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"Yas'm, he has done all dat," agreed Jennie, "but he ain' done nothin' yet so bad I couldn't live wid him." Andy Donaldson, a well-known character of Glasgow, lay on his deathbed. "I canna' leave ye thus, Nancy," the old Scotsman wailed. "Ye're ower auld to work, an' ye couldna' live in the workhoose. Gin I dee, ye maun marry anither man, wha'll keep ye in comfort in yer auld age."
"These situations are a little awkward for the moment," he added, smiling slightly. "Mighty nice of you, Old Top!" Toomey shook hands with him. "Lemme buy you somethin'. Wha'll you have?" The stranger declined and thanked him. Mrs. Toomey expressed her gratitude incoherently. "You must leave your name and address; we'll mail you a check to-morrow." "I always stay at the Auditorium.
Wallace and Jean Black were seated beside her knitting. "Wha'll they be, noo?" soliloquised Mrs. Black. "Maybe prisoners taken at Bothwell Brig," suggested Mrs. Wallace. Jean started, dropped her knitting, and said in a low, anxious voice, as she gazed earnestly at the procession, "If if it's them, uncle Andrew an' an' the others may be amang them!"
When folk don't want to live when they've nothing to be happy aboot they are better to dee!" "But you maunna talk like that, Mysie," he said again. "You'll get better yet, an' be as happy as ever you were. It is only because you are ill noo an' you sae weak, that mak's you talk like that. An' forby you maun mind that there are ither folk wha'll be vexed if you dinna get better.
"Jist gie me a wun' an' I'll show ye wha'll be the Champion," he replied, and he had some reason for the implied confidence in himself, for he knew Muirfield very well, and no one had better knowledge of how to play the strokes properly there when there was a gale blowing over the course, and pulling and slicing were constantly required.
'Come through the heather, around him gather, Come Ronald, come Donald, come a'thegither, And crown your rightfu', lawfu' king, For wha'll be king but Charlie? I hope that those in authority will never attempt to convene a Peace Congress in Edinburgh, lest the influence of the Castle be too strong for the delegates.
The Marine Band, however, is always ordered from the Navy Yard and stationed in the spacious front hall, from whence they swell the rich saloons of the palace with 'Hail to the Chief! 'Wha'll be King but Charley? and other humdrum airs, which ravish with delight the ears of warriors who have never smelt powder.
Well, the mornin' ye came back frae Charleston, she was lyin' white an' still on the pillow. She hadna spoke a' through the nicht, an' we a' thocht she wad speak nae mair but at six o'clock yir train blew afore it came into the station. An' wee Issie stirred on the pillow. Her lips moved an' I pit doon my ear. "'He'll be on that train, she whispered low. 'Wha'll be on the train? I askit her.
We see him flitting about Europe from time to time, landing here and there on the British Coast until when finally defeated at "Culloden Moor," 1746, this wraith of the House of Stuart disappears dying obscurely in Rome; and "Wha'll be King but Charlie," and "Over the Water to Charlie," linger only as the echo of a lost cause.
"Yon nook's aye ahint," said she. She swept the sea once more with her glass, then brought it together with a click, and jumped off the stool. Her quick intelligence viewed the matter differently from all the others. "Noow," cried she, smartly, "wha'll lend me his yawl?" "Hets! dinna be sae interferin', lassie," said a fishwife.
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