"Mr. Tyrrel," she said, "this is nae sight for men folk—ye maun rise and gang to another room."

"I will not stir from her," said Tyrrel—"I will not remove from her either now, or as long as she or I may live."

"That will be nae lang space, Maister Tyrrel, if ye winna be ruled by common sense."

Tyrrel started up, as if half comprehending what she said, but remained motionless.

"Come, come," said the compassionate landlady; "do not stand looking on a sight sair enough to break a harder heart than yours, hinny—your ain sense tells ye, ye canna stay here—Miss Clara shall be weel cared for, and I'll bring word to your room-door frae half-hour to half-hour how she is."

The necessity of the case was undeniable, and Tyrrel suffered himself to be led to another apartment, leaving Miss Mowbray to the care of the hostess and her female assistants. He counted the hours in an agony, less by the watch than by the visits which Mrs. Dods, faithful to her promise, made from interval to interval, to tell him that Clara was not better—that she was worse—and, at last, that she did not think she could live over morning. It required all the deprecatory influence of the good landlady to restrain Tyrrel, who, calm and cold on common occasions, was proportionally fierce and impetuous when his passions were afloat, from bursting into the room, and ascertaining, with his own eyes, the state of the beloved patient. At length there was a long interval—an interval of hours—so long, indeed, that Tyrrel caught from it the flattering hope that Clara slept, and that sleep might bring refreshment both to mind and body. Mrs. Dods, he concluded, was prevented from moving, for fear of disturbing her patient's slumber; and, as if actuated by the same feeling which he imputed to her, he ceased to traverse his apartment, as his agitation had hitherto dictated, and throwing himself into a chair, forbore to move even a finger, and withheld his respiration as much as possible, just as if he had been seated by the pillow of the patient. Morning was far advanced, when his landlady appeared in his room with a grave and anxious countenance.

"Mr. Tyrrel," she said, "ye are a Christian man."

"Hush, hush, for Heaven's sake!" he replied; "you will disturb Miss Mowbray."

"Naething will disturb her, puir thing," answered Mrs. Dods; "they have muckle to answer for that brought her to this!"

"They have—they have indeed," said Tyrrel, striking his forehead; "and I will see her avenged on every one of them!—Can I see her?"

"Better not—better not," said the good woman; but he burst from her, and rushed into the apartment.

"Is life gone?—Is every spark extinct?" he exclaimed eagerly to a country surgeon, a sensible man, who had been summoned from Marchthorn in the course of the night. The medical man shook his head—Tyrrel rushed to the bedside, and was convinced by his own eyes that the being whose sorrows he had both caused and shared, was now insensible to all earthly calamity. He raised almost a shriek of despair, as he threw himself on the pale hand of the corpse, wet it with tears, devoured it with kisses, and played for a short time the part of a distracted person. At length, on the repeated expostulation of all present, he suffered himself to be again conducted to another apartment, the surgeon following, anxious to give such sad consolation as the case admitted of.

"As you are so deeply concerned for the untimely fate of this young lady," he said, "it may be some satisfaction to you, though a melancholy one, to know, that it has been occasioned by a pressure on the brain, probably accompanied by a suffusion; and I feel authorized in stating, from the symptoms, that if life had been spared, reason would, in all probability, never have returned. In such a case, sir, the most affectionate relation must own, that death, in comparison to life, is a mercy."

"Mercy?" answered Tyrrel; "but why, then, is it denied to me?—I know—I know!—My life is spared till I revenge her."

He started from his seat, and hurried eagerly down stairs. But, as he was about to rush from the door of the inn, he was stopped by Touchwood, who had just alighted from a carriage, with an air of stern anxiety imprinted on his features, very different from their usual expression. "Whither would ye? Whither would ye?" he said, laying hold of Tyrrel, and stopping him by force.

"For revenge—for revenge!" said Tyrrel. "Give way, I charge you, on your peril!"

"Vengeance belongs to God," replied the old man, "and his bolt has fallen.—This way—this way," he continued, dragging Tyrrel into the house. "Know," he said, so soon as he had led or forced him into a chamber, "that Mowbray of St. Ronan's has met Bulmer within this half hour, and has killed him on the spot."

"Killed?—whom?" answered the bewildered Tyrrel.

"Valentine Bulmer, the titular Earl of Etherington."

"You bring tidings of death to the house of death," answered Tyrrel; "and there is nothing in this world left that I should live for!"



CHAPTER XX.

CONCLUSION.

Here come we to our close—for that which follows Is but the tale of dull, unvaried misery. Steep crags and headlong linns may court the pencil, Like sudden haps, dark plots, and strange adventures; But who would paint the dull and fog-wrapt moor, In its long track of sterile desolation?

Old Play.

When Mowbray crossed the brook, as we have already detailed, his mind was in that wayward and uncertain state, which seeks something whereon to vent the self-engendered rage with which it labours, like a volcano before eruption. On a sudden, a shot or two, followed by loud voices and laughter reminded him he had promised, at that hour, and in that sequestered place, to decide a bet respecting pistol-shooting, to which the titular Lord Etherington, Jekyl, and Captain MacTurk, to whom such a pastime was peculiarly congenial, were parties as well as himself. The prospect this recollection afforded him, of vengeance on the man whom he regarded as the author of his sister's wrongs, was, in the present state of his mind, too tempting to be relinquished; and, setting spurs to his horse, he rushed through the copse to the little glade, where he found the other parties, who, despairing of his arrival, had already begun their amusement. A jubilee shout was set up as he approached.

"Here comes Mowbray, dripping, by Cot, like a watering-pan," said Captain MacTurk.

"I fear him not," said Etherington, (we may as well still call him so,) "he has ridden too fast to have steady nerves."

"We shall soon see that, my Lord Etherington, or rather Mr. Valentine Bulmer," said Mowbray, springing from his horse, and throwing the bridle over the bough of a tree.

"What does this mean, Mr. Mowbray?" said Etherington, drawing himself up, while Jekyl and Captain MacTurk looked at each other in surprise.

"It means, sir, that you are a rascal and impostor," replied Mowbray, "who have assumed a name to which you have no right."

"That, Mr. Mowbray, is an insult I cannot carry farther than this spot," said Etherington.

"If you had been willing to do so, you should have carried with it something still harder to be borne," answered Mowbray.

"Enough, enough, my good sir; no use in spurring a willing horse.—Jekyl, you will have the kindness to stand by me in this matter?"

"Certainly, my lord," said Jekyl.

"And, as there seems to be no chance of taking up the matter amicably," said the pacific Captain MacTurk, "I will be most happy, so help me, to assist my worthy friend, Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan's, with my countenance and advice.—Very goot chance that we were here with the necessary weapons, since it would have been an unpleasant thing to have such an affair long upon the stomach, any more than to settle it without witnesses."

"I would fain know first," said Jekyl, "what all this sudden heat has arisen about."

"About nothing," said Etherington, "except a mare's nest of Mr. Mowbray's discovering. He always knew his sister played the madwoman, and he has now heard a report, I suppose, that she has likewise in her time played the —— fool."

"O, crimini!" cried Captain MacTurk, "my good Captain, let us pe loading and measuring out—for, by my soul, if these sweetmeats be passing between them, it is only the twa ends of a hankercher than can serve the turn—Cot tamn!"

With such friendly intentions, the ground was hastily meted out. Each was well known as an excellent shot; and the Captain offered a bet to Jekyl of a mutchkin of Glenlivat, that both would fall by the first fire. The event showed that he was nearly right; for the ball of Lord Etherington grazed Mowbray's temple, at the very second of time when Mowbray's pierced his heart. He sprung a yard from the ground, and fell down a dead man. Mowbray stood fixed like a pillar of stone, his arm dropped to his side, his hand still clenched on the weapon of death, reeking at the touch-hole and muzzle. Jekyl ran to raise and support his friend, and Captain MacTurk, having adjusted his spectacles, stooped on one knee to look him in the face. "We should have had Dr. Quackleben here," he said, wiping his glasses, and returning them to the shagreen case, "though it would have been only for form's sake—for he is as dead as a toor-nail, poor boy.—But come, Mowbray, my bairn," he said, taking him by the arm, "we must be ganging our ain gait, you and me, before waur comes of it.—I have a bit powney here, and you have your horse till we get to Marchthorn.—Captain Jekyl, I wish you a good morning. Will you have my umbrella back to the inn, for I surmeese it is going to rain?"

Mowbray had not ridden a hundred yards with his guide and companion, when he drew his bridle, and refused to proceed a step farther, till he had learned what was become of Clara. The Captain began to find he had a very untractable pupil to manage, when, while they were arguing together, Touchwood drove past in his hack chaise. As soon as he recognised Mowbray, he stopped the carriage to inform him that his sister was at the Aultoun, which he had learned from finding there had been a messenger sent from thence to the Well for medical assistance, which could not be afforded, the Esculapius of the place, Dr. Quackleben, having been privately married to Mrs. Blower on that morning, by Mr. Chatterly, and having set out on the usual nuptial tour.

In return for this intelligence, Captain MacTurk communicated the fate of Lord Etherington. The old man earnestly pressed instant flight, for which he supplied at the same time ample means, engaging to furnish every kind of assistance and support to the unfortunate young lady; and representing to Mowbray, that if he staid in the vicinity, a prison would soon separate them. Mowbray and his companion then departed southward upon the spur, reached London in safety, and from thence went together to the Peninsula, where the war was then at the hottest.

There remains little more to be told. Mr. Touchwood is still alive, forming plans which have no object, and accumulating a fortune, for which he has apparently no heir. The old man had endeavoured to fix this character, as well as his general patronage, upon Tyrrel, but the attempt only determined the latter to leave the country; nor has he been since heard of, although the title and estates of Etherington lie vacant for his acceptance. It is the opinion of many, that he has entered into a Moravian mission, for the use of which he had previously drawn considerable sums.

Since Tyrrel's departure, no one pretends to guess what old Touchwood will do with his money. He often talks of his disappointments, but can never be made to understand, or at least to admit, that they were in some measure precipitated by his own talent for intrigue and manoeuvring. Most people think that Mowbray of St. Ronan's will be at last his heir. That gentleman has of late shown one quality which usually recommends men to the favour of rich relations, namely, a close and cautious care of what is already his own. Captain MacTurk's military ardour having revived when they came within smell of gunpowder, the old soldier contrived not only to get himself on full pay, but to induce his companion to serve for some time as a volunteer. He afterwards obtained a commission, and nothing could be more strikingly different than was the conduct of the young Laird of St. Ronan's and of Lieutenant Mowbray. The former, as we know, was gay, venturous, and prodigal; the latter lived on his pay, and even within it—denied himself comforts, and often decencies, when doing so could save a guinea; and turned pale with apprehension, if, on any extraordinary occasion, he ventured sixpence a corner at whist. This meanness, or closeness of disposition, prevents his holding the high character to which his bravery and attention to his regimental duties might otherwise entitle him. The same close and accurate calculation of pounds, shillings, and pence, marked his communications with his agent Meiklewham, who might otherwise have had better pickings out of the estate of St. Ronan's, which is now at nurse, and thriving full fast; especially since some debts, of rather an usurious character, have been paid up by Mr. Touchwood, who contented himself with more moderate usage.

On the subject of this property, Mr. Mowbray, generally speaking, gave such minute directions for acquiring and saving, that his old acquaintance, Mr. Winterblossom, tapping his morocco snuff-box with the sly look which intimated the coming of a good thing, was wont to say, that he had reversed the usual order of transformation, and was turned into a grub after having been a butterfly. After all, this narrowness, though a more ordinary modification of the spirit of avarice, may be founded on the same desire of acquisition, which in his earlier days sent him to the gaming-table.

But there was one remarkable instance in which Mr. Mowbray departed from the rules of economy, by which he was guided in all others. Having acquired, for a large sum of money, the ground which he had formerly feued out for the erection of the hotel, lodging-houses, shops, &c., at St. Ronan's Well, he sent positive orders for the demolition of the whole, nor would he permit the existence of any house of entertainment on his estate, except that in the Aultoun, where Mrs. Dods reigns with undisputed sway, her temper by no means improved either by time, or her arbitrary disposition by the total absence of competition.

Why Mr. Mowbray, with his acquired habits of frugality, thus destroyed a property which might have produced a considerable income, no one could pretend to affirm. Some said that he remembered his own early follies; and others, that he connected the buildings with the misfortunes of his sister. The vulgar reported, that Lord Etherington's ghost had been seen in the ball-room, and the learned talked of the association of ideas. But it all ended in this, that Mr. Mowbray was independent enough to please himself, and that such was Mr. Mowbray's pleasure.

The little watering-place has returned to its primitive obscurity; and lions and lionesses, with their several jackals, blue surtouts, and bluer stockings, fiddlers and dancers, painters and amateurs, authors and critics, dispersed like pigeons by the demolition of a dovecot, have sought other scenes of amusement and rehearsal, and have deserted ST. RONAN'S WELL.[II-12]

FOOTNOTE:

[II-12] Note III.—Meg Dods.



AUTHOR'S NOTES.

Note I., p. 202.

There were several instances of this dexterity, but especially those which occurred in the celebrated case of Murdison and Millar, in 1773. These persons, a sheep-farmer and his shepherd, settled in the vale of Tweed, commenced and carried on for some time an extensive system of devastation on the flocks of their neighbours. A dog belonging to Millar was so well trained, that he had only to show him during the day the parcel of sheep which he desired to have; and when dismissed at night for the purpose, Yarrow went right to the pasture where the flock had fed, and carried off the quantity shown him. He then drove them before him by the most secret paths to Murdison's farm, where the dishonest master and servant were in readiness to receive the booty. Two things were remarkable. In the first place, that if the dog, when thus dishonestly employed, actually met his master, he observed great caution in recognising him, as if he had been afraid of bringing him under suspicion; secondly, that he showed a distinct sense that the illegal transactions in which he was engaged were not of a nature to endure daylight. The sheep which he was directed to drive, were often reluctant to leave their own pastures, and sometimes the intervention of rivers or other obstacles made their progress peculiarly difficult. On such occasions, Yarrow continued his efforts to drive his plunder forward, until the day began to dawn, a signal which, he conceived, rendered it necessary for him to desert his spoil, and slink homeward by a circuitous road. It is generally said this accomplished dog was hanged along with his master; but the truth is, he survived him long, in the service of a man in Leithen, yet was said afterwards to have shown little of the wonderful instinct exhibited in the employment of Millar.

Another instance of similar sagacity, a friend of mine discovered in a beautiful little spaniel, which he had purchased from a dealer in the canine race. When he entered a shop, he was not long in observing that his little companion made it a rule to follow at some interval, and to estrange itself from his master so much as to appear totally unconnected with him. And when he left the shop, it was the dog's custom to remain behind him till it could find an opportunity of seizing a pair of gloves, or silk stockings, or some similar property, which it brought to its master. The poor fellow probably saved its life by falling into the hands of an honest man.

Note II., p. 213.

The author has made an attempt in this character to draw a picture of what is too often seen, a wretched being whose heart becomes hardened and spited at the world, in which she is doomed to experience much misery and little sympathy. The system of compulsory charity by poor's rates, of which the absolute necessity can hardly be questioned, has connected with it on both sides some of the most odious and malevolent feelings that can agitate humanity. The quality of true charity is not strained. Like that of mercy, of which, in a large sense, it may be accounted a sister virtue, it blesses him that gives and him that takes. It awakens kindly feelings both in the mind of the donor and in that of the relieved object. The giver and receiver are recommended to each other by mutual feelings of good-will, and the pleasurable emotions connected with the consciousness of a good action fix the deed in recollection of the one, while a sense of gratitude renders it holy to the other. In the legal and compulsory assessment for the proclaimed parish pauper, there is nothing of all this. The alms are extorted from an unwilling hand, and a heart which desires the annihilation, rather than the relief, of the distressed object. The object of charity, sensible of the ill-will with which the pittance is bestowed, seizes on it as his right, not as a favour. The manner of conferring it being directly calculated to hurt and disgust his feelings, he revenges himself by becoming impudent and clamorous. A more odious picture, or more likely to deprave the feelings of those exposed to its influence, can hardly be imagined; and yet to such a point have we been brought by an artificial system of society, that we must either deny altogether the right of the poor to their just proportion of the fruits of the earth, or afford them some means of subsistence out of them by the institution of positive law.

Note III., p. 318.

Non omnis moriar. Saint Ronan's, since this veracious history was given to the public, has revived as a sort of alias, or second title, to the very pleasant village of Inverleithen upon Tweed, where there is a medicinal spring much frequented by visitors. Prizes for some of the manly and athletic sports, common in the pastoral districts around, are competed for under the title of the Saint Ronan's Games. Nay, Meg Dods has produced herself of late from obscurity as authoress of a work on Cookery, of which, in justice to a lady who makes so distinguished a figure as this excellent dame, we insert the title-page:

"The Cook and Housewife's Manual: A Practical System of Modern Domestic Cookery and Family Management.

————'Cook, see all your sawces Be sharp and poynant in the palate, that they may Commend you: look to your roast and baked meats handsomely, And what new kickshaws and delicate made things.'

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

By Mistress Margaret Dods, of the Cleikum Inn, St. Ronan's."

Though it is rather unconnected with our immediate subject, we cannot help adding, that Mrs. Dods has preserved the recipes of certain excellent old dishes which we would be loath should fall into oblivion in our day; and in bearing this testimony, we protest that we are no way biassed by the receipt of two bottles of excellent sauce for cold meat, which were sent to us by the said Mrs. Dods, as a mark of her respect and regard, for which we return her our unfeigned thanks, having found them capital.



EDITOR'S NOTES.

[II-A] p. 104. "Tietania." A little book on the art of tying the neckcloth, in the age of Brummel and his "failures." Copies may occasionally be found on the bookstalls. It is not in the Abbotsford Library.

[II-B] p. 151. "I first persuaded her to quit the path of duty." This remark of Tyrrel's is one of the many surviving traces of the original plot.

[II-C] p. 220. "Master Stephen." A character of Ben Jonson's already referred to—he who wished for a stool to be sad upon.

[II-D] p. 223. "A Canon of Strasburgh." Scott frequently refers, in accounts of the roof of the hall of Abbotsford, which he blazoned with his quarterings, to his deficiency in the sixteen necessary for a Canonry. Three shields, those connected with the Rutherfords of Hunthill, are vacant, or rather are painted with clouds.

[II-E] p. 238. "One of Plutarch's heroes, if I mistake not." It was not a hero of Plutarch's, but Pindar the poet, who was warned by Persephone that he had neglected to honour her by an ode.

[II-F] p. 254. "They can scarcely say worse of me than I deserve." In this remark of Clara's we have another trace of the original plot, involving Clara's lapse from virtue. The whole scene, with Mowbray's "You having been such as you own yourself," was made unintelligible by Ballantyne's objection.

[II-G] p. 300. "A corbie messenger." It seems unlikely that the Scots had a legend like the Greek one concerning the evil "corbie" or raven messenger to Apollo about his false lady-love, but no other explanation suggests itself.

ANDREW LANG. December 1893.



APPENDIX.

[The following extract from the proof-sheets containing Scott's original conclusion of "St. Ronan's Well" was sent to the Athenaeum of Feb. 4, 1893, by Mr. J. M. Collyer. The proof-sheets are in the possession of Mr. Archibald Constable. The scene, of which a few lines remain in the authorised texts, is that of Hannah Irwin's Confession to Josiah Cargill.

"Oh, most unhappy woman," he said, "what does your introduction prepare me to expect?"

"Your expectation, be it ever so ominous, shall be fully satisfied. That Bulmer, when he told you that a secret marriage was necessary to Miss Mowbray's honour, thought that he was imposing on you.—But he told you a fatal truth, so far as concerned Clara. She had indeed fallen, but Bulmer was not her seducer—knew nothing of the truth of what he so strongly asseverated."

"He was not her lover, then?—And how came he, then, to press to marry her?—Or, how came you"——

"Hear me—but question not.—Bulmer had gained the advantage over me which he pretended to have had over Clara. From that moment my companion's virtue became at once the object of my envy and hatred: yet, so innocent were the lovers, that, despite of the various arts which I used to entrap them, they remained guiltless until the fatal evening when Clara met Tyrrel for the last time ere he removed from the neighbourhood—and then the devil and Hannah Irwin triumphed. Much there was of remorse—much of resolutions of separation until the Church should unite them—but these only forwarded my machinations—for I was determined she should wed Bulmer, not Tyrrel."

"Wretch!" exclaimed the clergyman: "and had you not, then, done enough? Why did you expose the paramour of one brother to become the wife of another?"

She paused, and answered sullenly, "I had my reasons—Bulmer had treated me with scorn. He told me plainly that he used me but as a stepping-stone to his own purposes: and that these finally centred in wedding Clara. I was resolved he should wed her, and take with her infamy and misery to his bed."

"This is too horrible," said Cargill, endeavouring, with a trembling hand, to make minutes of her confession.

"Ay," said the sick woman, "but I contended with a master of the game, who played me stratagem for stratagem. If I destined for him a dishonoured wife, he contrived by his agent, Solmes, to match me with a husband imposed on me by his devices as a man of fortune," &c.—ED.]



GLOSSARY.

A', all.

Abbey, the sanctuary for debtors at Holyrood Abbey.

Ae, one.

Aff, off.

Ail, to prevent.

Ainsell, oneself.

An, if.

Ance, once.

Ane, one.

Asper, a Turkish coin of small value.

"Athole brose," honey mixed with whisky, used in the Highlands sometimes as a luxury, sometimes as a specific for a cold.

Aught, eight.

Awa, away.

Bairn, a child.

Baith, both.

Barmy-brained, giddy, feather-brained.

Baron-bailie, a kind of magistrate, the baron's deputy in a burgh of barony.

Basket-beagles, beagles that chased a hare slipped from a basket.

Bauld, bold.

Bawbee, a halfpenny.

Bedral, a sexton.

Begum, an Indian princess, or lady of high rank.

Bidden, remained.

Blawort, a bluebottle.

Blunt, money.

Bodle, a small copper coin.

"Bow Street runners," London detectives.

Braid, broad.

Brank, span.

Briquet, a steel with which to strike a light.

Brose, oatmeal over which boiling water has been poured.

Browst, a brewing, as much as is brewed at one time.

Bruick, a kind of boil.

"By ordinar," out of the common run.

Cadi, a judge.

Callant, a lad.

Cantrip, a piece of mischief.

Capernoity, crabbed, irritable.

Carline, a witch.

Cheeny, china.

Clachan, a hamlet.

Claise, clothes.

Cleugh, a rugged ascent.

Corbie, a raven. "Corbie messenger," a messenger who either returns not at all, or too late.

Cull, a fool.

Daffing, frolicking.

Deil, the devil.

Diddled, beaten, got the better of.

Dinna, don't.

Div, do.

Dorts, in a sullen humour.

Douce, quiet, sensible.

Dub-skelper—used contemptuously for a rambling fellow, an idle vagabond.

Dwam, a stupor.

Encognure, a corner table.

Eneugh, enough.

Fand, found.

Faughta, a sort of pigeon sacred amongst the Hindoos.

Feir, with good countenance.

Fend, defence.

Feuar, one who holds lands in feu—i.e., on lease.

Fit, foot.

Flisk-ma-hoy, new-fangled.

Forby, besides.

Frae, from.

Fule, a fool.

"Fusionless skink," tasteless stuff.

Gae, go; gaen, gone.

Gait, gate, way, direction.

Galopin, a scullion or errand-boy.

Ganging, going.

Gar, to force, to make. "Gars me grue," gives me the creeps.

Gard, made.

Gay, very.

Geeing, giving.

"Gentlemen of the fancy," prize-fighters.

Gin, if.

Girn, to grin.

Girning, whining.

Glenlivat, a celebrated whisky distillery.

Gowk, a fool.

Grue, to shiver. The flesh is said to grue when a chilly sensation passes over the surface of the body.

Gude, good. Gudewife, a landlady.

Gusing-iron, a smoothing iron.

Hae, have.

Hail, haill, whole.

"Hale and feir," right and proper.

Hap, hop.

Heritors, the landowners and proprietors of the parish.

Hinny, a term of endearment = honey.

Hirple, hobble.

Hollah. See Faughta.

Hoose, a house.

Hough, the thigh.

Imaum, a Mohammedan ecclesiastic of high rank.

I'se, I shall.

Jaud, a jade.

Joseph, a riding-coat with buttons down the skirts.

Ken, to know.

"Lang syne," long ago.

Limmer, a worthless creature.

Maravedi, an old Spanish coin of small value.

Maundered, mumble.

Mickle, muckle, much.

Mundungus, vile, ill-smelling tobacco.

Nae, no, not

Neevie-neevie-nick-nack, a game with marbles, similar to "odd or even."

"On the pad," on the tramp.

Ony, any.

Or, before.

Ower, over.

Pabouches, slippers.

Pickle, a little, a small quantity.

Pliskie, a trick.

Plottie, mulled wine.

Pococurante, one who affects indifference.

Pomander-boxes, perfume-boxes.

Poortith, poverty.

Pownie, a pony.

Puir, poor.

Raff, a worthless fellow, a nobody.

Remora, an obstacle, hindrance.

Rin, run.

Roof-tree, the beam that supports the roof.

Sae, so.

Sall, shall.

Scaurs, jibs.

Scrog, a stunted bush or scrub.

"Sgherro insigne," notorious cut-throat.

Shieling, a hut.

Shouther, the shoulder.

Shroff, a Parsee or Indian merchant.

Sic, such.

Skeely, skilful.

Slaister, a mess.

Snooded, bound up with a snood or fillet for the hair.

Soop, to sweep.

Sorting, a correction with the hand or the tongue.

"Sossings and soopings," made-up soups and messes.

Souvenir, a lady's reticule or hand-bag.

Speer, to inquire.

Sponsible, respectable.

Swarf, to swoon.

Syllabub, a curd made of wine or cider with milk or cream.

Taupie, tawpie, an awkward girl, a tomboy.

Tinkler, a tinker.

Titupping, lively, full of spirit.

Tozie, a shawl of goat's wool.

Troke, to traffic, do business with in a small way.

Turbinacious, peaty, turfy.

"Ullah kerim!" God is merciful.

Ultroneous, uncalled for, unusual.

Umquhile, the late.

Unco, very, particular, uncommon.

Usquebaugh, whisky.

Wad, would.

Wae, woful, sad.

Waur, worse.

Wee, small, little.

Weel, well.

Wheen, a few.

Wi', with.

Windlestrae, a small bundle of straw.

Wizzened, withered.

Wunna, will not.

Yestreen, last night.

Yince, once.

THE END.