_My_ Peggy _sings sae saftly, When on my pipe I play; By a' the rest it is confest, By a' the rest that she sings best. My_ Peggy _sings sae saftly, And in her sangs are tauld, With innocence, the wale of sense, At wawking of the fauld._ PATIE. This sunny morning, Roger, chears my blood, And puts all nature in a jovial mood. How heartsome 'tis to see the rising plants! To hear the birds chirm o'er their pleasing rants! How halesome 'tis to snuff the cauler air, And all the sweets it bears, when void of care! What ails thee, Roger, then? what gars thee grane? Tell me the cause of thy ill-season'd pain. _Rog._ I'm born, O Patie! to a thrawart fate; I'm born to strive with hardships sad and great. Tempests may cease to jaw the rowan flood, Corbies and tods to grein for lambkins blood; But I, opprest with never ending grief, Maun ay despair of lighting on relief. _Pat._ The bees shall loath the flower, and quit the hive, The saughs on boggie-ground shall cease to thrive, Ere scornful queans, or loss of warldly gear, Shall spill my rest, or ever force a tear. _Rog._ Sae might I say; but 'tis no easy done By ane whase saul is sadly out of tune. You have sae saft a voice, and slid a tongue, You are the darling of baith auld and young. If I but ettle at a sang, or speak, They dit their lugs, syne up their leglens cleek; And jeer me hameward frae the loan or bught, While I'm confus'd with mony a vexing thought; Yet I am tall, and as well built as thee, Nor mair unlikely to a lass's e'e. For ilka sheep ye have, I'll number ten, And should, as ane may think, come farer ben. _Pat._ But ablins, nibour, ye have not a heart, And downa eithly wi' your cunzie part. If that be true, what signifies your gear? A mind that's scrimpit never wants some care. _Rog._ My byar tumbled, nine braw nowt were smoor'd, Three elf-shot were; yet I these ills endur'd: In winter last, my cares were very sma', Tho' scores of wathers perish'd in the snaw. _Pat._ Were your bein rooms as thinly stock'd as mine, Less you wad lose, and less you wad repine. He that has just enough, can soundly sleep; The o'ercome only fashes fowk to keep. _Rog._ May plenty flow upon thee for a cross, That thou may'st thole the pangs of mony a loss. O may'st thou doat on some fair paughty wench, That ne'er will lout thy lowan drouth to quench, 'Till bris'd beneath the burden, thou cry dool, And awn that ane may fret that is nae fool. _Pat._ Sax good fat lambs I said them ilka clute At the West-Port, and bought a winsome flute, Of plum-tree made, with iv'ry virles round; A dainty whistle, with a pleasant sound: I'll be mair canty wi't, and ne'er cry dool, Than you with all your cash, ye dowie fool!