ACT FIFTH.

SCENE I.

See how poor Bauldy stares like ane possest,
And roars up Symon frae his kindly rest.
Bare-leg'd, with night-cap, and unbutton'd coat,
See, the auld man comes forward to the sot.
Symon and Bauldy.
Symon.
What want ye, Bauldy, at this early hour,
While drowsy sleep keeps a' beneath its pow'r?
Far to the north, the scant approaching light
Stands equal 'twixt the morning and the night.
What gars ye shake and glowr, and look sae wan?
Your teeth they chitter, hair like bristles stand.
Baul. O len me soon some water, milk or ale,
My head's grown giddy,—legs with shaking fail;
I'll ne'er dare venture forth at night my lane:
Alake! I'll never be mysell again.
I'll ne'er o'erput it! Symon! O Symon! O!
[Symon gives him a drink.
Sym. What ails thee, gowk!—to make sae loud ado?
You've wak'd Sir William, he has left his bed;
He comes, I fear ill pleas'd: I hear his tred.
Enter Sir William.
Sir Will. How goes the night? Does day-light yet appear?
Symon, you're very timeously asteer.
Sym. I'm sorry, Sir, that we've disturb'd your rest: }
But some strange thing has Bauldy's sp'rit opprest; }
He's seen some witch, or wrestl'd with a ghaist. }
Baul. O ay,—dear Sir, in troth 'tis very true;
And I am come to make my plaint to you.
Sir Will. [smiling.] I lang to hear't——
Baul. ——Ah! Sir, the witch ca'd Mause,
That wins aboon the mill amang the haws,
First promis'd that she'd help me with her art,
To gain a bonny thrawart lassie's heart.
As she had tristed, I met wi'er this night;
But may nae friend of mine get sic a fright!
For the curs'd hag, instead of doing me good,
(The very thought o't's like to freeze my blood!)
Rais'd up a ghaist or deil, I kenna whilk,
Like a dead corse in sheet as white as milk;
Black hands it had, and face as wan as death,
Upon me fast the Witch and it fell baith,
And gat me down; while I, like a great fool,
Was laboured as I wont to be at school.
My heart out of its hool was like to lowp;
I pithless grew with fear, and had nae hope,
Till, with an elritch laugh, they vanish'd quite:
Sync I, haff dead with anger, fear and spite,
Crap up, and fled straight frae them, Sir, to you,
Hoping 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 burnt.
Sir Will. Well, Bauldy, whate'er's just shall 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, and twa three mae,
To catch her fast, or she get leave to squeel,
And cast her cantraips that bring up the deil.
[Exit Bauldy.
Sir Will. 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 thro' want of education blind!
Sym. But does your Honour think there's nae sic thing
As witches raising deils up thro' a ring?
Syne playing tricks, a thousand I cou'd tell,
Cou'd never be contriv'd on this side hell.
Sir Will. Such as the devil's dancing in a moor,
Amongst a few old women craz'd and poor,
Who are rejoic'd to see him frisk and lowp
O'er braes and bogs, with candles in his dowp;
Appearing sometimes like a black-horn'd cow,
Aftimes like Bawty, Badrans, or a Sow:
Then with his train thro' airy paths to glide,
While they on cats, or clowns, or broom-staffs ride;
Or in the egg-shell skim out o'er the main,
To drink their leader's health in France or Spain:
Then aft by night, bumbaze hare-hearted fools,
By tumbling down their cup-board, chairs and stools.
Whate'er's in spells, or if there witches be,
Such whimsies seem the most absurd to me.
Sym. 'Tis true enough, we ne'er heard that a witch
Had either meikle sense, or yet was rich.
But Mause, tho' poor, is a sagacious wife,
And lives a quiet and very honest life;
That gars me think this hobleshew that's past
Will land in naithing but a joke at last.
Sir Will. 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.

SANG XX.—Tune, Bonny grey-ey'd morn.

The bonny grey-ey'd morn begins to peep,
And darkness flies before the rising ray;
The hearty hind 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 plow,
From toil of grimace and pageantry free.
While fluster'd with wine, or madden'd with loss
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,
Plac'd at due distance from parties and state;
Where neither ambition, nor avarice blind,
Reach him who has happiness link'd to his fate.
[Exeunt.

ACT V.—SCENE II.

While Peggy laces up her bosom fair,
With a blew snood Jenny binds up her hair;
Glaud, by his morning ingle takes a beek,
The rising sun shines motty thro' the reek,
A pipe his mouth; the lasses please his een,
And now and than his joke maun interveen.
Glaud, Jenny and Peggy.
Glaud.
I Wish, my bairns, it may keep fair till night;
Ye do not use sae soon to see the light.
Nae doubt now ye intend to mix the thrang,
To take your leave of Patrick or he gang.
But do ye think that now when he's a laird,
That he poor landwart lasses will regard?
Jen. Tho' he's young Master now, I'm very sure
He has mair sense than slight auld friends, tho' poor.
But yesterday he ga'e us mony a tug,
And kiss'd my cousin there frae lug to lug.
Glaud. Ay, ay, nae doubt o't, and he'll do't again;
But, be advis'd, his company refrain:
Before, he as a shepherd, sought a wife,
With her to live a chast and frugal life;
But now grown gentle, soon he will forsake
Sic godly thoughts, and brag of being a rake.
Peg. A rake! what's that?—Sure if it means ought ill,
He'll never be't, else I have tint my skill.

Glaud. Daft lassie, ye ken nought of the affair,
Ane young and good and gentle's unco rare.
A rake's a graceless spark, that thinks nae shame,
To do what like of us thinks sin to name:
Sic are sae void of shame, they'll never stap
To brag how aften they have had the clap.
They'll tempt young things, like you, with youdith flush'd,
Syne make ye a' their jest, when ye're debauched.
Be warry then, I say, and never gi'e
Encouragement, or bourd with sic as he.
Peg. Sir William's vertuous, and of gentle blood;
And may not Patrick too, like him, be good?
Glaud. That's true, and mony gentry mae than he,
As they are wiser, better are than we;
But thinner sawn: They're sae puft up with pride,
There's mony of them mocks ilk haly guide,
That shaws the gate to Heaven.—I've heard mysell,
Some of them laugh at doomsday, sin and hell.
Jen. Watch o'er us, father! heh! that's very odd;
Sure him that doubts a doomsday, doubts a God.
Glaud. Doubt! why, they neither doubt, nor judge, nor think,
Nor hope, nor fear; but curse, debauch and drink;
But I'm no saying this, as if I thought
That Patrick to sic gates will e'er be brought.
Peg. The Lord forbid! Na, he kens better things:
But here comes aunt; her face some ferly brings.
Enter Madge.
Mad. Haste, haste ye; we're a' sent for o'er the gate,
To hear, and help to redd some odd debate
'Tween Mause and Bauldy, 'bout some witchcraft spell,
At Symon's house: The Knight sits judge himsell.
Glaud. Lend me my staff;—Madge, lock the outer-door,
And bring the lasses wi' ye; I'll step before.
[Exit Glaud.
Mad. Poor Meg!—Look, Jenny, was the like e'er seen,
How bleer'd and red with greeting look her een?
This day her brankan wooer takes his horse,
To strute a gentle spark at Edinburgh cross;
To change his kent, cut frae the branchy plain,
For a nice sword, and glancing headed cane;
To leave his ram-horn spoons, and kitted whey,
For gentler tea, that smells like new won hay;
To leave the green-swaird dance, when we gae milk,
To rustle amang the beauties clad in silk.
But Meg, poor Meg! maun with the shepherd stay,
And tak what God will send, in hodden-gray.
Peg. Dear aunt, what need ye fash us wi' your scorn?
That's no my faut that I'm nae gentler born.
Gif I the daughter of some laird had been,
I ne'er had notic'd Patie on the green:
Now since he rises, why should I repine?
If he's made for another, he'll ne'er be mine:
And then, the like has been, if the decree
Designs him mine, I yet his wife may be.

Mad. A bonny story, trowth!—But we delay:
Prin up your aprons baith, and come away. [Exeunt.