SANG V. Tune, How can I be sad on my, &c.
How shall I be sad when a husband 1 bae,
That has better sense than any 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 wi' dull reproaches encourages strife,
He praises her virtues, and ne'er will abuse
Her for a small failing, but find an excuse.
'Yes, 't is 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,
Then 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 o' them, when love makes care delight?
Jenny. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst of a',
Gif o'er your heads ill chance should begg'ry 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 on the day of payment, breaks and flees.
Wi' glooman brow the laird seeks in his rent;
'Tis not to gie, your merchant's to the bent:
His honour manna want, he poinds your gear;
Syne driven fra house and hald, where will
Dear Meg be wise, and lead a single life:
Troth, 't is nae mows to be a married wife.
Peggy. May sic ill-luck befa' that silly she
Wha has sic fears, for that was never me.
Let fowk bode weel, and strive to do their best :
Nae mair's required; let Heaven make out the rest.
I've heard my honest uncle aften say,
That lads should a' for wives that 's virtuous pray :
For the maist thrifty man could never get
A weel 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.
Whate'er he wins, I'll guide wi` canny care,
And win the vogue at market, trone or fair,
For halesome, clean, cheap, and sufficient ware.
A flock o' lambs, cheese, butter, and some woo;
Shall first be sald to pay the laird his due.
Syne a' behinds our ain-thus without fear,
Wi' love and rowth we through the warld will steer; And when my Pate in bairns and gear grows rife, He'll bless the day he gat me for a wife.
Jenny. But what if some young giglet on the green, Wi' dimpled cheeks, and twa bewitching een, Shou'd gar your Patie think his ha'f worn Meg, And her kend kisses hardly worth a feg?
Peggy. Nae mair of that-Dear Jenny to be free, There's some men constanter in love than we;
Nor is the ferly great, when nature kind
Has blest them wi' solidity of mind,
'They'll reason calmly, and wi' kindness smile,
When our short passions wad our peace beguile;
Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks at hame,
'Tis ten to ane their wives are maist to blame.
Then I'll employ wi' pleasure a' my art,
To keep him chearfu' and secure his heart,
At e'en when he comes weary frae the hill,
I'll ha'e a' things made ready to his will;
In winter when he toils through wind and rain,
A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearth stane;
And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff,
The seething pot 's be ready to take aff;
Clean hag-a-bag I'll spread upon his board,
And serve him wi' the best we can afford.
Good humour and white bigonets shall be
Guards to my face, to keep his love for me.
Jenny. A dish of married love right soon grows cauld,
And dozens down to nane, as fowk grow auld.
Peggy. But we'll grow auld together and ne'er find The loss of youth, when love grows on the mind. Bairns and their bairns make sure a firmer tye, Than aught in love the like of us can spy. See yon twa elins that grow up side by side; Suppose them some years syne bridegroom and bride; Nearer and nearer ilka year they've prest,
Till wide their spreading branches are increas't,
And in their mixture now are fully blest.
This shields the other frae the eastlen blast,
That in return defends it frae the wast.
Sic as stand single-(a state sae lik'd by you!)
Beneath ilk storm fra
every airth maun bow.
Jenny. I've done-I yield, dear lassie, I maun yield;
Your better sense has fairly won the field,
With the assistance of a little fae,
Lies darn'd within my breast this mony a day.
SANG VI. Tune, Nancy's to the green wood gane.
Iyield, dear lassie, ye have won,
And there is nae denying,
That sure as light flows frae the sun,
Frae love proceeds complying;
For a' that we can do or say,
'Gainst love, nae thinker heeds us, They ken our bosoms lodge the fae,
That by the heart-strings leads us.
Peggy. Alake! poor prisoner! Jenny that 's no fair,
That ye 'll no let the wee thing tak the air :
Haste, let him out, we'll tent as weel's we can,
Giff he be Bauldy's, or poor Roger's man.
Jenny. Anither time 's as good-for see the sun
Is right far up, and we 're not yet begun
To freath the graith-if canker'd Madge our aunt
Come up the burn, she 'll gie's a wicked rant:
But when we've done I'll tell ye a' my mind;
For this seems true-nae lass can be unkind. [Exeunt.
A snug thack-house, before the door a green:
Hens on the midding, ducks in dubs are seen.
On this side stands a barn, on that a byre:
A peet stack joins, and forms a rural square.
The house is Glaud's---there you may see him lean,
And to his divet seat invite his friend.
GOOD morrow, nibour Symon-come, sit down,
And gies your cracks-What's a' the news in town?
They tell me ye was in the ither day,
And sald your crummock, and her bassen'd quey.
I'll warrant ye 've coft a pund o' cut and dry;
Lug out your box, and gie's a pipe to try.
Symon. Wi' a' my heart; and tent me now, auld boy,
I've gather'd news will kittle your mind wi' joy:
I cou❜dna rest tiil I came o'er the burn,
To tell you things ha'e taken sic a turn;
Will gar our vile oppressors stand like fleas,
And skulk in hidlings on the hether braes.
Glaud. Fy, blaw!-Ah, Symie! rattling chiels ne'er stand
To cleck and spread the grossest lies aff-hand,
Whilk soon flies round like will-fire, far and near:
But louse your poke, be 't true or false let's hear.
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