_Baul._ Well, Mause, I'll come, gif I the road can find: But if ye raise the deil, he'll raise the wind; Syne rain and thunder may be, when 'tis late, Will make the night sae rough, I'll tine the gate. We're a' to rant in Symie's at a feast, O! will ye come like badrans, for a jest? And there ye can our different 'haviours spy: There's nane shall ken o't there but you and I. _Mause._ 'Tis like I may,--but let na on what's past 'Tween you and me, else fear a kittle cast. _Baul._ If I ought of your secrets e'er advance, May ye ride on me ilka night to France. [_Exit_ BAULDY. MAUSE _her lane_. Hard luck, alake! when poverty and eild, Weeds out of fashion, and a lanely beild, With a sma' cast of wiles, should in a twitch, Gi'e ane the hatefu' name a wrinkled Witch. This fool imagines, as do mony sic, That I'm a wretch in compact with Auld Nick; Because by education I was taught To speak and act aboon their common thought. Their gross mistake shall quickly now appear; Soon shall they ken what brought, what keeps me here; Nane kens but me,--and if the morn were come, I'll tell them tales will gar them a' sing dumb. [_Exit._ _ACT II.--SCENE IV._ Behind a tree, upon the plain, Pate and his Peggy meet; In love, without a vicious stain, The bonny lass and chearfu' swain Change vows and kisses sweet. PATIE _and_ PEGGY. _Peggy._ O Patie, let me gang, I mauna stay, We're baith cry'd hame, and Jenny she's away. _Pat._ I'm laith to part sae soon; now we're alane, And Roger he's awa with Jenny gane: They're as content, for ought I hear or see, To be alane themsells, I judge, as we. Here, where primroses thickest paint the green, Hard by this little burnie let us lean. Hark how the lavrocks chant aboon our heads! How saft the westlin winds sough thro' the reeds. _Peg._ The scented meadows,--birds,--and healthy breeze, For ought I ken, may mair than Peggy please. _Pat._ Ye wrang me sair, to doubt my being kind; In speaking sae, ye ca' me dull and blind, Gif I cou'd fancy ought's sae sweet or fair As my dear Meg, or worthy of my care. Thy breath is sweeter than the sweetest brier; Thy cheek and breast the finest flowers appear. Thy words excel the maist delightfu' notes, That warble through the merl or mavis' throats. With thee I tent nae flowers that busk the field, Or ripest berries that our mountains yield. The sweetest fruits that hing upon the tree, Are far inferior to a kiss of thee. _Peg._ But Patrick, for some wicked end, may fleech, And lambs should tremble when the foxes preach. I dare na stay--ye joker, let me gang, } Anither lass may gar ye change your sang; } Your thoughts may flit, and I may thole the wrang. }