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witcht, thou's witch't, O man, what will I do.
Sawny. Bock, bock, co' Sawny; but it couldna win up for bubbles and herrin banes. O co' Sawny, put me in my bed for my days will sune be dune; a curse on your courting wark, for it's killed me, and wives are but wicked things, I ken by the same.
Mither. O dole, dole, my bairn has gotten poison, for the smell o't is like to poison me.
Sawny. Gin herring and het ale be poison, there'll no be mony left alive. Bock, co' Sawny the bed's filled.
Mith. My bairn, thou was ay a cleanly bairn until now; thou's surely lost thy senses, when thou files where thou lies as the brute beasts does, thou never did the like o' this before since thou left cakying o' the cradle,
PART III
POOR Sawny had a terrible night, o't wi' a sair head and a sick heart, his een stood in his head, his wame, caddled like ony mill-trows, and a' his puddings croaked like a wheen paddocks in a pool; his mither rocket and wrang her hands, crying, Wae be to the wife that brew'd it, for I hae lost
