GAFFER'S HOUSE.
Wi unsuccessfu search the ghaist-rid three,
Hae socht the boortree bank, an hemlock lee,
The nettle corner, an the rowntree brae,
Sae here they come, a' sunk in deepest wae.
Gaffer.
Alas ! Gudewife, oor search has been in vain,
Come o't what will, my bosom's wrung wi pain ;
I haflins think his een hae him mislippen'd,
But, Oh! it's hard to say what may hae happen'd.
Enter MUIRLAN, running.
Muir. Preserve's! O, haste ye ! rin,—mak mettle heels!
I saw the dragon spankin owre the fiels!
(They stop from going out on seeing JEAN enter.)
Jean. What maks you stare sae strange! what's wrang wi Willy?
He roars as loud's a horn, tho auld an silly.
Muir. I'm no sae auld !—my pith ye yet may brag on !
But Jeanie, luve ! hoo did ye match the dragon?
Jean. Auld blethrin wicht! the gock's possest I ween.—
Gaf. Come, dochter, clear this riddle, whar hae ye been?
Jean. Faither, rare news; oor Laird's cam hame this day.
His man ca'ed in to tell us by the way,
Drest in his sodger's claise, wi scarlet coat,
He is a bonnie lad fu weel I wot !
Muir. The dragon! he! he! he!—I've been deliered,
I'll wear a scarlet coat, too, when we're married.
Gaf. Oor Laird cam hame ! an safe but skaith or scar?
I'll owre an hear the history o the war,
Us kintra fouk are bun like in a cage up,
I'll owre an hear about that place ca'ed EGYPT.
I lang tae hear him tell a what he's seen.
For four lang winters he awa has been—
Wife—fetch my bonnet that I caft last owk,
Here, brush my coat,—fey, Jean tak aff that pook.
Mir. Toot, snuff ! bout news ye needna be sae thrang,
Let's set the bridal nicht afore ye gang.
Muir. The bridal nicht! he he! he! he!—that's richt!
The bridal nicht ! he ! he ! !—the bridal nicht !
Jean. I'll hing as heich's the steeple, [1] in a wuddie, [2]
Before I wed wi that auld kecklin bodie.
Mir. Was mither eer sae plagued wi a dochter!
O that's her thank for a the length I've brocht her ! (Crying.
Gaf. This racket in a house !—it is a shame,
I'll thank you, Muirlan, to be steppin hame.
Jean. Auld, swirlon, slaethorn, camsheugh, cruiked wicht,
Gae wa, an ne'er again come in my sicht.
Muir. That e'er my lugs were doom'd to hear sic words!
Whilk rush into my heart like pointed swurds—
Frae me let younkers warnin tak in time,
An wed, ere dozened doun ayont their prime !
O, me ! I canna gang,—twill break my heart,—
Let's hae ae fareweel peep afore we part.
(He puts on his Spectacles, stares at JEAN, roars ludicrously. Exit crying.).
[1] The High Church Steeple, Paisley, erected in 1769, 161 feet in height, in the Italian style of architecture on the highest eminence of Oakshaw Hill. It is a prominent landmark in the surrounding country, and could be seen by Jean every time she came into Paisley.
[2] A rope made of osier twigs.—Ed.