Well, the next thing that happened to Dundon toun was when Wallace came marching up from the south killing the English right and left, he fairly had the right way with vermin, him, and he came and chapped on the Dundon gates, and Dundon looked out and shook at the knees. For they had made pact with the English to kepp the port and give meal and milk in return for remission of all their taxes. So they parleyed till the Scots army lost its patience and battered in the walls, and went in and afore they had finished with that night’s work there was surety of a plenty of a population of patriot Scots for the future, no doubt, though the sour folk that were to call themselves fathers were mostly at the time hiding up their lums. Those were fairly the times, there’s little doubt, when Scotland had its glory bright and untarnished, folk went half-starved, when they weren’t that they were being broken on the wheel or hanged at the tail of a cart of manure for stealing a penny’s worth of meal, or led out and butchered on the dreich Μearns hills, in rain and the di[r]ty on-ding of sleet, white pelting, for the sake of Scotland and god and the wealth to fill up the gentry’s pouches.

But trade was coming into the burgh from far and near across the North Sea, from Bergen, brought by the Northmen loons that had taen to carrying packs, not swords, as handless near with the one as the other, they couldn’t cope with the Dundon folk, holy and solemn with great crude hands, they would dig in a pack, fell eident like, and get the packman to coup out his wares, and look at them all and walk round about and stare at the sky and scratch their heads and call the wife to bring them a drink (the Northman licking his dried up lips, the tink, as though he needed a drink); and syne’s they’d say How much for the pock? and the Northman would say a half-angel, maybe; and at that the Dundon childe would give a groan and argue it out the lave of the day till the birds were heard singing bonnily outbye on the heaps of sharn at each door; and the Northman childe would be dead for sleep and sell the thing for a shilling, Scots, and take to his heels and across the sea and swear that what ever else he might do, try out a sail to Greenland or Iceland, or kill a bear with his naked nieves, he’d be hanged with a tarry length of tow afore he went trading down to Dundon.

They’d tell those coarse stories about their own selves, the Dundon folk, caller, clear-eyed, grey folk with a twinkle deep in Pict eyes, and think no shame. They went on with building their ship yards at last, fine boats, long sailors to the waters of the Baltic, where the beat of the sea on long, long swaps [?swaths] dreich under German suns, fine boats, folk bought them from far and near. And …