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SCENE III.
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SCENE III.

Inside of the Cottage.
Cairney sitting drowsy by the fire—to him enter the Spirit.
Spirit.

Bid you good-morrow, honest carl.


Cair.

Hoh! avoid ye, in the name of Saint Aaron!
Wha the foul thief are ye, callant? Keep your ain
side o' the house, an' it be your will.


Spirit.

Hush, goodman! I am a wooer, an honest
youth, and the son of an old friend.



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Cair.

I little wot about ye, lad—ye hae an unco
wan-yirdly like look—an' how gat ye in here?


Spirit.

I came by the casement.


Cair.

The deil o' there ye cam. Keep to the lee
o' the low awee, and come nae within the breath o'
auld Cairney—he's fortified—he has

Black luggie, lammer-bead,
Rowan-tree an' red thread,
To pit the spirits to their speed.

Ely away afore I bring them a' an' extinguish ye.
Ye're either a brownie, a fairie, or a willie-an'-the-wisp
—if ye ken o' a hidden pose, speak, but otherwise,
ely.


Spirit.

I tell you, goodman, I am a wooer, and
a friend, and I have gained young Lula's consent,
provided you agree. I came here to ask her of you,
and afterwards to see herself, but was benighted;—
trust me, I am honest, and son to an old friend of
your own.



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Cair.

He has a daft-like son o'ye, man—but keep
your ain side o' the ingle, and say what ye like—I
hae help at hand, an' deil a feared I'm for ony sic
wizzling.


Spirit.

Give me then your consent to wed Lula.


Cair.

Na, na, lad; Lula has other tow to teaze.


Spirit.

That is ungenerous—She has told me all
her views in life, and transferred me to you.


Cair.

And pray, sweet young man, what are her
views in life? When I hae learn'd these I may consent.


Spirit.

She said she had long loved your son, and
on that account had lingered here; but that he had
proved himself to be unworthy of a maiden's love—
that he might long ago have had possession of her
person, which, since he had declined, she disdained
him, and would now yield herself up to me.


Cair.

The very words I aye said! Od, callant, ye
hae some insight, however ye cam be it—But or the


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morn at e'en she sanna tell that tale—ay, or daylight,
if I get my will. Silly dult! he'll gang creepin'
and whinin' about, an' trying to pit down himsel, and
fighting wi' dogs, but he'll never do as he should do.
Gang about your bisiness, callant—it is a shame for
the like o' you to be gaun snouking after the women
at this time o' night—dirty, menseless, ill-bred
thing!


Spirit.

Well, goodbye, old churl; I shall have her
in spite of you, and that “ere twice the sun meet
with the sea.”

(Exit Spirit.)

Cair.

The deil ye will!—I'll turn your nose to
green cheese or that come about—Whaten an ill-faurd
weazel-blawn urf is that, bouting in on fock
i'the night time like something that's no canny: I'll
gang an' see how the twa are coming on, an' if Sim
be really gaun mad, or only put a wee hair-brained
wi' mishanters.