Mess John stares at her, not knowing the place but some of the elders did; then said he, O Janet, but the de’il was busy with you at that time.
Jan. A by my fegs stir, that’s a great lie ye’re telling now, for the de’il wasna thereabout, it I saw, nor nae body else, to bid us do either ae thing or anither, we loo’d ither unco’ weel for a lang time before that, and syne we tell’d ither, and agreed to marry ither like ither honest fouk, than mightna we learn to do the thing married fouk does, without the de’il helping us.
Whisht, whisht, cried they, you should be scurged, fause loon quean it thou is, ye’re speaking nonsense.
Jan. The deil’s i’ the carles, for you and your minister is liars, when ye say it de de’il was helping Sandy and me to get the bairn.
Come, come, say they, pay down the kirk-dues, and come back to the stool the morn, four pound, and a groat to the bell-man.
Jan. The auld thief speed the dearth o’t stir, for less might sair you and your bell-man baith, O but this be a hard warld indeed, when poor honest fouk maun pay for making use o’ their ain a—, ye misca’ ay the poor de’il a-hint his back, and gie him the wyte o’ a’ de ill it’s done in the kintry, bastard barns and every thing, and if it be sae as ye say, ye may thank de de’il for that gude four pund and de groat I hae gi’en you, that gars your pots boil brown, and get jockey-coats, and purl-handed sarks and white-headed staves, when my father’s pot wallops up rough bear and blue water.
The woman’s mad, said they, for this money is a’ given to the poor of the parish.
Jan. The poor of the parish, said she, and that’s the way o’t, a fint hate ye gie them but wee pickles o’ pease-meal, didna I see’t in their pocks, and the minister’s wife gie’s naething ava to unco beggars, but bids them gang hame to their ain parish, and yet ye’ll tak de purse frae poor fouks, for naething but playing the loun awee or they be married, and syne cocks them up to be looked on and laught at by every body, a de’il speed you and your justice stir; hute, tute, ye are a coming on me like a wheen colly dogs, hunting awa’ a poor ragget chapman frae the door, and out she comes cursing and greeting: Sandy’s next called upon, and in he goes.
Min. Now Saunders, you maun tell us how this child was gotten?
San. A wow, Mess John stir, you hae bairns o’ your ain, how did you get them? but yours is a’ laddies, and mine is but a lassie, if you’ll tell me how ye got your laddie, I’ll tell you how I got my lassie, and then we’ll be baith alike good o’ the business.