Ye hae made a mistak ony gait.' 'Wha says that, mem ?' 'Robert.' 'Aweel, gin he be tellin' the trowth--' 'Daur ye mint (insinuate) to me that a son o' mine wad tell onything but the trowth ?' 'Na, na, mem.

But gin that wasna a quean, ye canna deny but she luikit unco like ane, and no a blate (bashful) ane eyther.' 'Gin he was a loon, he wadna luik like a blate lass, ony gait, Betty.
And there ye're wrang.' 'Weel, weel, mem, hae 't yer ain gait,' muttered Betty.
'I wull hae 't my ain gait,' retorted her mistress, 'because it's the richt gait, Betty.

An' noo ye maun jist gang up the stair, an' get the place cleant oot an' put in order.' 'I wull do that, mem.' 'Ay wull ye.

An' luik weel aboot, Betty, you that can see sae weel, in case there suld be ony cattle aboot; for he's nane o' the cleanest, yon dame!' 'I wull do that, mem.' 'An' gang direckly, afore he comes back.' 'Wha comes back ?' 'Robert, of course.' 'What for that ?' ''Cause he's comin' wi' 'im.' 'What he 's comin' wi' 'im ?' 'Ca' 't she, gin ye like.

It's Shargar.' 'Wha says that ?' exclaimed Betty, sniffing and starting at once.
'I say that.