Jenny answers out o’ the bed. A shame fa your fashions ye hae nae muckle to keep whan ye tell how it was gotten, or what was at the getting o’t.
Jock. A shame fa yoursel Jenny, for I hae gotten my part o’ the shame else, an’ gin ye hadna tell’d first there wad nane kend, for nae body saw us but John Gammel’s auld colly an’ he’s no a sufficient witness.
Mar. Now guidwife amang a’ your tales ye hae tell’d me, how is this wean to be maintain’d?
Moth. Ill chance on your auld black mouth Marrion, did I not send you my guid sprittled hen, a pund of butter and a sixpence, forby a libby o’ groats an’ a furlat o’ meal; mak her a guid cogfu’ o’ brose, an’ put a knoist o’ butter in them, to fill up the hole whar the lown came out, an’ I’ll send mair or that be done.
Mar. An it be na better nor the last ye may een keep it to your sell; your groat meal, and gray meal, sand dust and seeds, course enough to feed cocks an’ hens, besides a woman in her condition.
Moth. A foul be your gabs, ye’re a sae gash o’ your gabbies; a whine fools that stives up your gutses wi’ guid meat, to gar the worms turn wanton and wallop in your wames; feed yourselves as I do, wi’ hacket kail brose, made o’ groat meal, an’ gray meal, sand, seeds, dust an’ weak shilling, ony thing is good enough to fill the guts an’ make a t—d of.
Jock. Na, na, mither an’ the wean wad suck our Maggy, I sud take it hame in my oxter.
Moth. O ye fool, Maggy’s milk is a mould salt and sapless lang syne; but I trow she wad keb at it, as the black ew did at the white ews lamb the last year, sae speak nae mair o’ Maggy’s milk, no to compare a cat to a creature, the yeal cats is never kind to kitlens, an’ the maiden’s bairns is a’ unco weel bred.
Jock. Na, na, ye’re a’ mistane mither, Maggy has milk yet for every pap she has is like a burn pig, I’se warrand ye they’ll haud pints the piece.