_Sym._ Whisht, Patie,--let the man look o'er your hand, Aftimes as broken a ship has come to land. [SIR WILLIAM _looks a little at_ PATIE'S _hand, then counterfeits falling into a trance, while they endeavour to lay him right_.] _Els._ Preserve's!--the man's a warlock, or possest With some nae good,--or second sight, at least: Where is he now?---- _Glaud._ ----He's seeing a' that's done In ilka place, beneath or yont the moon. _Els._ These second sighted fowk, his peace be here! See things far aff, and things to come, as clear As I can see my thumb.--Wow, can he tell (Speer at him, soon as he comes to himsell) How soon we'll see Sir William? Whisht, he heaves, And speaks out broken words like ane that raves. _Sym._ He'll soon grow better;--Elspa, haste ye, gae, And fill him up a tass of Usquebae. _Sir_ WILLIAM _starts up, and speaks_. A Knight that for a _Lyon_ fought, Against a herd of bears, Was to lang toil and trouble brought, In which some thousands shares. But now again the _Lyon_ rares, And joy spreads o'er the plain: The _Lyon_ has defeat the bears, The Knight returns again. That Knight, in a few days, shall bring A Shepherd frae the fauld, And shall present him to his King, A subject true and bauld. He Mr. Patrick shall be call'd: All you that hear me now, May well believe what I have tald; For it shall happen true. _Sym._ Friend, may your spaeing happen soon and weel; But, faith, I'm redd you've bargain'd with the deil, To tell some tales that fowks wad secret keep: Or do ye get them tald you in your sleep? _Sir Will._ Howe'er I get them, never fash your beard; Nor come I to redd fortunes for reward: But I'll lay ten to ane with ony here, That all I prophesy shall soon appear. _Sym._ You prophesying fowks are odd kind men! They're here that ken, and here that disna ken, The wimpled meaning of your unco tale, Whilk soon will mak a noise o'er moor and dale. _Glaud._ 'Tis nae sma' sport to hear how Sym believes, And takes't for gospel what the spae-man gives Of flawing fortunes, whilk he evens to Pate: But what we wish, we trow at ony rate. _Sir Will._ Whisht, doubtfu' carle: for ere the sun Has driven twice down to the sea, What I have said ye shall see done In part, or nae mair credit me. _Glaud._ Well, be't sae, friend, I shall say nathing mair; But I've twa sonsy lasses young and fair, Plump ripe for men: I wish ye cou'd foresee Sic fortunes for them might prove joy to me. _Sir Will._ Nae mair thro' secrets can I sift, Till darkness black the bent: I have but anes a day that gift; Sae rest a while content. _Sym._ Elspa, cast on the claith, fetch butt some meat, And, of your best, gar this auld stranger eat.