"And that's finer still!" he cried. "They're not like yours," an apology in her voice; "just off-hand rhymes like, that come to my head on the moment. If you could sooth me Bonnie Dundee now, I might rhyme something to it," and the minute he began, she said: "Oh! I know that--'tis an old tune, like this"--and striking a chord or two, she was off before the rest had any guess of her intention, with a merry devil in her eye and her face glowing like a flower in the firelight: "At 'The King's Arms' in Mauchline, Rab Burns said to me, 'I'm just back from Edinbro' as you may see, Where all the gay world has been bowin' to me, For I am the lad who wrote _Bonnie Dundee_! And just for a smile or a glance of my eye The lassies are ready to lie down and die; So don't give yourself airs, but just bow before me, For I am the lad who wrote _Bonnie Dundee_!' "Now a'weel, Mr. Burns, I have somewhat to say I've sweethearts as many as you any day; And I've eyes of my own, as you've noticed, maybe, If you've glanced from the author of _Bonnie Dundee_! And Duncan of Monteith my suitor has been, And Stewart of MacBride's, who has served to the Queen. And if any one bows, it will sure not be me, For I don't give a groat who wrote _Bonnie Dundee_!" The laugh which followed this found Burns at her side, every passion in his inflammable nature alight. "Aye," he cried, "ye have the verse makin'. But the e's are easy. Why didn't ye try the Doon. 'Tis as celebrate." "Sure," she answered, "there are rhymes begging for that. Tune, soon, rune, June----" "And loon," Burns threw in, daffing with her. "Ye wouldn't be forgetting that." "It was not my intention to be leaving the author of the piece out of it," she threw back at him, laughing, at which Burns gave her a look. "You'd better mend your manners," he cried, gaily, "or some day I'll take my pen in hand to you, and _then_, may the Lord have mercy on your soul!" adding low, "_Mistress Nancy Stair!_" Some consternation followed upon this, for it was unknown by any of them that he had seen Nancy in Edinbro', and after the talk was readjusted a bit to the news, the five of them, with Mrs. Todd listening on the other side of the door, sat till hard upon one o'clock, with uplifted minds, insensible to time or weather. The extreme disorder caused by the wind, for the storm had risen, at length recalled them to themselves, and Mrs. Todd, who worshiped the great poet, came in. "You must lie here to-night, Mr. Burns," she said hospitably; and as the poet lighted Nancy up the stair: "Good night," he cried, "good night!" and then, because there was a devil in the man whenever he looked at a pretty woman, "I'll have no sleep to-night. I'm in some far-up region where poems are made and where all the women are like you!"