been nine months in a haggis, a second edition of crook backed Richard, an old English King, that was born with teeth to bite a’ around about him, and yet the wight gaed mad to be married.
John’s mither told him the road where to go, and what to say, and accordingly he sets out wi’ his Sunday’s coat on, and a’ his braws, and a pair of new pillonian breeks o’ his mither’s making. In he comes and tells his errand before he would sit down, says good day to you, goodman, what ⟨are⟩ you a’ doing here? I am wanting ⟨a⟩ wife, an’ ye’re a flesher, and has a gude ⟨sorting⟩ aside you, my mither says ye ⟨can⟩ sair me or ony body like me, what say ye till’t, goodman? How mony douchters hae ye? Are they a’ married yet? I fain wad tak a look o’ some o’ them gin ye like.
A wow, said the goodwife, come in by, honest lad, and rest ye, an ye be a wooer sit down and gie’s a snuff— A deed, goodwife, I hae nae mills but my mither’s, and it’s at hame.— Whare win ye, I’se no ken ye? I wat, quoth
