Poor Sawny had a terrible night o’t, wi a sair head and a sick heart, his eyes 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 foster’d bairn wi’ their stinking stuff, a meikle deil ding the doup out of 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 deliverance, 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 mutchkins 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 every thing gade round about wi’ him a’ that day; his mither gat him out of bed, and 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 and ins about the bridal, and when it was to be, for he had gotten every body’s consent but the bride’s about it. Mither. But Sawny, man, that’s the main thing; ye maun hae that too. Sawny. Na, na, mither, I’m the main thing myself, aye she’s but a member; the men maun aye be foremost--gang what way it will, I’se aye be uppermost. Mither. But Sawny man, what way is thou gaun to do? will ye make a penny wedding; or twa or three gude neebours, a peek of meal baken, wi a cheese and a barrel of ale; will that do? Sawny. Na na mither, I’ll take a cheaper gate nor ony of them; I’ll gar-a-crown and half a mutchkin, or a rake of coals do it a’, then a body has nae mair to do but piss and tumble into bed. Mither. Na na, my man Sawny, I hae mony a time heard thy honest father say, that never a ane would do well that capstrided the kirk or cuckold the minister. Sawny. A tell nae me, mither, of the minister, they’re aye for their ain end as well as ither fouk, and if a poor beggar body had a bit wean to christen, the deil a bait they’ll feike him o’t. Mither. Hute awa man, there’s na body has weans but what has siller to pay the christening of them; or if they be that poor, they sudna get nae weans, and they wadna be fashed syne. Sawny. Ha ha mither, the poor fouk, like the lice, ay when they meet they marry, and maks mae of them: and I think the ministers might christen their bits of weans for naething, the water’s no sae scant; they are weel paid for their preaching, they may very weel baith marry and christen a’ the poor fouks into the bargain, by the way of a maggs. Mither. Ay, ay, my man Sawny, marriage is a sweet thing for young fouk, and the bed undefiled.