Page:History of the haveral wives, or, The folly of witless women displayed.pdf/6

( 6 ) great liar; mony ane has war names than a' that yet. Mag. But do ye think there is ony de'ils but ane? every body is ſpeaking and crying on him, an he coud'na anſwer them a'.

Jan. Indeed they ſay there's black anes and white anes o' them, humel anes and horn'd anes, the very witches is ha'f de'ils whan they're living and hale anes whan they're dead; the brownies in ha'f dogs ha'f de’ils, a' rough but the mouth, ſeeks nae claiſe, ae man's meat will fair them and they'll do ten mens wark in ae night; for hobgoblins, fairies and elfs, that ſhoots folks beaſts to dead, and no hole to be ſeen in the ſkin o' them. Hard ye no tell o' the twa Highland wives? how the tane cried, ochor, Shenet, my cow is ſhot! Hoch, quo' ſhe, wha ſhot her? Deed it was the de'il. Och, Shenet, we'll a' be ſhot whan the de’il has gotten a gun.

Mag. Sweet be wi' us wow an? it's an unco thing they dinna flee on the miniſter whan he flytes and miſcas them far, do ye think they hear him?

Jan Ay they hear and ſee too, they are neither blind nor bleer'd; but ay whan ye ſpeak o' them name the day, cry it's Wedenſday thro' a' the warld and there's nae fear o' you.

Mag What do you think of your miniſter; is he a gude man think ye?

Jan Indeed I think he is a gay gabby body, but he ha' twa fauts and his wife has three; he's unco greedy o' filler, and preaching down pride and up charity, and yet he's that fu' o pride himſel' that he has gotton a glaſs winneck on ilka ſide o' his noſe, and his een is as clear as twa clocks to luk to, he has twa gilly gawkies o dochters, wha come to the kirk wi' their coblet how mutches frizled up as braid as their hips and clear things like ſtars about their necks, and at ilka lug a wallopin white thing hinging like a ſnotter at a bubly wean's noſe, ſyne about their necks a bit this claith like a mouſe web, and their twa bits o' paps ay playing nidity nod, ſhining thro' it like twa yearning bags, shame fa' them and their fligmagaeris baith, for I get nae gude o' the preaching