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Kinreen o' the Dee!
Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee!

I'll blaw up my chanter,
I've rounded fu' weel,
To mony a ranter,
In mony a reel,
An' pour'd a' my heart i' the win'bag wi' glee:
Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee!
For licht wis the laughter in bonny Kinreen,
An' licht wis the footfa' that glanced o'er the green,
An' licht ware the hearts a' an' lichtsome the eyne,
Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee!
Kinreen o' the Dee!
Kinreen o' the Dee!
Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee!

The auld hoose is bare noo,
A cauld hoose to me,
The hearth is nae mair noo,
The centre o' glee,
Nae mair for the bairnies the bield it has been,
Och hey, for bonny Kinreen!
The auld folk, the young folk, the wee anes, an' a',
A hunder years' hame birds are harried awa',
Are harried an' hameless, whatever winds blaw,
Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee! &c.

Fareweel my auld pleugh lan',
I'll never mair pleugh it:
Fareweel my auld cairt an'
The auld yaud[C] that drew it.
Fareweel my auld kailyard, ilk bush an' ilk tree!
Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee!
Fareweel the auld braes, that my hand keepit green,
Fareweel the auld ways where we waunder'd unseen
Ere the star o' my hearth came to bonny Kinreen,
Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee! &c.

The auld kirk looks up o'er
The dreesome auld dead,
Like a saint speakin' hope o'er
Some sorrowfu' bed.
Fareweel the auld kirk, an' fareweel the kirk green,
They tell o' a far better hame than Kinreen!
The place we wad cling to - puir simple auld fules,
O' our births an' our bridals, oor blesses an' dools,
Whare oor wee bits o' bairnies lie cauld i' the mools.[D]
Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee! &c.

I aft times hae wunder'd
If deer be as dear,
As sweet ties o' kindred,
To peasant or peer;
As the tie to the hames o' the land born be,
Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee!
The heather that blossoms unkent o' the moor,
Wad dee in his lordship's best greenhoose, I'm sure,
To the wunder o' mony a fairy land flure.
Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee! &c.

Though little the thing be,
Oor ain we can ca';
That little we cling be,
The mair that it's sma';
Though puir wis oor hame, an' thogh wild wis the scene,
'Twas the hame o' oor hearts: it was bonnie Kinreen.
An yet we maun leave it, baith grey head an bairn;
Leave it to fatten the deer o' Cock-Cairn,
O' Pannanich wuds an' o' Morven o' Gairn.
Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee!
Kinreen o' the Dee!
Kinreen o' the Dee!
Sae Fareweel for ever, Kinreen of the Dee!

[Footnote C: Mare.]

[Footnote D: Earth.]

* * * * *

[Illustration: CANNY!

_Sportsman._ "That's a tough old fellow, Jemmy!"

_Keeper._ "Aye, sir, a grand bird to send to your freens!"]

* * * * *

[Illustration: EXPERTO CREDE

_Tourist_ (_on approaching hostelry_). "What will you have, coachman?"

_Driver._ "A wee drap whuskey, sir, thank you."

_Tourist._ "All right I'll get down and send it out to you."

_Driver._ "Na, na, gie me the saxpence. They'll gie you an unco sma'
gless!"]

* * * * *

[Illustration: A LAMENT FROM THE NORTH

"And then the weather's been so bad, Donald!"

"Ou ay, sir. Only three fine days - and twa of them snappit up by the
Sawbath!"]

* * * * *

TWO ON A TOUR

"Can you tell me which is Croft Lochay?"

The smith leant on his pitchfork - he had been up at the hay - and eyed
Gwendolen and myself with friendly interest.

"Ye'll be the gentry from London Mistress McDiarmat is expectin'?"

"And which is the way to her house?"

"Well", said the smith, shading his eyes as he peered up at the Ben, "ye
can't see it rightly from here, as it lies behind yon knowe. It's a
whole year whatever since I hev not been up myself; but if you follow
the burn - - "

I glanced at Gwen and saw that she shared my satisfaction. To cross the
edge of civilisation had for months past been our hearts' desire; and to
have achieved a jumping-off place only approachable by a burn exceeded
our wildest ambitions.

We thanked the smith, and set off on our expedition up the mountain
side.

"We twa hae paidlit in the burn", sang Gwendolen as she skipped like a
goat from stone to stone. "O Jack, isn't it too primitive and
delightful!"

"Rather", said I, inhaling great draughts of the mountain air.

"Aren't you hungry?"

"Rather", I repeated. "Wonder what there'll be to eat."

"Oh, I don't care what it is. Anything will be delicious. Is that the
house, do you think?"

I looked up and saw above us a low white-washed shanty covered with
thatch which was kept in its place by a network of laths. A few heavy
stones were evidently designed to keep the roof from blowing off in
winter storms.

"No", said Gwen. "That must be the cowhouse byre, don't you call it?"

"I'm not so sure", said I.

While we were still uncertain, a figure came to the door and bade us
welcome.

"Come in, come in. Ye'll be tired with the travelling, and ye'll like to
see the rooms."

We acquiesced, and Mistress McDiarmat led the way into the cowhouse.

"Shoo!" she cried as she opened the door of the bedroom. "Get away,
Speckle! The hens _will_ lay their bit egg on the bed, sir."

"What fresh eggs we shall get!" cried Gwen, delighted with this fresh
proof of rusticity and with the Gaelic gutturals with which Mistress
McDiarmat emphasized her remarks to Speckle.

The "other end" was furnished with two hard chairs, a table and a bed.

"Fancy a bed in the dining-room and hens in your bed!" said Gwen, in the
highest of spirits. "And here comes tea! Eggs and bacon - Ah! how lovely
they smell, and how much nicer than horrid, stodgy dinners! And
oatcakes - and jelly - and the lightest feathery scones! O Jack, isn't it
heavenly?"

"Rather", I agreed, beginning the meal with tremendous gusto. The eggs
and bacon disappeared in the twinkling of an eye, and then we fell to on
the light feathery scones. "Wish we hadn't wasted a fortnight's time
and money in ruinous Highland hotels. Wonder what Schiehallion thinks of
hot baths and late dinners, not to speak of waiters and wine-lists."

"I suppose", remarked Gwendolen, "one _could_ get a bath at the
Temperance Inn we passed on the road?"

"Baths!" cried I. "Why, my dear, one only has to go and sit under the
neighbouring waterfall." Gwen did not laugh, and looking up I saw she
had stopped in the middle of a scone on which she had embarked with
great appetite.

"Try an oat-cake", I suggested.

"No, thanks", said Gwen.

"A little more jelly?"

Gwen shook her head.

I finished my meal in silence and pulled out my pipe.

"Going to smoke in here?" asked Gwen.

"It's raining outside, my dear."

"Oh, very well. But remember this is my bedroom. I decline to sleep with
hens."

I put the pipe away and prepared for conversation.

"Can't you sit still?" asked Gwen after a long pause.

"This chair is very hard, dear."

"So is mine."

"Don't you think we might sit on the bed?"

"Certainly not. I shouldn't sleep a wink if we disarranged the clothes,
and only an expert can re-make a chaff bed."

"Wish we had something to read", I remarked, after another long pause.

"Do you expect a circulating library on the top of Ben-y-Gloe?"

I began to realise that Gwen was no longer in a conversational mood, and
made no further efforts to break the silence. Half-an-hour later Gwen
came across the room and laid her hand on my shoulder. "What are you
reading, dear?" she asked.

"I find we can get a train from Struan to-morrow afternoon which catches
the London connection at Perth when the train's not more than two hours
late."

"We can't risk that. Isn't there a train in the morning?"

"It would mean leaving this at five."

"So much the better. O Jack, if I eat another meal like that it will be
fatal. To think we shall be back in dear old Chelsea to-morrow!"

* * * * *

[Illustration: ORIGIN OF THE HIGHLAND SCHOTTISCHE

"This is the way they tread the hay, tread the hay, tread the hay;
This is the way they tread the hay, tread the hay in Scotland!"]

* * * * *

[Illustration: GROUSE SHOOTING LATE IN THE SEASON.
JOLLY, VERY!

"Come along, old fellow! Here's a point!!"]

* * * * *

[Illustration: DEER-STALKING MADE EASY. A HINT TO
LUSTY SPORTSMEN]

* * * * *

[Illustration: SOONER OR LATER

_Old Gent._ "When is the steamer due here?"

_Highland Pier-Master._ "Various. Sometimes sooner,
sometimes earlier, an' even sometimes before that, too."]

* * * * *

[Illustration: "HARMLESS"

_Cockney Sporting Gent._ "But I think it's a 'en!"

_Sandy (his keeper)._ "Shoot, man, shoot! She'll be no
muckle the waur o' ye!!"]

* * * * *

[Illustration: PLEASANT

_Friend (to novice at salmon fishing)._ "I say, old boy, mind how you
wade; there are some tremendous holes, fourteen or fifteen feet deep."]

* * * * *

[Illustration:AN IMPORTANT DETAIL

_Our latest Millionaire_ (_to Gillie, who has brought him within
close range of the finest stag in the forest_). "I say, Mac, confound
it all, _which eye do you use_?"]

* * * * *

[Illustration: _English Tourist (in the far North, miles from anywhere)._
"Do you mean to say that you and your family live here
all the winter? Why, what do you do when any of you
are ill? You can never get a doctor!"

_Scotch Shepherd._ "Nae, sir. We've just to dee a natural
death!"]

* * * * *

[Illustration: SCENE - A ROADSIDE INN IN A MOORLAND
DISTRICT, SCOTLAND

(_The Captain and Gamekeeper call in to have some Refreshment_)

_Landlady_ (_enters in fear_). "Eh, sir, yer gun's no loaded
is't? for a never would bide in a hoose whaur the wur a
loaded gun in a' m'life."

_Captain_ (_composedly_). "Oh, we'll soon put that all right - have
you got a cork?"

[_Exit Landlady and brings a cork, which the Captain
carefully sticks in the muzzle of the gun, and assures
her it is all right now_ -


_Landlady_ (_relieved_). "Ou, aye! it's a' right noo, but it
wasna safe afore, ye ken."]

* * * * *

[Illustration: "A MONARCH OF THE GLEN"

_Transatlantic Millionaire (surveying one of his deer-forests)._
"Ha! look there! I see _three excursionists_! Send 'em to
the - - !"

_Gigantic Gillie (and chucker-out)._ "If you please, Mr.
Dollers, they're _excisemen_!"

_T. M._ "I don't care _who_ they are! Send 'em to
the - - !"

_G. G._ "Yes, Mr. Dollers."

[_Proceeds to carry out order._

]

* * * * *

[Illustration: Sportsman (who declines to be told where to go and
what to do by his gillie), after an arduous stalk in the
blazing sun, at last manages to crawl within close range of
those "brown specks" he discovered miles distant on the
hill-side!]

* * * * *

[Illustration: PROMISING!

_Tourist._ "Have you any decent cigars?"

_Highland Grocer._ "Decent cigars? Ay, here are decent
cigars enough."

_Tourist._ "Are they Havanahs, or Manillas?"

_Highland Grocer._ "They're just from Kircaldy!"]

* * * * *

[Illustration: "THE MISS"

_Gillie._ "Eh, mon! But it's fortunate there's beef in Aberdeen!"]

* * * * *

MR. BRIGGS IN THE HIGHLANDS

_By_ JOHN LEECH

[Illustration: Mr. Briggs, feeling that his heart is in the Highlands
a-chasing the deer, starts for the North.]

[Illustration: Before going out, Mr. Briggs and his friends have a
quiet chat about deer-stalking generally. He listens with much
interest to some pleasing anecdotes about the little incidents
frequently met with - such as balls going through caps - toes being shot
off! - occasionally being gored by the antlers of infuriate stags, &c.,
&c., &c.]

[Illustration: Mr. Briggs, previous to going through his course of
deer-stalking, assists the forester in getting a hart or two for the
house. Donald is requesting our friend to hold the animal down by the
horns.

[N.B. The said animal is as strong as a bull, and uses his legs like
a race-horse.

]

[Illustration: The deer are driven for Mr. Briggs. He has an excellent
place, but what with waiting by himself so long, the murmur of the
stream, the beauty of the scene, and the novelty of the situation, he
falls asleep, and while he takes his forty winks, the deer pass!]

[Illustration: As the wind is favourable, the deer are driven again.]

[Illustration: Mr. Briggs is suddenly face to face with the monarch of
the glen! He is so astonished that he omits to fire his rifle.]

[Illustration: To-day he goes out for a stalk, and Donald shows Mr.
Briggs the way!]

[Illustration: After a good deal of climbing, our friend gets to the top
of Ben-something-or-other, and the forester looks out to see if there
are any deer on the hills. Yes! several hinds, and perhaps the finest
hart that ever was seen.]

[Illustration: To get at him, they are obliged to go a long way round.
Before they get down, the shower, peculiar to the country, overtakes
them, so they "shelter a-wee."]

[Illustration: With extraordinary perseverance they come within shot of
"the finest hart." Mr. B. is out of breath, afraid of slipping, and
wants to blow his nose (quite out of the question), otherwise he is
tolerably comfortable.]

[Illustration: After aiming for a quarter of an hour, Mr. B. fires both
his barrels - and - misses!!!! _Tableau_ - The forester's anguish]

[Illustration: The royal hart Mr. Briggs did NOT hit.]

[Illustration: Mr. Briggs has another day's stalking, and his rifle
having gone off sooner than he expected, he kills a stag. As it is his
first, he is made free of the forest by the process customary on the
hills! - ]

[Illustration: And returns home in triumph. He is a little knocked up,
but after a nap, will, no doubt, go through the broad-sword dance in the
evening as usual.]

[Illustration: MR. BRIGGS GROUSE SHOOTING

9 A.M. His arrival on the moor. - Mr. Briggs says that the fine bracing
air makes him so vigorous that he shall never be beat. He also
facetiously remarks that he is on "his native heath", and that his "name
is Macgregor!"

[_The result of the day's sport will be communicated by electric
telegraph._

]

* * * * *

SKETCHES FROM SCOTLAND

AT THE DRUMQUHIDDER HIGHLAND GATHERING.

SCENE - _A meadow near Drumquhidder, South Perthshire, where the
annual Highland Games are being held. The programme being a long
one, there are generally three events being contested in various
parts of the ground at the same time. On the benches immediately
below the Grand Stand are seated two Drumquhidder worthies_, MR.
PARRITCH _and_ MR. HAVERS, _with_ MRS. McTAVISH _and her niece, two
acquaintances from Glasgow, to whom they are endeavouring - not
altogether successfully - to make themselves agreeable_.

_Mr. Havers_ (_in allusion to the dozen or so of drags, landaus, and
waggonettes on the ground_). There's a number o' machines hier the day,
Messis McTarvish, an' a wonderfu' crood; there'll be a bit scarceness
ower on yon side, but a gey many a'thegither. I conseeder we're jest
awfu' forrtunate in the day an' a'.

[_Mrs. McTavish assents, but without enthusiasm._

_Mr. Parritch._ I've jist ben keekin into the Refraishmen' Tent. It's an
awfu' peety they're no pairmeetin' ony intoaxicans - naethin' but
non-alcohoalic liquors an' sic like, an' the hawm-sawndwiches no verra
tender. (_With gallantry._) What do ye say, noo, Messis McTarvish - wull
ye no come an' tak' a bite wi' me?

_Mrs. McTavish (distantly)._ Ah'm no feelin' able for't jist the noo,
Mester Pairritch.

_Mr. Parr._ Ye'll hae a boatle o' leemonade at my expense? Ye'll no?
Then ye wull, Mess Rawse. (_With relief, as Miss Rose declines also._)
Aweel, I jist thocht I'd pit the quaistion. (_To a friend of his, who
joins them._) An' hoo's a' wi' ye, Mester McKerrow? Ye're a member o'
the Cawmittee, I obsairve, sae I'll hae to keck up a bet row wi' ye.

_Mr. McKerrow (unconcernedly)._ Then ye'll jist to hae to keck it doon
again. What's wrang the noo?

_Mr. Parr._ I'd like to ask ye if ye conseeder it fair or jest to
charrge us tippence every time we'd go aff the groon? Man, it's jist an
extoartion.

_Mr. McKerr._ I'm no responsible for't; but, if I'd ben there, I'd ha'
chairged ye twa shellins; sae ye'd better say nae mair aboot the
maitter.

[_Mr. Parritch does not pursue the subject._

_Mr. Havers (as a detachment of the Black Watch Highlanders conclude an
exhibition of musical drill)._ Ye'll be the baiter o' haeing the Block
Wetch hier the day. Man, they gie us a colour! It's verra pretty hoo
nicely they can pairforrm the drill.... An' noo them sojers is gaun to
rin a bet race amang theirsels. This'll be an extry cawmpeteetion, I
doot. (_As the race is being run._) It's no a verra suitable dress for
rinnin' - the spleughan - or "sporran", is it? - hairrts them tairible.

_Mr. McKerr. (contradictiously)._ The sporran does na hairrt them at a'.

_Mr. Havers._ Man, it's knockin' against them at every stride they tak'.
(_His attention wanders to a Highland Fling, which three small boys are
dancing on a platform opposite._) He's an awfu' bonnie dauncer that wee
laddie i' the meddle!

_Mr. McKerr._ Na sae awfu' bonnie, he luiks tae much at his taes. Yon on
the richt is the laddie o' the lote! He disna move his boady at a'....
This'll be the Half Mile Handicap they're stairting for down yonder.
It'll gae to Jock Alister - him in the blue breeks.

_Mr. Parr._ Yon grup-luikin' tyke? I canna thenk it.

_Mr. Havers._ Na, it'll be yon bald-heided man in broon. He's verra
enthusiastic. He's ben rinnin' in a' the races, I obsairve. "Smeth" did
ye say his neem was? (_To Miss Rose, "pawkily"._) Ye'll hae an
affaictionate regaird for that neem, I'm thenking, Mess Rawse?

_Miss Rose (with maidenly displeasure)._ 'Deed, an I'm no unnerstanding
why ye should thenk ony sic a thing!

_Mr. Havers (abashed)._ I beg your pairrdon. I don't know hoo it was I
gethered Smeth was your ain neem. (_Miss Rose shakes her head._) No?
Then maybe ye'll be acquaint with a Mester Alexawnder Smeth fro'
Paisley? (_Miss Rose is not, nor apparently desires to be, and Mr.
Havers returns to the foot-race._) The baldheid's leadin' them a', I
tellt ye he'd - - Na, he's gien up! it'll be the little block fellow,
he's peckin' up tairible!

_Mr. Parr._ 'Twull no be him. Yon lang chap has an easy jobe o't. Ye'll
see he'll jist putt a spairrt on at yon faur poast - he's comin' on
noo - he's.... Losh! he's only thirrd after a'; he didna putt the spairrt
on sune eneugh; that was the gran' fau't he made!

_Mr. Havers._ They'll be begenning the wrustling oot yon in the
centre....(_As the competitors grip._) Losh! that's no the way to
wrustle; they shouldna left the ither up; they're no allowed to threp!

_Mr. McKerr._ That's jist the game, I'm telling ye; ye know naething at
a' aboot it!

[Illustration: "That's jist the game, I'm telling ye; ye know naething
at a' aboot it!"]

_Mr. Havers._ I'd sthruggle baiter'n that mysel', it's no great
wrustling at a', merely bairrns' play!

_Mr. McKerr (as a corpulent elderly gentleman appears, in very pink
tights)._ Ye'll see some science noo, for hier's McBannock o'
Balwhuskie, the chawmpion.

_Mr. Havers (disenchanted)._ Wull yon be him in the penk breeks. Man,
but he's awfu' stoot for sic wark!

_Mr. McKerr._ The wecht of him's no easy put doon. The rest are boys to
him.

_Mr. Parr._ I doot the little dairk fellow'll hae him ... it's a gey
sthruggle.

_Mr. McKerr._ He's not doon yet. Wull ye bait sexpence against
McBannock, Mester Pairritch?

_Mr. Parr. (promptly)._ Aye, wull I - na, he's got the dairk mon doon. I
was jist mindin' the sword-daunce, sae the bait's aff. (_Three men in
full Highland costume step upon the platform and stand, proud and
impassive, fronting the grand stand, while the judges walk round them,
making careful notes of their respective points._) What wull _they_ be
aboot?

_Mr. McKerr._ It'll be the prize for the mon who's the best dressed
Hielander at his ain expense. I'm thenkin' they'll find it no verra easy
to come to a deceesion.

_Mr. Parr._ Deed, it's no sae deeficult; 'twill be the mon in the
centre, sure as deith!

_Mr. Havers._ Ye say that because he has a' them gowd maidles hing on
his jocket!

_Mr. Parr_. (_loftily_). I pay no attention to the maidles at a'. I'm
sayin' that Dougal Macrae is the best dressed Hielander o' the three.

_Mr. Havers._ It'll no be Macrae at a'. Jock McEwan, that's furthest
west, 'll be the mon.

_Mr. Parr._ (_dogmatically_). It'll be Macrae, I'm tellin' ye. He has
the nicest kelt on him that iver I sa'!

_Mr. Havers._ It's no the _kelt_ that diz it, 'tis jist the way they pit
it on. An' Macrae'll hae his tae faur doon, a guid twa enches too low,
it is.

_Mr. Parr._ Ye're a' wrang, the kelt is on richt eneugh!

_Mr. Havers._ I know fine hoo a kelt should be pit an, though I'm no
Hielander mysel', and I'll ask ye, Mess Rawse, if Dougal Macrae's kelt
isn't too lang; it's jist losin his knees a' thegither, like a lassie he
looks in it!

[_Miss Rose declines, with some stiffness, to express an opinion on
so delicate a point._

_Mr. Parr. (recklessly)._ I'll pit a sexpence on Macrae wi' ye, come
noo!

_Mr. Havers._ Na, na, pit cawmpetent jedges on to deceede, and they'll
be o' my opeenion; but I'll no bait wi' ye.

_Mr. Parr. (his blood up)._ Then I'll hae a sexpence on 't wi you,
Mester McKerrow!

_Mr. McKerr._ Nay, I'm for Macrae mysel'.... An' we're baith in the
richt o't too, for they've jist gien him the bit red flag - that means
he's got firsst prize.

_Mr. Parr. (to Mr. Havers, with reproach)._ Man, if ye'd hed the speerit
o' your opeenions, I'd ha' won sexpence aff ye by noo!

_Mr. Havers (obstinately)._ I canna thenk but that Macrae's kelt was too
lang - prize or no prize. I'll be telling him when I see him that he
looked like a lassie in it.

_Mr. Parr. (with concern)._ I wouldna jist advise ye to say ony sic a
thing to him. These Hielanders are awfu' prood; and he micht tak' it gey
ill fro' ye!

_Mr. Havers._ I see nae hairrm mysel' in jist tellin' him, in a
pleesant, daffin-like way, that he looked like a lassie in his kelt. But
there's nae tellin' hoo ye may offend some fowk; an' I'm thenking it's
no sae verra prawbable that I'll hae the oaportunity o' saying onything
aboot the maitter to him.

* * * * *

AWKWARD FOR HIM. - _Tam._ "I'm sayin', man, my cairt o' hay's fa'en ower.
Will ye gie 's a haund up wi' 't?" _Jock._ "'Deed will I. But ye'll be
in nae hurry till I get tae the end o' the raw?" _Tam._ "Ou no. I'm in
nae hurry, but I doot my faither 'll be wearyin'." _Jock._ "An' whaur's
yer faither?" _Tam._ "He's in below the hay!"

* * * * *

[Illustration: "MISTAKEN IDENTITY"

SCENE - _Northern Meeting at Inverness._ PERSONS REPRESENTED - Ian Gorm
_and_ Dougald Mohr, _gillies_. Mr. Smith, _of London_.

_First Gillie._ "Wull yon be the MacWhannel, Ian Gorm?"

_Second ditto._ "No!! Hes nae-um is Muster Smuth! And he ahl-ways wears
the kult - and it is foohl that you aar, Tougalt Mohr!!"]

* * * * *

[Illustration: (LOCH) FYNE GRAMMAR

(_A Sad Fact for the School Board_)

_Tugal._ "Dud ye'll ever see the _I-oo-na_ any more before?"

_Tonal._ "Surely I was."

_Tugal._ "Ay, ay! Maybe you was never on poard too, after thus - - "

_Tonal._ "I dud."]

* * * * *

[Illustration: NON BEN (LOMOND) TROVATO.


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