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The stov'd and roasted we afford. Are aft great strangers to our board. Pottage! quoth Hab, ye senseless tawpie? Think ye this youth's a gilly-gawpie, And that his gentle stamock's master, To worry up a pint o’ plaster; Like our mill-knaves that lift the laiding, Whase kytes can streek out like raw plaiding. Swith roast a hen, or boil some chickens, And send for ale frae Maggy Pickens. Hout ay, qnoth she ye weel may ken It's ill brought butt that’s no there benn. When but last owk, nae farder gane, The laird got a’ to pay his kain

Then James wha had as good a guess O’ what was in the house as Bess, With pawky smile this plea to end. To please himself and ease his friend. First open'd with a flee oration His wond'rous skill in conjuration. Said he, B; this fell art I’m able To whip off any great man’s table Whate’er I like to mak a meal of, Either in part or yet the bale of, And if ye please I'll shaw my art,— Cries Halbert, Faith with all my heart, Bess feign'd herself —cried Lord be here! And near hand fell a swoon for fear. James leugh, and bade her naething dread. Syne to his conjuring went with speed, And first he draws a circle round,