Her cockernony fnooded up fu' fleek,
Her haffet-locks hang waving on her cheek;
Her cheeks fae ruddy, and her een fae clear;
And, Oh, her mouth's like ony hinny pear.
Neat, neat fhe was, in buftine waistcoat clean,
As fhe came fkiffing o'er the dewy green.
Blythfome, I cry'd, my bonny Meg, come here;
I ferly wherefore ye're fae foon afleer:
But I can guess, ye're gawn to gather dew-
She fcour'd awa', and said, what's that to you?
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 she saw, 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 ewes stray'd on the bog.
I leugh, and fae did fhe; then, wi' great hafte,
I clafp'd my arms about her neck and waist,
About her yielding waift, and took a fouth
Of sweetest kiffes frae her glowand mouth.
While hard and fast I held her in my grips,
My very faul came lowping to my lips.
Sair, fair fhe flet wi' me, 'tween ilka fmack;
But weel I kend fhe meant nae as she spak.
Dear Roger, when your Jo puts on her gloom,
Do you fae too,
and never fash your thumb:
Seem to forfake her, foon fhe'll change her mood ::
Gae woo anither, and she'll gang clean wood.
SANG II. Tune, Fy gar rub her o'er with ftrae.
Dear Roger, if yout Jenny geck,
And answer kindness with a flight,
Seem unconcern'd at her neglect,
For women in a man delight:
But them defpife, who're foon defait,
And wi' a fimple face give way
To a repulfe; then be not blate,
Pufh 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 the perfift
To answer all your love with hate,
Seek elsewhere to be better blift,
And let her figh, when 'tis too late.
Roger. Kind Patie! now fair fa' your honeft heart; Ye're ay fae cadgy, and ha'e fic an art
To hearten ane: for now, as clean's a leek,
Ye've cherish'd me, fince ye began to speak.
Sae, for
your pains, I'll make ye a propine,
(My mither, reft her faul! fhe made it fine)
A tartan plaid, fpun of good hawflock woo',
Scarlet and green the fets, the borders blew,
With fpraings like gowd and filler crofs'd with black;
I never had it yet upon my back.
Weel are ye wordy o't, who ha'e fae kind
Red up my revel'd doubts, and clear'd
Patie. Weel, hald ye there; and fince ye've frankly A prefent to me of your braw new plaid,
[made My flute's be your's; and the too, that's fae nice,
Shall come a-will, gif ye'll tak my advice.
Roger. As ye advife, I'll promife to obferv❜t;
But ye maun keep the flute, ye best deserv't:
Now tak it out, and gie's a bonny spring;
For I'm in tift to hear you play and fing
Patie. But firft we'll tak a turn up to the height,
And fee gif a' our flocks be feeding reight:
By that time, bannocks, and a fhave of cheese,
Will mak a breakfast that a laird might please:
Might please the daintieft gabs, were they fae wife
To feafon meat with health, inftead of spice.
When we have ta'en the grace-drink at this well,
I'll whistle fine, and fing t'ye like myfel.
A flowrie boom, between twa verdant braes,
Where laffes ufe to wash and spread their claes,
A trotting burnie wimpling throw the ground,
Its channel peebles, Shining, Smooth, and round.
Here view twa barefoot beauties, clean and clear;
Firft pleafe your eye, next gratify your ear;
While Jenny, what he wishes difcommends,
And Meg, with better fenfe, true love defends.
Peggy and Jenny.
Fen. Coine, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this green,
This fhining day will bleech our linen clean;
The water clear, the lift unclouded blew
Will mak them like a lily wet with dew.
Peg. Gae farer up the burn to Habbie's How,
Where a' the fweets of fpring and fimmer grow;
Between twa birks out-o'er a little lin,
The water fa's, and makes a fingand din:
A pool, breast-deep, beneath, as clear as glafs,
Kiffes, wi' eafy whirls, the bordering grafs ;
We'll end our washing while the morning's cool,
And when the day grows het, we'll to the pool,
There wash ourfells-It's healthfu' now in May,
And fweetly cauler on fae warm a day.
Fen. Daft laffie! when we're naked, what'll ye fay,
Gif our twa herds come brattling down the brae,
And fee us fae? That jeering fallow, Pate.
Wad, taunting, fay, Haith, laffes, ye're no blate.
Peg. We're far frae ony road, and out of fight;
The lads they're feeding far beyont 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 care na by.
What ails ye at him? Troth, between us twa,
He's wordy you the best day e'er ye faw.
Fen. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end;
A herd mair fheepish yet I never kend.
He kaimes his hair, indeed, and gaes right fnug,
With ribbon-knots at his blue bonnet lug,
Whilk penfylie he wears a thought a-jee,
And fpreads his garters dic'd beneath his knee.
He faulds his owrelay down his breaft with care,
And few gang trigger to the kirk or fair;
For a' that, he can neither fing nor fay,
Except, How d'ye ?-or, There's a bonny day.
Peg. Ye dafh the lad wi' conftant flighting pride;
Hatred for love is unco fair to bide:
But ye'll repent ye, if his love grow cauld.
What's like a dorty maiden when fhe's auld?
Like dawted wean that tarrows at its meat.
That for fome feckless whim will orp and greet:
The lave laugh at it till the dinner's past,
And fyne the fool thing is oblig'd to fast,
Or fcart anither's leavings at the last.
SANG III. Tune, Polwart on the
The dorty will repent,
If lover's heart grow cauld;
And nane her fimiles will tent,
Soon as her face looks auld.
The dawted bairn thus takes the pet,
Nor eats, tho' hunger crave,
Whimpers and tarrows at its meat,
And's laugh'd at by the lave.
They jeft it till the dinner's paft;
Thus, by itself abus'd,
The fool thing is oblig'd to faft,
Or eat what they've refus❜d.
Fie, Jenny, think, and dinna fit your time.
Jen. I never thought a fingle life a crime.
Peg. Nor I-but love, in whispers, lets us ken,
That men were made for us, and we for men.
Jen. If Roger is my Jo, he kens himsel;
For fic a tale I never heard him tell.
He glowrs and fighs, and I can guess the cause;
But wha's oblig'd to fpell his hums and haws?
Whene'er he likes to tell his mind mair plain,
l'e 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 themselves for me.
Peg. Be doing your wa's; for me, I have a mind
To be as yielding as my Patie's kind.
fen. Heh, lafs! how can you loo that rattle-skull ?. A very deel, that ay maun hae his wull.
We'll foon hear tell what a poor fighting life
You twa will lead, fae foon's ye're man and wife.
Peg. I'll rin the risk, nor have I ony fear,
But rather think ilk langfome day a year,
Till I with pleasure mount my bridal bed,
Where on my Patie's breast I'll lean my head,
There we may kifs as lang as kiffing's gude,
And what we do, there's nane dare ca' it rude.
He's get his will; why no? 'Tis good my part,
To gi' him that, and he'll gi' me his heart.
fen. He may, indeed, for ten or fifteen days,
Mak meikle o' ye, wi' an unco phraife,
And dawt ye, baith afore fowk and your lane;
But foon as his newfanglenefs is gane,
He'll look upon you as his tether-stake,
And think he's tint his freedom for your fake.
Instead, then, of lang days of fweet delyte,
Ae day be dumb, and a' the neift he'll flyte;
And, may be, in his barlikhoods, ne'er stick
To lend his loving wife a loundering lick.
SANG IV. Tune, Oh, dear mother, what fhall I do?
Oh; dear Peggy, love's beguiling,
We ought not to trust to smiling:
Better far to do as I do,
Left a harder luck betide you.
Laffes, when their fancy's carry'd,
Think of nought but to be marry'd;
Running to a life destroys
Heartfome, free, and youthfu' joys.
Peg. Sic coarse-fpun thoughts as thae want pith to move My fettled mind; I'm o'er far gane in love.
Patie to me is dearer than my breath,
But want of him, I dreed nae other skaith.
There's nane of a' the herds that tread the green,
Has fic a fmile, or fic twa glancing een.
And then he speaks with fic a taking art,
His words they thirle like mufic throw my heart.
How blythely can he sport, and gently rave,
And jeft at fecklefs fears that fright the lave!
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