This summoned old Simon to the door of his habitation, to acknowledge the courtesy of his countrymen, and in his turn to send the wine around in honour of the Merry Morrice Dancers of Perth.
"We thank thee, father Simon," said a voice, which strove to drown in an artificial squeak the pert, conceited tone of Oliver Proudfute.

"But a sight of thy lovely daughter had been more sweet to us young bloods than a whole vintage of Malvoisie." "I thank thee, neighbours, for your goodwill," replied the glover.

"My daughter is ill at ease, and may not come forth into the cold night air; but if this gay gallant, whose voice methinks I should know, will go into my poor house, she will charge him with thanks for the rest of you." "Bring them to us at the hostelrie of the Griffin," cried the rest of the ballet to their favoured companion; "for there will we ring in Lent, and have another rouse to the health of the lovely Catharine." "Have with you in half an hour," said Oliver, "and see who will quaff the largest flagon, or sing the loudest glee.

Nay, I will be merry in what remains of Fastern's Even, should Lent find me with my mouth closed for ever." "Farewell, then," cried his mates in the morrice--"fare well, slashing bonnet maker, till we meet again." The morrice dancers accordingly set out upon their further progress, dancing and carolling as they went along to the sound of four musicians, who led the joyous band, while Simon Glover drew their coryphaeus into his house, and placed him in a chair by his parlour fire.
"But where is your daughter ?" said Oliver.

"She is the bait for us brave blades." "Why, truly, she keeps her apartment, neighbour Oliver; and, to speak plainly, she keeps her bed." "Why, then will I upstairs to see her in her sorrow; you have marred my ramble, Gaffer Glover, and you owe me amends--a roving blade like me; I will not lose both the lass and the glass.