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The neighbours a' tent this as well as I;
Jenny. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end ;
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 weans 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 teli,
Sprucely.-To one side.—3 Cravat.-4 Pettish. Spoilt child. Pettisbly refuses its food. Silly.m8 Frets.
He glowrs! and sighs, and I can guess the cause :
mind To be as yielding as my Patie's kind. Jenny. Heh! lass, how can ye loo that rattle
Peggy. I'll rin the risk ; nor have I ony fear,
Jenny. He may indeed for ten or fifteen days
And may be, in his barlichoods', ne'er stick
pith to move
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
Cross-moods.-- Harm.-3 Many.- Troublesome.--- Scalds itself with broth.
The “ Deel gaes o'er John Wabster':” hame grows
hell, 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 toom?. Your nowt may die; the speatmay 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 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'dlet 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 rowth? 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
steer? Dear Meg, be wise, and lead a single life; Troth, it's nae mows 5 to be a married wife.
1 A Scotch proverb when all goes wrong.– Empty.--3 Land flood. - Bankrupt. - It is no slight calamity.