Jenny.

Come, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this green,
The shining day will bleech our linen clean;
The water's clear, the lift unclouded blew,
Will make them like a lilly wet with dew.
Peg. Go farer up the burn to Habby's How,
Where a' the sweets of spring and summer grow;
Between twa birks, out o'er a little lin
The water fa's, and makes a sing and din;
A pool breast-deep beneath, as clear as glass,
Kisses with easy whirles the bordring grass:
We'll end our washing while the morning's cool,
And when the day grows het, we'll to the pool,
There wash our sells—'tis healthfu' now in May,
And sweetly cauler on sae warm a day.
Jen. Daft lassie, when we're naked, what'll ye say,
Gif our twa herds come brattling down the brae,
And see us sae? that jeering fallow Pate
Wad taunting say, Haith, lasses, ye're no blate.
Peg. We're far frae ony road, and out of sight;
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 nibours a' tent this as well as I,
That Roger loes you, yet ye carna by.
What ails ye at him? Trowth, between us twa,
He's wordy you the best day e'er ye saw.
Jen. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end;
A herd mair sheepish yet I never kend.
He kaims his hair indeed, and gaes right snug,
With ribbon-knots at his blew bonnet-lug;
Whilk pensily he wears a thought a-jee,
And spreads his garters die'd beneath his knee.
He falds his owrlay down his breast with care;
And few gang trigger to the kirk or fair.
For a' that, he can neither sing nor say,
Except, How d'ye?—or, There's a bonny day.
Peg. Ye dash the lad with constant slighting pride,
Hatred for love is unco sair to bide:
But ye'll repent ye, if his love grows cauld.
What like's a dorty maiden when she's auld?
Like dawted we'an, 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.

SANG III.—Tune, Polwart on the Green.

The dorty will repent,
If lover's heart grow cauld,
And nane her smiles 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 laught at by the lave.
They jest it till the dinner's past;
Thus by itself abus'd,
The fool thing is oblig'd to fast,
Or eat what they've refus'd.
Jen. I never thought a single 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 himsell;
For sic a tale I never heard him tell.
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 slavery like, and may be free:
The cheils may a' knit up themsells for me.
Peg. Be doing your ways; for me, I have a mind
To be as yielding as my Patie's kind.
Jen. Heh! lass, how can you loo that rattle-skull,
A very deil that ay maun hae his will?
We'll soon hear tell what a poor fighting life
You twa will lead, sae soon's ye're man and wife.
Peg. 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 lean my head.
There we 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.
Jen. 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 his newfangleness is gane,
He'll look upon you as his tether-stake,
And think he's tint his freedom for your sake.
Instead then of lang days of sweet delite,
Ae day be dumb, and a' the neist he'll flite:
And may be, in his barlickhoods, ne'er stick
To lend his loving wife a loundering lick.

SANG IV.—Tune, O dear mother, what shall I do?

O dear Peggy, love's beguiling,
We ought not to trust his smiling;
Better far to do as I do,
Lest a harder luck betyde you.
Lasses, when their fancy's carry'd,
Think of nought but to be marry'd:
Running to a life destroys
Heartsome, free, and youthfu' joys.
Peg. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thae 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.
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 musick thro' my heart.
How blythly can he sport, and gently rave,
And jest at feckless fears that fright the lave?
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 says or does, there's sic a gait,
The rest seem coofs compar'd with my dear Pate.
His better sense will lang his love secure:
Ill-nature heffs in sauls are weak and poor.

SANG V.—Tune, How can I be sad on my wedding-day?

How shall I be sad, when a husband I hae,
That has better sense than ony of thae
Sour weak silly fallows, that study like fools,
To sink their ain joy, and make their wives snools.
The man who is prudent ne'er lightlies his wife,
Or with dull reproaches encourages strife;
He praises her virtues, and ne'er will abuse
Her for a medium failing, but find an excuse.
Jen. 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 getts about your ingle-side,
Yelping for this or that with fasheous din,
To mak them brats then ye maun toil and spin.
Ae we'an fa's sick, ane scads it sell wi' broe,
Ane breaks his shin, anither tynes his shoe;
The Deel gaes o'er John Wobster, hame grows hell,
When Pate misca's ye war than tongue can tell.
Peg. Yes, 'tis 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?
Jen. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst of a',
Gif o'er your heads ill chance should beggary draw:
But little love, or canty chear can come,
Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom.
Your nowt may die—the spate may bear away
Frae aff the howms your dainty rucks of hay.—
The thick blawn wreaths of snaw, or blashy thows,
May smoor your wathers, 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 gi'e; your merchant's to the bent;
His Honour mauna want, he poinds your gear:
Syne, driven frae house and hald, where will ye steer?
Dear Meg, be wise, and live a single life;
Troth 'tis nae mows to be a marry'd wife.

Peg. May sic ill luck befa' that silly she,
Wha has sic fears; for that was never me.
Let fowk bode well, 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 shou'd a' for wives that's vertuous pray:
For the maist thrifty man you'd 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.
What e'er he wins, I'll guide with canny care, }
And win the vogue, at market, tron, or fair, }
For halesome, 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 thro' 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.
Jen. But what if some young giglit on the green,
With dimpled cheeks, and twa bewitching een,
Shou'd gar your Patie think his haff-worn Meg,
And her kend kisses, hardly worth a feg?
Peg. Nae mair of that:—Dear Jenny, to be free,
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 calmly, and with kindness smile,
When our short passions wad our peace beguile.
Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks at hame,
'Tis ten to ane the wives are maist to blame.
Then I'll employ with pleasure a' my art
To keep him chearfu', and secure his heart.
At even, when he comes weary frae the hill,
I'll have a' things made ready to his will.
In winter, when he toils thro' wind and rain,
A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearth-stane.
And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff,
The seething pot's be ready to take aff.
Clean hagabag I'll spread upon his board,
And serve him with the best we can afford.
Good humour and white bigonets shall be
Guards to my face, to keep his love for me.
Jen. A dish of married love right soon grows cauld,
And dosens down to nane, as fowk grow auld.
Peg. But we'll grow auld togither, and ne'er find
The loss of youth, when love grows on the mind.
Bairns, and their bairns, make sure a firmer ty,
Than ought in love the like of us can spy.
See yon twa elms that grow up side by side,
Suppose them, some years syne, bridegroom and bride;
Nearer and nearer ilka year they've prest, }
'Till wide their spreading branches are increast, }
And in their mixture now are fully blest. }
This shields the other frae the eastlin blast,
That in return defends it frae the west.
Sic as stand single,—a state sae lik'd by you!
Beneath ilk storm, frae every airth, maun bow.
Jen. I've done,—I yield, dear lassie, I maun yield,
Your better sense has fairly won the field,
With the assistance of a little fae
Lyes darn'd within my breast this mony a day.

SANG VI.—Tune, Nansy's to the green-wood gane.