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 wi’ the auld ruddoch; ay, ye’re no blate, to say 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. A what want ye now? Is our brose ready yet?

Mith. Ay, brose! black brose indeed for thee, my bairn; here’s Marion Mushet saying ye hae gotten her dochter wi’ bairn.

Jck. Me, mither! I ne’er lay in a bed wi’ her dochter a’ my days; it’ll be the young laird’s, for I saw him kiss her at the Lammas-fair, an lat glam at her nonsense.

Mith. Ay, ay, my man Johnny, that’s the way she has gotten her belly full o’ bairns, ’tis no you, nor the like o’ you, poor innocent lad, that gets bystart weans; ’tis a wheen rambling o’erfull lowns, ilkane o’ them loups on anither, an gies the like i’ you the wyte o’t.

Mar. Ye may say what ye like about it, ’tis easy to ca' a court whar there's nae body to say again; but I’ll ye a' ken about it, an that is what she tell’t me, and you guidwife tell’t me some o’t yourself; an gin ye hadna brought in Maggy wi’ her muckle tocher atween the taw, your Jockie an my Jenny had a been man an wife the day.

Jock. I wat well that’s true?

Mith. Ye filthy dog that ye are, are ye gaun to confess wi’ a bystart, an it no yours;