The Hinmaist Nicht Wi The Twal

This was the dowie nicht o their life wi the warst forebodins. They had gaithered in here frae the storm that was brewin the wild burstin fury that was swallin i the breists o their foes. Ilk ane had a sair doon-hingin face, an carried the grief o his ain thochts in his looks. There was little sayin, but meikle thinkin. Ane an a kent weel that this was the hinmaist tryst! The Maister had mony things to say the nicht that cudna be said afore. They were a lookin at Him, an wonderin. They kent His hert was fu o something. He had ower muckle to say an no eneuch time to say it in. He was speakin faster than ordnar. He wasna like Himsel. He was cuisten doon; but a spirit o calm ruled. A thrang o things were comin thegither in His mind. He kent that Judas was to betray Him. Nane o the lave had an inklin ot. He was in a swither hoo He was to brak the news to them. There were quarrels anbickerins. He girds a tooel aboot Him. He draps on His knees, an the Maister-Lord begude to wash the disciples feet. Peter winna lat Him; but what cud the knave hae thocht whan He kneelt doon aside him, an dichtit the dubs frae his feet, an dried them wi the tooel? Wwere there ony qualms o conscience, or a turnin awa frae his dark design?

Yer ae drugget coat is baith scrimpy an worn,
An your auld leloc toush is baith dirty an torn;
An roun your lean haffets, ance sonsy and fair,
Hings, tautit an tousie, your bonny broun hair.
They tauld ye that Davie was keen o the drink,
That siller neer baid in his pouches a blink,
An a he got claut o he waret on the dram,
An ae pay neer sert till anither ane cam.
But ye wadna be waret, sae your weird ye maun dree,
Tho aften ye rather wad lie doun an dee;
For o puir drucken Davie yeve nae houp ava,
Sae youre greetin, an toilin, an fechtin awa.

Put doon fowre bools! Dye ca that fowre, Johnny? Ive anither name fort. Weel dune, Tammie! Yell be a man afore yer mither yet. Tak them a up but twa, noo! Did ye no hear fat I said, min? Gin I come owre yere fingers twice Ill learn ye to coont twa some better. Noo, lift ane, an leave ane. Fats yer fingers made o, Bobbie, at ye let a yer bools gae scatterin owre the flure that wye? Your fingers is a thooms, Im dootin. Tak them a up noo! Put doon sax! Coont them ane by ane, min! There! Thats the wye. Confoond ye, canna ye stop when ye come to sax? Tak them a up an well try again. Ane Geordie, Ill hae to gie ye a lickin, I doot. Dye no ken fat ane is? Hoo mony heids hae ye?