Mith. Ill chance on your auld black mouth Marrion, did not I send you my guid sprittled hen, a pund o' butter an a sixpence, forby a lippy o' groats an a furlet o' meal; mak her a guid cogfu' brose, an put a knuist o' butter in them, to fill up the hole whar the lown came out, an I'll send mair or that be done.
Mar. An it be na better nor the last ye may een keep it to yoursel: your groat meal, and gray meal, sand, dust and seeds, course enough to feed cocks an hens, besides a woman in her condition.
Mith. A foul be your gabs, ye're a sae gash o' your gabbies; a wheen fools that stives up your gutses wi' guid meat, to gar the worms turn wanton an wallop in your wames; feed yourselves as I do, wi' hacket kail, brose made o' groat meal, an gray meal, sand, seeds, dust an weak shilling, ony thing is good enough to fill the guts an mak at———d o'.
Jock. Na, na mither, an the wean wad suck our Maggy, I sud tak it hame in my oxter.
Mith. O ye fool, Maggy's milk is a' mould, salt, an sapless lang syne; but I trow she wad keb at it as the black ewe did at the white ew's lamb the last year, sae speak nae mair o' Maggy's milk, no to compare a cat to a creature, the yeal cats is never kind to the kitlens, an the maidens' bairns is a' unco well bred.
Jock. Na, na, ye're a' mistane, mither, Maggy has milk yet for every pap she has is like a burn pig, I'se warrand ye they'll had pints the piece.
Mith. My man Johnny, let them keep the wean, that has the wean, we'll never miss a pockfu' o' meal now an tan, I wadna hae my bed pisht an blankets rotten for a bow o' the best o't.
Jock. O mither I canna lea't I like it sae weel, it has twa bonny glancing een, just like mine in a keeking glass, I wonner how I was able to get the like o't, indeed mither I think mair o't, nor I do o' my gray horse, Maggy an the four kye,
