_Glaud._ Well, nae mair o't,--come, gie's the other bend; We'll drink their healths, whatever way it end. [_Their healths gae round._ _Sym._ But will ye tell me, Glaud,--by some 'tis said, Your niece is but a Fundling that was laid Down at your hallon-side, ae morn in May, Right clean row'd up, and bedded on dry hay? _Glaud._ That clatteran Madge, my titty, tells sic flaws, When e'er our Meg her cankart humour gaws. _Enter_ JENNY. _Jen._ O father! there's an auld man on the green, The fellest fortune-teller e'er was seen: He tents our loofs, and syne whops out a book, Turns o'er the leaves, and gie's our brows a look; Syne tells the oddest tales that e'er ye heard. His head is gray, and lang and gray his beard. _Sym._ Gae bring him in; we'll hear what he can say: Nane shall gang hungry by my house to day. [_Exit_ JENNY. But for his telling fortunes, troth I fear, He kens nae mair of that than my gray mare. _Glaud._ Spae-men! the truth of a' their saws I doubt; For greater liars never ran there out. _Returns_ JENNY, _bringing in_ SIR WILLIAM; _with them_ PATIE. _Sym._ Ye're welcome, honest carle;--here take a seat. _Sir Will._ I give ye thanks, Goodman; I'se no be blate. _Glaud._ [_drinks._] Come t'ye, friend:--How far came ye the day? _Sir Will._ I pledge ye, nibour:--E'en but little way: Rousted with eild, a wee piece gate seems lang; Twa miles or three's the maist that I dow gang. _Sym._ Ye're welcome here to stay all night with me, And take sic bed and board as we can gi' ye. _Sir Will._ That's kind unsought.--Well, gin ye have a bairn That ye like well, and wad his fortune learn, I shall employ the farthest of my skill, To spae it faithfully, be't good or ill. _Sym._ [_pointing to Patie._] Only that lad;--alake! I have nae mae, Either to make me joyful now, or wae. _Sir Will._ Young man, let's see your hand;--what gars ye sneer? _Pat._ Because your skill's but little worth I fear. _Sir Will._ Ye cut before the point.--But, billy, bide, I'll wager there's a mouse mark on your side. _Els._ Betooch-us-to! and well I wat that's true: Awa, awa! the deil's o'er grit wi' you. Four inch aneath his oxter is the mark, Scarce ever seen since he first wore a sark. _Sir Will._ I'll tell ye mair, if this young lad be spar'd But a short while, he'll be a braw rich laird. _Els._ A laird! Hear ye, Goodman!--what think ye now? _Sym._ I dinna ken: Strange auld man! What art thou? Fair fa' your heart; 'tis good to bode of wealth: Come turn the timmer to laird Patie's health. [PATIE'S _health gaes round_. _Pat._ A laird of twa good whistles, and a kent, Twa curs, my trusty tenants, on the bent, Is all my great estate--and like to be: Sae, cunning carle, ne'er break your jokes on me.