The open field-A cottage in a glen,
An auld wife fpinning at the funny end.
At a small distance by a blasted tree,
With falded arms and haff-rais'd look ye fee
Bauldy his lane.
WHAT's this!-I canna bear't! 'Tis war than hell,
To be fae burnt with love, yet dar na 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 aught that in the foreft grows.
Her een the clearest blob of dew out-fhines;
The lily in her breast its beauty tines:
Her legs, her arms, her cheeks, her mouth, her een,
Will be my deid, that will be shortly feen!
For Pate loes her !-waes me! and fhe loes Pate;
And I with Neps, by fome unlucky fate,
Made a daft vow!-O! but ane be a beast,
That makes rash aiths 'till he's afore the priest.
I dar na speak my mind, elfe a' the three,
But doubt, wad prove ilk ane my enemy:
The open field, and deep down in a dale,
A little hut, where turning round her wheel
An aged woman in the fun is set
Warming her chilly limbs before his heat:
At a fmall distance by a blasted tree,
With folded arms and looks half wild you fee
Bauldy alone.
WHAT's this! I cannot bear't-'Tis worse than hell,
To be burnt up with love, yet dare not tell!-
O Peggy! sweeter than the dawning day,
Sweeter than daify'd dales, or new-mown hay;
Blither than lambs that frifk o'er hillocks green,
In all the foreft nought so straight is seen.—
Her eyes like dew-drops fparkling on a rofe;
And lilies in her breast their beauties lofe;
Her legs, her arms, her cheeks, her eyes, her mouth,
Will bring me to my grave in early youth-
For Pate loves her-woes me! and fhe loves Pate-
And I with Neps, by fome unlucky fate,
Made a rash vow-Oh! but one be an afs
That makes rash oaths before the priest say grace.
I dare not speak my mind, else all the three
Doubtlefs would prove
each one my enemy-
'Tis fair 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 kirkyard she raves,
And howks unchriften'd weans out of their graves;
Boils
up
their livers in a warlock's pow:
Rins witherfhins about the hemlock low,
And feven times does her prayers backwards pray,
"Till Plotcock comes with lumps of Lapland clay,
Mixt with the venom of black taids and fnakes;
Of this unfonfy pictures aft she makes
Of any ane she hates-and gars expire
With flaw and racking pains afore a fire,
Stuck fou of prins; the devilish pictures melt;
The pain by fowk they represent is felt.
And yonder's Mause; ay, ay, she kens fou weil,
When ane like me comes rinning to the deil:
She and her cat fit beeking in her yard;
To speak my errand, faith amaist I'm fear'd:
But I maun do't, tho' I fhould never thrive;
They gallop faft, that deils and laffes drive.
'Tis hard to bear-I'll try fome witchcraft art
To break with one, and win the other's heart—
Now here lives Maufe-a witch that for fmall price,
By magic arts, can give me wife advice-
She can o'ercaft the night, o'er cloud the moon,
And call up devils! her errands black to run-
At midnight hours the churchyard o'er the raves,
And digs unchriften'd infants from their graves;
Then, in a wizard's fcull, their livers boils,
While backward round the hemlock flame fhe toils;
Then the her prayers revers'd will feven times fay,
Till Satan comes with lumps of Lapland clay,
Mixt with the venom, of black toads, and fnakes-
Of this her baneful images fhe makes
Of those she hates-then caufes them t' expire
With flow and racking pains before the fire-
Stuck full of pins the devilish pictures melt-
The pains by those they represent are felt.—
Yonder fits Maufe-full well by her 'tis known,
When fuch as I unto the devil run-
She and her cat fit in the yard to bask―
Faith! I'm afraid to name what I'm to afk-
But speak I muft, though I should never thrive-
They gallop faft whom maids and devils drive-
A green kail-yard, a little fount,
Where water poplin fprings,
There fits a wife with wrinkled front,
And yet the spins and fings.
SANG. Tune, Carle and the King come,
Peggy, now the king's come,
Peggy, now the king's come,
Thou may dance, and I shall fing,
Peggy, fince the king's come:
Nae mair the hawkeys fhalt thou milk,
But change thy plaiding-coat for filk,
And be a lady of that ilk,
Now, Peggy, fince the king's come.
How does auld honeft lucky of the glen?
Ye look baith hale and feir 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?
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