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PART III.
POOR Sawny had a terrible night o't, i' a sair head and a sick heart, his een stood in his head, his wame, caddled like ony cow's milk, and his puddings crocket like a wheen paddocks in a pool: his mither rocket and wrung her hands, crying, a wae be to the wife that brew'd it, for I hae lost a weel foster'd bairn wi' their stinking stuff; a meikle deil ding the doup out of their ca dron, my curse come on them and their whisky-pots, it's brunt him alive; ay, ay, my bairn he's gone.
But about the break of day, his wind brak like the bursting of a bladder. O happy deliverance, cried Mary his mither: though dirt bodes luck, and foul farts file the blankets, I wish ne'er waur be among us. The next thing that did Sawny good, was three mutchkins of milk made into thin brose' and a pickle fine pepper in them; yet he had a soughing in his lugs like a saw-mill, and every thing gade round about wi' him a' that day; his mither gat him out of bed, an' put him in the muckle chair, wi a' pair of blankets about his shoulders, a cod at his back, and a het brick to his soles, to gar him trow he was nae well, and there he sat like a lying-in wife, cracking like a
