The lady begins Rothie Murcus’s rant, that convinces Hurlo that she is fond of Scotch music, which he, having met among the Moors with a Highland fidler from Strathspey, thoroughly understands. Fortunately there is a fiddle at hand; he answers Rothie Murcus by Money Musk; the ghosts fall a dancing, from which he conceives a good omen. The head lady strikes up Nancy Dawson, and makes a motion for him to join in the reel. The intrepid Hurlo foots it with the head spectre, playing all the while; the hobgoblins, warm with the exercise, sit down upon a bench. The hero regales them with Moggy Lawder; Hobgoblina, delighted with this melodious air, rises, and is making a very low curtsey; but sinking too much, falls to the ground; quickly starting up, she speaks: My boy has won: behold your granny’s ghost; Your hapless father is in durance vile; But now by thee his son shall be releas’d. Art thou the image of my grand-mamma? Said Hurlo to the dame, who answered, yes. And these the spectres of thy virgin aunts, At least maids deem’d:--Alas! not justly deem’d, For ah confessors are most dangerous men, So may Grizzelda from experience say: An Alguazil was chaste Susannah’s love. The maidens interrupted Mother Mum; Methinks a goblin need not be a blab; Revolve the wisdom of the English sage, Deliver’d after the dire fall of rug, In Molly’s garret, to his rival Jones; _Acts there are most fitting to be done, Which are not fitting to be made a boast_; Therefore, again, we say good Mother, mum, The proverb calls, dead men tell no tales, (To the virgins thus replied their mam) But must dead women also hold their tongues, And e’en when frailties of friends are known? ’Tis very hard; but since it must be,--mum”