between us and home interfered with the enjoyment of the hour.

After supper, which was enlivened by simple chat about the crops and
the doings on the farm, James turned to me, and said:

"Haven't you got a song or a ballad to give us, Ranald? I know you're
always getting hold of such things."

I had expected this; for, every time I went, I tried to have something
to repeat to them. As I could not sing, this was the nearest way in
which I might contribute to the evening's entertainment. Elsie was
very fond of ballads, and I could hardly please her better than by
bringing a new one with me. But in default of that, an old one or a
story would be welcomed. My reader must remember that there were very
few books to be had then in that part of the country, and therefore
any mode of literature was precious. The schoolmaster was the chief
source from which I derived my provision of this sort. On the present
occasion, I was prepared with a ballad of his. I remember every word
of it now, and will give it to my readers, reminding them once more
how easy it is to skip it, if they do not care for that kind of thing.

"Bonny lassie, rosy lassie,
Ken ye what is care?
Had ye ever a thought, lassie,
Made yer hertie sair?"

Johnnie said it, Johnnie luikin'
Into Jeannie's face;
Seekin' in the garden hedge
For an open place.

"Na," said Jeannie, saftly smilin',
"Nought o' care ken I;
For they say the carlin'
Is better passit by."

"Licht o' hert ye are, Jeannie,
As o' foot and ban'!
Lang be yours sic answer
To ony spierin' man."

"I ken what ye wad hae, sir,
Though yer words are few;
Ye wad hae me aye as careless,
Till I care for you."

"Dinna mock me, Jeannie, lassie,
Wi' yer lauchin' ee;
For ye hae nae notion
What gaes on in me."

"No more I hae a notion
O' what's in yonder cairn;
I'm no sae pryin', Johnnie,
It's none o' my concern."

"Well, there's ae thing, Jeannie,
Ye canna help, my doo--
Ye canna help me carin'
Wi' a' my hert for you."

Johnnie turned and left her,
Listed for the war;
In a year cam' limpin'
Hame wi' mony a scar.

Wha was that was sittin'
Wan and worn wi' care?
Could it be his Jeannie
Aged and alter'd sair?

Her goon was black, her eelids
Reid wi' sorrow's dew:
Could she in a twalmonth
Be wife and widow too?

Jeannie's hert gaed wallop,
Ken 't him whan he spak':
"I thocht that ye was deid, Johnnie:
Is't yersel' come back?"

"O