Chapter 28 No.28

But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home,

And sketch the group-the picture's yet to come.

My Muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt,

She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt![350]

While thronged the chiefs of every Highland clan

To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman!770

Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar,

Wh