_Glaud._ Ay, ay, nae doubt o't, and he'll do't again; But, be advis'd, his company refrain: Before, he as a shepherd, sought a wife, With her to live a chast and frugal life; But now grown gentle, soon he will forsake Sic godly thoughts, and brag of being a rake. _Peg._ A rake! what's that?--Sure if it means ought ill, He'll never be't, else I have tint my skill. _Glaud._ Daft lassie, ye ken nought of the affair, Ane young and good and gentle's unco rare. A rake's a graceless spark, that thinks nae shame, To do what like of us thinks sin to name: Sic are sae void of shame, they'll never stap To brag how aften they have had the clap. They'll tempt young things, like you, with youdith flush'd, Syne make ye a' their jest, when ye're debauched. Be warry then, I say, and never gi'e Encouragement, or bourd with sic as he. _Peg._ Sir William's vertuous, and of gentle blood; And may not Patrick too, like him, be good? _Glaud._ That's true, and mony gentry mae than he, As they are wiser, better are than we; But thinner sawn: They're sae puft up with pride, There's mony of them mocks ilk haly guide, That shaws the gate to Heaven.--I've heard mysell, Some of them laugh at doomsday, sin and hell. _Jen._ Watch o'er us, father! heh! that's very odd; Sure him that doubts a doomsday, doubts a God. _Glaud._ Doubt! why, they neither doubt, nor judge, nor think, Nor hope, nor fear; but curse, debauch and drink; But I'm no saying this, as if I thought That Patrick to sic gates will e'er be brought. _Peg._ The Lord forbid! Na, he kens better things: But here comes aunt; her face some ferly brings. _Enter_ MADGE. _Mad._ Haste, haste ye; we're a' sent for o'er the gate, To hear, and help to redd some odd debate 'Tween Mause and Bauldy, 'bout some witchcraft spell, At Symon's house: The Knight sits judge himsell. _Glaud._ Lend me my staff;--Madge, lock the outer-door, And bring the lasses wi' ye; I'll step before. [_Exit_ GLAUD. _Mad._ Poor Meg!--Look, Jenny, was the like e'er seen, How bleer'd and red with greeting look her een? This day her brankan wooer takes his horse, To strute a gentle spark at Edinburgh cross; To change his kent, cut frae the branchy plain, For a nice sword, and glancing headed cane; To leave his ram-horn spoons, and kitted whey, For gentler tea, that smells like new won hay; To leave the green-swaird dance, when we gae milk, To rustle amang the beauties clad in silk. But Meg, poor Meg! maun with the shepherd stay, And tak what God will send, in hodden-gray.