ndy was sweengin' aboot in his seat,
like's he was learnin' the velocipede, an' takin' a lang breath ilky
noo-an'-than, an' sayin', "Imphm; ay, man; juist that." He riffed when
the lassies sat doon, till ye wud thocht he wudda haen his hands
blistered; but I think he was gled o' onything to do, juist to lat him
get himsel' gien vent.

When the koir startit to sing aboot Willie Wastle, Sandy nickered awa'
like a noo-spain'd foal, an' aye when they cam' to the henmist line o'
the verse he gae me a prog i' the ribs wi' his elba, as much as to say,
"That's ane for you, Bawbie!" But I watched him, an' at the henmist
verse, when they said terriple quick, "I wudna gie a button for her," I
juist edged alang a bittie, an' Sandy's elba missin', he juist exakly
landit pargeddis in a fisherwife's lap that was sittin' ahent's. There
was plenty o' lauchin' an' clappin' whaur we was, I can tell ye.

I likeit "Scots wha hae," an' the "Macgregor's Gaitherin'." I thocht
yon was juist grand. When they were singin' "Scots wha hae," Sandy
glowered a' roond aboot him like's he wudda likeit to ken if onybody
wantit a fecht. What a soond there was at the strong bits. The feint
a ane o' me kens whaur yon men an' weemin' get a' yon soond. At some
o' the lines o' the "Macgregor's Gaitherin'" it was like the wind
thunderin' doon Glen Tanner, or the Rooshyan guns at Sebastypool. I
cudna help frae notisin' hoo it garred a'body sit straucht up. When
yon lassie was singin' sae bonnie, "John Anderson, my Jo," a' the
fowk's heids were hingin'; but at "Scots wha hae" they sat up like life
gairds, and ilky body near me lookit like's it wudna be cannie speakin'
to them.

There was ae thing they sang that wasna on the programme that I thocht
awfu' muckle o'. It was something aboot "Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!" Ane
o' the lassies sang a bit hersel' here an' there, an' eh, what splendid
it was. She gaed up an' doon amon' the notes juist like forkit
lichtnin', an her voice rang oot as clear as a bell. It was raley
something terriple pritty. When she feenished ye wudda thocht the fowk
was genna ding doon the hoose. "Man, that raley snecks a' green thing;
it fair cowps the cairt ower onything ever I heard," says Sandy, gien
his nose a dicht wi' the back o' his hand. "That dame has raley a
grand pipe; ye wud winder whaur she fand room for a' the wind she maun
need." A foll curn fowk startit to the lauchin' when Sandy said this;
but, faigs, mind ye