THE Rev. G. Gilfillan many years ago visited the “auld clay biggin,” at that time a hostelrie for dispensing Burns’ beloved beverage, and other good things of this life. “We remember,” he says, “one rather odd circumstance: When looking at the concealed bed in which the poet was born, our companion (the gifted Rev. Dr. W. B. Robertson of Irvine) exclaimed, “Here’s a laddie, here’s wee Bobbie Burns!” A cry from the bed confirmed the words, and drawing near we tried to complete the glamourie of the scene by imagining that this boy who lifted up his arms and smiled was the inspired child to whose birth-place in that humble cottage the civilised world has flocked for well nigh one hundred years.”
Wee Bobby Burns, p.115.
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