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Mith. O dear Johnny I'm no willing to die if I could do better; but this will be o ſair winter on auld frail fouks, yet an I would grow better I might live theſe twenty years yet, an be an auld wife for a' that; but alake a day there is mony auld fouk dieing this year.
Jock. A deed mither there's fouk dieing the year that never died before.
Mith. Dear Johnny wilt thou bring me the doctor, he may do me good, for an my heart warna ſick an my head ſae fair, I think I may grow better yet.
Jock. A weel I'ſe bring the doctor the miniſter an my uncle.
Mith. Na, na, bring nae miniſters to me, his dry cracks will do me but little guid, I dinna want to ſee his powdered pow, an I in ſic an ill condition, get me a pint o' drams in the muckle bottle an ſet i' the hole of the backſide o' my bed.
Jock. A deed mither ye'ere in the right o't for ye want to be weel warm,d within; to chace the culd wind and froſty water out o' your backſide,
Then awa' he rins to daft Meg at the kirk town, an brings a bottle in every hand, out wi' the cork an gies her ane in o'er, ſhe ſets it to her gab, and ſquartles up a mutchkin at a waught, which was like to worry her, till ſhe fell a rifting and roaring, like an auld blunder-buſh. Hech hey co' ſhe, but that makes an alteration, an wears away the wind. Wi' that her head fell to the cod, and ſhe fought away like a very faint or drunken ſinner.
