Compelled to google it. From The Life of John Duncan:
To save a bawbee, he was ready not only to scrimp his men, but to pinch himself to a degree incredible even in the annals of parsimony. He used to serve his ploughmen with the sourest of buttermilk, and when it was so far gone as to be refused by them with no muttered curses, his like-spirited housekeeper would come to her master, saying, "We'll better gae that buttermilk to the weyvers, for our men winna sup it." "Just sac," replied the churl; "and if they winna tak' it, I'll sup it mysal'!" continued "the nasty greedy glide," [The gled, an old Anglo-Saxon word for the kite.]