The Baron of Bradwardine sung French chansons-a-boire, and spouted pieces of Latin; Killancureit talked, in a steady unalterable dull key, of top-dressing and bottom-dressing, [Footnote: This has been censured as an anachronism; and it must be confessed that agriculture of this kind was unknown to the Scotch Sixty Years Since.] and year-olds, and gimmers, and dinmonts, and stots, and runts, and kyloes, and a proposed turnpike-act; while Balmawhapple, in notes exalted above both, extolled his horse, his hawks, and a greyhound called Whistler.

In the middle of this din, the Baron repeatedly implored silence; and when at length the instinct of polite discipline so far prevailed that for a moment he obtained it, he hastened to beseech their attention 'unto a military ariette, which was a particular favourite of the Marechal Duc de Berwick'; then, imitating, as well as he could, the manner and tone of a French musquetaire, he immediately commenced,-- Mon coeur volage, dit elle, N'est pas pour vous, garcon; Est pour un homme de guerre, Qui a barbe au menton.
Lon, Lon, Laridon.
Qui port chapeau a plume, Soulier a rouge talon, Qui joue de la flute, Aussi du violon.
Lon, Lon, Laridon.
Balmawhapple could hold no longer, but broke in with what he called a d--d good song, composed by Gibby Gaethroughwi't, the piper of Cupar; and, without wasting more time, struck up,-- It's up Glenbarchan's braes I gaed, And o'er the bent of Killiebraid, And mony a weary cast I made, To cuittle the moor-fowl's tail.
[Footnote: Suum cuique.

This snatch of a ballad was composed by Andrew MacDonald, the ingenious and unfortunate author of Vimonda.] The Baron, whose voice was drowned in the louder and more obstreperous strains of Balmawhapple, now dropped the competition, but continued to hum 'Lon, Lon, Laridon,' and to regard the successful candidate for the attention of the company with an eye of disdain, while Balmawhapple proceeded,-- If up a bonny black-cock should spring, To whistle him down wi' a slug in his wing, And strap him on to my lunzie string, Right seldom would I fail.
After an ineffectual attempt to recover the second verse, he sung the first over again; and, in prosecution of his triumph, declared there was 'more sense in that than in all the derry-dongs of France, and Fifeshire to the boot of it.' The Baron only answered with a long pinch of snuff and a glance of infinite contempt.

But those noble allies, the Bear and the Hen, had emancipated the young laird from the habitual reverence in which he held Bradwardine at other times.

He pronounced the claret shilpit, and demanded brandy with great vociferation.