Duffy came round to Erchie’s on Saturday night for the loan of a copy of Burns, which he knew the old man had on the shelves of what he called his chevalier and book-case. “I’m wantin’ to learn a sang,” said he, “for I’m gaun to the Haggis Club in the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults on Monday if I’m spared.”

“Are ye, indeed!” said Erchie, drily. “Ye’ll be takin’ the new wife wi’ ye?”

“No fears o’ me,” said Duffy. “Wha ever heard o’ a wife at a Burns meetin’?”

“Oh! I divna ken onything aboot it,” said Erchie; “I thocht maybe the weemen were gaun to thae things nooadays, though they didna go when I was young, and I thocht maybe you bein’ sae lately mairried ye wanted to gie her a trate. It’s a droll thing aboot Burns that though the weemen were sae ta’en up wi’ him when he was leevin’, they’re no’ awfu’ keen on him noo that he’s deid. There’ll be thoosands o’ men hurrayin’ Burns on Monday nicht in a’ pairts o’ the warld, and eatin’ haggis till they’re no’ weel, but I’ll bate ye their wifes is no there. No; their wifes is at hame mendin’ their men’s sox, and chairgin’ the gazogene for the morn’s mornin’, when it’ll be sair wanted. And ye’re gaun to a Haggis Club, are ye? I didna ken ye were such a keen Burns hand.”

“Me!” cried Duffy,—“I’m jist daft for Burns. Fifty or mair o’ the members tak’ their coals frae me. Burns! Man, Erchie, I could gie ye Burns by the yaird—‘Dark Lochnagar,’ and ‘The Flooers o’ the Forest,’ ‘We’re a’ Noddin’,’ and ‘Rollin’ Hame to Bonnie Scotland’—

‘Rollin’ hame to Bonnie Scotland,

Rollin’ hame across the sea.’”

He sang the lines with gusto.

“Stop!” said Erchie, in alarm, “stop! There’s nae deafenin’ in thae ceilin’s, and the folk abin’ll think I’m giein’ Jinnet a leatherin’. Man! I didna think ye kent sae mony o’ Rabbie’s sangs. It’s a credit to ye. I’m shair ye divna need ony book to learn affa.”

“To tell ye the rale sets o’t, Erchie,” said Duffy, “it’s a bate. There’s a chap yonder at the coal hill thrieps doon my throat Burns didna write ‘Dark Lochnagar’ the wye I sing’t, and I want to show him’t in the book?”

“Hoo much is the bate?” asked Erchie.

“Haulf-a-croon,” said Duffy.

“Then sell yin o’ yer horses and pye the money,” said Erchie, “for ye’ve lost the bate. Burns had nae grudge against His countrymen. They did him nae hairm. He didna write ‘Dark Lochnagar’ the wye you sing it, for Burns never made his sangs wi’ a saw; in fact, he never wrote ‘Dark Lochnagar’ at a’; it was put oot by anither firm in the same tred, ca’d Byron.”

“My jove!” said Duffy, “I never kent that afore!”

“There’s lots o’ things ye never kent,” said Erchie. “Seein’ ye’re gaun to eat haggis on Monday nicht, ye micht tell us whit ye ken, no’ aboot Burns’s sangs, but aboot Burns himsel’.”

“There was naething wrang wi’ the chap,” said Duffy, “if he just had stuck to his wark. When I’m sellin’ coal I’m sellin’ coal, and no’ pentin’ pictures. But there was Burns!—if he happened to come on a moose’s nest in the field when he was plewin’, or see a flooer in his road when he was oot workin’ at the hye, he wad stop the plew, or lay doon his rake, and tak’ the efter-noon aff to mak’ a sang aboot the moose or the daisy.”

“A’, and jist wi’ his least wee bit touch,” said Erchie, admiringly. “He was great, that’s whit he was.”

“Maybe he was, but it spiled the wark; we wadna aloo that in the coal tred,” said Duffy. “He didna ken what compeetition was. I’ve seen things in my ain tred a knacky chap could mak’ a fine sang aboot if he was jist lettin’ him-sel’ go.”

“Then for mercy’s sake aye keep a grip o’ yersel’,” said Erchie. “Mind ye hae a wife dependin’ on ye!”

“And then,” said Duffy, “he was a bit o’ the la-di-da. There’s naething o’ the la-di-da aboot me.”

“There is not!” admitted Erchie, frankly.

“But Burns, although he was a plewman to tred, went aboot wi’ a di’mond ring spilin’ folks’ windows. If he saw a clean pane o’ gless he never lost the chance o’ writin’ a bit verse on’t wi’ his di’mond ring. It was gey chawin’ to the folk the windows belanged to, but Burns never cared sae lang’s he let them see he had a rale di’mond ring that wad scratch gless.”

“It was the fashion at the time, Duffy,” said Erchie. “Nooadays when a poet has an idea for twa lines he keeps it under the bed till it sproots into a hale poem, and then he sends it to a magazine, and buys his wife, or somebody else’s, a di’mond ring wi’ whit he gets for’t. Writin’ on window-panes is no’ the go ony langer. It’s oot o’ date.”

“But I’m no’ runnin’ doon the chap,” said Duffy. “Only I aye thocht it was him that wrote ‘Dark Lochnagar.’ Are ye shair it wasna?”

Erchie nodded. “Nor ‘Rollin’ Hame to Bonnie Scotland’ either. He was far ower busy writin’ sangs aboot the Marys, and the Jeans, and the Peggys at the time to write aboot ony o’ yer ‘Dark Lochnagars.’”

“So he was,” admitted Duffy. “Yon’s a rare yin aboot Mary—‘Kind, kind, and gentle is she—

.... kind is my Mary,

The tender blossom on the tree

Is half sae sweet as Mary.’”

“Calm yersel’, Duffy,” said Erchie, in dramatic alarm. “I’m no deaf.”

“That was written aboot ‘Hielan’ Mary,’” said Duffy. “He met her at Dunoon the Fair Week, and I’ve seen her monument.”

“It’s yonder as nate’s ye like,” said Erchie. “Faith! it’s you that’s weel up in Burns, Duffy.”

“Oh! I’m no’ that faur back in my history,” said Duffy, quite pleased with himself. “But I could hae sworn it was him that put thegither ‘Rollin’ Hame to Bonnie Scotland’; it’s his style. He micht be rollin’, but he aye got hame. He was a gey wild chap, Burns.”.

“I’m no’ denyin’t, Duffy,” said Erchie. “But he hadna ony o’ the blessin’s we have in oor time to keep him tame. There was nae Free Leebrary to provide him wi’ books to keep him in the hoose at nicht, nae Good Templar Lodges to help him in keepin’ clear o’ the horrors o’ drink; and Poosy Nancy’s public-hoose didna shut at ten o’clock, nor even eleeven. If Burns had thae advantages, there’s nae’ sayin’ whit he micht hae risen to; perhaps he micht hae become an M.P., and dee’d wi’ money in the bank.”

“Och! there’s worse than Burns,” said Duffy. “I was gey throughither mysel’ when I was a young chap.”

“Ah! but ye couldna hae been that awfu’ bad, for ye never made ony poetry.”

“I never tried,” said Duffy; “I was the youngest o’ nine, and I was put oot to wark early. So there wasna time for me to try and be fancy in ony wye. But a gey wild chap, Burns!”

“Maybe no’ that awfu’ wild,” said Erchie. “Ye’re aye harpin’ on the wild. Burns was like a man takin’ a daunder oot in a country road on a fine nicht: he kept his een sae much on the stars that sometimes he tripped in the sheuch. If it was the like o’ you and me, Duffy, we wad be keepin’ oor e’e a’ the time on the road at oor feet to see if onybody hadna dropped onything, and there wad be nae fears o’ us fa’in in the sheuch. Except for his habit o’ makin’ sangs when he micht be makin’ money, Burns wasna very different frae the rest o’ us. There was ae thing aboot him—he aye payed his way, and never forgot his freen’s. He had a warm hert.”

“Man, ye should be doon at the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults Haggis Club on Monday and propose the toast,” said Duffy, admiringly.

“I’m better whaur I am,” said Erchie; “the best Burns Club a man can hae’s a weel-thumbed copy o’ the poems on his chevalier and book-case, and a wife that can sing ‘Ye Banks and Braes’ like por Jinnet.”