Mar. Be angry, or be well pleased, I’ll say’t in a your faces, an I’ll ca you before your betters about it or lang gae.
John enters. An what want ye now, is our brose ready yet?
Mith. Ay brose, black brose indeed for thee, my bairn; here Marion Mushet saying ye hae gotten her dochter wi’ bairn.
Jock. Me mither? I ne’er lay in a bed wi’ her dochter a my days, it’ll be the young lairds, for a saw him kiss her at the Lammas fair, an let glam at her nonsense.
Mith. Ay, ay, my man Johny, that’s the way she has gotten her belly fu’ o’ bairns; it’s no you nor the like o’ you, poor innocent lad, that gets bystart weans: a wheen filthy lowns, every ane loups on anither, and gies you the wyte o’ a’.
Mar. You may say what you like about it, it’s easy to ca’ a court whar there’s nae body to say again, but I’ll tell you a I ken about it, and that is what she tell’t me, and you guidwife telt me some o’t yoursel; an gin you hadna brought in Maggy wi’ her muckle tocher atween the twa, your Jockey and my Jenny had a been man and wife the day.
Jock. I wat weel that’s true.
Mith. Ye filthy dog at ye are, are ye gaun to confess wi’ a bystart; and it no yours: dinna I ken as well as she do wha’s aught it?
Jock. Ay but mither, we may deny as we like about it, but I doubt it come to my door at last.
Mith. Ye silly sumff and senseless fallow, had ye been knuckle deep wi’ the dirty drab, ye might a said sae, but ye telt me lang syne that ye cou’d na lo’e her, she was so lazy and lown like; besides her crooket fit and bow’d legs.