gae by, an’ killed him wi’ a stane,
And the bonnie lass wha grat sae sair she sits nae mair her lane,
But the guidwife’s no contented yet—her like ye never saw,
Cries she, ‘This time it is the lass, an’ she’s awa’!’
Aye, yon laddie’s waur nor ony tod, for Jean’s awa’!”
Archie beat the top rail of the paling with so much enthusiasm that the yellow cur began to bark. The beggar quieted him with a storm of abuse.
The beldame disappeared from the window, and her steps could be heard descending the wooden stair of the cottage. She approached the cart with a handful of meal on a platter which Skirling Wattie tilted into an old leather bag that hung on his carriage.
“Whaur’s the bawbee?” cried the squinting child.
A shout of laughter went up, led by Archie.
“He kens there’s nae muckle weicht o’ meal, and wha’ should ken it better?” said the beggar, balancing the bag on his palm and winking at the miller’s man.
The latter, who happened to be the child’s unacknowledged parent, disappeared behind the house.
“One more song, and I will supply the bawbee,” said Archie, throwing another coin into the cart.
Skirling Wattie sent a considering glance at his patron; though he might not understand refinement, he could recognize it; and much of his local success had come from his nice appraisement of audiences.