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Updated: June 3, 2025
It wad be no gain to you, Thamas, and no glory to Him whase will's your sanctification, gin ye war to owercome yer temper, and syne think a heap o' yersel' that ye had done't. Maybe that's what for yer no allooed to be victorious in yer endeevours." "'Deed, maybe, Tibbie," said Thomas solemnly.
It was a clear case of disorderly vagrancy, and she was committed to prison for a month. How much might happen in that time! "O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only fault is loving thee?"
'But I gae mad at their grimaces, Their sighin', cantin', grace-prood faces, Their three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces, Their raxin' conscience, Whase greed, revenge, and pride disgraces Waur nor their nonsense. The first of Burns's satires, if we except his epistle to John Goudie, wherein we have a hint of the acute differences of the time, is his poem The Twa Herds, or The Holy Tulzie.
"But whose footsteps," said Maxwell, "only one of them if a subject may say so much hath ever overtaken." "Haud your tongue for a fause fleeching loon!" said the king, but with a smile on his face that showed the flattery had done its part. "Look at the bonny piece of workmanship, and haud your clavering tongue. And whase handiwork may it be, Geordie?"
"An' whase han' sud we tak them intil but oor ain?" said Peter, with a falseness which in another would have roused his righteous indignation. "That's no the p'int. It's whase han' ye're takin' them oot o'," returned she, and spoke with solemnity and significance. Peter made no answer, but the words Vengeance is mine began to ring in his mental ears instead of The Lord is a man of war.
"And how often wad that be, trow ye, my leddy? maybe no ance atween Candlemas and Yule and if a' thing were done to my hand, as if I was Sir Arthur himsell, I could never bide the staying still in ae place, and just seeing the same joists and couples aboon my head night after night. -And then I have a queer humour o' my ain, that sets a strolling beggar weel eneugh, whase word naebody minds but ye ken Sir Arthur has odd sort o' ways and I wad be jesting or scorning at them and ye wad be angry, and then I wad be just fit to hang mysell."
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