I canna thole my ain toun, Sin' I hae dwelt i' this; To hide in Edinboro' reek, Wad be the tap o' bliss. Yon bonnie plaid aboot me hap, The skirlin' pipes gae bring, With thistles fair tie up my hair, While I of Scotia sing. The collops an' the cairngorms, The haggis an' the whin, The 'Stablished, Free, an' U. P. kirks, The hairt convinced o' sin,-- The parritch an' the heather-bell, The snawdrap on the shaw, The bit lam's bleatin' on the braes,-- How can I leave them a'! How can I leave the marmalade An' bonnets o' Dundee? The haar, the haddies, an' the brose, The East win' blawin' free! How can I lay my sporran by, An' sit me doun at hame, Wi'oot a Hieland philabeg Or hyphenated name? I lo'e the gentry o' the North, The Southern men I lo'e, The canty people o' the West, The Paisley bodies too. The pawky fowk o' Fife are dear,-- Sae dear are ane an' a', That e'en to think that we maun pairt Maist braks my hairt in twa. So fetch me tartans, heather, scones, An' dye my tresses red; I'd deck me like th' unconquer'd Scots Wha hae wi' Wallace bled. Then bind my claymore to my side, My kilt an' mutch gae bring; While Scottish lays soun' i' my lugs McKinley's no my king,-- For Charlie, bonnie Stuart Prince, Has turned me Jacobite; I'd wear displayed the white cockade, An' (whiles) for him I'd fight! An' (whiles) I'd fight for a' that's Scotch, Save whuskey an' oatmeal, For wi' their ballads i' my bluid, Nae Scot could be mair leal! I fancied that I had pitched my verses in so high a key that no one could mistake their burlesque intention. What was my confusion, however, to have one of the company remark when I finished, "Extremely pretty; but a mutch, you know, is an article of _woman's_ apparel." Mr. Macdonald flung himself gallantly into the breach. He is such a dear fellow! So quick, so discriminating, so warm-hearted! "Don't pick flaws in Miss Hamilton's finest line! That picture of a fair American, clad in a kilt and mutch, decked in heather and scones, and brandishing a claymore, will live forever in my memory. Don't clip the wings of her imagination! You will be telling her soon that one doesn't tie one's hair with thistles, nor couple collops with cairngorms." Somebody sent Francesca a great bunch of yellow broom, late that afternoon. There was no name in the box, she said, but at night she wore the odorous tips in the bosom of her black dinner-gown, and standing erect in her dark hair like golden aigrettes.