Then aloud to the Abbot he said, "An it please you, sir, I can sing 'O Mary Quean!'" The Abbot smiled, well pleased.
"Ah, exceeding proper, a song to the honour of the Queen of Heaven (he devoutly crossed himself at the name),--I knew that I could not be mistaken in you." "Your pardon, most reverend," interjected Sholto, anxiously, "please you to excuse my brother; his voice hath just broken and he cannot sing at present." Then, under his breath, he added, "Laurie MacKim, you God-forgotten fool, if you sing that song you will get us both stripped in a thrice and whipped on the bare back for insolence to the Earl's uncle!" "Go to," said his brother, "I _will_ sing.

The old cook is monstrous deaf at any rate." "Sing," said the Abbot, "I would hear you gladly.

So fair a face must be accompanied by the pipe of a nightingale.

Besides, we sorely need a tenor for the choir at Sweetheart." So, encouraged in this fashion, the daring Laurence began: _"Nae priests aboot me shall be seen To mumble prayers baith morn and e'en, I'll swap them a' for Mary Quean! I'll bid nae mess for me be sung, Dies ille, dies irae, Nor clanking bells for me be rung, Sic semper solet fieri! I'll gang my ways to Mary Quean."_ "Ah, very good, very good, truly," said the Abbot, thrusting his hand into his pouch beneath his gown, "here are two gold nobles for thee, sweet lad, and another for your brother, whose countenance methinks is somewhat less sweet.

You have sung well to the praise of our Lady! What did you say your name was?
Of a surety, we must have you at Sweetheart.