"Now I vow," exclaimed a wandering piper, "by mine own honoured
instrument, and by all other instruments that ever yielded music for the
joy and delight of mankind, that there are more bonnie songs made about
fair Phemie Irving than about all other dames of Annandale, and many of
them are both high and bonnie. A proud lass maun she be if her spirit
hears; and men say the dust lies not insensible of beautiful verse; for
her charms are breathed through a thousand sweet lips, and no further
gone than yestermorn I heard a lass singing on a green hillside what I
shall not readily forget. If ye like to listen, ye shall judge; and it
will not stay the story long, nor mar it much, for it is short, and about
Phemie Irving." And, accordingly, he chanted the following rude verses,
not unaccompanied by his honoured instrument, as he called his pipe,
which chimed in with great effect, and gave richness to a voice which
felt better than it could express:--

FAIR PHEMIE IRVING.

Gay is thy glen, Corrie,
With all thy groves flowering;
Green is thy glen, Corrie,
When July is showering;
And sweet is yon wood where
The small birds are bowering,
And there dwells the sweet one
Whom I am adoring.

Her round neck is whiter
Than winter when snowing;
Her meek voice is milder