_Peg._ 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 lean my head. There we 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. _Jen._ 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 his 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 delite, Ae day be dumb, and a' the neist he'll flite: And may be, in his barlickhoods, ne'er stick To lend his loving wife a loundering lick. SANG IV.--_Tune_, O dear mother, what shall I do? _O dear_ Peggy, _love's beguiling, We ought not to trust his smiling; Better far to do as I do, Lest a harder luck betyde you. Lasses, when their fancy's carry'd, Think of nought but to be marry'd: Running to a life destroys Heartsome, free, and youthfu' joys._ _Peg._ Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thae want pith to move My settl'd 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. 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 thirle like musick thro' my heart. How blythly can he sport, and gently rave, And jest at feckless fears that fright the lave? Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill, He reads fell 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 gait, The rest seem coofs compar'd with my dear Pate. His better sense will lang his love secure: Ill-nature heffs in sauls are weak and poor. SANG V.--_Tune_, How can I be sad on my wedding-day? _How shall I be sad, when a husband I hae, That has better sense than ony of thae Sour weak silly fallows, that study like fools, To sink their ain joy, and make their wives snools. The man who is prudent ne'er lightlies his wife, Or with dull reproaches encourages strife; He praises her virtues, and ne'er will abuse Her for a small failing, but find an excuse._