get me a pint o’ drams in the muckle bottle, an’ set it in the hole in the backside o' my bed.
Jock.] A deed mither ye’re in the right o’t, for ye want to be weel warm’d within, to chase the cauld wind an frosty water out at your backside.
Then awa he rins to draff Megs at the kirk town, an brings a bottle in every hand, out wi’ the cork an gies her ane in o’er, she sets it to her gab an swattles up a mutchkin at a waught, which was like to wirry her, till she fell a rifting an roaring like an auld blunderbush.
Mit.] Hech hey co’ she, but that maks an alteration an wears awa the wind.
Wi’ that her head fell to the cod an she fought awa like a very saint or ony sinner.
Jock.] O! Maggy, Maggy, my mither’s lost her breath, (she’ll no live lang without it,) I doubt she be dead already, an’ nae body saw her but ye an’ I, ourselves twa; an she had been fair o’er seen it maks-na, I’ll no haud this a fair strae death indeed, fy Maggy cry in a’ the neighbours to see her die, although she be dead. O an she wad but shake her fit, or wag her muckle tae, it wad ay be some satisfaction; but in came the neighbours in a hush, dinging ither down in the door.
Jock.] Come awa sirs, for my mither’s as dead as a mauk, good be thanket for’t, but I’d rather it had a been the black mare, or the muckle rigget cow, for weel I wat I’ll e’en miss her, for she was a bra’ spinner o’tow; and cou’d a cardet to twa muckle wheels, she had nae faut but ane, an that was her tongue, but she’ll speak nae mair, fy gets a deal or a barn door to straught her on, for ay when she was cauld she was unco kankort an ill to cutch, but I’se hae her yerded or Wednesday een.
Come, come, says Maggy, we maun hae her drest.
Jock.] What dous the fool mean? wad ye dress a dead woman! she’ll never gang to kirk nor market a’ her days again.
