_Jen._ Hey! bonny lass of Branksome, or't be lang, Your witty Pate will put you in a sang. O! 'tis a pleasant thing to be a bride; Syne whindging getts about your ingle-side, Yelping for this or that with fasheous din, To mak them brats then ye maun toil and spin. Ae we'an fa's sick, ane scads it sell wi' broe, Ane breaks his shin, anither tynes his shoe; The Deel gaes o'er John Wobster, hame grows hell, When Pate misca's ye war than tongue can tell. _Peg._ Yes, 'tis 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 love makes care delight? _Jen._ But poortith, Peggy, is the warst of a', Gif o'er your heads ill chance should beggary draw: But little love, or canty chear can come, Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom. Your nowt may die--the spate may bear away Frae aff the howms your dainty rucks of hay.-- The thick blawn wreaths of snaw, or blashy thows, May smoor your wathers, and may rot your ews. A dyvour buys your butter, woo and cheese, But, or the day of payment, breaks and flees. With glooman brow the laird seeks in his rent: 'Tis no to gi'e; your merchant's to the bent; His Honour mauna want, he poinds your gear: Syne, driven frae house and hald, where will ye steer? Dear Meg, be wise, and live a single life; Troth 'tis nae mows to be a marry'd wife. _Peg._ May sic ill luck befa' that silly she, Wha has sic fears; for that was never me. Let fowk bode well, and strive to do their best; Nae mair's requir'd, let Heaven make out the rest. I've heard my honest uncle aften say, That lads shou'd a' for wives that's vertuous pray: For the maist thrifty man you'd never get A well stor'd room, unless his wife wad let: Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part, To gather wealth to raise my Shepherd's heart. What e'er he wins, I'll guide with canny care, } And win the vogue, at market, tron, or fair, } For halesome, clean, cheap and sufficient ware. } A flock of lambs, cheese, butter, and some woo, Shall first be sald, to pay the laird his due; Syne a' behind's our ain.--Thus, without fear, With love and rowth we thro' the warld will steer: And when my Pate in bairns and gear grows rife, He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife. _Jen._ But what if some young giglit on the green, With dimpled cheeks, and twa bewitching een, Shou'd gar your Patie think his haff-worn Meg, And her kend kisses, hardly worth a feg?