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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 of ither.
Mith. I bid you haud your tongue, and no even your bystarts to my bairn, for he'll ne'er take 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 ane 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.
Jock. Me mither, I never lay in a bed with her dochter a' my days; it'll be the young Laird's for a saw him kiss her at a Lammas fair and let glaum at her nonsense.
Mith. Ay, ay, my man, Jonnny, that is the way; 'tis no you, nor the like of you, poor innocent lad; 'tis a wheen rambling o'erfull lowns ilka ane of them loups on another, and gies the like of you the wyte o't.
