parallel was opened (as was made to appear) by accident. The talk

fell, as it did often, on the exiles in France; so it glided to the

matter of their songs.

"There is one," says the Master, "if you are curious in these

matters, that has always seemed to me very moving. The poetry is

harsh; and yet, perhaps because of my situation, it has always

found the way to my heart. It is supposed to be sung, I should

tell you, by an exile's sweetheart; and represents perhaps, not so

much the truth of what she is thinking, as the truth of what he

hopes of her, poor soul! in these far lands." And here the Master

sighed, "I protest it is a pathetic sight when a score of rough

Irish, all common sentinels, get to this song; and you may see, by

their falling tears, how it strikes home to them. It goes thus,

father," says he, very adroitly taking my lord for his listener,

"and if I cannot get to the end of it, you must think it is a

common case with us exiles." And thereupon he struck up the same

air as I had heard the Colonel whistle; but now to words, rustic

indeed, yet most pathetically setting forth a poor girl's

aspirations for an exiled lover; of which one verse indeed (or

something like it) still sticks by me:-

O, I will dye my petticoat red,

With my dear boy I'll beg my bread,

Though all my friends should wish me dead,

For Willie among the rushes, O!

He sang it well, even as a song; but he did better yet a performer.

I have heard famous actors, when there was not a dry eye in the

Edinburgh theatre; a great wonder to behold; but no more wonderful

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