Mith. Deed Maggy ye’ll no be ill youket wi’ him, he’s a gay we’ll gawn fallow, right spruch, amaist like an ill-far’d gentleman. Hey guidman, do ye hear that our Maggy is gawn to be married an the muck were out.
Father. Na, na, I’ll no allow that until the peats be cussen and hurl’d.
Mag. O father it’s dangerous to delay the like o’ that, I like him, an he likes me, it’s best to strike the iron whan it’s het.
Fath. An wha is she gawn to get guidwife?
Mith. An wha think ye guidman?
Fath. A what wat I herie, an she please hersel, am pleas’d already.
Mith. Indeed she’s gawn to get Johny Bell, as cliver a little fallow, as in a the barronry where he bides.
Fath. A well, a well herie, she’s yours as well as mine, gie her to wha ye please.
Mith. A well Maggy, I’se hae a’ things ready, an I’ll hae thee married or this month be done.
Mag. Thanks to ye Mither, mony a good turn ye done me, an this will be the best, I think.