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hadna brought in Maggy wi' her muckle tocher atween the twa, your Jockey and my Jenny wad a been man an wife the day.
Jock. I wet well that's true.
Mith. Ye filthy dog at ye are, are ye gaun to confeſs wit'a byſtard, an it no yours dinna I ken as well as you do wha's aught it.
Jock. Ay but mither may deny as we will about it, but I doubt it will come to my door at laſt.
Mith. Ye ſilly ſumph and ſenseleſs fallow had ye been knuckle deep wi' the dirty drab ye might a ſaid ſae, but ye telld me lang ſyne that ye coudna' lo'e her, ſhe was ſo lazy and lown like, beſides her crooket ſit and bow'd legs.
Jock. Ay but, do ye mind ſince ye ſent me out to gie her the parting kiſs, at the black hole o' the peet ſtack, ſhe rave the button frae my breeks, an wad gar me do't, an bade me do't. an cou'd fleſh and blood refuſe to do't? I'm ſure I cou'd ne'er get her wi' bairn an my breeks on.
Mith, Na, na, poor ſimple ſilly lad, the wean's no yours: ilk ane loups on anither, an you get the wyte o' a' the byſtarts round about.
Up get's Maggy wi' a roar, an rives her hair, cries her back, belly, an baith her ſides; ahe weed an gut goes thro' my fleſh like lang needles, nails, or elſhin irons, wae be to the day that e'er I ſaw his face, I had better married a tinkler, or followed the fogers as
