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The next little town I came to, and the very first house that I entered, the wife cried out, ‘Plague on your snout, sir, ye filthy blackguard chapman-like b———h it ye are, the last time ye came here ye gart our Sandy burn the gude bane kame it I gid a saxpence for in Fa’kirk, ay did ye, ay, sae did ye een, and said ye wad gie him a muckle clear button to do it.’ Me, said I, I never had ado with you a’ the days of my life, and do not say that Sandy is mine. A wae worth the body, am I saying ye had ado wi’ me, I wadna hae ado wi’ the like o’ you, nor I am sure wi' them I never saw. But what about the button and the bane kame, goodwife? Sannock is na this the man? Ay is’t, cried the boy, gie me my button, for I burnt the kame, and she paid me for’t. Gae awa, sir, said I, your mother and you are but mocking me. It was either you or ane like you, or some other body. O goodwife, I mind who it is now; ’twas just ane like me, when ye see the tane ye see the tither; they ca’ him Jock Jimbither. A wae worth him, quoth the wife, if I dinna thrapple him for my gude bane kame. Now, said I, goodwife, be good, bridle your passion, and buy a bane kame and coloured napkin, I’ll gie you a whaukin’ penny-worth, will gar you sing in your bed, if I should sell you the tae half and gift you the tither, and gar you pay for every inch o’t sweetly or a’ be done. Hech,
