_Baul._ O len me soon some water, milk or ale, My head's grown giddy,--legs with shaking fail; I'll ne'er dare venture forth at night my lane: Alake! I'll never be mysell again. I'll ne'er o'erput it! Symon! O Symon! O! [_Symon gives him a drink._ _Sym._ What ails thee, gowk!--to make sae loud ado? You've wak'd Sir William, he has left his bed; He comes, I fear ill pleas'd: I hear his tred. _Enter_ SIR WILLIAM. _Sir Will._ How goes the night? Does day-light yet appear? Symon, you're very timeously asteer. _Sym._ I'm sorry, Sir, that we've disturb'd your rest: } But some strange thing has Bauldy's sp'rit opprest; } He's seen some witch, or wrestl'd with a ghaist. } _Baul._ O ay,--dear Sir, in troth 'tis very true; And I am come to make my plaint to you. _Sir Will._ [_smiling._] I lang to hear't---- _Baul._ ----Ah! Sir, the witch ca'd Mause, That wins aboon the mill amang the haws, First promis'd that she'd help me with her art, To gain a bonny thrawart lassie's heart. As she had tristed, I met wi'er this night; But may nae friend of mine get sic a fright! For the curs'd hag, instead of doing me good, (The very thought o't's like to freeze my blood!) Rais'd up a ghaist or deil, I kenna whilk, Like a dead corse in sheet as white as milk; Black hands it had, and face as wan as death, Upon me fast the Witch and it fell baith, And gat me down; while I, like a great fool, Was laboured as I wont to be at school. My heart out of its hool was like to lowp; I pithless grew with fear, and had nae hope, Till, with an elritch laugh, they vanish'd quite: Sync I, haff dead with anger, fear and spite, Crap up, and fled straight frae them, Sir, to you, Hoping your help, to gi'e the deil his due. I'm sure my heart will ne'er gi'e o'er to dunt, Till in a fat tar-barrel Mause be burnt. _Sir Will._ Well, Bauldy, whate'er's just shall granted be; Let Mause be brought this morning down to me. _Baul._ Thanks to your Honour; soon shall I obey: But first I'll Roger raise, and twa three mae, To catch her fast, or she get leave to squeel, And cast her cantraips that bring up the deil. [_Exit_ BAULDY. _Sir Will._ Troth, Symon, Bauldy's more afraid than hurt, The witch and ghaist have made themselves good sport. What silly notions crowd the clouded mind, That is thro' want of education blind! _Sym._ But does your Honour think there's nae sic thing As witches raising deils up thro' a ring? Syne playing tricks, a thousand I cou'd tell, Cou'd never be contriv'd on this side hell.