. . . especially after it has had a “touch of frost.” I was astonished to hear him call this grass “ling,” and put a question to verify the word: it was obvious that he did not apply the term either to heath (Erica) or heather (Calluna).
[Botanical readers may care to know that, according to the excellent English Dialect Dictionary, “ling” is applied to at least four plants which do not belong to the Ericaceæ, viz.: cotton grass (Eriophorum), sedge (Carex), mat grass (Nardus), and bog rush (Schoenus). The word is also given to “a thin long grass growing on the mossy parts of mountains” (probably Molinia, W.J.), but the record, strangely enough, is from a Lowland County, Ayrshire.]
“Hooch, aye, but they’ll be doing all right. The grass is na bonny, but there’s a nice bit of fallow meat, they’ll na starve. That bit of cough you notice is only because the grass is dry. And I give them plenty of water when they get in the fold.” “Sheep do drink, then,” said I, in order to test the silly old fable which is still prevalent. “I should think they do. There’s na sic a thing as a sheep that does na drink. Ye can see them drink for yersel when we get them inside. We are just going to the pen. I thocht it was just airly, but ‘tis gone sax, and the sheep are spreading. They’re fu’, so we’ll just collect them and slip away hame.”
“Hame with ‘em! Ga roond wi ye! Put ‘em in!” And anon, as Tweed became wearied in well-doing, and an odd sheep got left behind a distant clump of gorse, “Get ahint, mon, what are ye havering aboot? Hame wi’ em!”