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you'd stand the storm better: I'se warran ye never die as lang as ye can tak yer meat.
Ben comes Maggy wi' the brose; but four soups an a flag filled her to the teeth, till she began to bock them back again, an ding away the dish.
Jock. I, mither, mither, I judge there's mair ado wi' you nor a dish to lick: when ye refuse guid milk meat, I'm doubtfu' your mouth be gawn to the muses.
Mith. I, dear Johnny, am no willen to die if I could do better; but this will be a sair wiuter, on auld frail fouks, yet an I wad grow better, I might live this twenty year yet, an be nae auld wife for a' that; but alake a day, there is een mony auld folk dying this year.
Jock. A deed mither there's fouks dying the year that never died before.
Mith. Dear Johnny, wilt thou bring me the doctor? he may do me some gude, for gin my heart warna sick, an my head sae sair, I think I may grow better yet.
Jock. A weel mither, Ise bring the doctor, the minister, the elder, and my uncle.
Mith. Na, na: bring nae ministers to me, his dry cracks 'ill do me little guid. I dinna want to see his pouder'd pow, and I in sic an ill condition; get me a pint o' drams in the mickle bottle, and set it in the hole in the back side o' my bed.
Jock. I deed, mither, ye're in the right o't, for ye want to be weel warmed within, to chase the cauld wind and frosty water out at your backside.
Then awa' he rins to draff Meg's at the Kirktown, and brings a bottle in every hand. Out wi' the cork gaes her ain in o'er, she sets it to her gab and suattles up a mutchkin at a waught, which was like to wirry her, till she fell a rifting and roaring like an auld blunder bush.
Jock. Heck hay, co' she, but that makes an alteration, and wears awa the wind.
Wi' that, her head fell to the cod, an she sought awa' like a very saint or drunken sinner.
Jock. Oh! Maggy, Maggy! my mither's lost her breath, (she'll no live long without it, I dou't she be dead already, and nae body see her but ye and I and ourselves twa; and she had been fair o'erseen it maksna. I'll no haud this a fair strae death, indeed. Fy Maggy, cry in a' the neighbours to see her die, although she be dead. O an she wad shake her fit, or wag her mickle tae, it would aye be some satisfaction. But in came the neighbours in a hush, dinging ither down in the door.
