To a' this place.'"

"I do not know that psalmist, if in truth he be a maker of spiritual
songs," said Moodie, with a doubtful air.

"He did dabble a little in psalmody," said Lady Mabel; "but I doubt
whether his attempts would satisfy you. How like you this sample:

'Orthodox, orthodox, who believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience;
There's a heretic blast has been blown in the Wast,
That what is not sense must be nonsense.

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, load your spiritual guns,
Ammunition you never can need;
Your hearts are the stuff, will be powder enough,
And your skulls are store-houses o' lead.'"

"'Tis that profane, lewd fellow, Burns," exclaimed Moodie,
angrily. "He did worse than hide his ten talents in a napkin. I
wonder, my lady, you defile your mouth with his scurrilous words."

"I have done with him," said Lady Mabel, laughing. "He was a profane,
lewd fellow, far better at pointing out other men's errors than
amending his own."

Moodie now fell back among the servants; and L'Isle remarked, "your
old squire, Lady Mabel, holds an austere belief. I never met a man so
confident of his own salvation and of the damnation of others."