He falds his owrelay down his breast with care,

And few gang trigger to the kirk or fair. For a' that, he can neither sing nor say, Except, "How d'ye," or, "There's a bonny day."

Peg. Ye dash the lad with constant slighting pride;

But ye'll repent ye, if his love grows cauld. What like's a dorty maiden when she's auld?

May,

Jen. He may, indeed, for ten or fifteen days,

Peg. Nor I,-But love in whispers lets us ken,

men.

Jen. If Roger is my joe, he kens himsell :

For sic a tale I never heard him tell.

He glowrs and sighs, and I can guess the

cause;

But soon as his newfangleness is gane, He'll look upon you as his tether-stake, And think he's tint his freedom for your sake.

haws?

Whene'er he likes to tell his mind mair

plain,

I'se tell him frankly ne'er to do't again. They're fools that flav'ry like and may be free :

The chiels may a' knit up themsells for

me.

flyte :

And may be, in his barlickhoods, ne'er stick

To lend his loving wife a loundering lick.

Peg. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thae want pith to move

My settl'd mind; I'm owre far gane in love. Patie to me is dearer than my breath;

O! 'tis a pleasant thing to be a bride; Syne whinging getts, about your ingle-side, Yelping for this or that with fasheous din: To mak them brats then ye maun toil and spin.

Ae wean fa's sick, ane scads itsell wi' broe, Ane breaks his shin, anither tines his shoe;

With glooman brow the laird seeks in his

rent:

'Tis no to gie; your merchant's to the bent:

His honour maunna want, he poinds your gear;

Syne driven frae house and hald, where will ye steer?

Troth 'tis nae mows to be a married wife.

Peg. May sic ill luck befa' that silly she Wha has sic fears, for that was never me. Let fowk bode well, and strive to do their best ;

are rife.

Gif I'm sae happy, I shall have delight To hear their little plaints, and keep them right.

Wow! Jenny, can there greater pleasure be, Than see sic wee tots toolying at your knee;

When a' they ettle at-their greatest wish, Is to be made of, and obtain a kiss?

Can there be toil in tenting day and night The like of them, when love makes care delight?

Jen. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst of a',

Gif o'er your heads ill chance should beggary draw;

But little love, or canty cheer, can come Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom. Your nowt may die-the spate may bear away

Frae aff the howms your dainty rucks of

hay.

The thick-blawn wreaths of snaw, or blashy thows,

May smoor your wathers, and may rot your ewes.

A dyvour buys your butter, woo, and cheese,

But, or the day of payment, breaks and

flees.

With dimpled cheeks, and twa bewitching een,

Shou'd gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg,

And her ken'd kisses, hardly worth a feg?

Peg. Nae mair of that.-Dear Jenny, to be free,

There's some men constanter in love than

we:

Nor is the ferly great, when nature kind Has blest them with solidity of mind. They'll reason calmly, and with kindness

smile,

When our short passions wad our peace beguile.

Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks at hame,

'Tis ten to ane the wives are maist to blame.

Then I'll employ with pleasure a' my art To keep him cheerful, and secure his heart.

At e'en, when he comes weary frae the hill,

I'll have a' things made ready to his will. In winter, when he toils thro' wind and rain,

A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearth-stane; And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff,

The seething pat's be ready to take aff: Clean hagabag I'll spread upon his board, And serve him with the best we can af

ford;

Good humour and white bigonets shall be Guards to my face to keep his love for me.

Jen. A dish of married love right soon grows cauld,

And dosens down to nane, as fowk grow auld.

Peg. But we'll grow auld together, and ne'er find

The loss of youth, when love grows on the mind.