stap y breath;
but tent , billie;
i red ye weel, tak care o&039; skaith
see, there&039;s a gully!”
“gudean,” o&039; he, “put up your whittle,
i&039; no designed to try its ttle;
but if i did, i wad be kittle
to be islear&039;d;
i wad na d it, no that spittle
out-owre y beard”
“weel, weel!” says i, “a barga be&039;t;
e, gie&039;s your hand, an&039; sae we&039;re gree&039;t;
we&039;ll ease our shanks an tak a seat—
e, gie&039;s your news;
this while ye hae been ony a gate,
at ony a hoe”
“ay, ay!” o&039; he, an&039; shook his head,
“it&039;s e&039;en a ng, ng ti deed
s&039; i began to nick the thread,
an&039; choke the breath:
folk aun do thg for their bread,
an&039; sae aun death
“sax thoand years are near-hand fled
s&039; i was to the butchg bred,
an&039; ony a sche va&039;s been id,
to stap or scar ;
till ane hornbook&039;s ta&039;en up the trade,
and faith! he&039;ll waur
“ye ken hornbook i&039; the cchan,
deil ak his kg&039;s-hood spleuchan!
he&039;s grown sae weel acat wi&039; buchan
and ither chaps,
the weans haud out their frs ugh,
an&039; pouk y hips
“see, here&039;s a scythe, an&039; there&039;s dart,
they hae pierc&039;d ony a galnt heart;
but doctor hornbook, wi&039; his art
an&039; cursed skill,
has ade the baith no worth a f-t,
dan&039;d haet they&039;ll kill!
“&039;as but yestreen, nae farther gane,
i threw a noble throw at ane;
wi&039; less, i&039; sure, i&039;ve hundreds s;
but deil-a-care,
it jt py&039;d dirl on the bane,
but did nae air
“hornbook was by, wi&039; ready art,
an&039; had sae fortify&039;d the part,
that when i looked to y dart,
it was sae bnt,
fient haet o&039;t wad hae pierc&039;d the hear
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