“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.”