Jockey. Hey, Maggy, wiltu stay and tak kent folks hame wi’ ye the night.
Maggy. Wiltu come awa’ then Johnnie, I fain wad be hame or the kie come in; our mickle Riggy is sic a rummeling royte she rins aye thro’ the byre, and sticks a’ the bits of couties; my mither isna able to haud her up to her ain stake.
Jock. Hute, we’ll be hame in braw time woman. And how’s a’ your folks at hame?
Mag. Indeed I canna weel tell you man; our gude-man is a’ gane wi’ the gout; my mither is very frail, my father he’s aye wandering about, and widdling amang the beasts.
Jock. But dear, Maggy, they tell me we’re gaun to get a wedding of thee and Andrew Merrymouth, the Laird’s young gardener.
Mag. Na, na, he maun hae a brawer lass to be his wife than the like of me; but auld Tammy Tailtree was seeking me; my father wad a hane me to tak him, but my mither wadna let me, there was a debate about it, my guidame wad a sticket my mither wi’ the grape, if my father hadna chanced to founder her wi’ the beetle.
Jock. Hech, woman, I think your father was a fool for fashing wi’ him, auld slavery dufe, he wants naething of a cow but the clutes; your guidame may tak him hersel, twa auld tottering stumps, the taen may sair the tither fu’ weel.
Mag. Hech, man! I wad a tane thee or ony body to hane them greed again; my father bled my guidame’s nose, and my guidame brak my mither’s thumb, the neighbours came rinning in, but I had the luck to haud my father’s hands, till yence my guidame plotted him wi’ the broe that was to mak our brose.
Jock. Dear Maggy, I hae something to tell you, and ye wadna be angry at it.
Mag. O Johnny, there’s my hand I’se no be angry at it, be what it will.