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Mith. Our John the father o't! haud, there's enough said, lying lown! I trow our John was ne'er guilty o' sic a sinfu' action; daft woman! I trow it'll be but wind that hoves up the lassie's weam; she'll hae drunken some drink, like raw sowens or rotten milk that makes her sae.
Mar. A wae be to him an his actions haith, he's the father o't, fornicator dog that he is; he's ruin'd me an my bairn; I bore her and brought her up honestly, till she come till you; her father died and left me wi' four o' them; there wasna ane o' them cou'd pit on anither's claes, or tak a louse aff ither.
Mith. I bid you haud your tongue, an no even your bystart to my bairn, for he'll ne'er tak wi't: he, poor silly lad, he wad ne'er look at a lass, be's to lay her down. Fy Maggy. Crying o' John, and let's ratify't wi' the auld rudouch; ay, ye're no blate for saying sae.
Mar. Be angry, or be well pleased, I'll say't in a' your faces, an I'll ca' you before your betters about it or lang gae.
John enters. And what wat ye now, is our brose ready yet.
Mith. Ay brose, black brose indeed for thee my bairn; here Marion Mushet saying ye hae gotten her dochter wi' bairn.
Jock. Me mither? I ne'er lay in a bed wi' her dochter a' my days; it'll be the young laird's, for saw him kiss her at the lammas fair, and let glam at her nonsense.
Mith. Ay, ay, my man Jonnny, that's the way she has gotten her belly fu' o' bairns; its no you, nor the like o you, poor innocent lad, that gets bystart weans; a wheen filthy louns, every ane loups on anither, and gies you the wite of a'.
Mar. You may say what you like about it, (it's easy to ca' a court whar nae body's to say again) but I'll tell you a' I ken about it, and that is what she teld me, and you good wife tell mc some o't yoursel: an gin ye hadna brought in Maggy wi' her muckle tocher atween the twa, your Jockie and my Jennie had a been man an wife the day.
Jock. I wat well that's true.
Mith. Ye silly sumph and senseless fellow, had yes been muckle deep i' the dirty drab, ye might a said sae, but ye tell'd me lang syne that ye could na lo'e her, she was so lazy and loun like; besides her crooked fit and bow'd legs.
Jock. Ay but mither, do you mind since ye sent me to gie
