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Updated: May 12, 2025
"Div ye see yon boat?" cried she; "and div ye mind Christie, the lass wha's hairt ye hae broken? aweel, woman it's just a race between deeth and Cirsty Johnstone for your son." The poor old woman swooned dead away; they carried her into Christie Johnstone's house and laid her down, then hurried back the greater terror absorbed the less.
"And, Custy," said he, "there's plenty wind getting up, your fish will be sair hashed; put them off your hands, I rede ye." Christie. "Ay, lad! Flucker, hide, an' when I play my hand sae, ye'll run in an cry, 'Cirsty, the Irishman will gie ye twenty-two schellin the cran." Flucker. "Ye ken mair than's in the catecheesm, for as releegious as ye are." The Leith merchant was Mr.
"Hett," said the woman carelessly, "let yon flea stick i' the wa'. I fancy I began on ye. Aweel, Cirsty," said she, falling into a friendlier tone; "it's the place we live in spoils us Newhaven's an impudent toon, as sure as deeth. "I passed through the Auld Toon the noo a place I never speak in; an' if they did na glower at me as I had been a strange beast.
"Wad ye even carted herrin with my fish caller fra' the sea? and Dunbar oh, fine! ye ken there's nae herrin at Dunbar the morn; this is the Dunbar schule that slipped westward. "I'll no be oot o' mine lang." Enter Flucker hastily, crying: "Cirsty, the Irishman will gie ye twenty-two schellin." "I'll no tak it," said Christie.
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