the occasion was "jist an auspicious
consummation-like."

There were several other speakers besides the minister and Store
Thompson, and each made the kindliest allusions to both bride and
groom; but, like the true Scots they were, carefully refrained from
paying compliments. There were songs and stories, too, stirring
Scottish choruses, and tales of the early days and of the great doings
in the homeland. Then Big Malcolm's Farquhar, who had long ago come to
regard himself in the light of the old itinerant bards, sang, like
Chibiabos, to make the wedding guests more contented. He had but a
single English song in his repertoire, one which he rendered with much
pride, and only on state occasions. This was a flowery love-lyric,
entitled "The Grave of Highland Mary," and was Farquhar's one tribute
to the despised Burns. It consisted of a half-dozen lengthy stanzas,
each followed by a still lengthier refrain, and was sung to an ancient
and erratic air that rose and fell like the wail of the winter winds in
the bare treetops. The venerable minstrel sang with much fervour, and
only in the last stanza did the swelling notes subside in any
noticeable degree. This was not because the melancholy words demanded,
but because the singer was rather out of breath. So he sang with some
breathless hesitation:

"Yet the green simmer saw but a few sunny mornings
Till she, in the bloom of her beauty and pride,
Was laid in her grave like a bonnie young flower
In Greenock kirkyard on the banks of the Clyde."

But, when he found himself launched once more upon the familiar
refrain, he rallied his powers and sang out loudly and joyfully:

"Then bring me the lilies and bring me the roses,
And bring me the daisies that grow in the dale,
And bring me the dew of the mild summer evening,
And bring me the breath of the sweet-scented gale;
And bring me the sigh of a fond lover's bosom,
And bring me the tear of a fond lover's e'e,
And I'll pour them a' doon on thy grave, Highland Mary,
For the sake o' thy Burns who sae dearly loved thee!"

It did not seem the kind of song exactly suited to a hymeneal feast,
but everyone listened respectfully until the old man had wavered
through to the end and called, for the last time, for the lilies, the
roses and the daisies; and before he had time to start another Fiddlin'
Archie struck up "Scots Wha Hae," and the whole company joined.

When everyone, even to the last wa