It is difficult to say how Harry Wakefield and Robin Oig first
became intimates, but it is certain a close acquaintance had
taken place betwixt them, although they had apparently few common
subjects of conversation or of interest, so soon as their talk
ceased to be of bullocks. Robin Oig, indeed, spoke the English
language rather imperfectly upon any other topics but stots and
kyloes, and Harry Wakefield could never bring his broad Yorkshire
tongue to utter a single word of Gaelic. It was in vain Robin
spent a whole morning, during a walk over Minch Moor, in
attempting to teach his companion to utter, with true precision,
the shibboleth LLHU, which is the Gaelic for a calf. From
Traquair to Murder Cairn, the hill rung with the discordant
attempts of the Saxon upon the unmanageable monosyllable, and the
heartfelt laugh which followed every failure. They had, however,
better modes of awakening the echoes; for Wakefield could sing
many a ditty to the praise of Moll, Susan, and Cicely, and Robin
Oig had a particular gift at whistling interminable pibrochs
through all their involutions, and what was more agreeable to his
companion's southern ear, knew many of the northern airs, both
lively and pathetic, to which Wakefield learned to pipe a bass.
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