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There was nawthing in sicht, nawthing to mar the glories of the morn. 'Can A' be mistaken? asks Tam. 'Noo! A thoosand times noo! an' wi' these fatefu' wairds, he began his peerilous climb. Maircifu' Heavens! What's yon? 'Tis the mad Muller! Sweeft as the eagle fa'ing upon his prey, fa's MacMuller, a licht o' joy in his een, his bullets twangin' like hairp-strings.
"In the middle o' the night the rain kem down, An' gin the corn a fraish start out'n the ground, An' I thought nex' day ez I stood in the door, That sassy bug mus' be drownded sure! But thar war Goggle-eyes, peart an' gay, Twangin' an' a-tunin' up 'Now, dance away! Ye may sarch night an' day ez a constancy An' ye won't find a fiddler sech ez me! Sech ez me! Sech ez ME!"
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