Patie. Were your bien Rooms as thinly stock'd as mine, Less ye wad loss, and less ye wad repine. He that has just enough can soundly sleep: The O'ercome only fashes Fowk to keep.

Roger. May Plenty flow upon thee for a Cross; That thou may'st thole the Pangs of mony a Loss: O may'st thou doat on some fair paughty Wench, That ne'er will lout thy lowan Drowth to quench: Till bris'd beneath the Bruden, thou cry Dool! And own that ane may fret that is nae Fool.

Patie. Sax good fat Lambs, I sauld them ilka Clute At the West-Port, and bought a winsome Flute, Of Plum-tree made, with Iv'ry Virles round; A dainty Whistle, with a pleasant Sound: I'll be mair canty wi't, and ne'er cry Dool! Than you with all your Cash, ye dowie Fool.

Roger. Na, Patie, na! I'm nae fic churlish Beaft, Some other Thing lies heavier at my Breaft: I dream'd a dreary Dream this hinder Night, That gars my Flesh a'creep yet with the Fright. Patie. Now, to a Friend how filly's this Pretence, To ane wha you and a' your Secrets kens... Daft are your Dreams, as daftly wad ye hide Your well-feen Love, and dorty Jenny's pride: 'Take Courage, Roger, me your Sorrows tell, And fafely think nane kens them but yoursell..

Roger. Indeed now, Patie, you have guefs'd o'er true, And there is naithing I'll keep up frae you. Me dorty Jonny looks upon asquint; To fpeak but till her I dare hardly mint. In ilka Place she jeers me air and late, And gars me look bombaz'd, and unko blate: But yesterday I met her yont a Know, She fled as frae a Shelly-coated Kow. She Bauldy loes, Bauley that drives the Car, But gecks at me, and says I smell of Tar.

Patie, But Bauldy loes not her, right well I wat, He fighs for Neps;-fae that may stand for that. Roger. I wish I cou'd na loo her but in vain, I ftill maun doat, and thole her proud Disdain,

Mr

My Bawty is a Cur I dearly like,
Tillhe yowl'd fair, she strack the poor dumb Tyke:
If I had fill'd a Nook within her Breast,
She wad have shewn mair Kindness to my Beast.
When I begin to tune my Stock and Horn;
With a' her Face she shaws a caulrife Scorn.
Last Night I play'd-(ye never heard fic Spite)
O'er Boggie was the Spring, and her Delyte:
Yet tauntingly she at her Cusin spear'd,
Gif the could tell what Tune I play'd, and sneer'd-
Flocks wander where ye like, I dinna care,
I'll break my Reed, and never whistle mair.

Patie. E'en do fae, Roger, wha can help Misluck,
Saebeins she be fic a thrawn-gabit Chuck.
Yonder's a Craig, fince ye have tint all Hope,
Gae till't your ways, and take the Lover's Lowp.
Roger. I needna mak such Speed my Blood to spill,
I'll warrant Death come foon enough a-will.

Patie. Daft Gowk! leave aff that filly whining Way; Seem careless, there's my Hand, ye'll win the Day, Hear how I ferv'd my Lass 1 love as weel As ye do Jenny, and with Heart as leel. Last Morning I was gay and early out, Upon a Dyke I lean'd, glowring about. I faw my Meg come linkan o'er the Lee;. I faw my Meg, but Peggy faw nae me: For yet the Sun was wading thro' the Mist, And he was close upon me ere the wift. Her Coats were kiltit, and did sweetly shaw Her straight bare Legs that whiter were than Snaw, Her Cockernony snooded up fu' fleek, Her Haffet-Locks hung waving on her Cheek; Her Cheeks fae ruddy, and her E'en so clear; And O! her Mouth's like one Hinny Pear, Neat, neat she was in Bustine Waistcoat clean, As the came skiffing o'er the dewy Green. Blythsome I cry'd, My bony Meg, come here; I ferly wherefore ye're fae foon afteer: But I can guess, ye're gawn to gather DewShe scour'd awa', and faid, What's that to you?

B 3

Then

Then fare ye weel, Meg Dorts, and e'en's ye like,
I careless cry'd, and lap in o'er the Dyke.
I trow, when that the faw, within a Crack,
She came with a right thieveless Errand back;
Miscaw'd me first-then bad me hound my Dog,
To wear up three waff Ews stray'd on her Bog,
I leugh; and fae did the; then with great Hafte
I clasp'd my Arms about her Neck and Waist;
About her yielding Waist, and took a Fouth
Of sweetest Kisses frae her glowing Mouth.
While hard and fast I held her in my Grips,
My very Soul cam lowping to my Lips.
Sair, fair she flet wi me 'tween ilka Smack;
But weel I kend she meant nae as the spak.

Dear Roger, when your Jo puts on her Gloom, Do you fae too, and never fath your Thumb, Seem to forsake her, foon she'll change her Mood: Gae woo anither, and she'll gang clean wood.

SANG II. Tune, Fy gar rub her o'er with Strae.
Dear Roger, if your Jenny geck,

And answer Kindness with a Slight,
Seem unconcern'd at her Neglect,
For Women in a Man delight:2
But them despise wbo're foon defate,
And with a fimple Face give Way
To a Repulse; then be not blate,
Push bauldly on and win the Day.
When Maidens, innocently young,
Say aften what they never mean,
Ne'er mind their pretty lying Tongue,
But tent the Language of their Een;
If these agree, and she perfift
To answer all your Love with Hate.
Seek elsewhere to be better bleft,

And let her figh when 'tis too late.

Roger. Kind Patie, now fair fa your honest Heart,

Ye're ay sae cadgy, and have fic an Art

To hearten ane: For now, as cleans a Leek,

Ye've cherish'd me, fince ye began to fpeak.

Sac

:

Sae, for your Pains, I'll make ye a Propine,
(My Mother, rest her Saul! she made it fine)
A Tartan Plaid, spun of good Hawflock Woo,
Scarlet and Green the Sets, the Borders blew :
With Spraingslike Gowd, and Siller cross'd with Black;
I never had it yet upon my Back,
Weel are ye wordy o't, who have sae kind
Red up my revel'd Doubts, and clear'd my Mind.
Patie. Weel, hald ye there, and since ye've frankly made
To me a Present of your braw new Plaid,
My Flute's be your's, and she too that's fae nice
Shall come a-will, gif ye'll tak my Advice.

Roger. As ye advise, I'll promise to observ't;
But ye maun keep the Flute, ye best deserv't,
Now tak it out, and gie's a bony Spring;
For I'm in Tift to hear you play and fing.

Patie But first we'll tak a Turn up to the Height,
And fee gif all our Flock be feeding right:
Be that Time Bannocks, and a Shave of Cheese
Will mak a Breakfast that a Laird might please;
Might please the daintiest Gabs, were they sae wife
To season Meat with Health, instead of Spice.
When we have tane the Grace-Drink at this Well,
I'll whistle fine, and sing t'ye like my fell. (Exeunt

SCENE II.

PROLOGUE.

A flowrie Howm between to verdant Braes,
Where Laffes use to wash and spread their Claiths,
A trotting Burnie wimpling throw the Ground,
Its Channel Peebles, shining, Smooth, and round.
Here view twa barefoot Beauties clean and clear;
First please your Eye, then gratifie your Ear;
While Jenny what she wishes discommends,
And Meg with better Sense true Love defends.

PEGGY and JENNY.

Ome, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this Green,
The shining Day will bleechourLinen clean;

Jenny.

Ce

:

The

The Water's clear, the Lift unclouded blew,
Will mak them like a Lilly wet with Dew.

Peggy. Gae farer up the Burn to Habie's How,
Where a' that's sweet in Spring and Simmer grow:
Between twa Birks out-o'er a little Lin,
The Water fa's, and makes a singand Din:
A Pool Breaft-deep, beneath as clear as Glass,
Kisses with easy Whirles the bordering Grass,
We'll end our Washing, while the Morning's cool,
And when the Day grows het, we'll to the Pool,
There wash oursells-'Tis healthfu' now in May,
And sweetly cauler on sae warm a Day.

Jenny. Daft Laffie, when we're naked, what'll ye fay, Gif our twa Herds come brattling down the Brae, And see us fae? That jeering Fellow Pate Wad taunting say, Haith, Lassies, ye're no blate. Peggy. We're far frae ony Road, and out of Sight; The Lads they're feeding far beyond the Height. But tell me now, dear Jenny, we're our lane, What gars ye plague your Wooer with Disdain The Neighbours a' tent this as well as I, That Roger loo's ye, yet ye carena by. What ails ye at him? Troth between us twa, He's wordy you the best Day e're ye faw.

Jenny. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an End, A Herd mair sheepish yet I never kend. He kaimes his Hair indeed, and gaes right snug, With Ribbon-knots at his blue Bonnet Lug, Whilk pensylie he wears a-thought a jee, And spreads his Garters dic'd beneath his Knee. He fals his Owrelay down his Breast with Care, And few gang trigger to the Kirk or Fair; For a' that, he can neither fing nor fay, Except, How dy'e?-or, There's a bonny Day. Peggy. Ye dash the Lad with conftant flighting Pride,

Hatred to Love is unko fair to bide:

But ye'll repent ye, if his Love grow cauld. What like's a dorty Maiden, when sne's auld? Like dawred Wean, that tarrows at its Meat, That for fome feckless Whim will orp and greet:

The