IOT _and_ Populace.

_Elliot_--You heard, my townsmen, how our gracious governor
Did talk to us of honour--! you all heard him!
Can any of you tell us what is _honour?
He_ drinks his wine, _he_ feeds on beeves and capons;
_His_ table groans beneath a load of meats;
_His_ hounds, _his_ hawks, are fed like Christian men!
_He_ sleeps in a downy couch, o'erhung with purple;
And these, all these are _honourable_ doings!
He talks of _liberty_!
Is it, then, _liberty_ to be cooped up
Within these prison walls, to starve from want,
That we may have the liberty--mark it, my friends!--
The wondrous _liberty_ to call him _Governor_?
Had ye the hearts or hands your fathers had,
You'd to the castle, take the keys by force,
And ope the gates to let your children live.
Here comes your provost--now appeal to him.

_Enter_ PROVOST RAMSAY.--_The people demand bread_.

_Provost Ramsay_.--Gie you food!--your bairns dee wi'
hunger!--and ye maun hae bread! It is easy saying, Gie ye! but
where am I to get it? Do you think there's naebody finds the
grund o' their stamachs but yersels? I'm sure I hae been blind
fastin' these four-and-twenty hours! But wad ye no suffer this,
and ten times mair for liberty, and for the glory and honour of
auld Scotland?

_Elliot [to the people]_.--He, too, can cant of
_liberty_ and _honour_!

_Provost Ramsay_.--I say, Mr. Hypocrite! it is my fixed and
solemn opinion that ye are at the bottom o' this murmuring. I
ken ye're never at a loss for an answer; and there is anither
wee bit affair I wad just thank ye to redd up. Do ye mind what a
fine story ye made in this very market-place the ither week,
about getting ower the bed--and your wife's bosom being torn
bare--and the blood gushing to your feet, and a' the rest o't?
Do ye mind o' that, sir? Do ye mind o' that? I daresay,
townsmen, ye've no forgot it? Now, sir, it's no aboon ten
minutes sine, that the poor creature--wha, according to your
account, was dead and buried--got loose frae her confinement,
and cam fleeing to me for protection, as a man and a magistrate,
to save her frae the cruelty o' you, you scoundrel. 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