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sair bead and a sick heart, bis eyes stood in his head, his wame, caddled like ony cow s milks, and puddings crocket like a wheen puddoeks in a pool; his mither roeket and wrung her hands, crying, a wae be to the wife that brewed it, for I hae lost a weel foster’d bairn wi’ their stinking stuff, a meikle deil ding the doup out of their caldron, ray curse come on them and their whisky-pots, it’s brunt him alive; ay, ay, my bairn he’s gone.
But about the break of day, his wind brak like the bursting of a bladder, O happy deliveranee, cried Mary his mither; tho’ dirt bodes luck, and foul farts file the blankets, I wish ne’er waur be among us. The next thing that did Sawny good, was three mutehkins of milk made into thin brose, and a piekle fine pepper in them, yet he had a soughing in his lugs like a saw-mill, and every thing gade round about wi’ him a’ that day; his mither gat him out of bed, and put him in the muekle chair wi a’ pair of blankets about his shoulders, a cod at his back, and a het brick to his soles, to gar him trow he was nae well, and there he sat like a lying-in wife, cracking like a Holladdie, and ate twa dead herrin’ and a crust, telling a the outs and ins about the bridal, and when it was to be, for he had gotten every body’s consent but the bride’s about it.
