( 47 )
Jock. Na ſtir, weel awat I'm neither poor nor mean, my mither's fairly yerdet now gude be thanket, an le t a' ſhe had to Maggy an me.
Min. But here ye this John, ye muſt not kiſs any other woman nor your own wife, live juſtly like another honeſt chriſtian, and you'll come to die well.
Jock. A black end on me ſtir, in ever I lay a unlawful leg upon a hiſſie again, an they ſude ly down to me while our Maggy leſts; an for dieng there's nae fear of that, but I'll no get fair play, if ye an a' the aulder fouk in the pariſh be not dead before me, ſo I hae done wi' ye now.
An EPITAPH.
HERE lays the duſt of Joh Bells Mither,
Againſt her will death brought her hither,
Clapt in this hole, hard by his daddy,
Death ſnatch'd her up or ſhe was ready,
Lang might ſhe lived wer't not her wame,
But wha can live beyond their time?
There's none laments her but the Suter,
So here ſhe lies looking about her,
Looking about her! how can that be?
Yes, ſhe ſees her ⟨ſtate⟩ better then we.
