The Life of Mansie Wauch. D. M. Moir
Читать онлайн.| Название | The Life of Mansie Wauch |
|---|---|
| Автор произведения | D. M. Moir |
| Жанр | Языкознание |
| Серия | |
| Издательство | Языкознание |
| Год выпуска | 0 |
| isbn | 4057664599247 |
D. M. Moir
The Life of Mansie Wauch
Tailor in Dalkeith, written by himself
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4057664599247
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I.—OUR OLD GRANFATHER.
CHAPTER III.—COMING INTO THE WORLD.
CHAPTER VI.—PUSHING MY FORTUNE.
CHAPTER VIII.—LETTING LODGINGS.
CHAPTER IX.—BENJIE’S CHRISTENING.
CHAPTER X.—THE RESURRECTION MEN.
CHAPTER XI.—TAFFY WITH THE PIGTAIL.
CHAPTER XIII.—THE CHINCOUGH PILGRIMAGE.
CHAPTER XVI.—THE BLOODY CARTRIDGE.
CHAPTER XVII.—MY FIRST AND LAST PLAY.
CHAPTER XVIII.—THE BARLEY-FEVER—AND REBUKE.
CHAPTER XX.—ADVENTURES IN THE SPORTING LINE.
CHAPTER XXI.—ANENT MUNGO GLEN.
CHAPTER XXIII.—CATCHING A TARTAR.
CHAPTER XXIV.—JAMES BATTER AND THE MAID OF DAMASCUS.
CHAPTER XXV.—A PHILISTINE IN THE COAL-HOLE.
CHAPTER XXVI.—BENJIE ON THE CARPET.
CHAPTER XXVII.—“PUGGIE, PUGGIE,”—A STORY WITHOUT A TAIL.
CHAPTER XXVIII.—SERIOUS MUSINGS.
CHAPTER I.—OUR OLD GRANFATHER.
The sun rises bright in France,
And fair sets he;
But he has tint the blithe blink he had
In my ain countree.
Allan Cunningham.
Some of the rich houses and great folk pretend to have histories of the auncientness of their families, which they can count back on their fingers almost to the days of Noah’s ark, and King Fergus the First; but whatever may spunk out after on this point, I am free to confess, with a safe conscience, in the mean time, that it is not in my power to come up within sight of them; having never seen or heard tell of any body in our connexion, further back than auld granfaither, that I mind of when a laddie; and who it behoves to have belonged by birthright to some parish or other; but where-away, gude kens. James Batter mostly blinded both his eyes, looking all last winter for one of our name in the Book of Martyrs, to make us proud of; but his search, I am free to confess, worse than failed—as the only man of the name he could find out was a Sergeant Jacob Wauch, that lost his lug and his left arm, fighting like a Russian Turk against the godly, at the bloody battle of the Pentland Hills.
Auld granfaither died when I was a growing callant, some seven or eight years old; yet I mind him full well; it being a curious thing how early such matters take hold of one’s memory. He was a straught, tall, old man, with a shining bellpow, and reverend white locks hanging down about his haffets; a Roman nose, and two cheeks blooming through the winter of his long age like roses, when, poor body, he was sand-blind with infirmity. In his latter days he was hardly able to crawl about alone; but used to sit resting himself on the truff seat before our door, leaning forward his head on his staff, and finding a kind of pleasure in feeling the beams of God’s own sun beaking on him. A blackbird, that he had tamed, hung above his head in a whand-cage of my father’s making; and he had taken a pride in learning it to whistle two three turns of his own favourite sang, “Oure the water to Charlie.”
I recollect, as well as yesterday,