he could be brought to comprehend it—­for, time out of mind, his approach had been hailed with every demonstration of rejoicing; and now—­but no; the thing was impossible—­there must be a mistake somewhere.  He was accordingly about to recommence, when a second and stronger hint suggested to him that it were safer to depart.  “Maybe the ‘carl’ did na like the pipes,” said the highlander musingly, as he packed them up for his march.  “Maybe he did na like me;” “perhaps, too, he was na in the humour of music.”  He paused for an instant as if reflecting—­not satisfied, probably, that he had hit upon the true solution—­when suddenly his eye brightened, his lips curled, and fixing a look upon the angry Frenchman, he said—­“Maybe ye are right enow—­ye heard them ower muckle in Waterloo to like the skirl o’ them ever since;” with which satisfactory explanation, made in no spirit of bitterness or raillery, but in the simple belief that he had at last hit the mark of the viscomte’s antipathy, the old man gathered up his plaid and departed.

However disposed I might have felt towards sleep, the little German resolved I should not obtain any, for when for half an hour together I would preserve a rigid silence, he, nowise daunted, had recourse to some German “lied,” which he gave forth with an energy of voice and manner that must have aroused every sleeper in the diligence:  so that, fain to avoid this, I did my best to keep him on the subject of his adventures, which, as a man of successful gallantry, were manifold indeed.  Wearying at last, even of this subordinate part, I fell into a kind of half doze.  The words of a student song he continued to sing without ceasing for above an hour—­being the last waking thought on my memory.

Less as a souvenir of the singer than a specimen of its class I give here a rough translation of the well-known Burschen melody called

ThePope

I.
The Pope, he leads a happy life,
He fears not married care, nor strife,
He drinks the best of Rhenish wine,
I would the Pope’s gay lot were mine.

Chorus. 
He drinks the best of Rhenish wine. 
I would the Pope’s gay lot were mine.

               II. 
               But then all happy’s not his life,
               He has not maid, nor blooming wife;
               Nor child has he to raise his hope—­
               I would not wish to be the Pope.

               III. 
               The Sultan better pleases me,
               His is a life of jollity;
               His wives are many as he will—­
               I would the Sultan’s throne then fill.

               IV. 
               But even he’s a wretched man,
               He must obey his Alcoran;
               And dares not drink one drop of wine—­
               I would not change his lot for mine.

               V.
               So then I’ll hold my lowly stand,
               And live in German Vaterland;
               I’ll kiss my maiden fair and fine,
               And drink the best of Rhenish wine.