Mith. Ye silly dog, an he be drown’d to you, how cou’d ye confess sae muckle to maeslie shanket Marion, altho’ she be her mither.
Jock. O mither, mither, say nae mair about it, my ain wand has dung me dourly; sadly have I suffered for that, and ye ken a’ the misery’s com’d o’er our Maggy, my mouth’s the mither o’t, sae ha’d your tongue I tell you now.
Mith. An tell ye me to ha’d my tongue, an ye had a hauden your tongue and your tail, an a done as I bade you, ye hadna hane sae muckle ado the day daft silly dog it thou is.
Jock. Mither, mither, gies nane o’ your mocks nor malice, for tho’ I got the wean, ye hae as muckle the wyte o’t as I Gae seek me out my three new sarks, an Sunday’s shune, an I’se gae whar ne’er man saw my face before, neither wood, water nor wilderness, sall haud me again.
Mith. My braw man Johny, ye mauna do that, stay at hame wi’ me, and set a stout heart till a stay brae, I’se gae to the session wi’ you, gang whan ye like.
Jock. A well mither, I sall do your bidden for ance yet, but whan the minister flytes on me, answer ye him, for I canna speak well again.
Mith. Say nae mair, I hae a pokfu’ o’ perfect petitions to louse an put to him an his elders, and if thou maun gae to their black-stool, it’s no be thy lane sall sit upon’t.
Jock. But mither, whether will I deny the doing o’t or confess the game was at the getting o’t?
Mith. Ay, ay, confess ye did it, but say but ance, and that it was on the terms of marriage, the way that a’ our kintry bystarts is gotten.[11]
Now Jockey being three times summon’d to the session and did not appear, the session insisted for a warrant from the justice of the peace,[12] which was readily granted, more for diversion than justice’ sake, the warrant being given to John King the constable, who went away with Clinkem Bell on Saturday’s morning, and catch’d John just at his breakfast, hauls him awa, ane at ilka oxter like twa butcher dogs hinging at a bull’s beard, his mother followed, driving him up with good counsels, my bra’ man Johny, haud up your head, dinna think shame, for a’ your fauts is but perfect honey, you’re neither a thief, whore nor horse stealer.