human
It's wishin' I am that Osman an' his dirty naygurs would come down on us this night, for we're fresh an' hearty, just off the say, burnin' for fame an' glory, ivery mother's son of us, an' fit to cut the black bastes up into mince-meat. Och! but it's thirsty I am!
gpt
If ye spoke less an' thocht mair ye wadna be sae dry, maybe,
human
Hoots, man, let the cratur alane, said Macleod, as he busied himself polishing up some dim parts of his rifle.
gpt
It's no muckle pleesure we're like to hae in this het place. Let the puir thing enjoy his boastin' while he may.
human
Sure an' we're not widout consolation anyhow, retorted the corporal;