MAUSE. This fool imagines--as do many sic-- That I'm a witch in compact with Auld Nick, Because by education I was taught To speak and act aboon their common thought: Their gross mistake shall quickly now appear; Soon shall they ken what brought, what keeps me here. Now since the royal Charles, and right's restor'd, A shepherdess is daughter to a lord. The bonny foundling that's brought up by Glaud, Wha has an uncle's care on her bestow'd,-- Her infant life I sav'd, when a false friend Bow'd to the usurper, and her death design'd, To establish him and his in all these plains That by right heritage to her pertains. She's now in her sweet bloom, has blood and charms Of too much value for a shepherd's arms. None know't but me!--And if the morn were come, I'll tell them tales will gar them a' sing dumb. * * * * * SIR WILLIAM. How goes the night? does day-light yet appear Symon, you're very timeously asteer. SYMON. I'm sorry, sir, that we've disturb'd your rest; But some strange thing has Bauldy's spirit opprest, He's seen some witch, or wrestled with a ghaist. BAULDY. O! ay; dear sir, in troth, 'tis very true; And I am come to make my plaint to you. SIR WILLIAM. I lang to hear 't. BAULDY. 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 trysted, I met wi'er this night; But may nae friend of mine get sic a fright! For the curst 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 labour'd as I wont to be at school. My heart out of its hool was like to loup; I pithless grew with fear, and had nae hope; Till, with an elritch laugh, they vanished quite. Syne I half dead with anger, fear, and spite, Crap up and fled straight frae them, sir, to you, Hoping your help to gie the deil his due. I'm sure my heart will ne'er gie o'er to dunt, Till in a fat tar-barrel Mause be burnt! * * * * * SIR WILLIAM. 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 through want of education blind!