"And ye'll sing us 'Over the hills and far away,' after dinner, wonna ye?" said Mr Chowne. "That's a song I'm uncommon fond on."
"Peeh!" said Mr Craig; "it's not to be named beside o' the Scotch tunes. I've never cared about singing myself; I've had something better to do. A man that's got the names and the natur o' plants in's head isna likely to keep a hollow place t' hold tunes in. But a second cousin o' mine, a drovier, was a rare hand at remembering the Scotch tunes. He'd got nothing else to think on."
"The Scotch tunes!" said Bartle Massey, contemptuously; "I've heard enough o' the Scotch tunes to last me while I live. They're fit for nothing but to frighten the birds with—that's to say, the English birds, for the Scotch birds may sing Scotch for what I know. Give the lads a bagpipes instead of a rattle, and I'll answer for it the corn 'llbe safe."
"Yes, there's folks as find a pleasure in under-vallying what they know but little about," said Mr Craig.
"Why, the Scotch tunes are just like a scolding, nagging woman," Bartle went on, without deigning to notice Mr Craig's remark. "They go on with
