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 Now poor Sawny, altho' he sang, was as pale as a ghost from the grave, his face was whitely white; like a well bleach'd ishclout, he looked just as he had been eaten and spued again: But at length he came to the bride's door, and in he goes wi' brattle, crying, how is a' here the day? An' what's com'd o' thy mither lassie? O Saunders, said the bride, she's awa' to the town: What came o' you yesterday? She waited on you the whole day: ye gart her lose a day's trade, lad; an' she's awa' this morning cursing like a heathen, an' swearing. Be-go that ye ha'e geen her a begunk.

Sawny. A dole, woman, I took a sudden blast i' the hame-gawn, an' was never so near dead in my life.

An' wha think ye was in company wi' Kate the bride, but the wee button o' a taylor, who sat and sewed on a table, cocking like a t———d on a trencher, but when he kend wha was com'd he leaped down on the floor, custe a dash o' pride, like a little bit prince; he bobet about, and so out he goes with the tear in his eye, and his tail between his feet like a haff-worried colly dog.

Sawny. Now, Katty, do ye ken what I'm com'd about?