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Updated: May 5, 2025
"Noo, I'm gaein' to gie ye the gran'est thrashin' ye iver dreamed of. Tak' aff yer coat!" The boy obeyed, and stood up in his thin shirt, his face white and set as a statue's. Red Wull seated himself on his haunches close by, his ears pricked, licking his lips, all attention. The little man suppled the great ash-plant in his hands and raised it.
An' a man 'at in ane o' his gran'est verses cud haiver aboot the birth o' a yoong airthquack! losh! to think o' 't growin' an auld airthquack! haith, to me it's no up till a deuk-quack! sic a poet micht weel, I grant ye, be he ever sic a guid poet whan he tuik heed to what he said, he micht weel, I say, blether nonsense aboot the sea warrin' again' the rocks, an' sic stuff."
An' a prood man he was o' his ancestry sax hunnerd years lang syne. Methinks he's the gran'est o' the name himsel' the laird o' a score o' toonships a' settled by himsel'. Better yon than like the gran' Duke o' Sutherland drivin' thae puir bodies frae hoose an' hame. In the towns of St.
"Jes' a swaller or two, Bishop," he said coaxingly, as one talking to a child "Quick, now, you're not yo'self exactly you've dropped into poetry." "I guess I am a little teched, Jack, but I don't need that when I can get poetry, sech poetry as is now in me. Jack, do you want to hear the gran'est verse ever writ in poetry?" "No no, Bishop, don't! Jack Bracken's yo' friend, he'll freeze to you.
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