Many were the words of gratulation and good-luck
which were bestowed on Robin Oig. The
judges commended his drove, especially Robin's
own property, which were the best of them. Some
thrust out their snuff-mulls for the parting pinch---
others tendered the _doch-an-dorrach_, 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 _leabhar-dhu_,''
(black pocketbook,) ``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 brooch to be certain that it was
upon her that his eye last rested as he turned towards
the 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 Dimayet upon a
broomstick.
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