The Heart of Mid-Lothian - Penn State University

“That wad gar me greet,” said Madge, sobbing, “but
it couldna gar me mind, ye ken.”
“She is ower far past reasonable folks’ motives, sir,”
said Ratcliffe, “to mind siller, or John Dalgleish, or the
cat-and-nine-tails either; but I think I could gar her tell
us something.”
“Try her, then, Ratcliffe,” said Sharpitlaw, “for I am
tired of her crazy pate, and be d—d to her.”
“Madge,” said Ratcliffe, “hae ye ony joes now?”
“An ony body ask ye, say ye dinna ken.—Set him to
be speaking of my joes, auld Daddie Ratton!”
“I dare say, ye hae deil ane?”
“See if I haena then,” said Madge, with the toss of the
head of affronted beauty— “there’s Rob the Ranter, and
Will Fleming, and then there’s Geordie Robertson, lad—
that’s Gentleman Geordie—what think ye o’ that?”
Ratcliffe laughed, and, winking to the procurator-fiscal,
pursued the inquiry in his own way. “But, Madge,
the lads only like ye when ye hae on your braws—they
wadna touch you wi’ a pair o’ tangs when you are in
your auld ilka-day rags.”
Sir Walter Scott
213
“Ye’re a leeing auld sorrow then,” replied the fair one;
“for Gentle Geordie Robertson put my ilka-day’s claise
on his ain bonny sell yestreen, and gaed a’ through the
town wi’ them; and gawsie and grand he lookit, like ony
queen in the land.”
“I dinna believe a word o’t,” said Ratcliffe, with another
wink to the procurator. “Thae duds were a’ o’ the
colour o’ moonshine in the water, I’m thinking, Madge—
The gown wad be a sky-blue scarlet, I’se warrant ye?”
“It was nae sic thing,” said Madge, whose unretentive
memory let out, in the eagerness of contradiction, all
that she would have most wished to keep concealed, had
her judgment been equal to her inclination. “It was neither
scarlet nor sky-blue, but my ain auld brown
threshie-coat of a short-gown, and my mother’s auld
mutch, and my red rokelay—and he gied me a croun
and a kiss for the use o’ them, blessing on his bonny
face—though it’s been a dear ane to me.”
“And where did he change his clothes again, hinnie?”
said Sharpitlaw, in his most conciliatory manner.
“The procurator’s spoiled a’,” observed Ratcliffe, drily.