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Updated: May 31, 2025
Ralph Hartsook," said Bud. "You don't come no gum games over me with your saft sodder and all that. I've made up my mind. You've got to promise to leave these 'ere digging, or I've got to thrash you." "You'll have to thrash me, then," said Ralph, turning a little pale, but remembering the bulldog. "But you'll tell me what It's all about, won't you?" "You know well enough.
All I can say is that if the earl was saft enough to do sic a thing out of fondness for her, it's time he was married on her, so that he may come to his senses again.
There's gran' bits here an' there, nae doobt, but it 's ower mim mou'ed for me." "What do you mean by that?" "It's ower saft an' sliddery like i' yer mou', my leddy." "What sort do you like then?" "I like Milton weel. Ye get a fine mou'fu' o' him. I like the verse 'at ye maun open yer mou' weel to lat gang. Syne it's worth yer while, whether ye unnerstan' 't or no."
Martin Poyser had some faint conception of the flavour such men must find in hot roast beef and fresh-drawn ale. He held his head on one side and screwed up his mouth, as he nudged Bartle Massey, and watched half-witted Tom Tholer, otherwise known as "Tom Saft," receiving his second plateful of beef.
When I come upon the idea for a new song 'tis less often a bit of verse or a comic idea I think of first mair like it's some odd bit of humanity, some man a wee bit different from others. He'll be a bit saft, perhaps, or mean, or generous I'm not carin', so long as he's but different. And there, in the pit, men showed themselves to one another, and my een and my ears were aye open in those days.
I have been ower proud of my sufferings in a gude cause, Reuben, and now I am to be tried with those whilk will turn my pride and glory into a reproach and a hissing. How muckle better I hae thought mysell than them that lay saft, fed sweet, and drank deep, when I was in the moss-haggs and moors, wi' precious Donald Cameron, and worthy Mr.
He's nane o' yer saft buirds, that ye can sleek wi' a sweyp o' yer airm; he's a blue whunstane that's hard to dress, but, anes dressed, it bides the weather bonnie. I like to work upo' hard stane mysel. Nane o' yer saft freestane, 'at ye cud cut wi' a k-nife, for me!" "Weel, I daursay ye're richt, Thamas."
He minded that ropes was unco saft things, and the solan's neb and the Bass Rock unco hard, and that twa hunner feet were raither mair than he would care to fa'. "Shoo!" says Tam. "Awa', bird! Shoo, awa' wi' ye!" says he. The solan keekit doon into Tam's face, and there was something unco in the creature's ee. Just the ae keek it gied, and back to the rope.
"Ay," replied another, "so that some bigmouthed idiot can pocket the money an' get a guid saft job oot o' it." "We've had plenty of unions," put in another. "The last yin we started here ye mind Bob Ritchie gaed aff to America wi' a' the money. It was a fine go for him!" "Oh, ay, but let us see what can be done wi' this case," said Jamie Lauder.
The rain continued at intervals throughout the day, but as the afternoon wore on the skies looked a trifle more hopeful. It would be 'saft, no doubt, climbing the Law, but the bonfire must be lighted. Would Pettybaw be behind London? Would Pettybaw desert the Queen in her hour of need?
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