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nrought her up honeſtly, till ſhe came to you: her father died an left me four o' them, there warna ane o' them cou'd put on anithers claes, or tak a louſe aff ither.
Mith. I bid you hand your tongue, an no even your byſtards to my bairn, for he'll never tak wi' it; he, poor ſilly lad he wad ne'er look to a laſs, be as to lay her down, Fy Maggy cry in on John, an lets ratify it wi' the auld roddoch; ay, ye're no blate for ſaying ſae.
Mar. Be angry or well pleaſed, I ll ſay it in a' your face, an I'll ca' you before your betters about it or lang gae.
John enters, an what want ye now, is our broſe ready yet?
Mith. Ay broſe black broſe indeed for thee my bairn; here Marrion Muſhet ſaying ye hae gotten her toughter wi' bairn.
Jock. Me mither! I ne'er lay in a bed wi' her doughter a' my days, it ill be the young, laird, for I ſaw him kiſs her at th Lamas fair an let glam at her nonſenſe.
Mith. Ay, ay, my man Johnny, that's the way ſhe has gotten her belly fat of burns it s no you nor the like of you, poor innocent lad, that gets byſtard weans: a wheen filthy lowns, every ane loups on anither, au gies you the wyte o' it a',
Mar. You may ſay what you like about it, it is caſy to ca' a court whar there is nae body to ſay again, but I'll tell you ⟨and⟩ ken about it, an that is what ſhe tell'd me, and you guidwile tell'd me ſome o't yourſel; and gin ye
