THE LIFE OF
MANSIE WAUCH.
I was born during the night of the 15th of October, 1765, in that little house, standing by itself, not many yards from the eastmost side of the Flesh-Market Gate, Dalkeith. Long was it spoken about that something mysterious would happen on that dreary night; as the cat, after washing her face, gaed mewing about, with her tail sweeing behind her like a ramrod; and a corbie, from the Duke's woods, tumbled down Jamie Elder's lum, when he had set the little still a-going — giving them a terrable fright, as they took it for the deevil and then for an exciseman—and fell with a great cloud of soot, and a loud skraigh, into the empty kail-pot.
The first thing that I have any clear memory of, was my being carried out on my auntie's shoulder, with a leather cap tied under my chin, to see the Fair Race. Oh! but it was a grand sight! I have read since then, the story of Aladdin's Wonderful Lamp, but this beat it all to sticks. There was a long row of tables, covered with carpets of bonny patterns, heaped from one end to the other with shoes of every kind and size, some with polished soles, and some glittering with sparribles and cuddyheels; and little red worsted boots for bairns, with blue and white edgings, hinging like strings of flowers up the posts at each end;—and then what a collection
