Mr. White did not seem over well pleased. He was quite aware that his daughter was a very clever young woman; and he did not know what insane idea might have got into her head of throwing an allegory at him.
"The air," said he, coldly, "is well enough. But I hope you don't expect an English audience to understand that doggerel Scotch."
"Glenogie understand it, any way," said she, blithely, "and naturally he rode off at once to see his dying sweetheart.
"'Pale and wan was she, when Glenogie gaed ben,
But rosy-red grew she when Glenogie sat down.
She turned away her head, but the smile was in her e'e,
Oh, binna feared, mither, I'll maybe no dee.'"
"Isn't it charmingly simple and tender, papa?" she said, with the same mischief in her eyes.
"I think it is foolish of you to think of exchanging that piece of doggerel—"
"For what?" said she, standing in the middle of the room. "For this?"
And therewith she sang these lines—giving an admirable burlesque imitation of herself, and her own gestures, and her own singing in the part she was then performing:—
"The morning bells are swinging, ringing,
Hail to the day!
The birds are winging, singing
To the golden day—
To the joyous day—
The morning bells are swinging, ringing,
And what do they say?
O bring my love to my love!
O bring my love to-day!
O bring my love to my love!
To be my love alway!'"