“Ay, Mysie.  Maybe I’d ha’e gotten the sack if she had telt.  But she was aye a clashbag.  But here they come!” he shouted animatedly, as the bell signaled for the cage to rise, and presently the wheels began to revolve, as the cage ascended.

“May the tow break, an’ land the dirty scums in hell,” prayed one man.

“Ay, an’ may the coals they howkit the day roast them forever,” added another.  Though they prayed thus, yet once again they found that the “prayer of the wicked availeth naught.”  Buckets of water, however, and even bits of stone and scrap iron were surreptitiously flung down the shaft; and when the blacklegs did appear, they were nearly frightened out of their senses.  It would have gone hard with them as they left the cage, but someone whispered, “Here’s the polis!” and so the crowd had to be content with beating their tin cans; and keeping time to the songs improvised by Tam Donaldson, they escorted the blacklegs to their homes.

Next morning a large number of the strikers gathered at the Lazy Corner, enjoying themselves greatly.

“They tell me,” said Tam Donaldson, “that our fren’s ha’e slept in this morning.”

A laugh greeted this sally, which seemed to indicate that most of them knew about the sleeping-in and the reason for it.

“Ay, they’d be tired oot efter their hard day’s work yesterday,” replied another.

“Ay, an’ they dinna seem to be up yet,” said a third, “for I see the doors are still shut, an’ the bairns are no’ awa’ to the school.  They maun ha’e been awfu’ tired to ha’e slept sae lang.”

“Let’s gang doon and gi’e them a bit sang to help to keep their dreams pleasant,” suggested Tam Donaldson, as they moved off down the row and stopped before Jock Graham’s door.  Tam, clearing his throat, led of: 

  Hey, Johnnie Graham, are ye wauken yet,
  Or is yer fire no’ ken’lt yet? 
  If you’re no wauken we will wait,
  An’ tak’ ye to the pit in the mornin’.

  Black Jock sent a message in the dark,
  Sayin’:  Johnny Graham, come to your wark,
  For tho’ ye’ve been locked in for a lark,
  Ye maun come to the pit in the mornin’.

  You an’ Fleeming, an’ Robertson tae,
  Had better a’ gang doon the brae,
  An’ you’ll get your pay for ilka day
  That ye gang to your work in the mornin’.

Then, leading off on to another, Tam, with great gusto, swung into a song that carried the others along uproariously: 

  O’ a’ the airts the win’ can blaw,
  It canna blaw me free,
  For I am high an’ dry in bed,
  When workin’ I should be;
  But ropes are stronger faur than is
  Desire for work wi’ me,
  An’ sae I lie, baith high an’ dry—­
  I’ll hae to bide a wee.

  I canna say on whatna day
  I’ll gang again to work,
  For sticks an’ stanes may break my banes,
  As sure’s my name’s McGurk. 
  Gie me the best place in the pit,
  Then happy I shall be,
  Just wi’ yae wife to licht oor life,
  Big dirty Jock an’ me!