_Peggy_. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as that want pith to move My settled 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.[16] 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 thirl like music through my heart. How blithely 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 feil[17] 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 compared with my dear Pate; His better sense will lang his love secure: Ill-nature hefts in sauls are weak and poor. _Jenny._ Hey, 'bonnylass of Branksome!' or't be lang, Your witty Pate will put you in a sang. Oh, 'tis a pleasant thing to be a bride! Syne whinging gets about your ingle-side, Yelping for this or that with fasheous[18] din: To mak them brats then ye maun toil and spin. Ae wean fa's sick, and scads itself wi' brue,[19] Ane breaks his shin, anither tines his shoe: The 'Deil gaes o'er John Wabster:'[20] hame grows hell, When Pate misca's ye waur 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 loves makes care delight? _Jenny_. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst of a', Gif o'er your heads ill chance should beggary draw: There little love or canty cheer can come Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom.[21] Your nowt may die; the speat[22] may 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 ewes; A dyvour[23] buys your butter, woo', and cheese, But, or the day of payment, breaks and flees; With gloomin' 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 steer?-- Dear Meg, be wise, and lead a single life; Troth, it's nae mows[24] to be a married wife.