"Ye'll never mak ony thing o' 't that gait," said Peter, as he took the tongs from his hand, and altered the position of the share for him. "Ye wad hae 'it black upo' ae side and white upo' the ither. Noo ca (drive) steady, an' dinna blaw the fire aff o' the forge."
But when it came to the anvil part of the work, Peter found so many faults with the handling and the execution generally, that at length the lad threw down the tongs with a laugh and an oath intermingled, saying:
"Ye can mak' potty o' 't yersel, than, Peter.—Ye jist min' me o' the
Waesome Carl."
"What's that o' 't, Rory, man?"
"Ow! naething but a bit sang that I cam' upo' the ither day i' the neuk o' an auld newspaper."
"Lat's hear't," said Peter. "Sing't, Rory. Ye're better kent for a guid sang than for settin' socks."
"I canna sing 't, for I dinna ken the tune o' 't. I only got a glimp' o' 't, as I tell ye, in an auld news."
"Weel, say't, than. Ye're as weel kent for a guid memory, as a guid sang."
Without more preamble, Rory repeated, with appropriate gesture,