Reftor'd King CHARLES; and ilka thing's in tune;
And Habby fays we'll fee Sir WILLIAM foon.
SANG VII. Cauld kale in Aberdeen.
Cauld be the rebel's caft,
Oppreffors bafe and bloody;
I hope we'll fee them at the laft
Strung a' up in a woody.
Bleft be he of worth and fenfe,
And ever high in ftation,
That bravely ftands in the defence
Of confcience, King and nation.
GLA U D.
That makes me blyth indeed: But dinna flaw;
Tell o'er your news again! and fwear till't a'.
And faw ye Hab! And what did Halbert say?
They have been e'en a dreary time away.
Now GOD be thanked that our Laird's come hame.
And his estate, fay, can he eithly claim?
They that hag-raid us till our guts did grane, Like greedy bairs, dare nae mair do't again, And good Sir WILLIAM fhall enjoy his ain.
And may he lang; for never did he stent
Us in our thriving with a racket rent,
Nor grumbl'd if ane grew rich, or shor'd to raise
Our mailins when we pat on Sunday's claiths.
Nor wad he lang, with fenfelefs faucy air, Allow our lyart noddles to be bare.
"Put on your bonnet, Symon'; ---tak a seat--
How's Elfpa? how does Kate?
"How fells black cattle? What gi's woo this year?
And fic like kindly queftions wad he speer.
SANG VIII. Mucking of Geordy's byer.
The Laird who in riches and honour
Wad thrive, fhould be kindly and free,
Nor rack the poor tenants, who labour
To rife aboon poverty:
Elfe like the pack-horse that's unfother'd
And burden'd will tumble down faint;
Thus Virtue by hardship is fmother'd,
And rackers aft tine their rent.
GLAUD.
Then wad he gar his buttler bring bedeen,
The nappy bottle ben, and glaffes clean;
Whilk in our breaft rais'd fic a blythsome flame,
As gart me mony a time gae dancing hame.
My heart's e'en rais'd !---Dear nibour will
ye ftay,
And tak your dinner here with me the day?
We'll fend for Elfpith too ;--- and upo' fight,
I'll whistle Pate and Roger frae the height.
I'll yoke my fled, and fend to the neist town,
And bring a draught of ale baith flout and brown,
And gar our cottars a', man, wife, and wean,
Drink till they tine the gate to stand their lane.
SY MON.
I wadna bauk my friend his blyth defign,
Gif that it hadna firft of a' been mine:
For heer-yeftreen I brew'd a bow of maut,
Yeftreen I flew twa wathers prime and fat;
A furlet of good cakes my Elfpa beuk,
And a large ham hings reefting in the nook,
I faw my fell, or I came o'er the loan,
Our meikle pot that scads the whey put on,
A mutton-bouk to boil; ---and ane well roaft
And on the haggies Elfpa spares nae coft.
Small are they fhorn; and the can mix fou nice
The gufty ingans with a curn of spice.
Fat are the puddings,---heads and feet well fung;
And we've invited nibours auld and young,
To pass this afternoon with glee and
And drink our Master's health and welcome-hame.
Ye manna then refuse to join the rest,
Since ye're my nearest friend that I like beft.
Bring wi'ye all your family and then,
Whene'er you please, I'll rant wi' you again.
Spoke like your fell, Auld-birky; never fear
But at your banquet I fhall first appear:
Faith we shall bend the bicker and look bauld,
Till we forget that we are fail'd or auld.
D
Auld, faid I! Troth I'm younger be a score.
With your good news than what I was before.
I'll dance or e'en! Hey, Madge, come forth, d'ye hear?
Enter MADGE.
MADGE.
The man's gane gyte! Dear Symon, welcome here.
What wad ye, Glaud, with a' this hafte and din?
Ye never let a body fit to fpin.
Spin! fnuff:-- Gae break your wheel, and burn your tow, And set the meikleft peet-stack in a low.
Syne dance about the bane-fire till ye die,
Since now again we'll foon Sir William fee.
Blyth news indeed! ---And wha was't tald you o't?
What's that t'you? ---Gae get my Sunday's coat;
Wale out the whiteft of my bobit bands,
My white-skin hofe, and mittans for my hands;
Then, frae their washing, cry the bairns in hafte,
And mak ye'r fells as trig, head, feet and waist,
ye were a' to get young lads or e'en ;
For we're gaun o'er to dine with Sym bedeen,
Do, honeft Madge, and Glaud, I'll o'er the gate, And fee that a' be done as I wad ha't.
ACT II. SCENE II.
The open field, a cottage in a glen,
An auld wife fpinning at the funny end.--
At a fmall diftance, by a blafted tree,
With falded arms, and haff-rais'd looks ye fee.
BAULDY his lane.
WHAT's this! I canna bear't! 'Tis war than hell;
To be fae burnt with love, yet darna tell! O PEGGY! fweeter than the dawning day, Sweeter than gowany glens, or new mawn hay :
Blyther than lambs that frisk out o'er the knows,
Straighter than ought that in the foreft grows.
Her een the clearest blob of dew outfhines;
The lilly in her breast its beauty tines.
Her legs, her arms, her cheeks, her mouth, her een,
Will be my dead, that will be shortly seen!
For Pate loes her, ---waes me, and fhe loes Pate,
And I with Neps, by fome unlucky fate
Made a daft vow !---Ö but an be a beast,
That makes rash aiths till he's afore the priest.
I dare na speak my mind, elfe a' the three,
But doubt, wad prove ilk ane my enemy.
'Tis fare to thole,---I'll try fome witchcraft art,
To break with ane, and win the other's heart.
Here Maufy lives, a witch that for fma' price,
Can caft her cantraips, and give me advice.
She can o'ercaft the night, and cloud the moon,
And mak the deils obedient to her crune.>
At midnight hours, o'er the kirk-yards she raves,
And howks unchriften'd weans out of their graves;
Boils up their livers in a warlock's pow,
Rins witherfbins about the hemlock low;
And seven times does her prayers backward pray,
Till Plotcock comes with lumps of Lapland clay,
Mixt with the venom of black taids and fnakes.
Of this, unfonfy pictures aft fhe makes
and gars expire, With flaw and racking pains afore a fire;
Stuck fou of prines, the devilish pictures melt,
The pain by fowk they reprefent is felt.
And yonders Maufe: Ay, ay, fhe kens fou well,
When ane like me comes running to the deil.
She and her cat fit beeking in her yard,
To speak my errand, faith, amaift I'm fear'd:
But I maun do't, tho' I should never thrive,
They gallop faft that deils and laffes drive.
SCENE III.
A green kail-yard, a little font,
Where water poplan Springs,
There fits a wife with wrinkled front,
And yet fhe fpins and fings.
MAUSE.
SANG IX. Carle and the King come.
Peggy, now the King's come,
Peggy, now the King's come,
Thou may dance and I fall fing,
Peggy, fince the King's come.
Nae mair the hawkies fhalt thou milk,
But change thy plaiding-coat for filk,
And be a lady of that ilk,
Now, Peggy, fince the King's come.
Enter BAULDY.
BAULDY.
How doe's auld honeft lucky of the glen?
Ye look baith hale and fere at threefcore ten.
E'en twining out a thread with little din,
And beeking my cauld limbs afore the Sun.
What brings my bairn this gate fae air at morn?
Is there nae muck to lead ?--to thresh nae corn?
BAULD Y..
Enough of baith; --- But fomething that requires
Your helping hand imploys now all my cares.
MAUSE.
My helping hand, alake! what can I do, That underneath baith eild and poortith bow? BAULD Y.
Ay, but you're wife, and wiser far than we, Or maist part of the parish tells a lie.
Of what kind wisdom think ye I'm poffest,
That lifts my character aboon the reft?
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