I maunna a'thegither disregaird what fowk think, 'cause there's the chop (shop); an' gin I ance got--no to say an ill name, but jist the wind o' no being sae considerate as I micht hae been, there's no sayin' but twa or three micht gang by my door, and across to Jamie Mitchell's yonner." "Do ye what's richt, Robert Bruce, and sae defy fowk and fairy." "Na, na, that winna _aye_ work.

A body maun tak' care o' their ain, else wha's to do't ?" "Weel," rejoined Andrew with a smile, for he understood Bruce well enough, although he pretended to have mistaken his meaning--"weel, gin the bairnie falls to you, nae doot ye maun take chairge o' her." "I dinna mean Jeames Anderson's bairns--I mean my ain bairns." "Robert, whatever way ye decide, I houp it may be sic a deceesion as will admit o' yer castin' yer care upo' _Him_." "I ken a' aboot that, Andrew.

But my opeenion upo' that text is jist this--that ilka vessel has to haud the fill o' 't, and what rins ower may be committed to Him, for ye can haud it no langer.

Them that winna tak tent (care) 'll tak scathe.

It's a sweer (lazy) thochtless way to gang to the Almichty wi' ilka fash.