"Shame, goodman," said the landlady, a blithe, bustling housewife,
hastening herself to suply the guest with liquor--"Thou knowest well
enow what the strange man wants, and it's thy trade to be a civil man.
Thou shouldest know, that if the Scot likes a small pot, he pays a
sure penny."

Without taking any notice of this nuptial dialogue, the Highlander
took the flagon in his hand, and, addressing the company generally,
drank the interesting toast of "Good markets," to the party assembled.

"The better that the wind blew fewer dealers from the north," said one
of the farmers, and fewer Highland runts to eat up the English
meadows."

"Soul of my pody, put you are wrang there, my friend," answered Robin,
with composure, "it is your fat Englishmen that eat up our Scots
cattle, puir things."

"I wish there was a summat to eat up their drovers," said another;
"a plain Englishman canna make bread within a kenning of them."

"Or an honest servant keep his master's favour, but they will come
sliding in between him and the sunshine," said the bailiff.

"If these pe jokes," said Robin Oig, with the same composure, "there
is ower mony jokes upon one man."

"It is no joke, but downright earnest," said the bailiff. "Harkye,
Mr. Robin Ogg, or whatever is your name, it's right we should tell you
that we are all of one opinion, and that is, that you, Mr. Robin Ogg,