pastor to be interested in all that concerns
the prosperity of his flock, to illustrate
and make clear the truth that they, the
natural, and he and his order, the spiritual,
husbandmen, are united by a common
nature, common sympathies, and common
wants, and thus are bound to seek each
other's welfare in every possible way. The
elder, as his present office demands of him
to do, cries "Hear, hear," and the company
cry "Hear, hear," and applaud the Rev.
Dr. Bluebell loudly. When the chairman
toasts "The Judges," they applaud again;
when he toasts "The Successful Competitors"
they also applaud; and when he
toasts "The Unsuccessful Competitors" they
applaud, if possible, yet more lustily. And
it is observable that at every succeeding
pause between the toasts, the general hum
of conversation is getting louder and
louder, and more and more animated.

Then the silver challenge cups are
brought in, and with due ceremony
presented by the chairman to the winners,
who turn out to be no other than the elder,
and a remarkably jolly-looking farmer from
the upper part of the Glen, with a big red
nose, and clad in a suit of "hodden grey."
The chairman is now evidently getting
tired of speech-making; and he begs to
inform the company that when the Rev. Dr.
Bluebell has given a toast he will call on
the croupier for a song. The parson rises,
and after a somewhat prosy and meaningless
exordium, as it seems to me, proceeds
to propose as his toast "The Strangers
Present." And, adds the Rev. Doctor, to
my unspeakable amazement and horror, "let
me join with the toast the name of a
gentleman, with whom I have not the pleasure
of personal acquaintance—a representative
of the small ware and pearl button
department of trade, I understand—Mr.
Simon Jellycod, your health, sir." All
eyes are directed towards me, some dozens
of broad good-natured countenances grin at
me, as many shaggy heads nod over me; and
it is a positive relief when one burly fellow,
rather more than half seas over, fraternally
seizes my hand with a hiccuped "Gi'es
your neive, min," as they madly "hip-hip-
hurrah," all round. How I manage to get
to my feet, and actually to speak for full
five minutes, as my guide, philosopher, and
friend afterwards assures me, I do, remains
to me still a complete mystery.

My speech, like all things human, takes
end at last and somehow; and then comes
the elder's song; which as it has in it a
touch of the spirit of the old Scottish lyric,
and to me at least is quite new, I here
reproduce:

        BONNY BALCAIRN.

There lives an auld man at the back o' yon knowes,
His legs are nae better nor auld owsen bows,
It would set him far better to be herdin' his yowes,
Than takin' the tackie o' bonny Balcairn.
      Whilk o' ye lasses will gang to Balcairn,
      Oh whilk o' ye lasses will gang to Balcairn,
      Oh whilk o' ye lasses will gang to Balcairn.
      To be the good wife o' bonny Balcairn.

    I'm nae for the lass that has naething ava,
    Nor yet for the lassie that speaks for it a',
    Nor yet for the lassie that girns an' flytes,
    An' blames her goodman fan its a' her ain wytes,
          Whilk o' ye lasses, &c.

    I'm nae for the lass wi' the bonny black locks,
    Nor yet for the lass wi' the braw ribbon knots,
    But I'm for the lass wi' the bonny bank notes,
    They will help wi' the tackie o' bonny Balcairn.
          Whilk o' ye lasses, &c.

    "Oh mither I'm gaen to Laurence fair."
    "Daft laddie fat are ye gaen to dee there?"
    "I'm gaen to buy some harrows an' plows,
    To streek a bit pleuchie on Balcairn's knowes."
           Whilk o' ye lasses, &c.

    "Oh mither I'm gaen to Laurence fair."
    "Daft lassie fat are ye gaen to dee there?"
    "I'm gaen to buy some ribbons and lawn,
    To wear on my head fan I get the goodman.
           For I am the lassie that's gaen to Balcairn,
           I am the lassie that's gaen to Balcairn,
           Although the auld man be a silly concern,
           It's a canty bit tackie the tack o' Balcairn."

"Your health an' song, el'er"—"your
health an' song," alternate with shouts of
applause when the song terminates. Then
the Rev. Dr. Bluebell and a few of the
straiter sort in the company leave; then
we have one or two more attempts at toast-
giving and song-singing. But the company
are getting gradually more uproarious
and less manageable, till at last the chairman
sternly calls for "order," to allow of
his finishing the toast list, which is done by
drinking to "A Good Harvest."

The company have now dispersed, as I
innocently suppose, and my friend and I
are setting out for his home, when the
elder seizes him by the arm, and says,
"Hoot, ye're nae gaen awa wi' the gentleman
till he see the cups christen't." It is
in vain to urge that I have seen, perhaps,
quite enough of the convivialities of the
place for the time. We are pulled away
toward the inn, and on our way thither the
elder seems to be mustering his friends to
take part in the ceremony that is about to
follow, whatever it may be. Of that we
are not left long in doubt. On entering
mine host's largest parlour, which is
evidently set out for the occasion, there stand
the two veritable challenge cups—silver