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from under his bonnet with an expression of cheerfulness ready to be turned into mirth.
The departure of Robin Oig was an incident in the little town, in and near which he had many friends male and female. He was a topping person in his way, transacting considerable business on his own behalf, and was intrusted by the best farmers in the Highlands, in preference to any other drover in that district.
Many were the words of gratulation and good luck which were bestowed on Robin Oig. The judges commended his drove, especially the best of them, which were Robin’s own property. Some thrust out their snuff-mulls for the parting pinch—others tendered the doch-an-durrach, or parting cup. All cried—“Good-luck travel out with you and come home with you.—Give you luck in the Saxon market—brave notes in the luabhar-dhu, (black pocket-book,) and plenty of English gold in the sporran (pouch of goat-skin.)”
The bonny lasses made their adieus more modestly, and more than one, it was said, would have given her best broach to be certain that it was upon her that his eye last rested as he turned towards his road.
Robin Oig had just given the preliminary “Hoo-hoo!” to urge forward the loiterers of the drove, when there was a cry behind him. “Stay, Robin—bide a blink. Here is Janet of Tomahourich—auld Janet, your father's sister.” “Plague on her, for an auld Highland witch and spaewife,” said a farmer from the Carse of Stirling; “she’ll cast some of her cantrips on the cattle.” “She canna do that,” said another sapient of the same profession—“Robin Oig is no the lad to leave any of them, without tying Saint Mungo’s knot on their tails, and that will put to her speed the best witch that ever flew over Dinayet upon a broomstick.”
It may not be indifferent to the reader to know, that the Highland cattle are peculiarly liable to be taken, or infected, by spells and witchcraft, which judicious people guard against by knitting knots of peculiar
