One day we had a call from a "pawky auld carle" of a wandering
Scotchman. To him I owe my first introduction to the songs of Burns.
After eating his bread and cheese and drinking his mug of cider he gave
us Bonny Doon, Highland Mary, and Auld Lang Syne. He had a rich, full
voice, and entered heartily into the spirit of his lyrics. I have since
listened to the same melodies from the lips of Dempster, than whom the
Scottish bard has had no sweeter or truer interpreter; but the skilful
performance of the artist lacked the novel charm of the gaberlunzie's
singing in the old farmhouse kitchen. Another wanderer made us
acquainted with the humorous old ballad of "Our gude man cam hame at
e'en." He applied for supper and lodging, and the next morning was set
at work splitting stones in the pasture. While thus engaged the village
doctor came riding along the highway on his fine, spirited horse, and
stopped to talk with my father. The fellow eyed the animal attentively,
as if familiar with all his good points, and hummed over a stanza of the
old poem:--
"Our gude man cam hame at e'en,
And hame cam be;
And there he saw a saddle horse
Where nae horse should be.
'How cam this horse here?
How can it be?
How cam this horse here
Without the leave of me?'
'A horse?' quo she.
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