CHAP. xvir. RHYME OF THE BLUE BELLS. 281 



letter. Dick again exercised his rhyming faculties on his 

 friend Peach. " As for mysel," he said, " should any- 

 body speer for me at Aberdeen, you may say that I am 

 quite merry, singing like a cricket over those dried 

 plants that Sir Koderick has sent me. Listen a minute : 



0, will ye gang oot owre the moor ? 



0, will ye gang wi' me, Rory ? 

 To while awa' a weary hour ; 

 I'm sure I'd gang wi' ye, Rory. 



We'll wander 'mang the heather knowes, 



Their bonnie bells to pu', Rory ! 

 An' where the purple fox-glove grows, 



His stately grace to view, Rory ! 



0, will ye gang oot owre the moor, etc. 



How lightly would I clim' the hills 



To gather thyme wi' ye, Rory ! 

 And seek the wild flowers by the rills, 



As blithely as a bee, Rory ! 



0, will ye gang oot owre the moor, etc. 



See what it is to get a good crop of hay ! I'm just as 

 happy as a beggar ; and, like Tarn o' Shanter, ' owre a' 

 the ills o' life victorious ! ' " 



