w has termed vagrants. The history of Richard Coeur de Lion and his
minstrel, Blondel, rushed, at the same time, on my mind, though I
could not even then suppress a smile at the dignity of the example when
applied to a blind fiddler and myself. Still there was something in all
this to awaken a hope that, if I could open a correspondence with
this poor violer, he might be useful in extricating me from my present
situation.

His profession furnished me with some hope that this desired
communication might be attained; since it is well known that, in
Scotland, where there is so much national music, the words and airs
of which are generally known, there is a kind of freemasonry amongst
performers, by which they can, by the mere choice of a tune, express
a great deal to the hearers. Personal allusions are often made in this
manner, with much point and pleasantry; and nothing is more usual at
public festivals, than that the air played to accompany a particular
health or toast, is made the vehicle of compliment, of wit, and
sometimes of satire. [Every one must remember instances of this festive
custom, in which the adaptation of the tune to the toast was remarkably
felicitous. Old Neil Gow, and his son Nathaniel, were peculiarly happy
on such occasions.]

While these things passed through my mind rapidly, I heard my friend
beneath recommence, for the third time, the air from which his own
name had been probably adopted, when he was interrupted by his rustic
auditors.

'If thou canst play no other spring but that, mon, ho hadst best put up
ho's pipes and be jogging. Squoire will be back anon, or Master Nixon,
and we'll see who will pay poiper then.'

Oho, thought I, if I have no sharper ears than those of my friends Jan
and Dorcas to encounter, I may venture an experiment upon them; and, as
most expressive of my state of captivity, I sang two or three lines of
the 137th Psalm--

By Babel's streams we sat and wept.

The country people listened with attention, and when I ceased, I heard
them whisper together in tones of commiseration, 'Lack-a-day, poor soul!
so pretty a man to be beside his wits!'

'An he be that gate,' said Wandering Willie, in a tone calculated to
reach my ears, 'I ken naething will raise his spirits like a spring.'
And he struck up, with great vigour and spirit, the lively Scottish air,
the words of which instantly occurred to me--

Oh whistle and I'll come t'ye, my lad,
Oh whistle and I'll com