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Quoth the stalwart maid who brought me my porridge and bade me 'eat them while they were hot, 'Ay, they were a' on the ran-dan last nicht! Hout! they're fine lads, and they'll be nane the waur of it. Forby Farbes's coat. I dinna see wha's to get the creish off that! she added, with a sigh; in which, identifying Forbes as the torch- bearer, I mentally joined.
Tod was a wabster to his trade; his loom stood in the but. There he sat, a muckle fat, white hash of a man like creish, wi' a kind of a holy smile that gart me scunner. The hand of him aye cawed the shuttle, but his een was steeked. We cried to him by his name, we skirled in the deid lug of him, we shook him by the shou'ther. Nae mainner o' service!
There he sat on his dowp, an' cawed the shuttle and smiled like creish. "God be guid to us," says Tam Dale, "this is no canny?" He had jimp said the word, when Tod Lapraik cam to himsel'. "Is this you, Tam?" says he. "Haith, man! I'm blythe to see ye. I whiles fa' into a bit dwam like this," he says; "its frae the stamach."
There he sat on his dowp, an' cawed the shuttle and smiled like creish. "God be guid to us," says Tam Dale, "this is no' canny!" He had jimp said the word, when Tod Lapraik cam to himsel'. "Is this you, Tam?" says he. "Haith, man! I'm blithe to see ye. I whiles fa' into a bit dwam like this," he says; "it's frae the stamach."
Tod was a wabster to his trade; his loom stood in the but. There he sat, a muckle fat, white hash of a man like creish, wi' a kind of a holy smile that gart me scunner. The hand of him aye cawed the shuttle, but his een was steeked. We cried to him by his name, we skirted in the deid lug of him, we shook him by the shou'ther. Nae mainner o' service!
There he sat on his dowp, an' cawed the shuttle and smiled like creish. "God be guid to us," says Tam Dale, "this is no canny!" He had jimp said the word, when Tod Lapraik cam to himsel'. "Is this you, Tam?" says he. "Haith, man! I'm blythe to see ye. I whiles fa' into a bit dwam like this," he says; "it's frae the stamach."
Tod was a wabster to his trade; his loom stood in the but. There he sat, a muckle fat, white hash of a man like creish, wi' a kind of a holy smile that gart me scunner. The hand of him aye cawed the shuttle, but his een was steekit. We cried to him by his name, we skirled in the deid lug of him, we shook him by the shouther. Nae mainner o' service!
Quoth the stalwart maid who brought me my porridge and bade me "eat them while they were hot," "Ay, they were a' on the ran-dan last nicht! Hout! they're fine lads, and they'll be nane the waur of it. Forby Farbes's coat: I dinna see wha's to get the creish off that!" she added, with a sigh; in which, identifying Forbes as the torch-bearer, I mentally joined.
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