Folk-Lore
Dere wis langies o' turbot 'at hang i' da reest,
An' hoe eggs resemblin' a truncher o beest;
An' beautiful muggies, spleetin' wi gree,
Da bite o' your teeth sent a spoot i' your e'e.
Dat wis da stuff for greasin' your t'roat,
Or aetin' benon a kettle o' slot!
If a body haed risen ta look at da watch,
Ta spit i' da fire wis as guid as a match.
Baith aald folk an' young folk, frae Sodom ta Clate,
Spent da lang winter night in rivin' hard skate.
If it is ordeen'd I never sall see
Da chauds an' da krampies, da oceans o' gree,
Dis I can say—I'll remember forever
Da blessin' 'at cam frae da fish an' its liver.”
Let us now return to the crofter's house. It is night, and the old man has returned from the handline fishing. His böddie is well stocked with fish, He sits by the round fire, with a baet o' gloy or a kirvie o' floss, winding it may be simmonds or gurdastöries for his maeshies and rivakessies. In the corner in past the fire, (which was on the middle of the floor), on the lit-kettle, sits an old grandmother or
a “quarter wife” rocking the cradle, or
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