-In the course of the winter it was his custom to
beat, "Go to bed, Tom," about ten o'clock at night, and the reveille at
five in the morning.--In one of his drunken fits he made a mistake, and
instead of going his rounds as usual at ten o'clock, he had fallen asleep
in a change house, and waking about the midnight hour in the terror of
some whisky dream, he seized his drum, and running into the streets,
began to strike the fire-beat in the most awful manner.

It was a fine clear frosty moonlight, and the hollow sound of the drum
resounded through the silent streets like thunder.--In a moment every
body was a-foot, and the cry of "Whar is't? whar's the fire?" was heard
echoing from all sides.--Robin, quite unconscious that he alone was the
cause of the alarm, still went along beating the dreadful summons. I
heard the noise and rose; but while I was drawing on my stockings, in the
chair at the bed-head, and telling Mrs Pawkie to compose herself, for our
houses were all insured, I suddenly recollected that Robin had the night
before neglected to go his rounds at ten o'clock as usual, and the
thought came into my head that the alarm might be one of his inebriated
mistakes; so, instead of dressing myself any further, I went to the
window, and looked out through the glass, without opening it, for, being
in my night clothes, I was afraid of taking cold.

The street was as throng as on a market day, and every face in the
moonlight was pale with fear.--Men and lads were running with their
coats, and carrying their breeches in their hands; wives and maidens were
all asking questions at one another, and even lasses were fleeing to and
fro, like water nymphs with urns, having stoups and pails in their
hands.--There was swearing and tearing of men, hoarse with the rage of
impatience, at the tolbooth, getting out the fire-engine from its stance
under the stair; and loud and terrible afar off, and over all, came the
peal of alarm from drunken Robin's drum.

I could scarcely keep my composity when I beheld and heard all this, for
I was soon thoroughly persuaded of the fact. At last I saw Deacon
Girdwood, the chief advocate and champion of Robin, passing down the
causey like a demented man, with a red nightcap, and his big-coat on--for
some had cried that the fire was in his yard.--"Deacon," cried I, opening
the window, forgetting in the jocularity of the moment the risk I ran
from being so naked, "whar away sae fast, deacon?"

Th