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Updated: May 18, 2025
Bandy took a bit tarry string, or tabaka or something, ooten his breeks pooch, an', nippin' aff a quarter o' a yaird o't, he into his moo wi't. Syne he swallowed a spittal, an' said "Freends an' fella ratepeyers." Bandy never pey'd rates in's life. He bides in a twa-pound garret i' the Wyndies, an' hardly ever peys rent, lat aleen rates. "Freends an' fella ratepeyers," says he.
Bandy was stan'in' up on the boddom o' the butter kit gin this time, an' a' the billies were harkenin' like onything. "Freends an' fella ratepeyers," says Bandy again. "See gin that door's on the sneck, Sandy, an' dinna lat the can'le blaw oot." Sandy raise an' put to the door, an' set the can'le alang nearer Bandy a bit, an' then sat doon i' the sofa again. "I hinna muckle to say," says Bandy.
Regairdin' this noo kirkyaird bisness, I think it's ridic'lous to spend the toon's bawbees buyin' buryin' grund for fowk that's no' deid. Time eneuch to look oot for buryin' grund when fowk's deid. An' lat fowk bury themsel's, juist as they like. Lat them look oot for their ain grund, an' no' bather the ratepeyers lookin' oot grund for them.
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