“I shall prove a wretched interpreter,” said M’Intyre, running over the original, well garnished with aghes, aughs, and oughs, and similar gutterals, and then coughing and hawking as if the translation stuck in his throat. At length, having premised that the poem was a dialogue between the poet Oisin, or Ossian, and Patrick, the tutelar Saint of Ireland, and that it was difficult, if not impossible, to render the exquisite felicity of the first two or three lines, he said the sense was to this purpose:
“Patrick the psalm-singer,
Since you will not listen to one of my stories,
Though you never heard it before,
I am sorry to tell you
You are little better than an ass”—
“Good! good!” exclaimed the Antiquary; “but go on. Why, this is, after all, the most admirable fooling—I dare say the poet was very right. What says the Saint?”
“He replies in character,” said M’Intyre; “but you should hear MAlpin sing the original. The speeches of Ossian come in upon a strong deep bass—those of Patrick are upon a tenor key.”
“Like MAlpin’s drone and small pipes, I suppose,” said Oldbuck. “Well? Pray go on.”
“Well then, Patrick replies to Ossian:
Upon my word, son of Fingal,
While I am warbling the psalms,
The clamour of your old women’s tales
Disturbs my devotional exercises.”
“Excellent!—why, this is better and better. I hope Saint Patrick sung better than Blattergowl’s precentor, or it would be hang—choice between the poet and psalmist. But what I admire is the courtesy of these two eminent persons towards each other. It is a pity there should not be a word of this in Macpherson’s translation.”
“If you are sure of that,” said M’Intyre, gravely, “he must have taken very unwarrantable liberties with his original.”
“It will go near to be thought so shortly—but pray proceed.”