_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.