together, we sall see thy bastart an it's mither or we gae hame.
Jock. Wi' a' my heart, mither, but yonder the house an the hen's on't, the lum's reeking rairly, but little ken they wha's coming.
At length they came to Jenny's mither's door;
In goes his mither, and in goes his mare?
Himself follows after, cries, How's a' here?
Mith. Hech, is that poor body in her bed yet?
Her mither answers. Well I wat she's in her bed, an cauld an comfortless is her lying; bystarts getting is just like lent gear, seldom or never weel paid back again; but my poor lassie coudna done war nor she's done, O! gin she had yielded her body to some bit herd laddie, he wad a seen her lang or now.
Mith. A dear Marrion, what wad ye be at! Do ye think that our John wha has a wife o' his ain, could come an wait on her as she were a dame o' honour, or yet an honest man's wife, poor silly lown it she is, an he had thought on what he was com'd o' he wad ne'er a offer'd benevolence to the like o' her.
Mar. An ye had been as great an instrogator against making her double ribbet, as ye're now against doing her justice, for the filthy jimcrack he's gi'en her, ye wadna need to ca' her silly lown the day, an him an honest man; but the ne'er an honest man wad a hoddl'd sae lang en ae poor hissie aud then gane awa' and married anither for the love o' a pickle auld clouts, an twa three pockfu's o' tow: an she is a silly lown indeed that lute him or ony rattle-scull else shake their tail sae lang upon her, without his faith, an his troth an his fist before the minister.
Mith. A cauld be your cast kimmer, do ye think it your dadling dochter's a match fit for my son John: I think less may fair, her father was but a poor cotter carle, an our John's father was a farmer, an altho' they hae faun foul o'ither, I think nae fairly o't; 'tis but a trick o'youth, an the course o'
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