Good night and joy be wi’ ye a’, For here nae langer maun I stay; There’s neither friend nor foe, of mine But wishes that I were away.
It appeared that Willie’s powers of intelligence were much more active than mine, and that, like a deaf person accustomed to be spoken to by signs, he comprehended, from the very first notes, the whole meaning I intended to convey; and he accompanied me in the air with his violin, in such a manner as at once to show he understood my meaning, and to prevent my whistling from being attended to.
His reply was almost immediate, and was conveyed in the old martial air of ‘Hey, Johnnie lad, cock up your beaver.’ I ran over the words, and fixed on the following stanza, as most applicable to my circumstances:--
Cock up your beaver, and cock it fu’ sprush; We’ll over the Border and give them a brush; There’s somebody there we’ll teach better behaviour, Hey, Johnnie lad, cock up your beaver.
If these sounds alluded, as I hope they do, to the chance of assistance from my Scottish friends, I may indeed consider that a door is open to hope and freedom. I immediately replied with:--
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart’s in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer; A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands! farewell to the North! The birth-place of valour, the cradle of worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
Willie instantly played, with a degree of spirit which might have awakened hope in Despair herself, if Despair could be supposed to understand Scotch music, the fine old Jacobite air,
For a’ that, and a’ that, And twice as much as a’ that.
I next endeavoured to intimate my wish to send notice of my condition to my friends; and, despairing to find an air sufficiently expressive of my purpose, I ventured to sing a verse, which, in various forms, occurs so frequently in old ballads--
Whare will I get a bonny boy That will win hose and shoon: That will gae down to Durisdeer, And bid my merry men come?
He drowned the latter part of the verse by playing, with much emphasis,
Of this, though I ran over the verses of the song in my mind, I could make nothing; and before I could contrive any mode of intimating my uncertainty, a cry arose in the courtyard that Cristal Nixon was coming. My faithful Willie was obliged to retreat; but not before he had half played, half hummed, by way of farewell,