It might be a case of sickness; what else it was likely to be--in so rustic a neighbourhood, and at such an ungodly time of the morning--was beyond my fancy.

A faint sound of singing became audible, and gradually swelled as I drew near, until at last I could make out the words, which were singularly appropriate both to the hour and to the condition of the singers.

'The cock may craw, the day may daw,' they sang; and sang it with such laxity both in time and tune, and such sentimental complaisance in the expression, as assured me they had got far into the third bottle at least.
I found a plain rustic cottage by the wayside, of the sort called double, with a signboard over the door; and, the lights within streaming forth and somewhat mitigating the darkness of the morning, I was enabled to decipher the inscription: 'The Hunters' Tryst, by Alexander Hendry.
Porter Ales, and British Spirits.

Beds.' My first knock put a period to the music, and a voice challenged tipsily from within.
'Who goes there ?' it said; and I replied, 'A lawful traveller.' Immediately after, the door was unbarred by a company of the tallest lads my eyes had ever rested on, all astonishingly drunk and very decently dressed, and one (who was perhaps the drunkest of the lot) carrying a tallow candle, from which he impartially bedewed the clothes of the whole company.

As soon as I saw them I could not help smiling to myself to remember the anxiety with which I had approached.