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meal, and duſt and feeds, courſe enough to feed cocks an hens beſides a woman in her condition.
Mith. A foul be your gabs, ye'er a ſae gaſh o' your gabbies; a wheen fools that ſtuffs up your gutſes wi' hacket kail broſe made o' groat meal and gray meal, ſands ſeeds duſt an weak ſhilling, ony thing is good enough to fill the guts, an make t---ds of.
Jock. Na, na, mither as the wean wad ſuck our Maggy, I ſud tak it hame in my oxter,
Mith. O ye fool, Maggy's milk is a mould, ſalt an ſapleſs lang ſyne; but I true ſhe wad neb at it as the black ewe did at the white ewes lamb the laſt year, ſae ſpeak nae mair o' maggy's milk no to compare a cat to a creature, the yeal cats is never kind to kittlens, an the maidens bairns is unco weel bred.
Jock. Na, na, ye'er a' miſtane mither, Maggy has milk yet, for every pap ſhe has is like a pint pig, I'ſe warrant they'll haud pints the piece.
Mith. My man Johnny let them keep the wean that has the wean, weel never miſs a pockfu' o' meal now an than I wadna hae my bed piſht, an my blankets rotten for a bow of the beſt o't,
Jock. O mither! I canna leav t I like it ſae weel, it has twa bonny glancing een, juſt like mine in a kikan glaſs, I wonder how I was able to get the like o't, indeed mither I think mair o't, nor of my grey horſe, Maggy an the four Kу.
Mith. My man Johnny ye're at nae ſtrait about bairns getting, nane needs gang to London
