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dinna I ken as well as ye do wha’s aught an wha gat the wean.
Jock. Ay, but mither, we may deny as we like about it, but I doubt it'ill come to my dorr at the last.
Mith. Ye silly sumph’an senseless fallow, had ye been knuckle deep wi’ the nasty drab, ye might a said sae, but ye tell’t me langsyne that ye cou’dna lo’e her, she was sae lazy and lown-like, besides her crookey fit an bow’d legs.
Jock. Ay, but mither, 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 kreeks, and wad gar me do’t, an bade me do’t; an cou’d flesh an blood refuse to do’t? I’m sure, mither, I cou’d ne’er get her wi’ bairn wi’ my breeks on.
Mith. Na, na, poor simple silly lad, the weans no yours, ilka ane loups on o’ anither, an ye'll get the wyte o’ a’ the bystarts that are round about the country.
Up gets Maggy wi’ a roar, an rives her hair, and cries, O her back, her belly, an baith her sides; the weed an gut gaes 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 tinker, or a followed the sodgers, as mony a honest man's dochter has done, an liv’d a better life than I do.
