Christie. “Lad, it was fra puir Antonio, ye mind o' him, Lasses. Hech! the ill luck o' yon man, no a ship come hame; ane foundered at sea, coming fra Tri-po-lis; the pirates scuttled another, an' ane ran ashore on the Goodwins, near Bright-helm-stane, that's in England itsel', I daur say. Sae he could na pay the three thoosand ducats, an' Shylock had grippit him, an' sought the pund o' flesh aff the breest o' him, puir body.”
Sandy Liston. “He would na be the waur o' a wee bit hiding, yon thundering urang-utang; let the man alane, ye cursed old cannibal.”
Christie. “Poorsha keepit her man but ae hoor till they were united, an' then sent him wi' a puckle o' her ain siller to Veeneece, and Antonio—think o' that, lassies—pairted on their wedding-day.”
Lizzy Johnstone, a Fishwife, aged 12. “Hech! hech! it's lamentable.”
Jean Carnie. “I'm saying, mairriage is quick wark, in some pairts—here there's an awfu' trouble to get a man.”
A young Fishwife. “Ay, is there.”
Omnes. “Haw! haw! haw!” (The fish-wife hides.)
Christie. “Fill your taupsels, lads and lasses, and awa to Veneece.”
Sandy Liston (sturdily). “I'll no gang to sea this day.”
Christie. “Noo, we are in the hall o' judgment. Here are set the judges, awfu' to behold; there, on his throne, presides the Juke.”