"A sture woife, and a dour," said one Cumbrian peasant, as he clattered
by in his wooden brogues, with a noise like the trampling of a
dray-horse.
"She has gone to ho master, with ho's name in her mouth," said another;
"Shame the country should be harried wi' Scotch witches and Scotch
bitches this gate--but I say hang and drown."
"Ay, ay, Gaffer Tramp, take awa yealdon, take awa low--hang the witch,
and there will be less scathe amang us; mine owsen hae been reckan this
towmont."
"And mine bairns hae been crining too, mon," replied his neighbour.
"Silence wi' your fule tongues, ye churls," said an old woman, who
hobbled past them, as they stood talking near the carriage; "this was nae
witch, but a bluidy-fingered thief and murderess."
"Ay? was it e'en sae, Dame Hinchup?" said one in a civil tone, and
stepping out of his place to let the old woman pass along the
footpath--"Nay, you know best, sure--but at ony rate, we hae but
tint a Scot of her, and that's a thing better lost than found."
The old woman passed on without making any answer.
"Ay, ay, neighbour," said Gaffer Tramp, "seest thou how one witch will
speak for t'other--Scots or English, the same to them.
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