“I’ll gie ye Logie Kirk,” said he.
“O Logie Kirk, among the braes
I’m thinkin’ o’ the merry days
Afore I trod the weary ways
That led me far frae Logie.
“Fine do I mind when I was young,
Abune thy graves the mavis sung,
And ilka birdie had a tongue
To ca’ me back to Logie.
“O Logie Kirk, tho’ aye the same,
The burn sings ae remembered name,
There’s ne’er a voice to cry ‘Come hame
To bonnie Bess at Logie!’
“Far, far awa’ the years decline
That took the lassie wha was mine
And laid her sleepin’ lang, lang syne
Among the braes at Logie.”
His voice, and the wonderful pathos of his phrasing, fascinated Archie, but as the last cadences fell from his mouth, the beggar snatched up the long switch with which he drove his team and began to roar.
“A’m awa’!” he shouted, making every wall and corner echo. “Open the gate an’ let me through, ye misbegotten bairns o’ Auld Nick! Stand back, ye clortie-faced weans, an’ let me out! Round about an’ up the road! Just round about an’ up the road, a’ tell ye!”
The last sentences were addressed to the dogs who were now all on their legs and mindful of the stick whirling in the air above them.
Archie could see that he was not included in the beggar’s general address, but, being nearest to the gate, he swung it open and the whole equipage dashed through, the dogs guided with amazing dexterity between the posts by their master’s switch. The rapid circle they described on the road as they were turned up the hill towards Brechin seemed likely to upset the cart, but the beggar leaned outwards so adroitly that none of the four wheels left the ground. As they went up the incline he took up his pipes, and leaving the team to its own guidance, tuned up and disappeared round the next bend in a blast of sound.