"Nonsense! she shall sing us something. We were talking about snobbish people in the other room," said honest, old blundering Sir Nigel. "I have observed it is a peculiarity of that style of society in Scotland to banish alike national music and national songs. But such is not our _rôle_ in Calderwood Glen. A few of our girls certainly attempt with success such glorious airs as those we have just heard, or those from "Roberto il Diavolo" and "Lucia;" but I have heard men, who might sing a plain Scottish song fairly enough, and with credit, make absolute maniacs of themselves by attempting to howl like _Edgardo_ in the churchyard, or like _Manrico_ at the prison-gate—an affectation of operatic excellence with which I have no patience." "To take out in fashion what we lose in genuine amusement and enthusiasm is an English habit becoming more common in Scotland every day," said the general. "So, Cora, darling, sing us one of our songs. Give Newton the old ballad of ’The Thistle and the Rose.’ I am sure he has not heard it for many a day." "Not since I was last under this roof, dear uncle," said I. This ballad was one of the memories of our childhood, and a great favourite with the old Tory baronet; so I led Cora to the piano. "It will sound so odd—so primitive, in fact—to these people, especially after what we have heard, Newton," she urged, in a whisper; "but then papa is so obstinate." "But to please me, Cora." "To please you, Newton, I would do anything," she replied, with a blush and a happy smile. I stood by her side while she sang a simple old ballad, that had been taught her by my mother. The air was plaintive, and the words were quaint. By whom they were written I know not, for they are neither to be found in Allan Ramsay’s "Miscellany," or any other book of Scottish songs that I have seen. Cora sang with great sweetness, and her voice awakened a flood of old memories and forgotten hopes and fears, with many a boyish aspiration, for music, like perfume, can exert a wonderful effect upon the imagination and on the memory. THE THISTLE AND THE ROSE. It was in old times, When trees composed rhymes, And flowers did with elegy flow; In an old battle-field, That fair flowers did yield, A rose and a thistle did grow. On a soft summer day, The rose chanced to say, "Friend thistle, I’ll with you be plain; And if you’d simply be But united to me, You would ne’er be a thistle again." The thistle said, "My spears Shield me from all fears, While you quite unguarded remain; And well, I suppose, Though I were a rose, I’d fain be a thistle again." "Dearest friend," quoth the rose, "You falsely suppose— Bear witness ye flowers of the plain!— You’d take so much pleasure In beauty’s vast treasure, You’d ne’er be a thistle again."