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her sit wagging her fit this lang time.
Mither, A dear Sawny man, an thou were ance fairly aff the fodder, I'll be cossen into a hole of a house by mysel, where I'll just lie and break my heart, and weary mysel to dead; but an I could get a bit honest weaver, a cobler, or some auld tailor by the tail, I wad tickle to him yet, let the kintry clash as they please about it.
Sawny. A weel, a weel then, mither, tak your ain flight, there's nae fools to an auld fool; for the morn I'se be either aff or on wi' the hissy I've on hand.
So on the morn Sawny got on his clean claise, his hair cam'd and greas'd with butter, and his face as clean as the cat had licked it, and away he goes singing———
I will buy a pund of woo,
I will wash and make a plaidy,
I'm gaun over the moor to woo,
Carline is your daughter ready.
Now poor Sawny although he sang was as pale as a ghost from the grave, his face was entirely white like a ⟨weel⟩ bleached dish clout, he looked just ⟨as⟩ he had been eaten and spued again, but at length he came to the bride's door, and in he goes with a brattle crying
