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16

PART III.

POOR Sawny had a terrible night o't, wi' a sair head and a sick heart, his e'en stood in his head, his wame, caddled like ony cow's   milks, and puddings crocket like a wheen puddocks in a pool; his mither rocket and wrung her hands, crying, a wae be to the wife that brewed it, for I hae lost a weel fos- ter'd bairn wi' their stinking stuff; a meikle deil ding the doup out o' their caldron, my   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 de- liverance, 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 mutch- kins of milk made into thin brose, and a   pickle fine pepper in them, yet he had a    soughing in his lugs like a saw-mill, and e-    very thing gade round about wi' him a' that day; his mither gat him out of bed, an' put him in the muckle 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