Mith. I bid you haud your tongue, and no even your bystarts to my bairn, for he’ll ne’er tak wi’t: he, poor silly lad, he wad ne’er look to a lass, be’s to lay her down. Fy, Maggy, cry in John and let’s ratify’t wi’ the auld ruddoch aye, ye’re no blate to say sae.
Mar. Be angry or be well pleased, I’ll say’t in of your faces, and I’ll call you before your betters ere lang gae.
John enters. A what want ye now! our brose ready yet?
Mith. Ay, brose! black brose indeed for thee, my bairn; here’s Marion Mushet saying ye hae gotten her dochter wi’ bairn.
Jock. Me, mither! I never lay in a bed wi’ her dochter a’ my days; it’ll be the young Laird’s for a saw him kiss her at the Lammas-fair and let glaum at her nonsense.
Mith. Ay, ay, my man, Johnny, that’s the way she has gotten her belly full of bairns; ’tis no you, nor the like of you, poor innocent lad, that gets bastard weans; ’tis a wheen rambling o’erfull lowns, ilka ane of them loups on anither, and gies the like of you the wyte o’t.
Mar. Ye may say what you like about it ’tis easy to ca’ a court whar there’s nae body to say again; but I’ll let you ken about it; and that is what she tell’t me, and you gudewife tell’t me some o’t yoursel’; and gin you hadna brought in Maggy wi her muckle tocher atween the twa, your Jocky and my Jenny wad hae been man and wife that day.
Jock. I wat weel that’s true.
Mith. Ye filthy dog that ye are, are ye gaun to confess wi a bystards, and it no yours? Dinna I ken as well as ye do wha’s aught it, and wha got the wean.
Jock. Aye, but mither, we may deny as we like about it, but I doubt it will come to my door at the last.