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Jock. Now fare you weel, Janet; that wane is weel worth the workmanship, I' warant ye—well a wat is't.
Jenny. Guid night wi' you John; but oh, man! thou's broke my fortune. I'll never get mair o' man nor I hae gotten; and dear, dear, have I suffered for what I hae done! and if thou hadst bestowed thyself on o' me, ye see what a bonny bairn time we wad hae haen.
Mith. Thou says it thou's suffer'd sadly for what thou's done; but tho' they wad tak the hide o'er thy een holes, it wadna tak the inclination out o' thee; for thou'll do't again, but it'll no be wi' my bairn I'se warrand thee. And now Johnny, come awa' hame to thy hauff morrow, and use thy freedom as formerly; thou'll hae weans thick and three fauld; I'll mak thee a decoction of cock stanes, lamb stanes, and chicken broe, will gar thee cock thy tail like a mevies, and canter like a Galloway top.
THE Vth AND LAST PART.
Being an account of Jokcye's Mother's Death and Burial-the baptising of his Two Children, and how he mounted the Stool-with an elegant Elegy and Epitaph on that occasion.
As Jockey and his mither came hobbling hame together on the outside o' the auld doil'd beast, his mither's black mare, a waefu' misfortune befel the. Her hinderlets being wickedly wet in John Davie's well that morning, and it being a frosty night, her coats was a frozen round about her, and the hand harn sark played clash between her legs like a wet dishclout, her teeth gied like a rattle bag till about half gate hame; then she was suddenly seized with a rumbling in her muckle bag, what we kintry fouks ca's a rush i'th the guts. Jockey was fash'd helping her aff an helping her on: foul, fat, and dirty was the road, having like half a t—d at every tadder length.
Jock. Deed, mither, I doubt death has something to do wi you, for there s a rumbling in a' your weame like an auld kirning.
Mith. Hout, tout, I canna hear o't, but they'll be nae fear o' me now. I'm safe at my ain door, thanks to thee and the auld beast it brought me. Heat my feet wi' the bannock stane, and lay me in my bed, fling four pair o' blankets and a canno's on me, I'll be well enough, an ance I were better. Swieth, Maggy, gie me a cogfu' o' milk brose, and a plack's worth o' spice in them; nae fear o' an auld wife, as lang as she's loose behin', an can tak meat.
Jock. Ise be't, mither, a e'en fill up the bows o' your bell,
