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THE
THIRD PART.
POOR Sawny had a terrible night o't, wi a fair head, and a sick heart; his (illegible text)een stood in his head, his wame caddled like ony mill-trows, and a' his puddings crocket like a wheen paddocks in a pool: his mither rocket and wrang her hands, crying, A wae bo to the wife that brew'd it! for I hae lost a well-foster'd bairn wi' their stinking stuff; a mischief ding the doup but o' their Whisky pots, its surely burnt him within, its burnt him alive! Ay, ay, my bairn he's gone!
But about the break of day, his wind brake like the bursting of a bladder: O happy deliverance! cried Mary his mither, tho' dirt bodes luck, and foul farts files the blankets I wish ne'er war be amang us. The next thing that did Sawny good, was three mutckins o' milk made in thin brose, and a fine pickle peper in them; yet he had a foughing in his lugs like a {{illegible}aw-mill, and every thing ran round about wi' him a' that day. Yet his mother got him out o' the bed, on o' the meikle chair,
