visit me. They alighted and remained in our cottage for a space better
than an hour, and my mother chanted the ballad of Old Maitlan' to them,
with which Mr. Scott was highly delighted. I had sent him a copy, (not a
very perfect one, as I found afterwards, from the singing of another
Laidlaw,) but I thought Mr. Scott had some dread of a part being forged,
that had been the cause of his journey into the wilds of Ettrick. When he
heard my mother sing it he was quite satisfied, and I remember he asked
her if she thought it had ever been printed, and her answer was, "Oo, na,
na, sir, it was never printed i' the world, for my brothers an' me learned
it frae auld Andrew Moor, an' he learned it, an' mony mae, frae are auld
Baby Mettlin, that was housekeeper to the first laird o' Tushilaw."

"Then that must be a very auld story, indeed, Margaret," said he.

"Ay, it is that! It is an auld story! But mair nor that, except George
Warton and James Steward, there was never ane o' my sangs prentit till ye
prentit them yoursell, an' ye hae spoilt them a'thegither. They war made
for singing, an' no for reading; and they're neither right spelled nor
right setten down."

"Heh--heh--heh! Take ye that, Mr. Scott," said Laidlaw.

Mr. Scott answered by a hearty laugh, and the recital of a verse, but I
have forgot what it was, and my mother gave him a rap on the knee with her
open hand, and said, "It was true enough, for a' that."

We were all to dine at Ramseycleuch with the Messrs. Brydon, but Mr. Scott
and Mr. Laidlaw went away to look at something before dinner, and I was to
follow. On going into the stable-yard at Ramseycleuch I met with Mr.
Scott's liveryman, a far greater original than his master, whom I asked if