7 Rise this precicus lour, or faith I'll Fling your whisky i' the fire'. Watty heard her tongue unhallow'd, Pay't his groat wi' little din, Left the house while Maggy follow'd, Flyting a' the road behin.' Fowk frae every door cam' lampin' Maggy curst them ane and a', Clappit wi' her hauns, and stampin, Lost her bachals i' the sna, Hame at length, she turn'd the gavil, Wi' a face as white's a clout, Ragin' like a verra devil, Kitchen stools and chairs about. Ye'll sit wi' your limmers round you ! Hang you, Sir, I'll be your death ! Little hauds my hauns, confound you ! But I cleave you to the teeth.' Watty, wha, 'midst this oration, Ey'd her whyles but daurna speak, Sat like patient resignation, Trem'lan by the ingle cheek. Sad his wee drap brose he sippet, Maggy's tongue gaed like a bell,
