wi't, an'
nae mistak'.

But, eh, I enjoyed the Burns Club concert! Sandy an' me was doon at
the hall on the back o' seven o'clock, an' we got set doon at the end
o' ane o' the farrest-forrit sixpenny seats, an' got a lean on the back
o' ane o' the shilliny anes. We was gey gled we gaed doon early, for
the hall was foo juist in a clap; an' gin aucht o'clock, Sandy tells
me, they were offerin' half-a-croon to get their lug to the keyhole.
It was an awfu' crush.

There was a gey pompis-like carlie cam' an' tried to birz Sandy an' me
up the seat; but Sandy sune made a job o' him.

"Have you a ticket?" says Sandy.

"Ay, have I," says the carlie, curlin' up his lips gey snappish-like;
"I have a three-shillin' ticket."

"Ay, weel, awa' oot o' this," says Sandy. "This is the sikey seats,
an' we dinna want ony o' you chappies poachin' amon' his lads. If
you've only a three-shilliny ticket, you'll awa' oot o' this, gey
smert," says Sandy; an' a lot o' the fowk backit him up, an' faigs,
mind ye, the carlie had to crawl awa' forrit again, whaur he cam' frae.
The cheek o' the cratur! Thocht, mind ye, he wud get crushed in amon'
his sikey fowk wi' his three-shilliny ticket!

Whenever the singin' began ye wudda heard a preen fa'. "There was a
lad was born in Kyle," juist nearhand garred Sandy jump aff his seat.
He cud hardly keep his feet still, an' he noddit his heid frae side to
side, an' leuch, like's he was some noo-married king drivin' awa' throo
the streets o' London till his honeymune. Syne at "My luve she's like
a reed, reed rose," he smakit his lips, an' turned his een up to the
ruif, an' lookit to me twa-three times like's he was genna tak' a dwam
o' some kind. That used to be a favourite sang o' Pecker Donnit's when
he precentit up at Dimbarrow. Eh, mony's the time I've heard him at
it. Ye'll mind fine o' the Peeker? He bade ower i' yon cottar hoose,
wast a bittie frae the Whin Inn. He had twa dochters, ye'll mind, an'
a he-cat that killed whitterits wi' a blind e'e. Eh, ay; that's mony a
lang day syne! But I'm awa' frae my story.

I cudna tell ye which o' the bits I likeit best. I juist sat nearhand
a' nicht fairly entranced. I thocht yon twa kimmers that sang "The
Banks an' Braes o' Bonnie Boon" did awfu' pritty. Raley, my hert was
i' my moo twa-three times when they were at the bitties whaur they sang
laich, juist like the sooch-soochin' o' the hairst wind i' the
forenicht amon' the stocks. Sa