“And that wad please me as weel,” said Annie Winnie; “for there’s as large a dole, and folk are no obliged to girn and laugh, and mak murgeons, and wish joy to these hellicat quality, that lord it ower us like brute beasts.  I like to pack the dead-dole in my lap and rin ower my auld rhyme—­

     My loaf in my lap, my penny in my purse,
     Thou art ne’er the better, and
     I’m ne’er the worse.”

“That’s right, Annie,” said the paralytic woman; “God send us a green Yule and a fat kirkyard!”

“But I wad like to ken, Luckie Gourlay, for ye’re the auldest and wisest amang us, whilk o’ these revellers’ turn it will be to be streikit first?”

“D’ye see yon dandilly maiden,” said Dame Gourlay, “a’ glistenin’ wi’ gowd and jewels, that they are lifting up on the white horse behind that hare-brained callant in scarlet, wi’ the lang sword at his side?”

“But that’s the bride!” said her companion, her cold heart touched with some sort of compassion—­“that’s the very bride hersell!  Eh, whow! sae young, sae braw, and sae bonny—­and is her time sae short?”

“I tell ye,” said the sibyl, “her winding sheet is up as high as her throat already, believe it wha list.  Her sand has but few grains to rin out; and nae wonder—­they’ve been weel shaken.  The leaves are withering fast on the trees, but she’ll never see the Martinmas wind gar them dance in swirls like the fairy rings.”  “Ye waited on her for a quarter,” said the paralytic woman, “and got twa red pieces, or I am far beguiled?”

“Ay, ay,” answered Ailsie, with a bitter grin; “and Sir William Ashton promised me a bonny red gown to the boot o’ that—­a stake, and a chain, and a tar-barrel, lass! what think ye o’ that for a propine?—­for being up early and doun late for fourscore nights and mair wi’ his dwining daughter.  But he may keep it for his ain leddy, cummers.”

“I hae heard a sough,” said Annie Winnie, “as if Leddy Ashton was nae canny body.”

“D’ye see her yonder,” said Dame Gourlay, “as she prances on her grey gelding out at the kirkyard?  There’s mair o’ utter deevilry in that woman, as brave and fair-fashioned as she rides yonder, than in a’ the Scotch withces that ever flew by moonlight ower North Berwick Law.”

“What’s that ye say about witches, ye damned hags?” said Johnie Mortheuch [Mortsheugh]; “are ye casting yer cantrips in the very kirkyard, to mischieve the bride and bridegroom?  Get awa’ hame, for if I tak my souple t’ye, I’ll gar ye find the road faster than ye wad like.”

“Hegh, sirs!” answered Ailsie Gourlay; “how bra’ are we wi’ our new black coat and our weel-pouthered head, as if we had never kenn’d hunger nor thirst oursells! and we’ll be screwing up our bit fiddle, doubtless, in the ha’ the night, amang a’ the other elbo’-jiggers for miles round.  Let’s see if the pins haud, Johnie—­that’s a’, lad.”

“I take ye a’ to witness, gude people,” said Morheuch, “that she threatens me wi’ mischief, and forespeaks me.  If ony thing but gude happens to me or my fiddle this night, I’ll make it the blackest night’s job she ever stirred in.  I’ll hae her before presbytery and synod:  I’m half a minister mysell, now that I’m a bedral in an inhabited parish.”