Now, what
say ye to that, sir? What say ye to that? What do you think o'
your orator now, friends?
_Elliot_.--'Tis false, my friends--'Tis but a wicked calumny devised
Against the only man who is your friend.
_Provost Ramsay_.--Saftly, neebor, saftly! have a care how
ye gie the lee to what I say; or, it is my solemn opinion, this
bit sword o' my faither's may stap you frae gien it till
anither.
_Enter_ SIR ALEXANDER _and_ RICHARD.
Ye are weel come, Sir Alexander: here is Orator Elliot been
makin' a harangue to the townsfolk; and ane cries for bread, and
anither for meal--that it is my opinion I dinna ken what's to be
done.
_Sir Alex_.--What would you have? what is it that you wish?
Would ye, for food, sweet friends, become all slaves;
And for a meal, that ye might surfeit on it,
Give up your wives, your homes, and all that's dear,
To the brute arms of men, who hold it virtue
To heap their shame upon a fallen foe?
Would ye, that ye might eat, yet not be satisfied,
Pick up the scanty crumbs around their camp,
After their cattle and their dogs have left them;
Or would ye, for this favour, be content
To take up arms against your countrymen!--
For this! will fathers fight against their sons?--
Sons 'gainst their fathers?--brethren with each other?
Those who would wish it may go o'er to Edward!
_[Sound of French horns without_
_Provost Ramsay_.
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