"O, Cuddie, man, lathi wad I be they suld hurt ye," said old Mause, divided grievously between the safety of her son's soul and that of his body; "but mind, my bonny bairn, ye hae battled for the faith, and dinna let the dread o' losing creature-comforts withdraw ye rae the gude fight."
"Hout tout, mother," replied Cuddie, "I hae fought e'en ower muckle already, and, to speak plain, I'm wearied of the trade. I hae swaggered wi' a thae arms, and musquets, and pistols, buff-coats, and bandaliers, lang eneugh, and I like the pleugh-paidle a hantle better. I ken naething suld gar a man fight, (that's' to say, when he's no angry,) by and out-taken the dread o' being hanged, or killed if he turns back."
"But, my dear Caddie," continued the persevering Mause, "your bridal garment—Oh, hinny, dinna sully the marriage garment!"
"Awa', awa', mother," replied Cuddie; "dinna ye see the folks waiting for me?—
