_Peggy_. 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 neighbours a' tent this as well as I; That Roger lo'es ye, yet ye carena 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 kenn'd. He kames his hair, indeed, and gaes right snug, With ribbon-knots at his blue bonnet lug; Whilk pensylie[6] he wears a thought a-jee,[7] And spreads his garters diced beneath his knee. He falds his owrelay[8] 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, 'There's a bonny day.' _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;-- What like's a dorty[9] maiden when she's auld? Like dawted wean[10] that tarrows at its meat,[11] That for some feckless[12] whim will orp[13] and greet: The lave laugh at it till the dinner's past, And syne the fool thing is obliged 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. He glowers[14] and sighs, and I can guess the cause: But wha's obliged 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 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 lo'e that rattleskull? A very deil, that aye maun have his will! We soon will hear what a poor fechtin' 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 sake. Instead then of lang days of sweet delight, Ae day be dumb, and a' the neist he'll flyte: And maybe, in his barlichood's,[15] ne'er stick To lend his loving wife a loundering lick.