A humorous modern Song, founded on fact,
by F. B. , Cumber, Granfhaw.
Tune "Lovely Molly has an air "
In Carrick town a wife did dwell,
Who does pretend to conjure witches
Auld Barbara Goats and lucky Bell,
Ye'll no lang to come through her clutches ;
A waefu' trick this wife did play,
On fimple Sawney, our poor tailor,
She's mittimiss'd the other day
To lie in limbo with the Jailor :
This fimple Sawney had a Cow
Was aye as sleekit as an otter
It happen'd for a month or two.
Aye when they churn'd they got nae butter;
Roun-tree tied in the Cow's tail,
And vervain glean'd about the ditches;
These freets and charms did not prevail.
They cou'd not banifh the auld witches:
The neighbour wives a' gather'd in
In number near about a dozen,
Elfpie Dough and Mary Linn,
An' Keat M'Cart the tailor's cousin,
Aye they churn'd an' aye they fwat,
Their aprons loos'd and coost their mutches
But yet nae butter they could get.
They bleft the Cow but curft the witches:
Had Sawney summoned all his wits.
And fent awa for Huie Mertin,
He could have gall't the witches guts
An' cur't the kye to Nannie Barton;
But he may fhow the farmer's wab
An' lang wade through Carmoney gutters,
Alas' it was a fore mis-jab
When he employ'd auld Mary Butters;
The forcereft open'd the fcene.
With magic words of her invention,
To make the foolifh people keen
Who did not know her bafe intention.
She drew a circle round the churn.
An' wafh'd the staff in fouth run water
An' fwore the witches fhe would burn,
But fhe would have the tailor's butter.
When fable night her curtain fpread.
Then fhe got on a flaming fire.
The tailor ftood at the Cow's head
With his turn'd waiftcoat in the byer;
The chimney cover'd with a fcraw,
An' ev'ry crevice where it fmoak'd,
But long before the cock did craw
The people in the houfe were choak'd,
The muckle pot hung on all night
As Mary Butters had been brewing,
In hopes to fetch fome witch or wight
Whas entrails by her art was ftewing
In this her magic a' did fail
Nae witch or wizard was detected;
Now Mary Butters lies in jail,
For the bafe part that fhe has acted.
The tailor loft his fon an' wife,
For Mary Butters did them fmother
But as he hates a fingle life.
In four weeks time he got another;
He is a crufe auld canty chiel,
An' cares nae what the witches mutters
He'll never mair employ the deil,
Nor his auld agent, Mary Butters;
At day the tailor left his poft,
Though he had feen no apparation
Nae wizard grim nae witch nor ghoft,
Though ftill he had a ftrong fuspicion
That fome auld wizard wrinkled wife.
Had caft her cantrips o'er poor brawney
Caufe fhe and he did live in ftrife,
An' whare's the man can blame poor Sawney;
Wae sucks for our young laffes now,
For who can read their mystic matters
Or tell if their fweet hearts be true,
The folk a run to Mary Butters;
To tell what thief a horfe did fteal,
In this fhe was a mere pretender
An' has nae art to raife the deil
Like that auld wife, the witch of Endor
If Mary Butters be a witch,
Why but the people all fhould know it,
An' if fhe can the mufes touch
I'm fure fhe'll foon descry the poet,
Her ain familiar aff fhe'll fen'
Or paughlet wi' a tu' commiffion,
To pour her vengeance on fhe men,
That tantalises her condition.
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
Posted by Mark Thompson at Tuesday, February 10, 2015