"Fusht, fusht, fallow," cried ane o' the churls, "nane o' your bourds wi' us, or ye may like to be the waur aff; where is the faus loon? we saw him gae doun the loaning afore the shealing, and here he maun needs be."
"Aweel, sirs," I exclaimed, "ye see there isna ony creatur here, our nainsell's out-taken; seek again an ye winna creed a bodie; may be the bogle is jumpit into the pot on the rundle-tree ower the ingle, or creepit into the meal ark or aiblins it scoupit thro' the hole as ye cam in at the door. Ye may threep and threep and wampish your arms abute, as muckle as ye wuss, ye silly gowks, I canna tell ye mair an I wad."
"May be the Highland tyke is right, cummer, (said one o' the red coats) and the fallow is jumpit thro' the bole, but harkye maister gudeman, an ye hae ony mair o' your barns-breaking wi us, ye'se get a sark fu' o' sair banes, that's a'."
"Hear till him, hear till him, Janet," said I, as the twa southron chiels gaed thro' the hole, trailing their bagganets alang wi' 'em; "winna the puir tykes hae an unco saft couch o' it, think ye, luckie, O 'tis a gude sight for sair e'en to see 'em foundering and powtering i' the latch o' the bit bog aneath."
"Nane o' your clashes e'enow, gudemon," said she, "but let the callant abune gang his gate while he may."
"Ye're aye cute, dame," I cried, thrawing the bit gy abune, and in a gliffing, doun jumpit the chiel, and a braw chiel he was sure enough, siccan my auld e'en sall ne'er see again, wi' his brent brow and buirdly bowk wrappit in a tartan plaid, wi' a Highland kilt.
"May the gude God o' heaven sain you," he said "and ferd you for aye, for the braw deed ye hae dreed the day; tak' this wee ring, gudemon, and tak' ye this ane, gudewife, and when ye look on this and on that, I rede ye render up are prayer to him abune for the weal o' Charles Edward, your unfortunate prince."
Sae speaking, he sped rath frae the bield, and was sune lost i' the glunch shadows o' the mirk night.
Mony and mony a day has since rollit ower me, and I am now but a dour carle, whose auld pow the roll o' time hath blanched; my bonnie Janet is gone to her last hame, lang syne, my bairns hae a' fa'en kemping for their king and country, and I ainly am left like a withered auld trunk, waiting heaven's gude time when I sall be laid i' the mouls wi' my forbears.