“But, Aislie Gourlay, ye’re the auldest o’ us three—did ye ever see a mair grand bridal?”
“I winna say that I have,” answered the hag; “but I think soon to see as braw a burial.”
“And that wad please me as weel,” said Annie Winnie; “for there’s as large a dole, and folk are no obliged to girn and laugh, and mak murgeons, and wish joy to these hellicat quality, that lord it ower us like brute beasts. I like to pack the dead-dole in my lap and rin ower my auld rhyme—
My loaf in my lap, my penny in my purse,
Thou art ne’er the better, and
I’m ne’er the worse.”
“That’s right, Annie,” said the paralytic woman; “God send us a green Yule and a fat kirkyard!”
“But I wad like to ken, Luckie Gourlay, for ye’re the auldest and wisest amang us, whilk o’ these revellers’ turn it will be to be streikit first?”
“D’ye see yon dandilly maiden,” said Dame Gourlay, “a’ glistenin’ wi’ gowd and jewels, that they are lifting up on the white horse behind that hare-brained callant in scarlet, wi’ the lang sword at his side?”
“But that’s the bride!” said her companion, her cold heart touched with some sort of compassion—“that’s the very bride hersell! Eh, whow! sae young, sae braw, and sae bonny—and is her time sae short?”
“I tell ye,” said the sibyl, “her winding sheet is up as high as her throat already, believe it wha list. Her sand has but few grains to rin out; and nae wonder—they’ve been weel shaken. The leaves are withering fast on the trees, but she’ll never see the Martinmas wind gar them dance in swirls like the fairy rings.”
“Ye waited on her for a quarter,” said the paralytic woman, “and got twa red pieces, or I am far beguiled?”