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o’ mee weigh, gin du beez dee nain freend, fur I he a flaa ta ryve wee dee, an gin I gētt haands apo’ dee, a’ll mebee gee dee a traa itt dūl no bee da better o’. I eenz towcht itt I wid tak ma fitt i mee haand an kum eenz a errint ta Liverpōōl ta tùm dee luggs, bitt duz no wirt mee whyle, or dan I wid du pushin ill faard. . . . . . . . . . itt du iz. Wiz da eevil man tempin dee ta sett apo prent a bitt o’ a letter, itt I wrett ta ma kummarad i da munt o’ Julie fearn year?—illsycht bee seen apo dat fes, du wiz na blett ta giāng an mak a fùl o’ onie onnist man’s bearn, duz no shure whaa meay mak a fùl o deesell yitt—duz dùn mee a boanie turn ta gaar aa da fokk i wirr ples ta tink it I wiz skimpin demm, kiz itt I wrett i mee nain kiuntree langeech, an yitt du kens moar az weel, itt I wid na dù da lek o’ datt fur giopens o’ yallu gowd. An dan effter aa du mistiukit hit, du leelerat brùtt—duz pitten in ee ples, “gude ta true,” in ples o’ “gùd ta tru,” an in annidder pert, duz sett doon “geegganin” in ples o’ “geegarin”—kens du no itt geegarin meenz shiftin aboot fre ples ta ples: an “da eage o’ a tyme,”—duz keepit oot “kan keep”—afoar “a man’s stamak”—deel rumble i dy stamak fur dee peans. Effter datt gin du tinks itt du kens veezable aboot grammer or properness o langeech, se mycht I tryve az duz az faar oot az Maggie Low, whinn shù klaad da stoop o’ da bēdd in ples o’ her nean rumple.

out of my way if you be your own friend, for I have a quarrel to settle with you, and if I get hands upon you, I will perhaps give you a twist that you will not be the better of. I once thought I would take my feet in my hand and come one’s own errand [on purpose] to Liverpool to cut your ears, but you are not worth my while or then I would, you poisoned ill-looking. . . . that you are. Was the evil man tempting you to set up in print a bit of a letter that I wrote to my comrade in the month of July gone a year? Ill looks be seen upon that face! you were not afraid to go and make a fool of any honest man’s child: you are not sure who may make a fool of yourself yet. You have done me a pretty turn, to make all the folks in our place to think that I was jeering them, because that I wrote in my own country language, and yet you know quite as well, that I would not do the like of that for both-open-handfulls of yellow gold. And then after all you mistook it, you illiterate brute. You have put in one place “gude ta true,” in place of “gùd ta tru;” and in another part you have set down “geegganin,” in place of “geegarin.” Know you not that geegarin means shifting about from place to place: and “da eage o’ a tyme,” you have kept out “kan keep” before “a man’s stomach”: Devil rumble in your stomach for your pains! After that, if you think you know rightly about grammar, or propriety of language, so may I thrive, but you are as far out as Meggy Low, when she scratched the post of the bed, instead of her own bottom.

Dere tellan mee itt duz giaan awa till a unkan ples whaar dere nethin bitt neggirs it giaangs midder nekit, filltie brùts, an dùdna beleeve i wir Byble, ill trifteen i dat pikters, dey want na impeedens. Nu dul need ta tak tent o’ deesell, fur de’ll no kear ta stik dee gin dey kùd he a keyshen. I need na aks dee gin dul tak a footh o’ ferdamett wi dee—duz da wrang haand ta furyatt datt. I daar sey dul tak fyve or sax biudies o’ sea biddies an tree or fowr taillies o’ saat beeff, an plentie o’ spaarls ta keetshin dee grual, no furyattin somtin ta swee i dee kreag. Se fear weel ta dee, an Gùd bliss dee, an tak a kear o’ dee a yun unkirsint plannit, an bring dee weel ta dee nean agen, an se remeans wi lovin affexion,
Dye Kummarad,

A———d B———y.

They are telling me that you are going away to an unknown place, where there are nothing but negroes, that go mother-naked, filthy brutes! and do not believe in our Bible: ill luck to their faces! they want no impudence. Now you will need to take care of yourself; for they will not care to stab you, if they could have an occasion. I need not ask you if you will take abundance of father-meat with you. You are the wrong hand to forget that. I dare say you will take five or six barrels of sea-biddies and three or four pieces of salt beef, and plenty of smelts to season your gruel, not forgetting something to tickle in your throat. So farewell to you, and God bless you, and take a care of you in yon unchristened country, and bring you well to your own again: and so remain, with loving affection,
Your Comrade,

A———d B———y.

P. S. Dey sey itt Andru Nizbet, da keeng o’ Burraness, is dead—a wirtie, onnist man az evvir pat a drap o’ key orù in a ùlie kig, or hùlkie eddiran.
Gent. Mag. Vol. VI.

P.S. They say that Andrew Nesbit, the king of Burraness, is dead; a worthy honest man, as ever put a drop of strong ale in a jolly cag or portly elder.

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