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faw 'em, say I, o'l ayther snape 'em or let leet intul 'em, an then, aw his fraps an brabblements o'l stand him i' naa steead.

Brid. Our lad's quite bobberous, an aw a roav. He leeads a filthy peyl iv'ry day, wi' his prancin an hakin about. He'd naa sooner come tot' doorstans, wi' his fine cockade in his hat, ner it parfitly maad my heart wark when I clapt my een on him. Thinks I to mysel, what'll become omme, sud I loaz my poor lad i' my oud age.

Giles. It stands us aw i' hand to hide thur hard times, Bridget, 'bout a graan. Hesn'to heeard how Boanny behaav'd tot' poor Hanovarians, an tot' braav Swish, how it warn't enif for him to tack their lads, bud their wives an douters, eye, an their vara beds they hed to lig on?

Brid. What a brash raggald! hees sure to gang tot' dule whick, if he duunot mend soon.

Giles. Wiah, naabody can be saaf as lang as that bullockin rascad lives. He leetens to be a gradely fello, bud he braads o'th' dog i't' boose, he'll nayther itt hissel ner let onny body else itt. Wadhe hed a fire-poit er a rid hoat hottel in his throttle.— An he wor to come, I wad spangwhew him back ageen owert' dub.

Brid. Thou says vara reight, poor as we er, we sud be far warse wor he to come; for he wad, naa doubt, mack a sad derse amang us; Joan an me ha' not mich to crack on, bud we can mack shift to live in a gradely, menceful, heppen way, an I wad be waa to soap it for awt' French freedom they make sike frap about. There's naa trusting 'em, Giles, for they're aw of an ill reek; an I'd leaver dee ner live under sike a braungin gaustrin taistril.

Giles. Oliver war il enif, bud this Boanny's t'uptack of aw.

Brid. They say our neighbour Williams chunters, an is quite down i'th' mouth, an is seea flaid, at hees buried aw his goud i'th' garth, an at hees naa sooner stockenth' door, an slotted sneck, ner

he tines it wi' three feaful strang bouts iv'ry

neet.

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Giles. Thou knaws Williams wor ollas a dowly, swamous, meaverly mack of a chap, an hed a daft heart; an arran, or a whackerin of an espin leaf wad a flaid him out of his wits. Etraath, I'se saary for him, for hees oft been my beet-need; an tack him aw i' aw, hees a gay, sponsable, oud farrendly fellow.

Brid. Sud onny body come sharp up an peylt' door, efter it's dosky, hees parfitly gloppen'd; hees seea flouter'd, he cowers, his knees whackers, his teeth dithers, an his een gloar, as an he war stark mad. He then macks a feaful stir wi' t' tangs, yarks upt' fire-poit, beets fire, bangs th' reckon, skifts his chair, an pees about, but, for awt' ward, he daren't oppenth' door, for feear'd Boanny's come to fotch him an aw his gear. He dare hardly lig i' bed hees seea freeten'd.

Giles. Poor Williams is a swamous, cowardly chap.

Brid. I'se flaid, an a mack a waily i' times mysel, when I study ower thur things; nows an thens a good book giz me spirits. Efter I com fra' t' kirk last Sabbath day, I tenk up th' bible, as I oft do, an rid a deal consarnin Nebuchadnezzar, how God let him flourish an roy a girt while, nobbud to mack his downfaw maar freetful. An, how do we knaw, bud Boanny hissel is letten to crob ower t'other nation, for a bit, at he may hev a faw like Nebuchadnezzar, to show tot' ward what lile trust is to be put i'villainy an vain glory; God be thank'd, we hev a good king, an oft hez my heart wark'd for him when them raggally Tompainers seea beset him. T' Aumeety hez thus far presarv'd him, an if we nobbud hev graas to behaav as we sud do, he will naa doubt shield us fra' aw his plots.

Giles. Thou parfitly maddles me wi' aw thy bible larnin, thou hods forth like onny laucol, bud i' spite of aw thy javver, i' thur kittle times,

hees sartainly a happy man, Bridget, wheea hez naa fears. As for my shar, I've lile to loaz; bud, for aw that, it wad greave me saarly to see sike a leein taistrail, an restless, skellerbrain'd raggamuffin as Boanny git a sattlement amang uz. I'se poor enif, God knaws, to begin wi', bud, I'se vara sartain, war that 'tarnal raggabrash to come here, he wad rid us in a crack, an tack fray us awt' lile we hed.

Brid. Eye, girt like, bud God presarve us, say I, an send us naa war deed.

Giles. Amen, an good day to the, for it's heigh time for me to be shoggin off towards Girston.— I's like to be gangin now, barn, for I've naa time to hearken to thy lang winded stoaries, for thou chatters like onny Nanpie.

Brid. Thouz ollas at nestle. There's time enif 'fore neet, I warrant to, to git fra' Girston, 'bout chunterin an chaffin seea mitch about it. Howsomivver, anto will be shoggin off, good journey to the,

END OF DIALOGUE FIRST.

DIALOGUE II.

Bridget. What, Giles, thous gitten back then,; fray Girston.

Giles. Eye, but I'll uphodto, I'd a saar day on't, wi teughin eftert' beeos, they scutter'd about seea, I wor quite fash'd an doon for, afore I gat haam, at dosk.

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Giles. Raad! aye, I raad o' shanks-galloway. Brid. I marvel at that, as I sa yower yaud i'th' garth i'th' mornin.

Giles. Is yower Joan at haam?

I's com to tell him, at he mun gang to William Palay's, at Skirethorns, 'bout fail, Monday come a sennight, to lot some Scots. Brid.

Hees gain toth' peeot moor, bud thou may lite on't, i'll mind to tell him at neet, when he comes haam.

Giles. Girt like I sall meet him, as I'se gangin theear mysel.

Brid. Come, man, thouz i' na girt hurry, squat thysel down a bit i'th' langsettle, byth' hud-end, an I'll fotch the a whishin; for I lang to knaw sadly what aw them lads and lasses wor cutterin an talkin about, at I gat a gliff on gangin up yower croft yus

ter neet.

Giles. Didto nivver hear at there wor a Methody meetin at Jack Smith's. There wor weight on 'em

to hear t' uncoth preacher, as fine a man as ivver I clapt my een on, at wor he, he bangs aw, quite an clear, at I ivver heeard tell on.

Brid. I tell the what, Giles, ye had leaver behauf hear th' vain talk o' man, ner t' holy word o' God.

Giles. Nay, Bridget, I think thou's gangin a lile bit to far

Brid. To far, doesto think? Whaa, it's nobbud to a-three neets sin, I proffer'd to Betty Collier, whea, thou bnaws, does not ken a word o'th' bible, an shoe nobbud wod come an sit a bit wi' me, I wod read to her yan o'th' Gospels; but shoe soon tell'd me how shoe couldn't come, for shoe wor gangin to hear Tom Simpson, t'blacksmith, exhort. An thou knaws, weel enif, at Tom's a saar reader, an what a mash he macks o'th' hymns, when he giz 'em out. For au hees conned 'em ower, happen, hauf a dozen times afore't meeting, he gangs on spelderin an blunderin. I think mackin horse shoon wod be far fitter wark for him nert' explainin t'word o' God, at he cannot read. Now, antul nobbud speok th' truth fra' thy heart, thou mun agreee wi' me, at Betty Collier, like mony on ye besides, hed leaver hear a poor silly blacksmith rant an mack as mich din ast' girt hammer on his stiddy, ner hear't' word o' God.

Giles. I knan't what Tom does wi' his girt ham→ mer, but I's seur thou ligs hard on wi' thy clapper.

Brid. Whaa, I'se quite staud, an it irks yan naa lile to hear sike coil an durdums, an scea mich frap about thur Methody's. They talk an cample feeafully o' religion, bud I wad be fain to see at they rayaly be→ lieved it, byt' goodness o' ther lives; for what care I for a man's sighs an graans, an his dowly face, an for heving religion in his mouth, when he'll nut stick at yarkin his hand into a body's pocket.

Giles. They think they're doing reight.

Brid. Think! eye, but what hev they to do wi' thinkin; when they've a written word to gang by? Uzzah mud think he wor doin reight when he reak'd

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