Jock. A black end on a me stir, in ever I lay an unlawfu leg upon hissie again an they sude lie down to me while our Maggy lests; and for dying there’s nae fear o’ that, but I’ll no get fair play if ye an’ a’ the aulder fouk in the parish be not dead before me, so I hae done wi’ ye now.
An EPITAPH.
Here lies the dust of John Bell’s Mither,
Against her will, death’s brought her hither;
Clapt in this hole, hard by his dady,
Death snatch’t her up, or she was ready;
Lang might she liv’d wer’t not her wame,
But wha can live beyond their time?
There’s none laments her but the Suter,