Poor Rab Reid, the fiddler, took a sudden blast; same said he was maw-turned wi the fa’, for he bocked up a’ the barley, and then gar’d the ale gae like a rainbow frae him, as brown as wort-brose. The hurley-burly being ended, and naething but fair words and shaking of hands, which was a sure sign of an agreement, they began to cow their cutted lugs, and wash their sairs, a’ but Jockey’s mither, who cried out. A black end to you and your wedding baith, for I hae gotten a hunder holes dung in my arse wi’ the round heckle teeth. Jockey answers, A e’en haud you wi’ them then, mither, ye will e’en be the better sair’d. Up gets auld Rabby, and auld Sandy, the souter of Seggyhole, and put every thing in order; they prapet up the bed wi’ a rake, and rippling kame; the stoops being broken, they made a solid foundation of peats, laid on the caff bed and bowsters, and Jockey and Maggy were bedet the second time. Jockey not being used to lie wi’ a naked woman, except heads and thraws wi’ his mither, gets his twa hands about the bride’s neck, and his hough out-o’er her hurdies, saying, I ne’er kist wife nor lass naked before, and for fainness I’ll bite you, &c. Naething mair remarkable happened till about half a year and four oukes thereafter, when in comes Marion Mushet, rinning barefitted and barelegged, wi’ bleart cheeks and a watery nose, cursing and banning greeting and flyting. (Marion enters, crying,) And whar’s John? Mith. Indeed he’s out in the yard pouing kail runts. Mar. A black end on him and his runts baith, for he’s ruined me and my bairn. Mith. Ruined you! it canna be; he never did you ill, nor said you ill, by night nor by day, what gars you say that? Mar. O woman! our Jenny is a rowing like a pack of woo; indeed she’s wi’ quick bairn, and your John is the father o’t. Mith. Our John the father o’t! haud, there’s enough said, lieing lown? I trow our John was ne’er guilty of sic a sinfu’ action. Daft woman, I trow it’ll be but wind, that hoves up the lasses wame; she’ll hae drucken some sour drink, raw sowens, or rotten milk, makes her so ill. Mar. A wae be to him and his actions baith, he’s the father o’t, fornicator dog that he is, he’s ruined me and my bairn; I bore her and brought her up honestly, till she came to you: her father died, and left me wi’ four o’ them; there wasna ane o’ them could pit on anither’s claes, or tak a louse aff ither. Mith. I bid you haud your tongue, and no even your bystarts to my bairn, for he’ll ne’er tak wi’t: he, poor silly lad, he wad ne’er look to a lass, be’s to lay her down. Fy, Maggy, cry in John and let’s ratify’t wi’ the auld ruddoch aye, ye’re no blate to say sae. Mar. Be angry or be well pleased, I’ll say’t in of your faces, and I’ll call you before your betters ere lang gae. John enters. A what want ye now! 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.