“I never heard a Scotch song worth sixpence,” quoth Maurice, who seemed bent on provoking the doctor’s ire. “They contain nothing save some puling sentimentality about lasses with lint-white locks, or some absurd laudations of the Barley Bree.” “Hear till him, hear till him!” said the doctor, reddening with impatience. “Show me anything,” said Maurice, “like the ‘Cruiskeen Lawn’ or the ‘Jug of Punch;’ but who can blame them, after all? You can’t expect much from a people with an imagination as naked as their own knees.” “Maurice! Maurice!” cried O’Shaughnessy, reprovingly, who saw that he was pushing the other’s endurance beyond all bounds. “I mind weel,” said the Scotchman, “what happened to ane o’ your countrymen wha took upon him to jest as you are doing now. It was to Laurie Cameron he did it.” “And what said the redoubted Laurie in reply?” “He did na say muckle, but he did something.” “And what might it be?” inquired Maurice. “He threw him ower the brig of Ayr into the water, and he was drowned.” “And did Laurie come to no harm about the matter?” “Ay, they tried him for it, and found him guilty; but when they asked him what he had to say in his defence, he merely replied, ‘When the carl sneered about Scotland, I did na suspect that he did na ken how to swim;’ and so the end of it was, they did naething to Laurie.” “Cool that, certainly,” said I. “I prefer your friend with the mittens, I confess,” said Maurice, “though I’m sure both were most agreeable companion. But come, Doctor, couldn’t you give us,-- Sit ye down, my heartie, and gie us a crack, Let the wind tak’ the care o’ the world on his back.’” “You maunna attempt English poethry, my freend Quell; for it must be confessed ye’e a damnable accent of your ain.”