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a weel foster'd bairn wi' their stinking stuff, a meikle deil ding the doup out of their cauldron, my curse come upon them and their whisky-pots. It's burnt him it's burnt him alive; ay, ay, my bairn he's gone.
But about the break of day, his wind broke like the bursting of a bladder O happy deliverance, cried Mary his mither, tho' dirt bodes luck, and foul farts file the blankets, I wish ne'er war be amang us. The next thing that did Sawny good, was three mutchkins of milk made in thin brose, and a fine pickle pepper in them, yet he had a soughing in his lugs like a saw-mill, and every thing ran round about with him a' that day. Yet his mither got him out of the bed, on o' the meickle chair, a' pair of blankets about his shoulders, a cod at his back, and a hot brick at his soles, to gar him true he was na weel, and there he sat like a lying-in wife cracking like a Hollander, and ate twa dead herrin and cufe, telling a' the outs and ins about the bridal, and whan it was to be; for he had gotten every body's consent but the bride's about it.
Mither. But Sawny, man, that's the main thing, ye maun hae that too.
