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part o' the shame else; an gin ye hadna teld first there wad nane kend, for nae body saw us but John Gammel's auld colly, and he's no a sufficient witness.
Mar. Now, good-wife, amang a' the tales ye hae tell'd me, how is this wane to be maintained?
Mith. Ill chance on your auld black mouth, Marion, did not I send you my guid sprittled hen, a pound o' butter and sixpence, forby a lippy o' groats, and a furlat o' meal: mak her a good cogfu' o' brose, and put a knoist o' butter in them, to fill up the hole whar the lown came out, and I'll send meal or that be done.
Mar. An it be na better than the last, ye may een keep it to yoursel; your groat meal, and gray meal, sand, dust and seeds, coarse enough to feed cocks and hens, besides a woman in her condition.
Mith. A foul be your gabs, ye're a' sae gash o' your gabbies; a wheen fools that stive up your guts wi' good meat, to gar the worms turn wanton and wallop in your wames; feed yoursels as I do, wi' hack t kail, brose made o' groat meal, gray meal, sand, dust and seeds, and weak shilling; ony thing is good enough to fill the guts, and mak a t—d of.
Jock. Na, na, mither, an the wean wad suck our Maggy, I sud tak it hame in my oxter.
Mith. O ye fool! Maggy's milk is a' mould, salt an sapless lang syne; but I trow she wad keb at it, as the black ewe did at the white ewe's lamb the last year; sae speak nae mair o' Maggy's milk. No to compare a cat to a creature, the yell cats is never kind to kittens, an the maiden's bairns is a' unco weel bred.
Jock. Na, na, ye're a mista'en, mither; Maggy has milk yet, for every pap she has is like a burn pig; I'se warrand you they'll haud pints the piece.
Mith. My man Johnny, let them keep the wean that has the wean; we'll never miss a pockfu' o' meal, now an then I wadna hae my bed pist, and blankets rotten for a bow o' the best o't.
Jock. O mither! I canna lea't, I like it sae weel; it has twa bonny glancing een, just like mine in a looking glass. I wonder how I was able to get the like o't. Indeed mither I think mair o't, nor I do o' my grey horse, Maggy, and the four ky.
Mith. My man Johnny, ye're at nae strait about bairns getting; nae needs to gang to London to learn that auld trade; I ken very weel when ane gets warklums right in their hand, nature will teach them how to fa' on t.
