“A canna make music mair bonny nor that—­a canna,” he said; and he set about searching through the scraps of his memory for what music he did know.  There were the hymns they sang every Sunday at Saint Margaret’s; but he somewhat doubted their appropriateness here.  Then there were the songs his mother had sung to him home in Aberdeen.  Long ago the words had been forgotten; but often and often he had hummed the music of them over to himself when he was going to sleep—­it was good music for that.  One of the airs popped into his mind that very minute; it was a Jacobite song about “Charlie,” and he started to hum it softly.  Close on the humming came an idea—­a braw one; it made him sit up in the corner of the throne and clap his hands, while his toes wriggled exultantly inside his faery shoes.

“A can do’t—­a can!” He shouted it so loud that the baby faeries woke up and asked what he was going to do, and gathered about him to listen the better.

The pipers played until there were no more memories left and everything had come true; and the queen came back to her throne to find Sandy waiting, eager-eyed, for her.

“A have a bonny song made for ye.  Wull ye tak it frae me noo?”

“Take what?”

“The hump.  Ye tuk it frae the ither loonie gien he made ye some guid music; an’ a ha’ fetched ye mair—­here.”  And he tapped his head to signify that it was not written down.

“Is the song ready, now?”

Sandy nodded.

“Then turn about and sing it loud enough for all to hear; they must be the judges if the song is worth the price of a hump.”  And the queen smiled very tenderly.

Sandy did as he was bid; he clasped his hands tightly in front of him.  “’Tis no for the faeries,” he explained.  “Ye see—­they be hardly needin’ ony music, wi’ muckle o’ their ain.  ’Tis for the children—­the children i’ horspitals—­a bonny song for them to sleepit on.”  He marked the rhythm a moment with his foot, and hummed it through once to be sure he had it.  Then he broke out clearly into the old Jacobite air—­with words of his own making: 

  “Ye weave a bonny primrose ring;
    Ye hear the River callin’;
  Ye ken the Land whaur faeries sing—­
    Whaur starlicht beams are fallin’. 
  ’Tis there the pipers play things true;
    ’Tis there ye’ll gae—­my dearie—­
  The bonny Land ’at waits for you,
    Whaur ye’ll be nae mair weary.

  “A wee man by a blackthorn-tree
    Maun stitchit shoes for dancin’,
  An’ there’s a pair for ye an’ me—­
    To set our feet a-prancin’. 
  ’Tis muckle gladness ’at ye’ll find
    In Tir-na-n’Og, my dearie;
  The bonny Land ’at’s aye sae kind,
    Whaur ye’ll be nae mair weary.

  “Ye’ll ken the birdeen’s blithie song,
    Ye’ll hark till flo’ers lauchen;
  An’ see the faeries trippit long
    By brook an’ brae an’ bracken. 
  Sae doon your heid—­an’ shut your een;
    Gien ye’d be away, my dearie—­
  An’ the bonny sauncy faery queen
    Wull keep ye—­nae mair weary.”