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blaw the fire aff o' the forge."

      But when it came to the anvil part of the work, Peter found so many faults with the handling and the execution generally, that at length the lad threw down the tongs with a laugh and an oath intermingled, saying:

      "Ye can mak' potty o' 't yersel, than, Peter.—Ye jist min' me o' the

       Waesome Carl."

      "What's that o' 't, Rory, man?"

      "Ow! naething but a bit sang that I cam' upo' the ither day i' the neuk o' an auld newspaper."

      "Lat's hear't," said Peter. "Sing't, Rory. Ye're better kent for a guid sang than for settin' socks."

      "I canna sing 't, for I dinna ken the tune o' 't. I only got a glimp' o' 't, as I tell ye, in an auld news."

      "Weel, say't, than. Ye're as weel kent for a guid memory, as a guid sang."

      Without more preamble, Rory repeated, with appropriate gesture,

      THE WAESOME CARL.

      There cam a man to oor toon-en',

       An' a waesome carl was he;

       Wi' a snubbert nose, an' a crookit mou',

       An' a cock in his left ee.

       And muckle he spied, and muckle he spak';

       But the burden o' his sang

       Was aye the same, and ower again:

       There's nane o' ye a' but's wrang.

       Ye're a' wrang, and a' wrang,

       And a'thegither a' wrang;

       There's no a man aboot the town,

       But's a'thegither a' wrang.

      That's no the gait to bake the breid,

       Nor yet to brew the yill;

       That's no the gait to haud the pleuch,

       Nor yet to ca the mill.

       That's no the gait to milk the coo,

       Nor yet to spean the calf;

       Nor yet to fill the girnel-kist—

       Ye kenna yer wark by half.

       Ye're a' wrang, &c.

      The minister was na fit to pray,

       And lat alane to preach;

       He nowther had the gift o' grace,

       Nor yet the gift o' speech.

       He mind 't him o' Balaam's ass,

       Wi' a differ ye may ken:

       The Lord he open'd the ass's mou'

       The minister open'd 's ain.

       He's a' wrang, &c.

      The puir precentor cudna sing,

       He gruntit like a swine;

       The verra elders cudna pass

       The ladles till his min'.

       And for the rulin' elder's grace,

       It wasna worth a horn;

       He didna half uncurse the meat,

       Nor pray for mair the morn.

       He's a' wrang, &c.

      And aye he gied his nose a thraw,

       And aye he crookit his mou';

       And aye he cockit up his ee,

       And said, "Tak' tent the noo."

       We leuch ahint oor loof (palm), man,

       And never said him nay:

       And aye he spak'—jist lat him speik!

       And aye he said his say:

       Ye're a' wrang, &c.

      Quo' oor guidman: "The crater's daft;

       But wow! he has the claik;

       Lat's see gin he can turn a han'

       Or only luik and craik.

       It's true we maunna lippen till him—

       He's fairly crack wi' pride;

       But he maun live, we canna kill him—

       Gin he can work, he s' bide."

       He was a' wrang, &c.

      "It's true it's but a laddie's turn,

       But we'll begin wi' a sma' thing;

       There's a' thae weyds to gather an' burn—

       An' he's the man for a' thing."

       We gaed oor wa's, and loot him be,

       To do jist as he micht;

       We think to hear nae mair o' him,

       Till we come hame at nicht;

       But we're a' wrang, &c.

      For, losh! or it was denner-time,

       The lift (firmament) was in a low;

       The reek rase up, as it had been

       Frae Sodom-flames, I vow.

       We ran like mad; but corn and byre

       War blazin'—wae's the fell!�-

       As gin the deil had broucht the fire,

       To mak' anither hell.

       'Twas a' wrang, &c.

      And by the blaze the carl stud,

       Wi's han's aneath his tails;

       And aye he said—"I tauld ye sae,

       An' ye're to blame yersels.

       It's a' your wite (blame), for ye're a' wrang—

       Ye'll maybe own't at last:

       What gart ye burn thae deevilich weyds,

       Whan the win' blew frae the wast?

       Ye're a' wrang, and a' wrang,

       And a'thegither a' wrang;

       There's no a man in a' the warl'

       But's a'thegither a' wrang."

      Before the recitation was over, which was performed with considerable spirit and truth, Annie and Dowie were listening attentively, along with Alec, who had returned to take Annie back, and who now joined loudly in the applause which followed the conclusion of the verses.

      "Faith, that was a chield to haud oot ower frae," said Alec to Rory.

       "And ye said the sang weel. Ye sud learn to sing't though."

      "Maybe I may, some day; gin I cud only get a grainie saut to pit upo' the tail o' the bird that kens the tune o' 't. What ca' they you, noo?"

      "Alec Forbes," answered the owner of the name.

      "Ay," interposed Annie, addressing herself to Dowie, who still held her in his arms; "this is Alec, that I tell't ye aboot. He's richt guid to me. Alec, here's Dooie, 'at I like better nor onybody i' the warl'."

      And she turned and kissed the bronzed face, which was a clean face, notwithstanding the contrary appearance given to it by a beard of three days' growth, which Annie's kiss was too full of love to mind.

      Annie would have been yet more ready to tell Dowie and Alec each who the other was, had she not been occupied in her own mind with a discovery she had made. For had not those verses given evident delight to the company—Alec among the rest? Had he not applauded loudest of all?—Was there not here something she could do, and so contribute to the delight of the workmen, Alec and Willie, and thus have her part in the boat growing beneath their hands? She would then be no longer a tolerated beholder, indebted to their charity for permission to enjoy their society, but a contributing member of the working community—if not working herself, yet upholding those that wrought. The germ of all this found itself in her mind that

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