"And aye we danced on the green Lommond Till the dawn on the ocean grew, Nae wonder I was a weary wicht When I cam hame to you. And we flew ow'r hill, and we flew ow'r dale, And we flew ow'r firth and sea, Until we cam to merry Carlisle, Where we lightit on the lea. {123} "We gaed to the vault beyond the tow'r Where we entered free as air, And we drank, and we drank of the Bishop's wine, Until we could drink nae mair." If, however, our forbears were drastic in their manner of dealing with witches and warlocks, and rigid in the infliction of capital punishment on criminals guilty of very minor offences, they were extraordinarily lax as regards the condition in which they kept their prisons. It is told that, sometime during the eighteenth century, the chief magistrate of Jedburgh was waited on by the burgh gaoler, who complained that the main door of the gaol had parted company with its hinges--which, in fact, had long been eaten through with rust. He had no means of securing his prisoners. What was he to do? It was a question calculated to puzzle any ordinary person. But the magistrate was a man of resource. "Get a harrow," said he. "And set it on end in the doorway, wi' its teeth turned inwards. If that winna keep them in,--'deed then they're no worth the keepin'." To as late a date as 1833, Selkirk also was not much better off than this, as regards its prison. The writer of the Statistical Account of the Parish at that date complains that prisoners "_have been frequently in the practice of coming out in the evening, and returning again before the jailor's visit in the morning._"