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Updated: July 22, 2025
"That'll be the lads frae the Callyfloor C.C. They said they were mibby genna look yont the nicht." He cam' up an' took the loons to the back shop, an' I heard them sayin' they wantit him to be empire at their match wi' the second eleven o' the Collie Park.
I pet them on mibby to rin an errand or twa, till they get the set o' my fit, an' syne I can manish them to the kirk. But I canna sit wi' noo buits; they're that uneasy. I got a noo pair lest Fursday, an' tried them on on Sabbath mornin'. But na, na!
"It's Pottie Lawson gane daft," said the laddies to the pileece. "He's foamin' at the moo." Efter an awfu' wey o' doin' they got Pottie haled oot o' the cellar an' hame; an' it's my opinion he'll never be seen in oor washin'-hoose again; an' I'm shure I'll no' brak' my heart. But aboot the can'le an' the ink you mibby winder hoo Sandy manished to stamack them. I gaed in an' smelt the ink.
"Oh, but I'll manish that, Bawbie," says he, gey snappish-like; "but still a man wi' brains in's heid canna juist be setisfeed wi' saft soap an' black lead a'thegither." "Ow weel," says I, "you wud mibby fa' in wi' a fell lot o' baith o' them, even i' the Toon Cooncil.
I hit Sandy blether awa' for a whilie, an' syne I strikes in, "Ay, juist that, Sandy; but you'll mibby g'wa' an' get that tume saft soap barrel scraipit oot, an' the wechts gi'en a black lead; an' we'll hear aboot the Toon Cooncil efter your wark's dune."
We was a' winderin' what was ado, an' Sandy was busy peekin' roond wi' his spygless, when twa bobbies cam' fleein' anower an' grippit him an' roared till him to sirrender. I can tell you, he nearhand sirrendered ane o' the bobbies wi' the spygless. If it hadna been for Mester Blair gettin' a haud o' the wechty end o't, there wudda been a noo helmet, an' mibby a new bobby needed in Edinboro.
Puir man, he has mibby mair than me to thole; but I wudda gien a five-pound note 'at I hadna left my ain hoose this nicht. I'll awa' to my bed, for my hert's perfeckly i' my moo. Eh, sirce me, what a nicht we had on Setarday mornin'! O, haud your tongue! Though I should live lang eneuch to bury Sandy Bowden, an' hae a golden weddin' wi' my second man, I'll never forget it.
"I wudna say but you're mibby richt eneuch." "Dawtit dochters mak' daidlin' wives," said the Gairner's wife. "She was spoilt at hame, afore Moses saw her. Her mither thocht there was nae lassies like hers, an' I'm shure she saired them hand an' fit. But you'll of'en see't, that wirkin' mithers mak' feckless dochters.
I've thocht to mysel' that a' the men folk wud be, say, aboot thirty-five 'ear auld, or atween that an' forty, an' the weemin mibby fower or five 'ear younger." "An' wud they be a' ae size, d'ye think?" says Stumpie Mertin. Stumpie's a tailor, ye see, an' I suppose he'd been winderin' aboot hoo he wud manish wi' the measurin'.
But I maun tell you the story frae the beginnin'. You've mibby heard me speak aboot Meg Mortimer's mither that used to bide at The Drum. Meg's in a big wey o' doin' noo in Edinboro; but I've seen the day, I'm thinkin'! Weel div I mind when her mither flitted ower frae Powsoddie. She cam' along to oor hoose to seek the len' o' twa kists, juist to gie her flittin' some appearance on the cairts.
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