Jock. Me, mither! I never lay in a bed wi’ her dochter a’ my days; it’ll be the young Laird’s for a saw him kiss her at the Lammas-fair and let glaum at her nonsense. Mith. Ay, ay, my man, Johnny, that’s the way she has gotten her belly full of bairns; ’tis no you, nor the like of you, poor innocent lad, that gets bastard weans; ’tis a wheen rambling o’erfull lowns, ilka ane of them loups on anither, and gies the like of you the wyte o’t. Mar. Ye may say what you like about it ’tis easy to ca’ a court whar there’s nae body to say again; but I’ll let you ken about it; and that is what she tell’t me, and you gudewife tell’t me some o’t yoursel’; and gin you hadna brought in Maggy wi her muckle tocher atween the twa, your Jocky and my Jenny wad hae been man and wife that day. Jock. I wat weel that’s true. Mith. Ye filthy dog that ye are, are ye gaun to confess wi a bystards, and it no yours? Dinna I ken as well as ye do wha’s aught it, and wha got the wean. Jock. Aye, but 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 crooket 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; she rave the button frae my breeks, and wad gar me do’t; and could flesh and blood refuse to do’t; I’m sure mither, I could ne’er get her wi’ bairn wi’ my breeks on. Mith. Na, na, poor simple silly lad; the wean’s no yours, ilka ane loups on o’ anither, and ye’ll get the wyte of a’ the bytarts that are round about the country. Up gets Maggy wi’ a roar, and rives her hair, and cries, O her back! her belly! and baith her sides! The weed and gut gaes through my flesh like lang needles, nails, or elshin irons! Wae be to the day that e’er I saw his face. I had better married a tinkler, or followed the sodgers, as mony an honest man’s dochter has done, and lived a better life than I do. Up gets Jockey, and rins over the rigs for John Rodger’s wife, auld Katty and howdy; but or he wan back, she parted wi’ Patrick through perfect spite, and then lay twa-fauld o’er a stood in a swoon. Jock. A-weel, a-weel, sirs, though my first-born is e’en dead without seeing the light of the warld, ye’s a’ get bread and cheese to the blythe-meat, the thing we should a waured on the bauket will sair the burial, and that will aye be some advantage; and should Maggy die, I maun een tak Jenny, the taen is as far a length as the tither; I’se be furnished wi’ a wife between the twa.