“White Pater Noster,
God was my Foster,
He fostered me,
Under the Book of Palm Tree.
Saint Michael was my Dame,
He was born at Bethlehem,
He was made of flesh and blood,
God send me my right food:
My right food and dyne two
That I may to yon kirk go,
To read upon yon sweet book,
Which the mighty God of Heaven shoop.
Open, open, Heaven’s yaits,
Stick, stick, Hell’s yaits.
All Saints be the better,
That hear the white prayer Pater Noster.”
There was no harm in this doggerel, nor yet much good; little of blessing, if less of banning; nor was the Black more definite. It was shorter, which ought to have ranked as a merit:—
Black Pater Noster.
“Four newks in this house, for holy angels,
A post in the midst, that’s Christ Jesus,
Lucas, Marcus, Matthew, Joannes,
God be into this house and all that belongs us.”
To “sain” or charm her bed she used to say,—
“Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John
The bed be blest that I ly on.”
And when the butter was slow in coming, it was enough if she chanted slowly—
“Come, butter, come!
Come, butter, come!
Peter stands at the gate.
Waiting for a buttered cake,
Come, butter, come,”
said with faith and unction, she was sure to have at once a lucky churn-full.
These queer bits of half-papistical, half-nonsensical doggerel were considered tremendous sins in those days, and the use of them was quite sufficient to bring any one to the scaffold; as their application would, for a certainty, destroy health, and gear, and life, if it were so willed. And for all these crimes—storm-raising, cat-baptizing, and the rest—Agnes Sampson, the grave, matronlike, well-educated grace wife of Keith, was bound to a stake, strangled, and burnt on the Castle Hill, with no one to seek to save her, and no one to bid her weary soul God-speed!
Barbara Napier, wife to a burgess of Edinburgh, and sister-in-law to the Laird of Carschoggill, was then seized—accused of consorting with Agnes Simpson, and consulting with Richard Grahame, a notorious necromancer, to whom she gave “3 ells of bombezie for his paynes,” all that she might gain the love and gifts of Dame Jeane Lyon, Lady Angus; also of having procured the witch’s help to keep the said Dame Jeane “fra wometing quhen she was in bredin of barne.” She was accused of other and more malicious things; but acquitted of these: indeed the “assisa” which tried her was contumacious and humane, and pronounced no doom; whereon King James wrote a letter demanding that she be strangled, then burnt at the stake, and all her goods escheated to himself. But Barbara pleaded that she was with child; so her execution was delayed until she was delivered, when “nobody insisting in the persute of her, she was set at libertie.” The contumacious majority was tried for “wilful error on assize—acquitting a witch,” but got off with more luck than usual.[8]