HOWIE. Just a workin' man, sir — a Glasgow mechanic, and nae mair. Judgin' frae my ain experience — a gey wide ane amang a' sorts o' lassies — it's no without a spice o' netur.
NORTH. It is admirable — equal to anything of the kind in Burns. Yet it and others — some pieces too, of no little merit, of a serious character — were written, Sandy has told us, not during hours of leisure, but amidst the bustle and turmoil, the din of the clanking steam-engine, and the deafening rattle of machinery, while the operation of committing them to paper was generally performed amidst the squalling and clamour of children around the hearth, now in the pet of childish quarrel, and now surrounded with mirth, and fun, and frolic. And Sandy is a sober and industrious man. So too, is my ingenious friend Dugald Moore of Glasgow, whose poems — both volumes — are full of uncommon power — and frequently exhibit touches of true genius.
SHEPHERD. And, therefore, nae members, either o' them, o' ony Temperance Society.
MULLION. Temparance Society! There is the topmost pitch of human folly. A few folk with squeamish stomachs, to whom there would be a headache in a thimblefull.