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Updated: June 11, 2025
For by what cantrip it wad ill beseem a man to judge she was hingin' frae a single nail an' by a single wursted thread for darnin' hose. It's an awfu' thing to be your lane at nicht wi' siccan prodigies o' darkness; but Mr. Soulis was strong in the Lord.
So after a bite o' meat I gangs out to get the air and clear my heid, which was a' rammled wi' the auction-ring. And whae did I find, sittin' on a bench at the door, but the auld man Yeddie. He was waur changed than ever. His lang hair was hingin' over his broo, and his face was thin and white as a ghaist's.
'I daured him to say 'at he didna pipe weel. 'Weel dune, laddie! And ye micht say 't wi' a gude conscience, for he wadna hae been piper till 's regiment at the battle o' Culloden gin he hadna pipit weel. Yon's his kilt hingin' up i' the press i' the garret. Ye'll hae to grow, Robert, my man, afore ye fill that.
'Wasna gaun back wi'oot ye I seen ye drap even if ye had been a corp. . . . Been snokin' aroun' seekin' ye for Guid kens hoo lang. I'm fair hingin' wi' glaur. . . . I'm obleeged to ye, Wullie, but ye shouldna ha'e done it. Whauraboots are we? 'I wisht I was sure. Lost ma bearin's. I doobt we're nearer the Germans nor oor ain lot. That's the reason I'm weerin' this dish-cover.
An' the bairns playin' aboot the doors ran in like rabbits whan they got sicht o' me. An' I begud to think 'at something fearsome had signed me for a reprobate; an' I jist closed my door, and gaed to my bed, and loot my wark stan', for wha cud wark wi' damnation hingin' ower his heid? An' three days gaed ower me, that nothing passed my lips but a drap o' milk an' water.
I canna see why Miss Reston, wi' a' her faculties aboot her, needs you hingin' round her. Mercy me, what's to hinder her pu'in ribbons through her ain underclothes, if ribbons are necessary, which they're not. There's Mrs.
"Hear, hear," said a' the rest; an' wi' that Bandy got up on the boiler-heid on his belly, an' turnin' roond, sat wi' the legs o' him hingin' ower the front o' the boiler, juist like a laddie sittin' on the dyke at the Common. Watty Finlay, the weaver, shuved anower a tume butter kit for Bandy to set his feet on, an' then a'body sat quiet, juist like's something was genna happen.
"A blessing on your precious face!" she cried. "Twa joes o'mine: just two o' my old joes, my hinny dear." "What did they suffer for?" I asked. "Ou, just for the guid cause," said she. "Aften I spaed to them the way that it would end. Twa shillin' Scots: no pickle mair; and there are twa bonny callants hingin' for 't! They took it frae a wean belanged to Brouchton."
Aboot a week syne I was busy at the back door, hingin' oot some bits o' things, an', hearin' some din i' the back shop, I took a bit glint in at the winda. Fancy my surprise, when here's Sandy i' the middle o' the flure garrin' his airms an' legs flee like the shakers o' Robbie Smith's "deevil."
'It's my brither Sandy, as sure 's deith! he said; 'and he's been hingin' aboot her ever sin' she cam in. But I dinna think she likes him a'thegither by the leuk o' her. 'What for dinna ye gang up till her yersel', man? I wadna stan' that gin 'twas me. 'I'm feared 'at he ken me. He's terrible gleg. A' the Morays are gleg, and yon marquis has an ee like a hawk. 'What does 't maitter?
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