Jock. Deed mither, I doubt death has something to do wi’ you, for there’s a rumbling in a your wame like an auld wife kirning.
Mith. Hout tout I canna hear o’t, but they’ll be na fear o’ me now, I’m safe at my ain door, thanks to thee an’ the auld beast it brought me; heat my feet wi’ the bannock stane, an’ lay me in my bed, fling four pair o’ blankets an’ a cann’os on me, I’ll be weel enough an’ ance I were better, swieth Maggy gae mak me a cogfu’ o’ milk brose, an’ a placks worth o’ spice in them, nae fear of an auld wife as lang as she’s loose behin, an can tak meat.
Jock. I’se be’t mither, a e’en fill up the boss o’ your belly, you’ll stand to the storm the better, I’se warran ye never die as lang as you can tak your meat.
Ben comes Maggy wi’ the brose; but four soups an’ a slag filled her to the teeth, till she began to bock them back again, and ding awa the dish.
Jock. A mither, mither I dout there’s mair ado wi’ you nor a dish to lick: whan ye refuse guide milk meat, I’m doubtfu’ your mouth be gaun to the mules.
Mith. A dear Johnny am no willin to die if I could do better: but this will be a sair winter, on auld frail fouks, yet an’ I wou’d grow better I might live these twenty years yet, an’ be nae auld wife for a’ that: but alake a day there is e’en mony auld fouk dying this year.
Jock. A deed mither there is fouks dying the year that never died before.
Mith. Dear Johnny wilt thou bring me the doctor he may do me some guide, for an my heart warna sick an’ my head sae sair, I think I may grow better yet.
Jock. A weel mither, I’se bring the doctor, the minister, an’ my uncle.
Mith. Na, na, bring nae ministers to me, his dry cracks ’ll do me but little guid, I dinna want to see his powder’d pow, an’ I in sic an ill condition; get me a pint o’ drams in the muckle bottle, an’ set in the bole in the back side o’ my bed.