A wow, said the goodwife, come in by, honest lad, and rest ye, an ye be a wooer sit down and gie’s a snuff--A deed, goodwife, I hae nae mills but my mither’s, and it’s at hame.--Whare win ye, I’se no ken ye? I wat, quoth he, my name’s Jock Sandyman, and they ca’ me Simple John the sack weaver. I hae nae tocher but my loom, a pirn-wheel, a kettle, pat, a brass pan, twa pigs, four cogs, and a candlestick, a good cock, a cat, twa errocks new begun to lay; my sister Sara is married on Sleeky Willie the wylie weaver, and I maun hae a hagwife or my mither die, for truly she’s very frail, and ony harl o’ health she has is about dinner time; what say ye till’t, goodman? can ye buckle me or not? _Goodman._ A dear John, ye’re in an unco haste, ye wadna hae your wife hame wi’ ye? they’re a’ there before ye, which o’ them will ye tak? Hout, tout, says John, ony o’ them will sair me, but my mither says there is twa o’ them has fauts. And what is their fauts? says the goodwife. Hout, said John, it’s no meikle faut, but I dinna like it, they got men or they were married. And what shall I do wi’ them? said the goodman. _John._ A deed, goodman, as ye’re ay dealing among dead beasts and living beasts, I wad put them awa among ither beasts, or gin ye be aun ony penny, let somebody tak them up o’ desperate debt, I sud flie the fykes frae them, they anger’d you, and sham’d you baith with their bastards, a wheen daft jades it gets men or they be married, and bairns or they get bridals. _Goodwife._ A wat weel that’s true, lad. _Girzy._ A weel, John, then, will ye tak me; I hae nae bastards; how will you and I do? _John._ I wat na gin ye be able to get a bastard, yet ye may hae some waur faut; but ye maun be my pennyworth, for ye’re unco little, and I’m o’er muckle, and gin ye and I war ance carded through ither, we may get bonny weans o’ a middlen mak. I hae nae fauts to ye, but ye hae a high breast, a humph back, a short neck, and high shouthers, the hands and legs may do, tho’ your mouth be a wee to the tae side it will lie weel to the rock, and I hae a hantle o’ tow to spin, will be baith sarks and sacks till us, ye’ll be my soncy dauty, up and down; a perfect beauty, wi’ cat’s yellow een, black brous, and red lips, and your very nose is a purple colour; ye hae nae fauts at a’. Now, whan will we be married? _Girzy._ Ha, ha, John lad, we maun think on that yet. _John._ What the yeltow, lass, should na ye be ready whan I’m ready, and every body says that the woman’s aye ready. _Goodman._ Ye’ll hae to come back and bring somebody wi’ you, and we’ll gree about it, and set the day whan ye’ll be married. _John._ A weel, goodman, I’ll tell my mither o’t, and come back on Monday, and we’ll hae a chappin o’ ale, and roasted cheese on the chance o’t, but I maun hae a word o’ the bride out by, to convoy me, and a quiet speak to hersel about it.