Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill,
He reads fell 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 fays or does, there's fic a gate,
The rest feem coofs compar'd wi' my dear Pate.
His better fenfe will lang his love fecure:
Ill-nature hefts in fauls that's weak and poor.
SANG V. How can I be fad on my, &c.
How fhall I be fad when a husband I hae,
That has better fenfe than ony of thae
Sour, weak, filly fallows, that ftudy, like fools;
To fink their ain joy, and mak their wives fools.
The man who is prudent ne'er lightlies his wife,
Or wi' dull reproaches encourages ftrife;
He praises her virtues, and ne'er will abuse
Her for a fma' failing, but find an excufe.
Jenny. Hey, Bonny Lafs of Brankfome, or't be lang
Your witty Pate will put you in a fang.
Oh, it's a pleasant thing to be a bride;
Syne whindging gets about your ingle fide,
Yelping for this or that wi' fafhous din:
To mak them brats then ye maun toil and spin.
Ae wean fa's fick, and fcauds itfel wi' broe,
Ane breaks his fhin, anither tines his floe.
The Deel gaes o'er Jock Wabster: hame grows hell;
When Pate mifcaws ye war than tongue can tell.
Peggy. Yes, it's a heartfom thing to be a wife,
When round the ingle-edge young fprouts are rife.
Gif I'm fae happy, I fhall hae delight
To hear their little plaints, and keep them right.
Wow, Jenny can there greater pleasure be
Than fee fic wee tots toolying at your knee;
When a' they ettle at, their greatest wish,
Is to be made of, and obtain a kifs?
Can there be toil in tenting day and night
The like of them, when love maks care delight?
Jenny. But poortith, Peggy, is the warft of a',
Gif o'er your heads ill chance thould begg'ry draw,
But little love or canty chear can come
Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom :
Your nowt may die-the fpate may bear away
Frae aff the howms your dainty rucks of hay-
The thick-blawn wreaths of fnaw, or blafhy thows,
May fmoor your wathers, and may rot your ews.
A dyvor buys your butter, woo and cheese,
But on the day of payment breaks and flees,
Wi' glooman brow the laird seeks in his rent:
'Tis not to gie; your merchant's to the bent.
His honour mauna want, he poinds your gear:
Syne, driven frae house and hald, where will
Dear Meg, be wife, and lead a fingle life;
Troth it's nae mows to be a married wife.
Peggy. May fic ill luck befa' that filly fhe
Wha has fic fears, for that was never me.
Let fowk bode weel, and strive to do their best;
Nae mair's requir'd: let Heaven mak out the rest.
I've heard my honeit uncle aften fay,
That lads fhould a' for wives, that's vertuous pray :
For the maist thrifty man could never get
A well ftor'd room, unless his wife wad let:
Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part
To gather walth to raise my shepherd's heart.
What'er he wins, I'll guide with canny care,
And win the vogue at market, trone, or fair,
For halefome, clean, cheap, and fufficient ware.
A flock o' lambs, cheefe, butter, and fome woo,
Shall first be fald to pay the laird his due,
Syne a' behind's our ain ;-thus, without fear,
Wi' love and rowth we throw the warld will steer;
And when my Pate in bairns and gear grows rife,
He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife.
Jenny. But what if fome young giglit on the green,
With dimpled cheeks, and twa bewitching een,
Shou'd gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg,
And her kend kiffes, hardly worth a feg
Peggy. Nae mair of that dear Jenny, to be free, There's fome men conftanter in love than we:
Nor is the ferly great, when nature kind
Has bleft them wi' folidity of mind.
They'll reafon calmly, and wi' kindness smile,
When our fhort paffions wad our peace beguile :
Sae, whenfoe'er they flight their maiks at hame,
'Tis ten to ane their wives are maist to blame.
Then I'll employ wi' pleasure a' my art,
To keep him chear fu', and fecure his heart,
Atev'n, when he comes weary frae the hill,
I'll hae a' things made ready to his will.
In winter, when he toils throw wind and rain,
A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearth-ftane ;
And foon as he flings by his plaid and staff,
The feething pat's be ready to tak aff.
Clean hag-a-bag I'll fpread upon his board,
And ferve him wi' the best we can afford.
Good-humour and white bigonets shall be
Guards to my face, to keep his love for me,
Jenny. A difh of marry'd love right foon grows cauld,
And dozens down to nane, as fowk grow auld.
Peggy. But we'll grow auld togither, and ne'er find
The lofs of youth, when love grows on the mind.
Bairns and their bairns make fure a firmer tye,
Than aught in love the like of us can spy.
See yon twa elms that grow up fide by fide;
Suppofe them fome years fyne bridegroom and bride.
Nearer and nearer ilka year they've preft,
Till wide their spreading branches are increas'd,
And in their mixture now are fully bleft.
This fhields the other frae the eastlen blast,
That in return defends it fræe the weft.
Sic as ftand fingle (a ftate fae lik'd by you!)
Beneath ilk ftorm frae every airth maun bow.
Jenny. I've done-I yield, dear laffie, I maun yield, Your better fenfe has fairly wun the field,
With the affiftance of a little fae,
Lies darn'd within my breast this mony a day.
SANG VI. Tune, Nanfy's to the Green Wood gane.
I yield, dear laffie, ye have won,
And there is nae denying,
That fure as light flows frae the fun,
Frae love proceeds complying;
For a' that we can do or fay
'Gainst love, nae thinker heeds us, They ken our bofoms lodge the fae, That by the heartstrings lead us.
Peggy. Alake! poor pris'ner! Jenny that's no fair,
That ye'll no let the wie thing take the air;
Hafte, let him out, we'll tent as weel's we can,
Gif he be Bauldy's, or poor Roger's man.
Jenny. Anither time's as good-for fee the fun
Is right far up, and we're not yet begun
To freath the graith:-if canker'd Madge our aunt
Come up the burn, fhe'll gie's a wicked rant :
But when we've done, I'll tell ye a' my mind;
For this feems true, nae lafs can be unkind.
END of the FIRST ACT.
A fnug thack boufe, before the door a green ;
Hens on the midding, ducks in dubs are feen:
On this fideftands a barn, on that a byer:
A peet-ftack joins and forms a rural fquare.
The boufe is Glaud's;-there you may fee him lean,
And to his divet-feat invite his frien'.
OOD-morrow, nibour Symon, come fit down,
And gie's your cracks-What's a' the news in town?
They tell me ye was in the ither day,
And fald your Crummock, and her baffen'd quey.
I'll warrant ye've coft a pund of cut and dry;
Lug out your box, and gie's a pipe to try.
Symon. Wi' a' my heart;-and tent me now, auld boy, I've gather'd news, will kittle your mind wi' joy. C
I cou'd na reft till I came o'er the burn,
To tell ye things have taken fic a turn,
Will gar our vile oppreffors ftend like flaes,
And skulk in hidlings on the hether braes.
Glaud. Fy, blaw!-Ay, Symmie! ratling chiels ne'er
To cleck and fpread the groffeft lies aff-hand,
Whilk foon flies round like will-fire far and near:
But loose your poke, be't true or falfe, let's hear.
Symon. Seeing's believing, Glaud; and I ha'e feen
Hab, that abroad has with our master been,
Our brave good mafter, wha right wifely fled,
And left a fair eftate to fave his head,
ken fou well, he bravely chofe
To ftand his hege's friend, wi' great Montrofe.
Now Cromwell's gane to Nick, and ane ca'd Monk,
Has plaid the Rumple a right flee begunk ;
Reftor'd king Charles, and ilka thing's in tune;
And Habby fays, we'll fee Sir William foon.
SANG VII. Tüne, Cald kaile in Aberdeen.
Cauld be the rebels caft,
Oppreffors bafe and bloody,
I hope we'll fee them at the last
Strung a' up in a woody.
Bleft be he of worth and fenfe,
And ever high his station,
That bravely stands in the defence
Of confcience, king and nation.
Glaud. That makes me blyth indeed—but dinna flaw ; Tell o'er your news again! and fwear til't a'.
And faw ye Hab! and what did Halbert fay?
They have been e'en a dreary time away.
Now, God be thanked, that our laird's come hame,
And his eftate, fay, can he eithly claim?
Symon. They that hag-raid us till our guts did grane,
Like greedy bairs, dare nae mair do t again,
And good Sir William fall enjoy his ane.
Glaud. And may he lang, for never did he stent
Us in our thriving wi' a racket rent;
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