but it's no the way o' ither honest fouk: see what the miuister will say to it.
Mit. The minister is but a mortal man, an there's defections in his members as well as mine.
Mag. Ay, but fouk shou'd ay strive to mortify their members.
Mith. An is that your Whigry? Will you or ony body else, wi' your mortifying o' your members, prevent what's to come to pass? I wish I saw the minister an his elders, but I'se gae him scripture for a' he's done yet; tell na me about the mortifying o' members, gin he hae gotten a bystart, let her an him feed it between them, an they su'd gie't soup about: but she maun keep it the first quarter, au be that time muckle black lady 'ill be caust, we sall sell the cauf an foster the wean on the cow's milk: that's a better mense for a faut, than a' your mortifying o' members, an a' your repenting stools! a wheen Papish rites an rotten ceremonies, fashing fouks wi' sack-gowns an buttock-mails, an I dinna keu what, but bide you yet till I see the minister.
PART III.
NOW Jockey an his mither went into the little byre, and held a private meeting, nane present but auld Bruckie, an the twa brutes the bits a couties.
Mit. Ye silly dog, an be drown'd to you, how cou'd ye confess sae meikle to maislie shanket Marion, altho' she be her mither.
Jock. O mither! mither! sae nae mair about it, my ain wand has dung me dourly: sadly have I suffer'd for that, and ye ken a' the misery's com'd o'er our Maggy, my mouth's the mither o't, sae had your tongue I tell ye now.
Mit. An tell ye me to ha'd my tongue, an ye had a handen your tongue and your tail, an a done as I bade you, ye hadna hane sae muckle ado the day, daft silly dog is thou is.
