164 COUNTRY ESSAYS. 



" Out spak the bride's mither, 



' What deil needs a' this pride ? 

 I had na a plack in my pouch 



The night I was a bride ; 

 My gown was linsey-woolsey, 



And ne'er a sark ava' ; 

 And ye hae ribbons and buskins, 

 Mae than ane or twa.' " 



At all events, these are pleasant dreams of what is going on in 

 Assynt in November, when inns are closed, tourists unknown, 

 every mountain smothered in snow, and the mail-cart, that 

 with difficulty winds along the road at their base, to deliver the 

 few letters that in winter cheer the natives, always has a saddle 

 under the seat, so that when the driver is stopped (as not un- 

 frequently happens) by snow-drifts, he may mount the horse, 

 put the bag on his saddle-bow, and abandoning the " machine " 

 till better times, make his way, half-frozen, to the nearest 

 clachan for shelter. So we invariably stopped at Altnoi during 

 our sojourn in the strath, and after a decent interval, un- 

 suspected, went on watching Ronald's lips move, and helped by 

 Clough to interpret their sentiment : 



" Stan leaf, caleg Looach ! " 



" That was the Gaelic, it seemed, for ' I bid you farewell,, 

 bonnie lassie ! ' " (The Bothy of Tober-na- Vuolich}. And then 

 we mischievously whistled, hoping that Ronald did not know 

 the Lowland song 



" Alas ! my son, you little know 



The sorrows that from wedlock flow. 



Farewell to every day of ease, 



When you have gotten a wife to please ! 

 Sae bide you yet, and bide you yet, 

 Ye little ken what's to betide you yet ; 

 The half of that will gang you get, 

 If a wayward wife obtain you yet ! " 



With which Sutherlandshire idyll our reminiscences of Assynt 

 may well end. 



