But you cannot have more of a sow than a grumph.
It's shame my father's knife should ever slash a haggis for the
like of him."
Thus saying, (but saying it in Gaelic), Robin drove on his
cattle, and waved farewell to all behind him. He was in the
greater haste, because he expected to join at Falkirk a comrade
and brother in profession, with whom he proposed to travel in
company.
Robin Oig's chosen friend was a young Englishman, Harry Wakefield
by name, well known at every northern market, and in his way as
much famed and honoured as our Highland driver of bullocks. He
was nearly six feet high, gallantly formed to keep the rounds at
Smithfield, or maintain the ring at a wrestling match; and
although he might have been overmatched, perhaps, among the
regular professors of the Fancy, yet, as a yokel or rustic, or a
chance customer, he was able to give a bellyful to any amateur of
the pugilistic art. Doncaster races saw him in his glory,
betting his guinea, and generally successfully; nor was there a
main fought in Yorkshire, the feeders being persons of celebrity,
at which he was not to be seen if business permitted.
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