“Tid she’ll not trive her turk into ta tog?” cried Duncan fiercely. “Och hone! och hone!—Then she’s ashamed of herself for efer, when she might have tone it. And it’ll hafe to be tone yet!”
He paused a few moments, and then resumed:
“And she’ll not pe coing to be hangt?—Maype tat will pe petter, for you wouldn’t hafe liket to see your olt cranfather to pe hangt, Malcolm, my son. Not tat she would hafe minted it herself in such a coot caause, Malcolm! Put she tidn’t pe fery happy after she tid think she had tone it, for you see he wasn’t ta fery man his ownself, and tat must pe counted. But she tid kill something: what was it, Malcolm?”
“Ye sent a gran’ dish fleein’,” answered Malcolm. “I s’ warran’ it cost a poun’, to jeedge by the gowd upo’ ’t.”
“She’ll hear a noise of preaking; put she tid stap something soft.”
“Ye stack yer durk intill my lord’s mahogany table,” said Malcolm. “It nott (needed) a guid rug (pull) to haul ’t oot.”
“Then her arm has not lost aal its strength, Malcolm! I pray ta taple had peen ta rips of Clenlyon!”
“Ye maunna pray nae sic prayers, daddy. Min’ upo’ what Glenlyon said to ye last nicht. Gien I was you I wadna hae a pot howkit express for mysel’—doon yonner—i’ yon place ’at ye dreamed aboot.”
“Well, I’ll forgife him a little, Malcolm—not ta one tat’s tead, but ta one tat tidn’t do it, you know.—Put how will she pe forgifing him for ripping her poor pag? Och hone! och hone! No more musics for her tying tays, Malcolm! Och hone! och hone! I shall co creeping to ta crafe with no loud noises to defy ta enemy. Her pipes is tumb for efer and efer. Och hone! och hone!”
The lengthening of his days had restored bitterness to his loss.