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I vse nocht to vryt on the bak of ony of my letteris concerning this errand. On the back ‘Sprott,’ ‘bookit’ . Robert Logan of Restalrig to the Earl of Gowrie. My Lo.—My maist humbill dewtie vith servise in maist hartly maner remembred. Yit alvayse my lo. And the soner ve broght owr purpose to pass it ver the better, before harwest.
Even then, thirty long years ago, the old stagers used to tell us that "the waiter was owr sair fished," and they grumbled about the system of draining the land, which makes a river a roaring torrent in floods, and a bed of grey stones with a few clear pools and shallows, during the rest of the year.
One o' owr chaps has just tuk em up a big black jack fu' o' stout ele; an ey warrant me they winnaw stir yet awhoile. Win it please yo to cum wi' me, lort abbut?" With this, he marched along the passage, followed by the others, and presently arrived at a door, against which he tapped.
"Naw ey noather," cried Ruchot o' Roaph's, crossing himself, and spitting on the ground. "Owr Leady o' Whalley shielt us fro' t' warlock!" "Tawkin o' Nick Demdike," cried Hal o' Nabs, "yo'd a strawnge odventer wi' him t' neet o' t' great brast o' Pendle Hill, hadna yo, Cuthbert?" "Yeigh, t' firrups tak' him, ey hadn," replied Ashbead. "Theawst hear aw abowt it if t' will.
"Good lorjus bless us!" exclaimed a sturdy hind, "we'n a protty king. Furst he chops off his woife's heaod, an then hongs aw t' priests. Whot'll t' warlt cum 'to? "Eigh by t' mess, whot win it cum to?" cried Ruchot o' Roaph's. "But we darrna oppen owr mows fo' fear o' a gog."
Malcolm sung an Erse song, the chorus of which was 'Hatyin foam foam eri', with words of his own . The tune resembled 'Owr the muir amang the heather'. The boatmen and Mr. M'Queen chorused, and all went well. At length Malcolm himself took an oar, and rowed vigorously. We sailed along the coast of Scalpa, a rugged island, about four miles in length. Dr.
The tune resembled 'Owr the muir amang the heather', the boatmen and Mr M'Queen chorused, and all went well. At length Malcolm himself took an oar, and rowed vigorously. We sailed along the coast of Scalpa, a rugged island, about four miles in length. Here I was strongly struck with our long projected scheme of visiting the Hebrides being realized.
I preserve the spelling, which, however, will with some difficulty be found intelligible. "We do nothing seyrch," says this good brother, "for the doctryn of Chryst, but all fowloys owr owne sensyaly and plesure.
"Dear Mikky Jany is DEAD sHe sayd tell yo hur LUV beeryd hur in owr kote we giv hur ther wuz a angle wit pink wins on top uv the wite hurs an a wite hors we got a lot uv flowers by yur money so yo needn sen no mor money kuz we ken got long now til yo cum BUCK."
"Owr Blessed Leady be praised, yo are free," he cried. "Dunna stond tawking here, Ebil," interposed Hal o' Nabs, who by this time had reached the ground, and who was fearful of some new remonstrance on the abbot's part. "Ey'm feerd o' pursuit." "Yo' needna be afeerd o' that, Hal," replied the miller. "T' guard are safe enough.
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