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your Jockey and my Jenny wad hae been man and wife that day.
Jock. I weel a-wat that's true.
Mith. Ye filthy dog that ye are, are ye gaun to confess wi' a bystart, and ⟨it⟩ no yours? Dinna I ken as weel as ye do wha's aught it, and wha got the wean.
Jock. Aye, mither, we may deny as we like about it, but I doubt it will come to my door at the last.
Mith. Ye silly sumph and senseless fellow, had ye been knuckle deep wi' the nasty drab, ye might hae said sae; but ye tell't me langsyne that ye couldna lo'e her, she was sae lazy and lown like, besides her crooked fit and bowed legs.
Jock. Ay, but mither, do ye mind since ye sent me out to gie her the parting kiss at the black hole of the peat-stack.
Mith. Na, na, poor simple lad; the wean's no yours, ilka ane loups on o' anither, and ye'll get the wyte of a the bystarts that are round about the country.
