Chapter VIII

Whate'er wi' Tam ye chance to crack on, There's ae thing ye maun ne'er gang back on. Freely he'll talk on politics, The weather an' its dirty tricks, On wages an' the price o' coal Or things conneckit wi' the soul, On hoo the meenister's a leear An' medical advice owre dear, But if the crack warks roond to leeches, Puir Tam pits doon his pipe an' retches!

THE HOWDIE.

'Twas in a wee bit but-an'-ben She bade when first I kent her, Doon the side roadie by the kirk Whaur Andra was precentor.

An' a' the week he keepit thrang At's wark as village thatcher, Whiles sairly fashed by women folk, Wi' "Hurry up an' catch her!"

Nae books e'er ravel't Tibbie's harns, Nae college lear had reached her, An' a' she kent aboot her job Her ain experience teached her.

To this cauld warld in fifty year She'd fosh near auchteen hunner. Losh keep's! When a' thing's said an' dune, The cratur' was a won'er!

A' gate she'd traivelled day an' nicht, A' kin' o' orra weather Had seen her trampin' on the road, Or trailin' through the heather.

But Time had set her pechin' sair, As on his way he birled; The body startit failin' fast An' gettin' auld an' nirled.

An' syne, to weet the bairnie's heid Owre muckle, whiles, they'd gie her; But noo she's deid-ay, mony a year- An' Andra's sleepin' wi' her.

DAYLICHT HAS MONY EEN.

O! can'le licht's baith braw and bricht At e'en when bars are drawn, But can'le licht's a dowie sicht When dwinin' i' the dawn. Yet dawn can bring nae wearier day Than I hae dree'd yestre'en, An' comin' day may licht my way- Daylicht has mony een.

Noo, daylicht's fairly creepin' in, I hear the auld cock craw; Fu' aft I've banned him for his din, An' wauk'nin' o' us a'! But welcome noo's his lichtsome cry Sin' bed-fast I ha'e been, It tells anither nicht's gane by- Daylicht has mony een.

O! bed-fast men are weary men, Laid by frae a' their wark; Hoo thocht can kill ye ne'er will ken Till tholin' 't in the dark. But ere nicht fa's I'll maybe see What yet I hinna seen, A land whaur mirk can never be- Daylicht has mony een.

THE BANE-SETTER.

Oor Jock's gude mither's second man At banes was unco skilly; It cam' by heirskep frae an aunt, Leeb Tod o' Nether Tillie. An' when he thocht to sough awa', He sent for Jock, ay did he, An' wulled him the bane-doctorin', Wi' a' the lave o's smiddy.

A braw doon-settin' 'twas for Jock, An' for a while it paid him, For wi's great muckle nieves like mells He pit in banes wi' smeddum. Ay! mony a bane he snappit in At elbuck, thee, an' shouther; Gin ony wouldna gang his gait, Jock dang them a' to poother.

Noo, smiddy wark's a droothy job, Sae whiles Jock wat his whustle, When wi' a horse-shoe or a bane He'd held some unco tussle. But even though miracklous whiles, It mattered nane whativer, For whaur's the body disna ken A drucken doctor's cliver?

Ae nicht when Jock was gey weel on, An' warslin' wi' some shoein', They brocht a bane case intil him That proved puir Jock's undoin', A cadger wi' an auld cork leg, An' fou as Jock or fouer, Wha swore that o' his lower limb He'd fairly lost the pooer.

Jock fin's the leg, an' shaks his heid, Syne tells the man richt solemn, "Your knee-pan's slippit up your thee Aside your spinal column; But gin ye'll tak a seat owre here, An' lat them haud ye ticht, man, I'se warrant for a quart o' beer I'll quickly hae ye richt, man."

Jock yokit noo wi' rale guid wull To better the condeetion, While Corkie swore he had his leg Ca'd a' to crockaneetion. Jock banned the lamp-"'twas in his een"- An' deaved wi' Corkie's granin', Quo' he, "Gin ye'll pit oot the licht I'll gey sune pit the bane in!"

Oot went the licht, Jock got his grup, He yarkit an' he ruggit, He doobled up puir Corkie's leg, Syne strauchtened it an' tuggit. An' while that baith the twa o' them Were sayin' some orra wordies, Auld Corkie's leg, wi' hauf o's breeks, Cam' clean aff at the hurdies.

Jock swat wi' fear, an' in the dark He crep' attour the smiddy, For, weel-a-wat, he thocht his wark Would land him on the widdy. An' wi' the leg he ran till's hoose, Just half way doon the clachan, His cronies oxterin' Corkie oot, An' nearly deein' o' lauchin'.

But at Jock's door they stude an hour, An' vainly kicked an' knockit, Sin' Jock, in a' the fear o' death, Had got it barred an' lockit. An' 'twas na till the neist forenune They fand the leg, weel hidden, For Jock was oot afore daylicht An' stuck it in the midden.

This feenished Jock, an' efter han' He buckled til his ain wark, For sune a' owre the kintra-side They kent aboot his bane wark, An' hoo a law-wer fleggit Jock At Corkie's instigation, An' gart him pay a five-pun' note By way o' compensation.

Ne sutor ultra crepidam Is gude enough for maist o's, For aye there's wark that's bude to get The better o' the best o's. An' just as doctors canna shoe Or haud a hin' leg stiddy, Ye needa seek for surgery Inside a country smiddy.

BRITHERS.

'Twas up at the tree near the heid o' the glen I keppit a tinkler chiel, The cauld wind whistled his auld duds through, He was waesomely doon at the heel; But he made me free o' his company, For he kent that I wished him weel.

He lookit me fairly 'tween the een, He cam' o' an auncient clan; He gae me gude-day in a freendly way, While he spak me man to man, Though my gibbles were a' for the human frame An' his for kettle an' pan.

"Ye're oot i' the warst that the weather can dae, Ye're free o' the road, like me, I palmer aboot for kettles to cloot, Wi' an orra-like weird to dree; An' oor job's to men' whativer'll men', Wi' luck to fix oor fee!

Brithers baith o' the auld high road- Yet the Deil hae General Wade For learnin's the shauchle instead o' the step Wi' the weary wark o' his spade, Till the Jew an' the Sassenach lord it noo Owre the hills whaur the heroes gaed!"

"O, gang ye East," quo' I, "or Wast, Or whither awa' gang ye? Will ye come to a hoose whaur a gude man bides, For a tastin' o' barley bree? Ye can howk i' the kebbuck an' howk again As lang as there's kebbuck to pree.

Or seek ye a saxpence to slocken your drooth? Ye needna be langer in doot; Ye can hae a bit hurl to help ye on, An' I'll get ye a pan to cloot. I'se warrant I'll freely lat ye in, An' as freely lat ye oot."

A tuft o' the broom was knotted wi' tow, An' a rag on't fluttered free, While he shook his heid owre some ferlies there, That I'm bathered if I could see, Though I kent my soul was sib to his In a queer free-masonry.

"The wife's a mile on the road afore's, An' the bairnies farther still; I canna keep tryst wi' doctor folk, But I'll borrow the price o' a gill, An' I'll pay ye back when we've finished oor tack O' a' that's gude an' ill."

He spat on the siller an' pooched it syne, An' quately winked an e'e; "The road's a bond that we canna deny, An' its linkit you an' me In the kindly yoke o' the gaun-about folk, Whauriver they chance to be!"

On the bowl o's cutty he scartit a spunk, An' he leggit it doon the wind; Gin his claes would hae fleggit a bubbly-jock, Guid Lord! he'd an easy mind! An' oor forebears maybe were near-hand freen's For a' that I can find.

THE CYNIC.

Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast, A blast wi' a smirr o' snaw, An' it took the doctor's guid lum hat Richt owre the kirk-yaird wa'. When he sichtit it he dichtit it, An' he glowred wi' an angry e'e- For says auld Jock Smairt, wha was passin' wi' his cairt: "Ye've a gey gude crap," says he.

Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast, A blast baith snell an' keen, An' the washin' o' the clarty wife Sailed aff the washin' green, An' it landit on the midden-heid, Whaur nae washin' ought to be- An' says auld jock Smairt, wha was passin' wi' his cairt: "Weel, hame's aye hame," says he.

Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast, An' it gart the deid leaves loup, An' it set the shoothers heicher yet O' the gaithrin' at the roup; An' stour filled the een o' the unctioneer, Till the cratur' couldna see; An' says auld Jock Smairt, wha was passin' wi' his cairt: "Turn aboot's fair play," says he.

Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast, An' the rein catched the grey mear's tail, An' her heels to save her hin'er en' Gaed lashin' like a flail. An' the haill apotheck lay in spails, As the grey mear warsled free; An' when auld Jock Smairt saw the fashion o' his cairt: "Wha's seekin' ony spunks?" says he.

THE NICHT THAT THE BAIRNIE CAM' HAME.

I was gaun to my supper richt hungert an' tired, A' day I'd been hard at the pleugh; The snaw wi' the dark'nin' was fast dingin' on, An' the win' had a coorse kin' o' sough. 'Twas a cheery like sicht as the bonny fire-licht Gar't the winnock play flicker wi' flame; But my supper was "Aff for the doctor at aince!" That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.

Noo, I kent there was somethin' o' that sort to be, An' I'd had my ain thochts, tae, aboot it; Sae when my gude-mither had tel't me to flee, Fegs, it wisna my pairt for to doot it. Wi' a new pair o' buits that was pinchin' like sin, In a mile I was hirplin' deid lame; 'Twas the warst nicht o' a' that I ever pit in, That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.

I'd a gude seeven mile o' a fecht wi' the snaw, An the road was near smoort oot wi' drift; While the maister at market had got on the ba', Sae I'd tint my ae chance o' a lift. When I passed the auld inn as I cam' owre the hill, Although I was mebbe to blame, I bude to gang in-bye an' swallow a gill, That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.

"Gude be thankit!" says I, at the doctor's front door, As I pu'd like mischeef at the bell; But my he'rt gae a dunt at the story that runt O' a hoose-keeper body'd to tell. The man wasna in? He was at the big hoose? A sick dwam cam' richt owre my wame. Hoo the deevil was I to get haud o' him noo, That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame?

The doctor was spendin' the nicht at the laird's, For the leddy, ye see, was expeckin'; A feckless bit cratur, weel-meanin' an' a', Though she ne'er got ayont the doo's cleckin'. It's them that should hae them that hinna eneugh, Fegs, lads, it's a damnable shame! Here's me wi' a dizzen, and aye at the pleugh Sin' that nicht that the bairnie cam' hame!

What was I to dae? I was at my wits' en', For Tibbie the howdie was fou, An' e'en had I got her to traivel the road What use was she mair than the soo? I was switin' wi' fear though my fingers was cauld, An' my taes they were muckle the same; Man, my feet was that sair I was creepin' twa-fauld That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.

Three hoors an' a hauf sin' I startit awa', An Deil faurer forrit was I! Govy-ding! It's nae mows for the heid o' the hoose When the mistress has yokit to cry! A set o' mis-chanters like what I'd come through The strongest o' spirits would tame, I was ettlin' to greet as I stude in the street That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame!

But a voice that I kent soondit richt in my lug, Frae my he'rt it fair lifted a load As I tells him my story, for wha should he be But the factor's son hame frae abroad. "It's a brute of a night, but to doctor's my trade, If ye'll have me, my laddie, I'm game!" An' he druve his ain trap seeven mile through the snaw That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.

Ay! an' cracked like a pen-gun the hail o' the road An' though I was prooder than ask, When he fand I was grewsin' awa' at his side He filled me near fou frae his flask. Syne when a' thing was owre an' I gruppit his han' Says the wife, "We maun gie him the name!" An' there's aye been a gude word for him i' the hoose Sin' the nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.

HUMAN NATUR'.

As I gang roon' the kintra-side Amang the young an' auld, I marvel at the things I see An' a' the lees I'm tauld. There's Mistress-weel, I winna say: I wadna hurt her pride,- But speerits hae a guff, gude-wife, Nae peppermints can hide.

Then there's the carle I said maun bide In bed or I cam' back, An' frae the road I saw him fine Gang dodgin' roond a stack; I heard him pechin' up the stair As I cam' in the door- But Faith! My lad was in his bed An' ettlin' for to snore.

An' here's a chap that needs a peel, He chaws it roon' an' roon', He's narra' i' the swalla', an' He canna get it doon. Yet whiles his swalla's wide eneuch, The muckle ne'er-dae-weel, Gin it had aye been narra'er He hadna nott the peel.

Ye tend them a', baith great an' sma', Frae cradle to the grave, An' add to sorrows o' your ain The tribbles o' the lave, An' yet ye find they're a' the same, When human natur's watched, It's no' ill deeds they haud as wrang- The sin o't 's when they're catched.

ANG-BANG-PANG.

O hae ye heard the latest news O' Mistress Mucklewame? Her doctor hadna pickit up Her trouble here at hame, Sae they took her tae a speeshalist To fin' oot what was wrang, An' it seems noo a' the bother Has been ang-bang-pang.

Faith, in the marriage market then Her man's had little luck, She's just a muckle creishy lump That waddles like a juck; But the nerves gaun through her body's Been the trouble a' alang, An' its complicated noo, ye see, By ang-bang-pang.

I've aye held oot oor doctor Was a skeely man afore, But I'll never lat the cratur noo A stap inside the door! A' up an' doon the parish It has made a bonny sang, That he didna ken his neebor's wife Had ang-bang-pang.

They've pit her in hot water baths To lat the body steep, They're feedin' her on tablets Frae the puddens o' a sheep, They're talkin' o' a foreign spaw Upon the continang, They think they'll maybe cure her there O' ang-bang-pang.

There's mony ways o' deein' that Oor faithers didna ken, For ae way foond in "Buchan," noo The doctors gie us ten; But I hope to a' the Pooers abune Auld Death may be owre thrang To come an' smoor my vital spark Wi' ang-bang-pang.

THE SPEESHALIST.

Saturday Night.

Noo, ye'll no' tak' it ill o' me, Mistress Macqueen, For ye ken ye are juist a young kimmer, An' I am a mither that's beerit fourteen, An' forty year mairrit come simmer; When ye see your bit bairnie there drawin' up her knees, Wi' grups in her little interior, Juist gie her a nip o' a gude yalla cheese, An' ye'll find that there's naethin' superior!

The doctor had said that ye shouldna row'r ticht, Ye should aye gie the wee cratur's belly scope? Awa' wi' the lang-leggit lum-hattit fricht Wi' his specks an' his wee widden tellyscope! What kens he o' littlens? He's nane o' his ain, If she greets it juist keeps the hoose cheerier, See! THAT was the wey I did a' my fourteen, An' ye'll find that there's naethin' superior!

I tell ye, noo, warkin' fowk canna draw breath, What wi' sanitries, cruelties, an' bobbies, An' the doctors would pit ye in fair fear o' death Wi' their blethers o' German macrobbies! I've been at their lectures on health an' High Jean, Gude kens that I niver was wearier! Use your ain commonsense when ye're treating' your wean, An' ye'll find that there's naethin' superior!

Sunday Morning.

She's awa'? Weel, ma wumman, I thocht that mysel', When I saw your blind doon frae our corner, An', says I, "I'll juist tak' a step upbye an' tell Twa or three things its better to warn her." 'Twas the doctor's negleck o'r, the auld nosey-wax! There's naethin' to dae noo, but beery her, Tammy Chips mak's a kist here at seeven-an'-sax, An' ye'll find that there's naethin' superior!

ISIE.

The wife she was ailin', the doctor was ca'ed, She was makkin' eneuch din for twa, While Peter was suppin' his brose at the fire, No' heedin' the cratur' ava. "Eh, doctor! My back's fair awa' wi' it noo, It was rackit the day spreadin' dung; Hae Peter! Come owre wi' the lamp, like a man, Till the doctor can look at my tongue!"

But Peter had bade wi' her near forty year, Fine acquaint wi' her weel-soopled jaw, Sae he lowsed his tap button for ease till his wame, Wi' a gant at the wag-at-the-wa'. "Weel Isie," says he, "an' it's me that should ken, That's the ae place ye niver hae cramp. The lamp's bidin' here: if he's seekin' a sicht O' yer tongue he can pull't to the lamp!"

THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.

I dinna ken what is the maitter wi' Jeams, He canna get sleepit at nicht for his dreams, An' aye when he waukens he granes and he screams Till he fair pits the shakers on me!

Can ye no mak' up somethin' to gie him a sleep? I'm tellin' ye, doctor, he gars my flesh creep, Till I'm that fu' o' nerves that the verra least cheep Noo juist fair pits the shakers on me!

Wi' his meat he was aince a man easy to please, But last Sabbath he flang the fried ingans an' cheese That I had for his supper richt into the bleeze, An' he fair pit the shakers on me!

Then he sat in the ingle an' chowed bogie-roll, An' read "Jowler's Sermons" an' talked o' his soul, Faith! conduc' o' that sort's no' easy to thole, For it fair pits the shakers on me!

He's plenty o' siller, ye're sure o' your fee, Just gie him a soondin', an' gin he's to dee, Come oot wi' the truth-dinna fash for a lee, It'll no' pit the shakers on me!

What! Juist heepocondry? Nocht wrang wi his chest? The Deil flee awa' wi' the man for a pest! To think o' me lossin' sae mony nichts' rest An' him pittin' the shakers on me!

Ay, though he may rout like the bull in the park, I'se warrant the morn he's on wi' his sark, An' aff wi' the rest o' the men till his wark, An' he'll no' pit the shakers on me!

THE AULD CARLE.

The auld man had a girnin' wife, An' she was aye compleenin', For a' kin' o' orra things The body aye was greenin'. It's "I'll try this," and "I'll try that," At ilka adverteesement, She flang his siller richt an' left An' niver got nae easement.

The carle he led sic a life, The haill thing was a scunner, Sae ae braw day his birse was up, He fairly roondit on her. "Ye're aye gaun to dee, gude-wife- Fowre nichts I hinna sleepit, Gin it's to be, I wush to peace Ye'd set a day an' keep it!"

Wow! noo there was a tirravee! An angry wife was she, than! "An' is it no' my ain affair The day I'm gaun to dee, than! Aha! ye think ye'll tryst the wricht An' rid him o' his timmer? Syne haud anither waddin' wi' Some feckless, thowless limmer!"

Awyte, but noo she's fu' o' life She's ta'en anither tack o't! An' aye that she flees oot on him His words is at the back o't! Sae keep your tongue atween your teeth When ettlin' to be cliver, Ense ye'll be like the auld carle An' en' waur aff than iver!

THE FEE.

In the heicht o' the foray Sir Raif got a clour, Sir Raif the regairdless, In battle sae dour. O cleanly the saddle They ca'ed him attour!

Then aid for his wounds He did sairly beseech, An' aff to the greenwood In shade o' a beech They hurried auld Simon The kintra-side's leech.

Wi' a tow roon' his neck Simon knelt on his knee, An' he saw as he glow'red Wi' the tail o' his e'e That armed men held it Owre bough o' the tree.

"Noo, Simon, to heal Is your trade, no' to kill," Quo' Sir Raif, "An' though, mark ye, We dootna your skill, Grup the tow, knaves! If need be Pull up wi' a will!"

"But what o' my fee, Noo I ask ye, Sir Raif ?" "Gin I live, Master Simon, I'll wager it's safe! There! Laugh not, ye villains, His neck ye may chafe!"

O stanched was the blue blude That ran on the grass, Sae eident was Simon His skill to surpass, Sir Raif was in fair way His foes to harass.

An' the fee they gae Simon The tale is aye rife- For fittin' Sir Raif To wield sword i' the strife? 'Twas the greatest e'er gi'en- For they gae him his life!

HERE ABOOTS.

Doon in the placie I hae my hame We're an ill-daein' pack o' deils, For ilk ane gangs a gait o' his ain An the lave play yap at his heels. It's argy-bargy-awfu' wark! An' whiles we come to blows Till a man's ill-natur' lappers his sark As it sypes awa' frae his nose.

The rizzon o't's no' far to seek, I'll tell ye plump an' plain, We ken oor neebours' business best- The Deil may hae oor ain! The wricht's a billy for settin' banes, The meenister deals in pills, The doctor thinks his gift's to preach An' the pollisman mak's oor wills!

There's whiles I think we're waur than maist, There's whiles I dinna ken, A raw o' neeps is no' a' like An' why look for't in men? Sae gin ye get your birse set up By some dour cankert carle, Content yersel'! For min' it tak's A' kin's to mak' a warl'!

DROGGIE.

Yersel' is't? Imphm! Man that's bad! A kin' o' thinness o' the blude? Gaed aff las' nicht intil a dwam? Keep's a'! But that's rale nesty, Tam! An' lossin' taste noo for the dram? (An' may it dae ye muckle gude!)

Noo! See the libel! "Thrice a day A tablespunefu' efter food." Drogues is nae better than they're ca'ed? Some drumlie-like? Losh! ye're a lad! The taste'll be byordnar' bad? (An' may it dae ye muckle gude!)

Weel, here's your mixtur'-auchteen pence, I'd mak' it cheaper gin I could. For beast or body maist fowk ken Best's cheapest at the hin'er en', An' on my drogues ye may depen'. (An' may they dae ye muckle gude!)

Forgot your siller? Hae ye though? Ye're in a richt forgetfu' mood! Gie't ye on tick? I ken ye fine? An' whustle on my fingers, syne! Lat's see that bottle! Here's your line! (An' may it dae ye muckle gude!)

THE WEE DRAP.

He's a muckle man, Sandy, he's mair nor sax fit A size that's no' handy for wark i' the pit, But frae a' bad mis-chanters he'd aye keepit free Excep'in' that nicht he'd a fire in his e'e.

He was lyin' an' holin' at wark at the face, For the gaffer had gi'en him a gey dirty place, Sae while i' the gloamin' I sat owre my tea He lowsed an' cam' hame wi' a fire in his e'e.

Ae wife says "Saut butter," ane "Sugar o' leed," An' anither says "Poultice the back o' your heid!" He first tried them singly an' syne tried a' three, But sairer an' sairer got Sandy's sair e'e.

Wi's heid in blue flannen (he couldna stan' licht) I'se warrant he lookit a bonny like sicht, Till dang near deleerit, as hard's he could flee, Eck ran to the smiddy for ease till his e'e.

The smith was a billy wha cam' frae the sooth, An' was awful sair fashed wi' a sutten-doon drooth. He claimed half a mutchkin as fore-handit fee, An' syne yokit howkin' in Sandy's sair e'e.

The p'int o' his gully, an' sleeve o' his sark Was a' the smith's gibbles for surgical wark. For ae fire extrackit the smith pit in three, Till Eck was fair rackit wi' pain in his e'e.

At last to the doctor he gangs daft wi' pain, An' gets a gude sweerin' an' syne some cocaine. The fire was ta'en oot then, to Sandy's great glee, An' he spent the neist week wi' a drap in his e'e.

THE TRICKSTER.

'Twas the turn o' the nicht when a' was quate An' niver a licht to see, That Death cam' stappin' the clachan through As the kirk knock chappit three.

An' even forrit he keepit the road, Nor lookin' to either side, But heidin' straucht for the eastmost hoose Whaur an auld wife used to bide.

Wi' ae lang stride he passed her door, Nor sign he niver gae nane, Save pu'in' a sprig o' the rowan tree To flick on her window pane.

"An' is this to be a' my warnin', Death? I'm fourscore year an' four, Yet niver a drogue has crossed my lips Nor a doctor crossed my door."

"I dinna seek to be forcy, wife, But I hinna a meenute to tyne, An' ye see ye're due for a transfer noo To the Session books frae mine."

"At ilka cryin' I'm handy wife, Wi' herbs I hae trokit awa', An' weel ye may dae's a gude turnie, lad, That's dune ye ane or twa!"

"At the hin'er en' Fair Hornie then! Fair Hornie lat it be! An' Govy-dick! ye can tak your pick O' the ways fowk chance to dee!"

He rattled them owre till weel on fowre An' the cock gae signs o' life, On ilka ill he spak' his fill- But nane o' them pleased the wife.

"Wi' siccan a ch'ice ye're unco nice! Hoots! came awa woman!" says Death, "Gin ye canna wale ane o' the fancy kin's, What think ye o' 'Want o' breath?'"

Noo, Faith! the auld jade was a humoursome taed, As an auld wife weel can be, An' she leugh sae sair at his fleechin' air It fairly gar't her dee!

Wi' a gey teuch sinon in your neck Ye'll lang keep clear o' skaith, But the craftiest carle in a' the warl', An' the kin'liest whiles, is Death.

GLOSSARY

A acquaint, acquainted. ae, one. aff, off. afore, before. a'gate, everywhere. ain, own. aince, once. ang-bang-pang, embonpoint. argy-bargy, argument. attour, out, over. auld, old. ava', at all. awa', away; fair awa' wi' it, fairly done for. awyte, an affirmative exclamation. ayont, beyond.

B Ba', ball; to get on the ba', to go on a jollification, to get drunk. bade, stayed. bairnie, child. baith, both. bane-doctorin', bone-setting. banned, cursed. barley-bree, whisky. bathered, bothered. bauchles, old shoes, slippers. bedfast, bed-ridden. beelin', suppurating. beerit, buried. besom, broom; a woman of loose character. bide, stay. biggin', building. biled, boiled. billy, fellow. birled, moved quickly. birr, vigour, force. birse, bristle; to get one's birse set up, to get in a rage. bit, at the bit, at the finish. bleeze, blaze, fire. blude, blood. body, person; beast or body, beast or man. bogie-roll, Irish twist tobacco. bonnet-laird, small proprietor. braw, beautiful. breeks, breeches. brithers, brothers. brizzin', pressing. brose, oatmeal mixed with water. bubbly-jock, turkey. Buchan, Buchan's "Domestic Medicine." bude, behoved. buits, boots. bullerin', roaring. buskit, dressed. but-an-ben, two-roomed cottage. byordnar, extraordinary.