Words frae yisteryear

‘Memories.

A hae min’ o’ yin evenin’ A wus gaun tae see the oul’ woman. Av coorse, hir an’ me wur baith smerter nor what we ir the day, an’ so a tuk up on an’ oul damsel on the road. She had a lassie or twa o’ hir ain, an’, min’ ye, a woman o’ that sort’s no very lang o’ takin’ the mizure o’ a young chap. We got intae conversashun bae hir askin’ me whaur A wuz gaun an’ what A wuz gaun tae dae. Noo, that wuz a very foolish thing in hir, for A didna know maesel what a wuz for daein’. A jest knowed A wuz gaun tae see mae lass. Bit, onyway, she had the bare feet, only a pair o’ stockins wae nae feet in them, an’ ivery noo an’ again ye wid hae hard the rattle lake as if ye had a loose shod on yer boot. At last she noticed me luckin’ at hir feet, an’, sez she

“ What noise wuz that ?”

“A daenae know,” sez I, “unless yer shod’s comin’ aff.”

“Oh, dear,” sez she, “ye shouldnae mak’ fun o’ an’ oul’ body,” houlin’ up hir sole.

“Them’s the first shoes iver A had, an’ they’ll dae me mae day.” An’, there if they wurna twa oul boot protectors stickin’ in hir heel, an’ she niver knowed.

A wuz aye a wee bit thochtfu’, so A proposed tae pick them oot wae mae knife, an’ A noticed she gaed licht wae the aff hin’ fit efter that. She said if A wud go up tae the hoose she wid boil me an egg, bit A thocht she wuz o’ rether hardy disposition for me tae tackle, so A gaed on mae wye.

Bit speakin’ o’ eggs pits me in min’ o’ last Sunday. Man, that wuz a terrible day on eggs an’ chickens ! Iverybody ye sa’ had a weeks o’ their mooth painted a yellow colour, an’ if they had ony hair on their faces ye wid hae seen the remains o’ a chicken sticken’ here an’ there amang the birses.’

This is jest a wee bit o tha guid boadys scrievins . A fur noo

Tha Poocher hinmaist deh o September