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And now a shopkeeper has filled his window with royal Stuart tartans, and I am instantly a Jacobite. 'The Highland clans wi' sword in hand, Frae John o' Groat's to Airly, Hae to a man declar'd to stand Or fa' wi' Royal Charlie. 'Come through the heather, around him gather, Come Ronald, come Donald, come a'thegither, And crown your rightfu' lawfu' king, For wha'll be king but Charlie?
Is Antonio not able to dischairge the money? 'Ay! cries Bassanio, 'here's the sum thrice told. Says the young judge in a bit whisper to Shylock, 'Shylock, there's thrice thy money offered thee. Be mairceful, says he, out loud. 'Wha'll mak me? says the Jew body.
Christie. Lizzie Johnstone. "Oh! but ye're a fearsome lass." Christie. "Wha'll give me a sang for my bonny yarn?" Lord Ipsden, who had been an unobserved auditor of the latter part of the tale, here inquired whether she had brought her book. "What'n buik?" "Your music-book!" "Here's my music-book," said Jean, roughly tapping her head. "And here's mines," said Christie, birdly, touching her bosom.
Ye see, sir, I want ye to put yersels i' the han's o' a man that kens ye baith, and the half o' yer story a'ready ane, that is, wha'll jeedge ye truly and mercifully, and no condemn ye affhan'. Syne tak his advice what ye oucht to dee neist." "I will and thank you, Mr. MacLear! Ae thing only I houp that naither you, sir, nor he will ever seek to pursuaud me to gang on preachin.
"Weel, it's lucky I hae twa three friends wha'll show that I couldna' ha' been near the spot just then. But we'll need to hurry." "I think I understand," said Foster, who went on with them. "Still you can't save much time, even if you walk very fast." "Verra true," Pete replied. "But it's no' difficult to pit back the clock."
'See here, Wullie, will ye gang an' enlist noo or tak' a hammerin'? 'Wha'll gi'e me the hammerin'? 'Come an' see, was the curt reply. Macgregor turned back into the close and led the way to a small yard comprising some sooty earth, several blades of grass and a couple of poles for the support of clothes lines. A little light came from windows above.
But it is this Stuart, after all, of whom we think when we hear the bagpipes skirling "Over the Water to Charlie" or "Wha'll be King but Charlie?" It has often been said that the greatest Frenchman who ever lived was in reality an Italian. It might with equal truth be asserted that the greatest Russian woman who ever lived was in reality a German.
"Ay, Robert," she answered, without preface, the third day, "I'm thinkin' there's a heap o' things, gien I hed them, 'at wad help me to ken what the Maister spak till. It wad be a sin no to lat the laddie learn. But wha'll tak the trible needfu' to the learnin' o' a puir dummie?" "Lat him gang doon to the Mains, an' herd wi' Donal," answered Robert.
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