But bide ye, ye shall hear what cam o't, and
how far I am bund to be bedesman to the Ravenswoods. Till't, ye see, we
gaed on a braw simmer morning, twenty-fourth of June, saxteen hundred
and se'enty-nine, of a' the days of the month and year--drums beat, guns
rattled, horses kicked and trampled. Hackstoun of Rathillet keepit the
brig wi' mustket and carabine and pike, sword and scythe for what I ken,
and we horsemen were ordered down to cross at the ford,--I hate fords
at a' times, let abee when there's thousands of armed men on the other
side. There was auld Ravenswood brandishing his Andrew Ferrara at the
head, and crying to us to come and buckle to, as if we had been gaun to
a fair; there was Caleb Balderstone, that is living yet, flourishing in
the rear, and swearing Gog and Magog, he would put steel through the gus
of ony man that turned bridle; there was young Allan Ravenswood, that
was then Master, wi' a bended pistol in his hand--it was a mercy it gaed
na aff!--crying to me, that had scarce as much wind left as serve the
necessary purpose of my ain lungs, 'Sound, you poltroon!--sound, you
damned cowardly villain, or I will blow your brains out!' and, to be
sure, I blew sic points of war that the scraugh of a clockin-hen was
music to them.
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