Jockey. Dear Maggy, I hae something to tell you an ye wadna be angry at it?
Maggy. O Johnny, there’s my hand I’se no be angry at it, be what it will.
[Shakes hands for fear of an outcast.][1]
Jockey. Indeed Maggy the fouk of your town and the fouk of our town, says, we are gawn to be married: What say’st thou?
Maggy. I wish we ne’er do war, O Johny, I dream’d o’ you lang syne, an I liket you ay after that.
Jockey. O Maggy! Maggy! dost thou mind since I came to your mither’s bill, wi’ my mither’s cow, ye ken she wadna stand, and ye helped me to haud her; ay after that they scorned me that I wad be married on a you.
Maggy. It’s very true man, it’ll be an odd thing an it be; but it’s no fa’ back at my door, I assure ye.
Jockey. Nor at mine, but my mither bad me kiss ye.
Maggy. Indeed sall ye Johny, thou’s no want twa kisses man, ane on every side o’ the mouth, man.
Jockey. Ha! ha! Maggy, I’ll hae a merry night o’ kissing you shortly.