The Lammas Foy
wird ta come at da back o' da helly, hul-an’-hulbaand, ta da lodge. Sae I sets me till an' drew ower da packie o' tows dat belanged ta mi faeder (soul be at rest), mended da gurdastörie o' my skalve, rax'd da tar ledder o' da grice for humbli-baands, bredged a pair o' skoags, an' sorted ae thing an' anidder.
“A' Sunday da wadder wis noo an' sae—a kind o' wasterly röd. I lays me doon brawly shön, sae as ta get a bluint o' sleep, bit dey wir a kind o' amp upo' me a' nicht, an' jöst aboot da swaar o' dim I waukens oot o' a dwaam an' looks i' da door. Da wind haed dauchin'd a guid dael, an' muggled 'im inta a stumba o' weet daag. Says I ta midder: ‘Mam, rise dee wis up as shön as du can, an' mak' me some brakfast. I tink he's gaein' ta be sea wadder.’
“‘Hadd di tongue, boy,’ says shö; ‘dis is only a slud atween wadders. Du'll better lay dee doon a peerie start, an' I'll creep me up an' kirn da tip o' milk, sae
dat du gets a aer o' druttle i' da pig.’
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