Of course there was a chorus of laughter when the young wretch exhibited my battered pencil, bought in Princes Street yesterday, its gay Gordon tints sadly disfigured by the destroying tooth, not of Time, but of a bard in the throes of composition.
"We bestowed a consolation prize on Salemina," continued Francesca, "because she succeeded in getting _hoots_, _losh_, _havers_, and _blathers_ into one line, but naturally she could not maintain such an ideal standard. Read your verses, Pen, though there is little hope that our friends will enjoy them as much as you do. Whenever Miss Hamilton writes anything of this kind, she emulates her distinguished ancestor Sir William Hamilton, who always fell off his own chair in fits of laughter when he was composing verses."
With this inspiring introduction I read my lines as follows:--
THE MUSE BEING SOMEWHAT UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF THE SCOTTISH BALLAD
I canna thole my ain toun, Sin' I hae dwelt i' this; To hide in Edinboro' reek, Wad be the tap o' bliss. Yon bonnie plaid aboot me hap, The skirlin' pipes gae bring, With thistles fair tie up my hair, While I of Scotia sing.
The collops an' the cairngorms, The haggis an' the whin, The 'Stablished, Free, an' U. P. kirks, The hairt convinced o' sin,-- The parritch an' the heather-bell, The snawdrap on the shaw, The bit lam's bleatin' on the braes,-- How can I leave them a'!
How can I leave the marmalade An' bonnets o' Dundee? The haar, the haddies, an' the brose, The East win' blawin' free! How can I lay my sporran by, An' sit me doun at hame, Wi'oot a Hieland philabeg Or hyphenated name?
I lo'e the gentry o' the North, The Southern men I lo'e, The canty people o' the West, The Paisley bodies too. The pawky fowk o' Fife are dear,-- Sae dear are ane an' a', That e'en to think that we maun pairt Maist braks my hairt in twa.
So fetch me tartans, heather, scones, An' dye my tresses red; I'd deck me like th' unconquer'd Scots Wha hae wi' Wallace bled. Then bind my claymore to my side, My kilt an' mutch gae bring; While Scottish lays soun' i' my lugs McKinley's no my king,--
For Charlie, bonnie Stuart Prince, Has turned me Jacobite; I'd wear displayed the white cockade, An' (whiles) for him I'd fight! An' (whiles) I'd fight for a' that's Scotch, Save whuskey an' oatmeal, For wi' their ballads i' my bluid, Nae Scot could be mair leal!