Here I got a fresh direction for
Pilrig, my destination; and a little beyond, on the wayside, came
by a gibbet and two men hanged in chains. They were dipped in tar,
as the manner is; the wind span them, the chains clattered, and the
birds hung about the uncanny jumping-jacks and cried. The sight
coming on me suddenly, like an illustration of my fears, I could
scarce be done with examining it and drinking in discomfort. And,
as I thus turned and turned about the gibbet, what should I strike
on, but a weird old wife, that sat behind a leg of it, and nodded,
and talked aloud to herself with becks and courtesies.
"Who are these two, mother?" I asked, and pointed to the corpses.
"A blessing on your precious face!" she cried. "Twa joes {7}
o'mine: just two o' my old joes, my hinny dear."
"What did they suffer for?" I asked.
"Ou, just for the guid cause," said she. "Aften I spaed to them
the way that it would end. Twa shillin' Scots: no pickle mair;
and there are twa bonny callants hingin' for 't! They took it frae
a wean {8} belanged to Brouchton."
"Ay!" said I to myself, and not to the daft limmer, "and did they
come to such a figure for so poor a business? This is to lose all
indeed.
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