The pride of birth, therefore, was like the miser's treasure--the secret subject of his contemplation, but never exhibited to strangers as a subject of boasting.
Many were the words of gratulation and good-luck which were bestowed on Robin Oig.

The judges commended his drove, especially Robin's own property, which were the best of them.

Some thrust out their snuff-mulls for the parting pinch, others tendered the DOCH-AN-DORRACH, or parting cup.

All cried, "Good-luck travel out with you and come home with you.
Give you luck in the Saxon market--brave notes in the LEABHAR-DHU," (black pocket-book), "and plenty of English gold in the SPORRAN" (pouch of goat-skin).
The bonny lasses made their adieus more modestly, and more than one, it was said, would have given her best brooch to be certain that it was upon her that his eye last rested as he turned towards the road.
Robin Oig had just given the preliminary "HOO-HOO!" to urge forward the loiterers of the drove, when there was a cry behind him:-- "Stay, Robin--bide a blink.

Here is Janet of Tomahourich--auld Janet, your father's sister." "Plague on her, for an auld Highland witch and spaewife," said a farmer from the Carse of Stirling; "she'll cast some of her cantrips on the cattle." "She canna do that," said another sapient of the same profession.