Black hands it had, an' face as wan as death.
Upon me fast the witch an' it fell baith,
An' gat me down; while I, like a great fool,
Was laboured as I used to be at school.
My heart out o' its hool was like to loup,
I pithless grew wi' fear, an' had nae houp,
Till wi' an elritch laugh they vanished quite
Syne I, haff dead wi' anger, fear, an' spite,
Crap up, an' fled straught frae them, sir, to you,
Houping your help to gi'e the deil his due.
I'm sure my heart will ne'er gi'e o'er to dunt,
Till in a fat tar-barrel Mause be brunt.

SANG XXI.

Tune-Bonny gray-ey'd morn."

The bonny gray-eyed morn begins to peep,
And darkness flies before the rising ray;
The hearty hynd starts from his lazy sleep,
To follow healthful labours of the day;
Without a guilty sting to wrinkle his brow,
The lark and the linnet tend his levee,
And he joins their concert driving his plough,
From toil of grimace and pageantry free.

granted be.

Let Mause be brought this morning down to me. Baul. Thanks to your honour, soon shall I

obey;

But first I'll Roger raise, an' twa three mae, To catch her first, ere she get leave to squeal, An' cast her cantrips that bring up the deil.

[Exit.

Sir Wil. Troth, Symon, Bauldy's more afraid than hurt;

The witch and ghaist have made themselves good sport.

What silly notions crowd the clouded mind
That is through want of education blind!

Sym. But does your honour think there's nae

sic thing,

As witches raising deils up through a ring, Syne playing tricks? A thousand I could tell, Could never be contrived on this side hell.

Sir Wil. Such as the devil's dancing in a muir,
Amongst a few old women, crazed and poor,
Who are rejoiced to see him frisk and loup
O'er braes and bogs, with candles in his dowp;
Appearing sometimes like a black-horned cow,
Aft-times like bawty, bawdrans, or a sow.
Then with his train through airy paths to glide,
While they on cats, or clowns, or broom-staffs
ride;

Or in an egg-shell skim out o'er the main,
To drink their leader's health in France or Spain;
Then oft, by night, bumbaze hard-hearted fools,
By tumbling down their cupboards, chairs, and
stools.

Whate'er's in spells, or if there witches be,
Such whimsies seem the most absurd to me.
Sym. It's true eneugh, we ne'er heard that a
witch

Had either meikle sense, or yet was rich;
But Mause, though poor, is a sagacious wife,
An' lives a quiet an' very honest life.
That gars me think this hobbleshew that's past,
Will end in naething but a joke at last.

Sir Wil. I'm sure it will. But see, increasing light

Commands the imps of darkness down to night. Bid raise my servants, and my horse prepare, Whilst I walk out to take the morning air.

Of half an estate, the prey of a main, The drunkard and gamester tumble and toss, Wishing for calmness and slumber in vain. Be my portion health and quietness of mind, Placed at a due distance from parties and sta Where neither ambition, nor avarice blind, Reach him who has happiness linked to his fa [Exeu

SCENE II.

While Peggy laces up her bosom fair,
Wi' a blue snood Jenny binds up her hair:
Glaud, by his morning ingle, tak's a beek,
The rising sun shines motty through the reek;
A pipe his mouth, the lasses please his een,
An' now an' then his joke maun intervene.

GLAUD, JENNY, and PEGGY. Glaud. I wish, my bairns, it may keep fair night;

Ye dinna use sae soon to see the light.
Nae doubt, now, ye intend to mix the thran
To tak' your leave o' Patrick or he gang.
But do ye think, that now, when he's a laird
That he poor landwart lasses will regard?

Jen. Though he's young master now, I'm

sure

He has mair sense than slight auld fri though poor.

But yesterday, he ga'e us mony a tug,
An' kissed my cousin there frae lug to lug.
Glaud. Ay, ay, nae doubt o't, an' he'll

again;

But be advised, his company refrain:
Before, he as a shepherd sought a wife,
Wi' her to live a chaste an' frugal life;
But now, grown gentle, soon he will forsak
Sie godly thoughts, an' brag o' being a rak
Peg. A rake! what's that? Sure, if it

aught ill,

He'll never be't, else I ha'e tint my skill.

Gland. Daft lassie, ye ken nought o' the Ane young, an' gude, an' gentle's unco ra A rake's a graceless spark, that thinks nae To do what like o' us thinks sin to name. Be wary then, I say, an' never gi'e Encouragement, or bourd wi' sic as he.

Peg. Sir William's virtuous, an' o' gentle blood; An' may no Patrick, too, like him, be good?

Glaud. That's true; an' mony gentry mae than he,

As they

are wiser, better are than we, But thinner sawn: they're sae puft up wi' pride, There's mony o' them mocks ilk haly guide,

That shaws the gate to heaven. I've heard mysel Some o' them laugh at doomsday, sin, an' hell. Jen. Watch o'er us, father! heh! that's very odd;

Sure, him that doubts a doomsday, doubts a God! Gland. Doubt! why, they neither doubt, nor judge, nor think,

Nor hope, nor fear; but curse, debauch, an'

How bhleared an' red wi' greeting look her een!
This day her brankan wooer tak's his horse,
To strut a gentle spark at Edinburgh cross;
To change his kent, cut frae the branchy plane,
For a nice sword an' glancing-headed cane;
To leave his ram-horn spoons, an' kitted whey,
For gentler tea, that smells like new-won hay;
To leave the green-sward dance, whan we gae
milk,

To rustle 'mang the beauties clad in silk.

But Meg, poor Meg! maun wi' the shepherds

stay,

An' tak what God will send, in hodden-gray.
Peg. Dear aunt, what need ye fash us wi' your
scorn?

It's no my faut that I'm nae gentler born.
Gif I the daughter o' some laird had been,
I ne'er had noticed Patie on the green.
Now, since he rises, why should I repine?
If he's made for another, he'll ne'er be mine;
An' then, the like has been, if the decree
Designs him mine, I yet his wife may be.
Madge. A bonny story, troth! But we delay:
Prin up your aprons baith, an' come away.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Sir William fills the twa-armed chair, While Symon, Roger, Glaud, an' Mause Attend, an' wi' loud laughter hear

Daft Bauldy bluntly plead his cause: For now it's telled him that the taws Was handled by revengfu' Madge, Because he brak gude-breeding's laws, An' wi' his nonsense raised their rage.

Sir WILLIAM, PATIE, ROGER, SYMON, GLAUD, BAULDY, and MAUSE.

Sir Wil. And was that all? Well, Bauldy, ye was served

No otherwise than what ye well deserved.
Was it so small a matter, to defame
And thus abuse an honest woman's name?
Besides your going about to have betrayed,
By perjury, an innocent young maid.

Baul. Sir, I confess my faut, through a' the steps,

An' ne'er again shall be untrue to Neps.

Mause. Thus far, sir, he obliged me, on the

score,

I ken'd na that they thought me sic before.
Baul. An't like your honour, I believed it weel;
But, troth, I was e'en doilt to seek the deil.
Yet, wi' your honour's leave, though she's nae
witch,

She's baith a slee an' a revengefu'

An' that my some-place finds. But I had best Haud in my tongue, for yonder comes the ghaist, An' the young bonny witch, whase rosy cheek Sent me, without my wit, the deil to seek.

Enter MADGE, PEGGY, and JENNY.

Sir Wil. [looking at PEGGY.] Whose daughter's she, that wears th' aurora gown, With face so fair, and locks a lovely brown? How sparkling are her eyes!-What's this I find? The girl brings all my sister to my mind! Such were the features once adorned a face, Which death too soon deprived of sweetest grace.

Is this your daughter, Glaud?

Gland. Sir, she's my niece;

An' yet she's not: but I should haud my peace. Sir Wil. This is a contradiction. What d'ye

mean?

She is, and is not! Pray thee, Glaud, explain.
Glaud. Because I doubt, if I should mak' appear
What I ha'e kept a secret thirteen year--
Mause. You may reveal what I can fully clear.
Sir Wil. Speak soon-I'm all impatience!
Pat. Sae am I!

For much I hope, an' hardly yet ken why.

Gland. Then, since my master orders, I obey: This bonny foundling, ae clear morn o' May, Close by the lee-side o' my door I found, A' sweet, an' clean, an' carefully hapt round

In brief there, with grief there, I dotter'd owre on sleep.

Here Somnus in his silent hand
Held all my senses at command,
While I forgot my care;

The mildest meed of mortal wights,
Who pass in peace the private nights,
That, waking, finds it rare;
So in soft slumbers did I lie,

But not my wakerife mind,

Which still stood watch, and could espy
A man with aspect kind,

Right auld-like, and bauld-like,
With beard three-quarters scant,
Sae brave-like, and grave-like,
He seem'd to be a sanct.

Which held a thistle in his paw,
And round his collar grav'd I saw

This poesy, pat and plain: "Nemo me impune lacess — Et." In Scots, "Nane shall oppress

Me, unpunished with pain!" Still shaking, I durst naething say,

Till he, with kind accent,

Said, "Fere! Let not thy heart affray,
I come to hear thy plaint;

Thy groaning, and moaning,
Hath lately reach'd mine ear;
Debar then, afar then,

All eiriness or fear.

"For I am one of a high station,
The warden of this ancient nation,
And cannot do thee wrang."

I vizyt him then round about,
Syne, with a resolution stout,

Speir'd, where had he been sae lang? Quoth he, "Although I some forsook, Because they did me slight,

To hills and glens I me betook,
To them that loves my right;