She meàd him a fairish wife, as wives gang, an’ if she’d no’but been wise aneùf ta tack him as he was, an’ let things gā on as they hed deùn, o’ wad been weel; but she cūdn’t bide t’ thowtes of oanin’, owder till hersel or ūdder fwoke, ’at she’d weddit a Tommy Moakison for t’ seàk of his brass; an’ sooa she keept eggin him on to dee his oan tūrns, an’ let fwoke see ’at he wasn’t sec a natteral as he was co’t. It was this whim-wham o’ t’ wife’s ’at gat him t’ nick-neām of Wise Wiff, an’ it com tūl him i’ this geàt. Amang t’ stock ga’n on t’ Booin-leys ya year there happen’t to be hoaf a scwore of as bonnie Galloway Scots as iver hed yār o’ t’ ootside on them. Jobby hed bowte them i’ t’ spring o’ t’ year at a gūddish price, acoase he seed ther was mūnny to be gitten oot on them efter a sūmmer’s rūn iv a gūd pastur’. Jūst as they war rūddy for a cūstomer, an’ Wiff was thinkin o’ gā’n doon to Jobby to toke aboot sellin on them, t’ wife says, “Ther’s a butcher cūmmin fray Cockerm’uth to-day aboot buyin them Scots.” “Whey than,” says Wilfrid, “I’s just step doon to Jobby, an’ tell him to cūm up an’ meet t’ butcher.” “Thoo’ll dee nowte o’ t’ mack,” says t’ mistress, “Thoo’ll set to wark, as a gentleman sūd dee, an’ let Jobby Jinkison, an’ ivery body else, see ’at thoo wants néabody to cūm atween thee an’ thy oan bisness.” “Well, but,” says Wiff, “I promish’t fadder on his deith-bed ’at Jobby sūd dee o’ t’ buyin’ an’ sellin.” “Niver thee mind that,” says she, “fadder willn’t cūm back to claim thee promish, an’ if he dūd, I wad tell him ’at if a promish isn’t reet it’s wrang to keep it. Thoo’ll dee as I tell thee.” “Well, but,” says pooar Wiffy ageàn, “fadder meàd me varra nār sweear tul’t.” “Shaff o’ thee fadder!” says she, “What sense is ther i’ flingin a deid fadder iv a leevin wife’s feàce i’ this ugly fashin. Does t’e know what t’ scriptur’ says aboot it?—’at a man mūn leave his fadder and mudder, an’ stick till his wife! I say ageàn, sell thee oan gūds thee oan sel’, an’ mack t’ best thoo can on them.” “But hoo’s I to ken what price to ex?” says he. “Whey,” says she, “cannot thoo leuk into t’ beuk ’at Jobby writes o’ doon in, an’ finnd t’ price he pait for them? That ’ill be a guide for the’. But I wad rayder loase a pūnd or two, if I was thee, nor be meàd a barne on any lang-er.” Like many a cliverer fellow, pooar Wiff fūnd ther was nowte for’t but lettin his wife hev her way; an’ when t’ butcher com, he went reet ower wid him to t’ fields whoar t’ bullocks was gā’n, an’ sel’t them tūll him oot o’ hand.