Moth. I true Jock lad their black stool o’ sham repentance ne’er got sic a rattle as I hae gient the day.
Jock. Na, na, mither, a’ the whoremongers that ever set a hip on’t kens na sae muckle about the auld foundation o’t as ye do.
Moth. But Johny man, an’ thou wad start in the morning, the first o’ the daft days,[17] and that’s on Munday, ye an’ I wad go and see the daft jade, Jenny the mither o’t.
Jock. Wi’ a’ my heart mither, but wi maun giet something an’ it were an auld servet, or an auld sark to keep the hips o’t warm, young weans is ay wet about the a—se ye ken.
Moth. A well then Johny, I’se cry to thee whan the hens begin to keckle, and that’s about the break o’ day, an’ wees be ready to tak the road again Torryburn day light, whan weel ken a turd by a stane.
Up gets auld Maggy, Jocks mither in the morning, puts on the kettle, and maks her Yool sowens, the meikle pot hung on the fire a’ night wi’ the cheek of an auld cows head, skims aff the fat an’ mak’s a great cog o’ brose, then pours on a chappen o’ clean creish like oil, which made a brave sappy breakfast for Jockey and his mither, and Maggy got the cog to scart.
The brose being done and a’ thing ready, he halters the black mare, lays on the sunks and a covering, fine furniture for a country wife.[18]
Jockey mounts, and his mother behind him, trots awa, till coming down the brae abune John Davie’s well; the auld beast being unfiery o’ the feet, she fundred before, the girth and curple brake, Jockey tumbled o’er her lugs, and his mother out o’er him in the well wi’ a slung.
Jock. Ay, ay, mither, tho’ I fell ye needna faun abune me, an’ gin ye had lyne whar ye lighted first, ye wadna tumbl’d into the well; its an unco thing that a body canna get a fa’ but ye maun fa’ abune them: auld ruddoch it thou is, thou might a hauden better by the rumple, an’ ye wadna a bruised a my back wi’ your auld hard banes, nor a wat a’ yoursel say, and see how ye hae drummel’d a John Davie’s well.
Moth. Hech quo she, I wonder gin I be kill’d, thou always was wont to get the word of a good rider, baith upon hussies and horses, an’ this be thy management thou’s little worth; fel’d the auld beans it bore thee! sic a bath as I hae gotten to my Yool, thou coudna gien me a war bed nor a water hole in a cauld frosty morning: wae be to thee an’ that ill gotten gett o’ thine, O! let never better bounty be gotten wi’ bystarts getting, an’ this is so much for the fruits o’ fornication, a war stance nor the black-stool yet.