“How do you sleep, then?”
“My neebor lass and I just sleep on cauf.”
“What! you sleep with a calf between you?”
“Ou, no, mem, ye’re jokin’ noo. We lie on the tap o’t.”
When the two came to perfectly understand each other history deponeth not.
Dean Ramsay tells an amusing story of a Stirlingshire farmer’s visit to a son, engaged in business in Liverpool. The son finding the father rather de trop in his office, one day, persuaded him to cross the ferry over the Mersey, and inspect the harvesting, then in full operation, on the Cheshire side. On landing, he approached a young woman reaping with the sickle in a field of oats, when the following dialogue ensued:—
Farmer—“Lassie, are yer aits muckle bookit the year?”
Reaper—“Sir?”
Farmer—“I am speirin’ gif yer aits are muckle bookit the year?”
Reaper (in amazement)—“I really don’t know what you are saying, sir.”