_Mad._----As true as ye stand there. As they were dancing all in Symon's yard, Sir William, like a warlock, with a beard Live nives in length, and white as driven snaw, Amang us came, cry'd, _Had ye merry a'_. We ferly'd meikle at his unco look, While frae his pouch he whirled forth a book. As we stood round about him on the green, He view'd us a', but fix'd on Pate his een; Then pawkily pretended he cou'd spae, Yet for his pains and skill wad nathing ha'e. _Mause._ Then sure the lasses, and ilk gaping coof, Wad rin about him, and had out their loof. _Mad._ As fast as flaes skip to the tate of woo, Whilk slee Tod Lawrie hads without his mow, When he to drown them, and his hips to cool, In simmer days slides backward in a pool: In short he did, for Pate, braw things fortell, Without the help of conjuring or spell. At last, when well diverted, he withdrew, Pow'd aff his beard to Symon, Symon knew His welcome master;--round his knees he gat, Hang at his coat, and syne for blythness grat. Patrick was sent for;--happy lad is he! Symon tald Elspa, Elspa tald it me. Ye'll hear out a' the secret story soon; And troth 'tis e'en right odd when a' is done, To think how Symon ne'er afore wad tell, Na, no sae meikle as to Pate himsell. Our Meg, poor thing, alake! has lost her jo. _Mause._ It may be sae; wha kens? and may be no. To lift a love that's rooted, is great pain; } Even kings have tane a queen out of the plain: } And what has been before, may be again. } _Mad._ Sic nonsense! love tak root, but tocher-good, 'Tween a herd's bairn, and ane of gentle blood! Sic fashions in King Bruce's days might be; But siccan ferlies now we never see. _Mause._ Gif Pate forsakes her, Bauldy she may gain; } Yonder he comes, and wow but he looks fain! } Nae doubt he thinks that Peggy's now his ain. } _Mad._ He get her! slaverin doof; it sets him weil To yoke a plough where Patrick thought to till. Gif I were Meg, I'd let young Master see-- _Mause._ Ye'd be as dorty in your choice as he: And so wad I. But whisht, here Bauldy comes. _Enter_ BAULDY _singing._ Jenny _said to_ Jocky, _gin ye winna tell, Ye shall be the lad, I'll be the lass mysell; Ye're a bonny lad, and I'm a lassie free; Ye're welcomer to tak me than to let me be._ I trow sae.--Lasses will come to at last, Tho' for a while they maun their snaw-ba's cast. _Mause._ Well, Bauldy, how gaes a'?-- _Baul._ ----Faith unco right: I hope we'll a' sleep sound but ane this night. _Mad._ And wha's the unlucky ane, if we may ask?