Rather timidly he drew a chair in to the table; and then he said with appealing eyes: "But wouldn’t you allow me, sir, to fetch you a little drop of the whiskey—I assure you it’s the best!" "Oh, very well—very well; but bring two tumblers; single drinking is slow work." In a few seconds those two curiously-assorted companions—the one massive and strong-built, impressive in manner, measured and emphatic of speech, the other feeble and fawning, at once eager and vacuous, his face ever ready to break into a maudlin smile—were seated in confabulation together, with some sheets of scribbled paper between. "And if you will excuse my being so bold, sir," continued Hobson, with great humility, "but I ’ave been reading the little volume of Scotch songs you lent me, and—and——" "Trying your hand at that, too?" "Only a verse, sir." Mr. Bethune took up the scrap of paper; and read aloud: "O leese me on the toddy, the toddy, the toddy, O leese me on the toddy, We’ll hae a willie-waught!" "Well, yes," he said, with rather a doubtful air, "you’ve got the phrases all right—except the willie-waught, and that is a common error. To tell you the truth, my friend, there is no such thing as a willie-waught. _Waught_ is a hearty drink; a richt gude-willie waught is a drink with right good will. _Willie-waught_ is nothing—a misconception—a printer’s blunder. However, phrases do not count for much. Scotch phrases do not make Scotch song. It is not the provincial dialect—it is the breathing spirit that is the life"—and therewith he repeated, in a proud manner, as if to crush this poor anxious poet by the comparison, "I see her in the dewy flower, Sae lovely, sweet, and fair; I hear her voice in ilka bird Wi’ music charm the air; There’s not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, Nor yet a bonnie bird that sings But minds me o’ my Jean."