"Ay, he's deid: maybe that's what'll be troublin' yer sicht, daddy."
"No, my son. Ta maad lairt was not ferry maad, and if he was maad he was not paad, and it was not ta plame of him: he was coot always, howefer."
"He wass that, daddy."
"But it will pe something ferry paad, and it will pe efer troubling her speerit. When she'll pe take ta pipes to pe amusing herself, and will plow 'Till an crodh a' Dhonnaehaidh' ('Turn the Cows, Duncan'), out will pe come' Cumhadh an fhir mhoir' ('The Lament of the Big Man'). Aal is not well, my son."
"Weel, dinna distress yersel', daddy. Lat come what wull come. Foreseein' 's no forefen'in'. Ye ken yersel' at mony 's the time the seer has broucht the thing on by tryin' to haud it aff."
"It will be true, my son. Put it would aalways haf come."
"Nae doubt. Sae ye jist come in wi' me, daddy, an' sit doon by the ha' fire, an' I'll come to ye as sune's I've been to see 'at the maister disna want me. But ye'll better come up wi' me to my room first," he went on, "for the maister disna like to see me in onything but the kilt."
"And why will he not pe in ta kilts aal as now?"
"I hae been ridin', ye ken, daddy, an' the trews fits the saiddle better nor the kilts."
"She'll not pe knowing tat. Old Allister, your creat—her own crandfather, was ta pest horseman ta worlt efer saw, and he'll nefer pe hafing ta trews to his own lecks nor ta saddle to his horse's pack. He'll chust make his men pe strap on an old plaid, and he'll be kive a chump, and away they wass, horse and man, one peast, aal two of tem poth together."