_Rog._ Na, Patie, na! I'm nae sic churlish beast, Some other thing lyes heavier at my breast: I dream'd a dreary dream this hinder night, That gars my flesh a' creep yet with the fright. _Pat._ Now, to a friend, how silly's this pretence, To ane wha you and a' your secrets kens: Daft are your dreams, as daftly wad ye hide Your well seen love, and dorty Jenny's pride. Take courage, Roger, me your sorrows tell, And safely think nane kens them but your sell. _Rog._ Indeed now, Patie, ye have guess'd o'er true, And there is naething I'll keep up frae you: Me dorty Jenny looks upon a-squint; To speak but till her I dare hardly mint: In ilka place she jeers me air and late, And gars me look bumbaz'd, and unko blate: But yesterday I met her 'yont a know, She fled as frae a shellycoat or kow. She Bauldy loes, Bauldy that drives the car; But gecks at me, and says I smell of tar. _Pat._ But Bauldy loes not her, right well I wat; He sighs for Neps--sae that may stand for that. _Rog._ I wish I cou'dna loo her--but in vain, I still maun doat, and thole her proud disdain. My Bawty is a cur I dearly like, Even while he fawn'd, she strak the poor dumb tyke: If I had fill'd a nook within her breast, She wad have shawn mair kindness to my beast. When I begin to tune my stock and horn, With a' her face she shaws a caulrife scorn. Last night I play'd, ye never heard sic spite, _O'er Bogie_ was the spring, and her delyte; Yet tauntingly she at her cousin speer'd, Gif she could tell what tune I play'd, and sneer'd. Flocks, wander where ye like, I dinna care, I'll break my reed, and never whistle mair. _Pat._ E'en do sae, Roger, wha can help misluck, Saebeins she be sic a thrawn-gabet chuck? Yonder's a craig, since ye have tint all hope, Gae till't your ways, and take the lover's lowp. _Rog._ I needna mak' sic speed my blood to spill, I'll warrant death come soon enough a will.