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I've seen the men call'd Highland rogues, With Lowland men make shangs a brogs, Sup kail and brose, and fling the cogs Out at the door, Take cocks, hens, sheep, and hogs, And pay nought for. I saw a Highlander,'t was right drole, With a string of puddings hung on a pole, Whip'd o'er his shoulder, skipped like a fole, Caus'd Maggy bann, Lap o'er the midden and midden-hole, And aff he ran.
Dave Duffy called. 7th. Fine. Roped the red filly. 8th. Showery. Sold the gray mair's fole. 9th. Fine. Wint to the Red hill after a horse. 10th. Fine, Found tree sheap ded in sqre padick. I closed the book and put it up with a sigh. The little record was a perfect picture of the dull narrow life of its writer.
I might be well compared with the last abbot but one, William Thirsk, who resigned his post, forseeing the coming Dissolution, and was therefore called 'a varra fole and a misereble ideote, if I attempted in the short space available to give any detailed account of the abbey or its wonderful past.
I've seen the men call'd Highland rogues, With Lowland men make shangs a brogs, Sup kail and brose, and fling the cogs Out at the door, Take cocks, hens, sheep, and hogs, And pay nought for. I saw a Highlander,'t was right drole, With a string of puddings hung on a pole, Whip'd o'er his shoulder, skipped like a fole, Caus'd Maggy bann, Lap o'er the midden and midden-hole, And aff he ran.
I've seen the men call'd Highland rogues, With Lowland men make shangs a brogs, Sup kail and brose, and fling the cogs Out at the door, Take cocks, hens, sheep, and hogs, And pay nought for. I saw a Highlander,'t was right drole, With a string of puddings hung on a pole, Whip'd o'er his shoulder, skipped like a fole, Caus'd Maggy bann, Lap o'er the midden and midden-hole, And aff he ran.
Dah he git down f’um de hoss an’ go a stompin’ in de sto’ eve’ybody stan’in’ back jis’ same like fu’ Jay Goul’, an’ he fling bill down on de counta an’ ’low, ‘Fill me up a bottle, Chartrand, I’se gwine travelin’.’ Den he ’lows, ‘You treats eve’y las’ man roun’ heah at my ’spence, black an’ w’ite nuttin’ fu’ me,’ an’ he fole he arms an’ lean back on de counta, jis’ so.
"Mister Buggone," interrupted Aun' Sheba in a passion which was bursting all restraint, "you'se wrestin' Scripter to you'se own 'struction. Ef you am de head ob dis fam'ly, I'se gwine ter sit down an fole my hans, an you can jes' git out an earn my libin' an' yours too. Git up dar now, an' bring in de wood an' de kinlin' fer de mawnin', an' when mawnin' come, you make de fiah.
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