The neighbours a' tent this as well as I;
That Roger loo's ye, yet ye care na by.
What ails ye at him? Troth, between us twa,
He's wordy you the best day e'er ye saw.
Jenny. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end; A herd mair sheepish yet I never kend.
He kames 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 falds his owrelay down his breast with care,..
And few gangs trigger to the kirk or fair;
For a' that, he can neither sing nor say,
Except, "How d'ye?"-or,
Peggy. Ye dash the lad with constant slighting pride,
Hatred for love is unco sair to bide:
But ye'll repent ye, if his love grow cauld,
Wha likes a dorty maiden when she's auld?
Like dawted wean that tarrows at its meat",
That for some feckless whim will orp and greet:
The lave laugh at it till the dinner's past,
And syne the fool thing is oblig'd to fast,
Or scart anither's leavings at the last.
Fy, Jenny, think, and dinna sit your time.
Jenny. I never thought a single life a crime.
Peggy. Nor I: but love in whispers lets us ken,
That men were made for us, and we for men.
Jenny. If Roger is my jo, he kens himsell,
For sic a tale I never heard him tell,
1 Sprucely. To one side.—3 Cravat.—4 Pettish.—5 Spoilt child.-6 Pettishly refuses its food.-7 Silly.-8 Frets.
He glowrs' and sighs, and I can guess the cause:
But wha's oblig'd to spell his hums and 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 slav'ry like, and may be free;
The chiels may a' knit up themselves for me.
Peggy. Be doing your ways: for me, I have a
mind
To be as yielding as my Patie's kind.
Jenny. Heh! lass, how can ye loo that rattle-
skull?
A very deel, that ay maun have his will.
We soon will hear what a poor feightan life
You twa will lead, sae soon's ye're man and wife.
Peggy. I'll rin the risk; nor have I ony fear,
But rather think ilk langsome day a year,
'Till I with pleasure mount my bridal-bed,
Where on my Patie's breast I'll lay my head.
There he may kiss as lang as kissing 's good,
And what we do there's nane dare call it rude.
He's get his will; why no? 'tis good my part
To give him that, and he'll give me his heart.
Jenny. He may indeed for ten or fifteen days
Mak meikle o' ye, with an unco fraise,
And daut ye baith afore fowk and your lane:
But soon as your newfangleness is gane,
He'll look upon you as his tether-stake,
And think he's tint his freedom for your
Instead then of lang days of sweet delyte,
Ae day be dumb, and a' the neist he'll flyte :
And may be, in his barlichoods1, ne'er stick
To lend his loving wife a loundering lick,
Peggy. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as that want
pith to move
My settl'd mind; I'm o'er far gane in love.
Patie to me is dearer than my breath,
But want of him I dread nae other skaith 2.
There's nane of a' the herds that tread the green Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een.
And then he speaks with sic a taking art,
His words they thirle like music thro' my heart.
How blythly can he sport, and gently rave,
And jest at little fears that fright the lave.
Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill,
He reads feils books that teach him meikle skill;
He is-but what need I say that or this,
I'd spend a month to tell you what he is!
In a' he says or does there's sic a gate,
The rest seem coofs, compar'd with my dear Pate; His better sense will lang his love secure:
Ill-nature hefts in sauls are weak and poor.
Jenny. Hey, "bonny lass of Branksome!" or 't
be lang,
Your witty Pate will put you in a sang.
O'tis a pleasant thing to be a bride!
Syne whindging gets about your ingle-side,
Yelping for this or that with fasheous din:
To make them brats then ye man toil and spin.
Ae wean fa's sick, an scads itself wi' brue",
Ane breaks his shin, anither tines his shoe:
1 Cross-moods.-2 Harm.-3 Many.-4 Troublesome.-5 Scalds itself with broth.
The "Deel gaes o'er John Wabster':" hame grows
When Pate miscaws ye war than tongue can tell.
Peggy. Yes, it's a heartsome thing to be a wife, When round the ingle-edge young sprouts 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?
Jenny. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst of a',
Gif o'er your heads ill chance should begg'ry draw:
There little love or canty cheer can come
Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom2.
Your nowt may die; the speat may bear away
Frae aff the howms your dainty rucks of hay;
The thick-blawn wreaths of snaw, or blashy thows,
May smoor your wethers, and may rot your ews;
A dyvour buys your butter, woo, and cheese,
But or the day of payment breaks and flees;
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?-
Dear Meg, be wise, and lead a single life;
Troth, it's nae mows to be a married wife.
1 A Scotch proverb when all goes wrong. Empty.-3 Land flood.-4 Bankrupt. It is no slight calamity.
Peggy. May sic`ill luck befa' that silly she, Wha has sic fears, for that was never me.
Let fowk bode weel, and strive to do their best ;
Nae mair's requir'd-let heaven make out the rest.
I've heard my honest uncle aften say,
That lads should a' for wives that's vertuous pray;
For the maist thrifty man could never get
A well-stor'd room, unless his wife wad let:
Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part
To gather wealth to raise my shepherd's heart.
Whate'er he wins I'll guide with canny care,
And win the vogue at market, tron, or fair,
For healsome, clean, cheap, and sufficient ware.
A flock of lambs, cheese, butter, and some woo,
Shall first be sald to pay the laird his due;
Syne a' behind 's our ain.-Thus without fear,
With love and rowth1 we throw the warld will steer;
And when my Pate in bairns and geer grows rife,
He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife.
Jenny. But what if some young giglit on the
With dimpled cheeks, and twa bewitching een,
Should gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg,
And her kend kisses, hardly worth a feg?
Peggy. Nae mair of that:-dear Jenny, to be
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 caulmly, and with kindness smile,
When our short passions wad our peace beguile :
|