The forgiving gentleness of Malcolm's wife is recorded in the following story:--Malcolm had occasion to go to Dingwall on a summer day for a boll of oatmeal; he took a grey horse with him. On his way, with just enough cash in his pocket to pay for the meal, he entered an inn, where he met a Badenoch drover, who proved to be a boon companion. The two continued drinking together for some time; the bard at length spent the last sixpence of his meal money. Thinking, no doubt, of the awkwardness of returning without the meal, he remarked, "If I had more money, I would not go home for some time yet." "That's easily got; I'll buy the grey horse from you," replied the drover. The bargain was speedily concluded, and the money paid. The well-seasoned poet continued the "spree," until at length the price of the grey horse was gone too. "Now," said he, "I must go." "But how," said the drover, "can you face your wife?" "My wife!" said the poet, "she's the woman that never said, nor will say worse to me than 'God bless you, Malcolm.'" "I'll bet you the price of the horse and the meal," replied the drover, "that her greeting will be very different." "Done!" eagerly shouted Malcolm, grasping the other's hand. Away they went, with the landlord and two other men to witness the bard's reception by his wife. He staggered into his dwelling, where he would have fallen into the open fire, had not his wife caught him in her arms, exclaiming, "God bless you, Malcolm." "But I have neither brought meal nor money," said the bard. "We will soon get more money and meal too," replied the wife. "But I have also drunk the grey horse," said he. "What matter, my love," she said, "since you are alive and well." It was enough: the drover had to count down the money; and it was not long before the patient wife had the satisfaction of hailing her husband's return with both horse and meal. CALLUM O' THE GLEN. _Chorus._ My bonnie dark maid, My precious, my pretty, I'll sing in your praise A light-hearted ditty; Fair daughter whom none Had the sense yet to marry; And I'll tell you the cause Why their love did miscarry, My bonnie dark maid! I. For sure thou art beautiful, Faultless to see; No malice can fasten A blot upon thee. Thy bosom's soft whiteness The seagull may shame, And for thou art lordless 'Tis I am to blame. II. And indeed I am sorry, My fault I deplore, Who won thee no tocher By swelling my store; With drinking and drinking My tin slipped away, And so there's small boast Of my sporran to-day. III.