Part 3
_Keeper._ "Dod, man, I daur say he wishes they was a' like him. The same birds does him a' through the season!"]
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KINREEN O' THE DEE;
A PIOBRACH HEARD WAILING DOWN GLENTANNER ON THE EXILE OF THREE GENERATIONS.
Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee! Kinreen o' the Dee! Kinreen o' the Dee! Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee!
I'll blaw up my chanter, I've rounded fu' weel, To mony a ranter, In mony a reel, An' pour'd a' my heart i' the win'bag wi' glee: Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee! For licht wis the laughter in bonny Kinreen, An' licht wis the footfa' that glanced o'er the green, An' licht ware the hearts a' an' lichtsome the eyne, Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee! Kinreen o' the Dee! Kinreen o' the Dee! Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee!
The auld hoose is bare noo, A cauld hoose to me, The hearth is nae mair noo, The centre o' glee, Nae mair for the bairnies the bield it has been, Och hey, for bonny Kinreen! The auld folk, the young folk, the wee anes, an' a', A hunder years' hame birds are harried awa', Are harried an' hameless, whatever winds blaw, Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee! &c.
Fareweel my auld pleugh lan', I'll never mair pleugh it: Fareweel my auld cairt an' The auld yaud[C] that drew it. Fareweel my auld kailyard, ilk bush an' ilk tree! Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee! Fareweel the auld braes, that my hand keepit green, Fareweel the auld ways where we waunder'd unseen Ere the star o' my hearth came to bonny Kinreen, Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee! &c.
The auld kirk looks up o'er The dreesome auld dead, Like a saint speakin' hope o'er Some sorrowfu' bed. Fareweel the auld kirk, an' fareweel the kirk green, They tell o' a far better hame than Kinreen! The place we wad cling to--puir simple auld fules, O' our births an' our bridals, oor blesses an' dools, Whare oor wee bits o' bairnies lie cauld i' the mools.[D] Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee! &c.
I aft times hae wunder'd If deer be as dear, As sweet ties o' kindred, To peasant or peer; As the tie to the hames o' the land born be, Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee! The heather that blossoms unkent o' the moor, Wad dee in his lordship's best greenhoose, I'm sure, To the wunder o' mony a fairy land flure. Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee! &c.
Though little the thing be, Oor ain we can ca'; That little we cling be, The mair that it's sma'; Though puir wis oor hame, an' thogh wild wis the scene, 'Twas the hame o' oor hearts: it was bonnie Kinreen. An yet we maun leave it, baith grey head an bairn; Leave it to fatten the deer o' Cock-Cairn, O' Pannanich wuds an' o' Morven o' Gairn. Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee! Kinreen o' the Dee! Kinreen o' the Dee! Sae Fareweel for ever, Kinreen of the Dee!
[Footnote C: Mare.]
[Footnote D: Earth.]
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TWO ON A TOUR
"Can you tell me which is Croft Lochay?"
The smith leant on his pitchfork--he had been up at the hay--and eyed Gwendolen and myself with friendly interest.
"Ye'll be the gentry from London Mistress McDiarmat is expectin'?"
"And which is the way to her house?"
"Well", said the smith, shading his eyes as he peered up at the Ben, "ye can't see it rightly from here, as it lies behind yon knowe. It's a whole year whatever since I hev not been up myself; but if you follow the burn----"
I glanced at Gwen and saw that she shared my satisfaction. To cross the edge of civilisation had for months past been our hearts' desire; and to have achieved a jumping-off place only approachable by a burn exceeded our wildest ambitions.
We thanked the smith, and set off on our expedition up the mountain side.
"We twa hae paidlit in the burn", sang Gwendolen as she skipped like a goat from stone to stone. "O Jack, isn't it too primitive and delightful!"
"Rather", said I, inhaling great draughts of the mountain air.
"Aren't you hungry?"
"Rather", I repeated. "Wonder what there'll be to eat."
"Oh, I don't care what it is. Anything will be delicious. Is that the house, do you think?"
I looked up and saw above us a low white-washed shanty covered with thatch which was kept in its place by a network of laths. A few heavy stones were evidently designed to keep the roof from blowing off in winter storms.
"No", said Gwen. "That must be the cowhouse byre, don't you call it?"
"I'm not so sure", said I.
While we were still uncertain, a figure came to the door and bade us welcome.
"Come in, come in. Ye'll be tired with the travelling, and ye'll like to see the rooms."
We acquiesced, and Mistress McDiarmat led the way into the cowhouse.
"Shoo!" she cried as she opened the door of the bedroom. "Get away, Speckle! The hens _will_ lay their bit egg on the bed, sir."
"What fresh eggs we shall get!" cried Gwen, delighted with this fresh proof of rusticity and with the Gaelic gutturals with which Mistress McDiarmat emphasized her remarks to Speckle.
The "other end" was furnished with two hard chairs, a table and a bed.
"Fancy a bed in the dining-room and hens in your bed!" said Gwen, in the highest of spirits. "And here comes tea! Eggs and bacon--Ah! how lovely they smell, and how much nicer than horrid, stodgy dinners! And oatcakes--and jelly--and the lightest feathery scones! O Jack, isn't it heavenly?"
"Rather", I agreed, beginning the meal with tremendous gusto. The eggs and bacon disappeared in the twinkling of an eye, and then we fell to on the light feathery scones. "Wish we hadn't wasted a fortnight's time and money in ruinous Highland hotels. Wonder what Schiehallion thinks of hot baths and late dinners, not to speak of waiters and wine-lists."
"I suppose", remarked Gwendolen, "one _could_ get a bath at the Temperance Inn we passed on the road?"
"Baths!" cried I. "Why, my dear, one only has to go and sit under the neighbouring waterfall." Gwen did not laugh, and looking up I saw she had stopped in the middle of a scone on which she had embarked with great appetite.
"Try an oat-cake", I suggested.
"No, thanks", said Gwen.
"A little more jelly?"
Gwen shook her head.
I finished my meal in silence and pulled out my pipe.
"Going to smoke in here?" asked Gwen.
"It's raining outside, my dear."
"Oh, very well. But remember this is my bedroom. I decline to sleep with hens."
I put the pipe away and prepared for conversation.
"Can't you sit still?" asked Gwen after a long pause.
"This chair is very hard, dear."
"So is mine."
"Don't you think we might sit on the bed?"
"Certainly not. I shouldn't sleep a wink if we disarranged the clothes, and only an expert can re-make a chaff bed."
"Wish we had something to read", I remarked, after another long pause.
"Do you expect a circulating library on the top of Ben-y-Gloe?"
I began to realise that Gwen was no longer in a conversational mood, and made no further efforts to break the silence. Half-an-hour later Gwen came across the room and laid her hand on my shoulder. "What are you reading, dear?" she asked.
"I find we can get a train from Struan to-morrow afternoon which catches the London connection at Perth when the train's not more than two hours late."
"We can't risk that. Isn't there a train in the morning?"
"It would mean leaving this at five."
"So much the better. O Jack, if I eat another meal like that it will be fatal. To think we shall be back in dear old Chelsea to-morrow!"
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MR. BRIGGS IN THE HIGHLANDS
_By_ JOHN LEECH
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SKETCHES FROM SCOTLAND
AT THE DRUMQUHIDDER HIGHLAND GATHERING.
SCENE--_A meadow near Drumquhidder, South Perthshire, where the annual Highland Games are being held. The programme being a long one, there are generally three events being contested in various parts of the ground at the same time. On the benches immediately below the Grand Stand are seated two Drumquhidder worthies_, MR. PARRITCH _and_ MR. HAVERS, _with_ MRS. McTAVISH _and her niece, two acquaintances from Glasgow, to whom they are endeavouring--not altogether successfully--to make themselves agreeable_.
_Mr. Havers_ (_in allusion to the dozen or so of drags, landaus, and waggonettes on the ground_). There's a number o' machines hier the day, Messis McTarvish, an' a wonderfu' crood; there'll be a bit scarceness ower on yon side, but a gey many a'thegither. I conseeder we're jest awfu' forrtunate in the day an' a'.
[_Mrs. McTavish assents, but without enthusiasm._
_Mr. Parritch._ I've jist ben keekin into the Refraishmen' Tent. It's an awfu' peety they're no pairmeetin' ony intoaxicans--naethin' but non-alcohoalic liquors an' sic like, an' the hawm-sawndwiches no verra tender. (_With gallantry._) What do ye say, noo, Messis McTarvish--wull ye no come an' tak' a bite wi' me?
_Mrs. McTavish (distantly)._ Ah'm no feelin' able for't jist the noo, Mester Pairritch.
_Mr. Parr._ Ye'll hae a boatle o' leemonade at my expense? Ye'll no? Then ye wull, Mess Rawse. (_With relief, as Miss Rose declines also._) Aweel, I jist thocht I'd pit the quaistion. (_To a friend of his, who joins them._) An' hoo's a' wi' ye, Mester McKerrow? Ye're a member o' the Cawmittee, I obsairve, sae I'll hae to keck up a bet row wi' ye.
_Mr. McKerrow (unconcernedly)._ Then ye'll jist to hae to keck it doon again. What's wrang the noo?
_Mr. Parr._ I'd like to ask ye if ye conseeder it fair or jest to charrge us tippence every time we'd go aff the groon? Man, it's jist an extoartion.
_Mr. McKerr._ I'm no responsible for't; but, if I'd ben there, I'd ha' chairged ye twa shellins; sae ye'd better say nae mair aboot the maitter.
[_Mr. Parritch does not pursue the subject._
_Mr. Havers (as a detachment of the Black Watch Highlanders conclude an exhibition of musical drill)._ Ye'll be the baiter o' haeing the Block Wetch hier the day. Man, they gie us a colour! It's verra pretty hoo nicely they can pairforrm the drill.... An' noo them sojers is gaun to rin a bet race amang theirsels. This'll be an extry cawmpeteetion, I doot. (_As the race is being run._) It's no a verra suitable dress for rinnin'--the spleughan--or "sporran", is it?--hairrts them tairible.
_Mr. McKerr. (contradictiously)._ The sporran does na hairrt them at a'.
_Mr. Havers._ Man, it's knockin' against them at every stride they tak'. (_His attention wanders to a Highland Fling, which three small boys are dancing on a platform opposite._) He's an awfu' bonnie dauncer that wee laddie i' the meddle!
_Mr. McKerr._ Na sae awfu' bonnie, he luiks tae much at his taes. Yon on the richt is the laddie o' the lote! He disna move his boady at a'.... This'll be the Half Mile Handicap they're stairting for down yonder. It'll gae to Jock Alister--him in the blue breeks.
_Mr. Parr._ Yon grup-luikin' tyke? I canna thenk it.
_Mr. Havers._ Na, it'll be yon bald-heided man in broon. He's verra enthusiastic. He's ben rinnin' in a' the races, I obsairve. "Smeth" did ye say his neem was? (_To Miss Rose, "pawkily"._) Ye'll hae an affaictionate regaird for that neem, I'm thenking, Mess Rawse?
_Miss Rose (with maidenly displeasure)._ 'Deed, an I'm no unnerstanding why ye should thenk ony sic a thing!
_Mr. Havers (abashed)._ I beg your pairrdon. I don't know hoo it was I gethered Smeth was your ain neem. (_Miss Rose shakes her head._) No? Then maybe ye'll be acquaint with a Mester Alexawnder Smeth fro' Paisley? (_Miss Rose is not, nor apparently desires to be, and Mr. Havers returns to the foot-race._) The baldheid's leadin' them a', I tellt ye he'd----Na, he's gien up! it'll be the little block fellow, he's peckin' up tairible!
_Mr. Parr._ 'Twull no be him. Yon lang chap has an easy jobe o't. Ye'll see he'll jist putt a spairrt on at yon faur poast--he's comin' on noo--he's.... Losh! he's only thirrd after a'; he didna putt the spairrt on sune eneugh; that was the gran' fau't he made!
_Mr. Havers._ They'll be begenning the wrustling oot yon in the centre....(_As the competitors grip._) Losh! that's no the way to wrustle; they shouldna left the ither up; they're no allowed to threp!
_Mr. McKerr._ That's jist the game, I'm telling ye; ye know naething at a' aboot it!
_Mr. Havers._ I'd sthruggle baiter'n that mysel', it's no great wrustling at a', merely bairrns' play!
_Mr. McKerr (as a corpulent elderly gentleman appears, in very pink tights)._ Ye'll see some science noo, for hier's McBannock o' Balwhuskie, the chawmpion.
_Mr. Havers (disenchanted)._ Wull yon be him in the penk breeks. Man, but he's awfu' stoot for sic wark!
_Mr. McKerr._ The wecht of him's no easy put doon. The rest are boys to him.
_Mr. Parr._ I doot the little dairk fellow'll hae him ... it's a gey sthruggle.
_Mr. McKerr._ He's not doon yet. Wull ye bait sexpence against McBannock, Mester Pairritch?
_Mr. Parr. (promptly)._ Aye, wull I--na, he's got the dairk mon doon. I was jist mindin' the sword-daunce, sae the bait's aff. (_Three men in full Highland costume step upon the platform and stand, proud and impassive, fronting the grand stand, while the judges walk round them, making careful notes of their respective points._) What wull _they_ be aboot?
_Mr. McKerr._ It'll be the prize for the mon who's the best dressed Hielander at his ain expense. I'm thenkin' they'll find it no verra easy to come to a deceesion.
_Mr. Parr._ Deed, it's no sae deeficult; 'twill be the mon in the centre, sure as deith!
_Mr. Havers._ Ye say that because he has a' them gowd maidles hing on his jocket!
_Mr. Parr_. (_loftily_). I pay no attention to the maidles at a'. I'm sayin' that Dougal Macrae is the best dressed Hielander o' the three.
_Mr. Havers._ It'll no be Macrae at a'. Jock McEwan, that's furthest west, 'll be the mon.
_Mr. Parr._ (_dogmatically_). It'll be Macrae, I'm tellin' ye. He has the nicest kelt on him that iver I sa'!
_Mr. Havers._ It's no the _kelt_ that diz it, 'tis jist the way they pit it on. An' Macrae'll hae his tae faur doon, a guid twa enches too low, it is.
_Mr. Parr._ Ye're a' wrang, the kelt is on richt eneugh!
_Mr. Havers._ I know fine hoo a kelt should be pit an, though I'm no Hielander mysel', and I'll ask ye, Mess Rawse, if Dougal Macrae's kelt isn't too lang; it's jist losin his knees a' thegither, like a lassie he looks in it!
[_Miss Rose declines, with some stiffness, to express an opinion on so delicate a point._
_Mr. Parr. (recklessly)._ I'll pit a sexpence on Macrae wi' ye, come noo!
_Mr. Havers._ Na, na, pit cawmpetent jedges on to deceede, and they'll be o' my opeenion; but I'll no bait wi' ye.
_Mr. Parr. (his blood up)._ Then I'll hae a sexpence on 't wi you, Mester McKerrow!
_Mr. McKerr._ Nay, I'm for Macrae mysel'.... An' we're baith in the richt o't too, for they've jist gien him the bit red flag--that means he's got firsst prize.
_Mr. Parr. (to Mr. Havers, with reproach)._ Man, if ye'd hed the speerit o' your opeenions, I'd ha' won sexpence aff ye by noo!
_Mr. Havers (obstinately)._ I canna thenk but that Macrae's kelt was too lang--prize or no prize. I'll be telling him when I see him that he looked like a lassie in it.
_Mr. Parr. (with concern)._ I wouldna jist advise ye to say ony sic a thing to him. These Hielanders are awfu' prood; and he micht tak' it gey ill fro' ye!
_Mr. Havers._ I see nae hairrm mysel' in jist tellin' him, in a pleesant, daffin-like way, that he looked like a lassie in his kelt. But there's nae tellin' hoo ye may offend some fowk; an' I'm thenking it's no sae verra prawbable that I'll hae the oaportunity o' saying onything aboot the maitter to him.
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AWKWARD FOR HIM.--_Tam._ "I'm sayin', man, my cairt o' hay's fa'en ower. Will ye gie 's a haund up wi' 't?" _Jock._ "'Deed will I. But ye'll be in nae hurry till I get tae the end o' the raw?" _Tam._ "Ou no. I'm in nae hurry, but I doot my faither 'll be wearyin'." _Jock._ "An' whaur's yer faither?" _Tam._ "He's in below the hay!"
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