Patie. The bees shall loathe the flow'r, and quit the hive,

The saughs on boggy ground shall cease to thrive,
Ere scornfu' queens, or loss o' warldly gear,

Shall spoil my rest, or ever force a tear.

Roger. Sae might I say; but it's no easy done

By ane whase saul's sae sadly out o' tune.
You have sae saft a voice, an' slid a tongue,
You are the darling o' baith auld and young.
If I but ettle at a sang, or speak,

They dit their lugs, syne up their leglens cleek,
And jeer me hameward frae the lone or bught,
While I'm confus'd wi' mony a vexing thought.
Yet I am tall, and as weel built as thee,
Nor mair unlikely to a lass's eye,

For ilka sheep ye hae, I'll number ten,

An' should, as ane may think, come farer ben.

Patie. But aiblins, neibour, ye have not a heart, And downa eithly wi' your cunzie part.

If that be, what signifies your gear?

A mind that's scrimpit never wants some care.

Roger. My byar tumbl'd, nine braw nowt were smoored,

Three elf-shot were; yet I these ills endur'd:

In winter last my cares were very sma',

Tho' scores o' wathers perish'd in the snaw.

Patie. Were your bein rooms as thinly stock'd as mine,

Less ye wad lose, and less ye wad repine.

He that has just enough can soundly sleep;

The o'ercome only fashes fouk to keep.

Roger. May plenty flow upon thee for a cross, That thou may'st thole the pangs of mony a loss! O may'st thou doat on some fair paughty wench, That ne'er will lout thy lowan drowth to quench, Till, bris'd beneath the burden, thou cry dool,: And awn that ane may fret that is nae fool!

Patie. Sax good fat lambs, I sald them ilka clute At the West-port, and bought a winsome flute, O' plum-tree made, with ivory virles round; A dainty whistle, with a pleasant sound; I'll be mair scanty wi't, and ne'er cry dool, Than you, wi' a' your cash, ye dowie fool!

Roger. Na, Patie, na! I'm nae sic churlish beast: Some other thing lies heavier at my breast;

I dream'd a dreary dream this hinder night,

That gars my flesh a' creep yet wi' the fright.
Patie. Now, to a friend, how silly's this pretence,

To ane wha you and a' your secrets kens;

Daft are your dreams, as daftly wad ye hide
Your weel-seen love, an' dorty Jenny's pride:

Tak courage, Roger, me your sorrows tell,

And safely think nane kens them but yoursel.

Roger. Indeed, now, Patie, ye hae guess'd owre true,

And there is naething I'll keep up frae you.

Me dorty Jenny looks upon asquint,

To speak but till her I daur hardly mint;

In ilka place she jeers me air and late,
And gars me look bombaz'd, and unco blate.

But yesterday I met her yont a knowe,
She fled, as frae a shelly-coated cow:

She Bauldy loes, Bauldy that drives the car,
But gecks at me, and says I smell o' tar.

Patie. But Bauldy loes not her, right weel I wat,
He sighs for Neps-sae that may stand for that.

Roger. I wish I cou'dna loe her-but, in vain, I still maun doat, and thole her proud disdain. My Bawty is a cur I dearly like,

Even while he fawn'd, she strak the poor dumb tyke;
If I had fill'd a nook within her breast,

She wad hae shawn mair kindness to my beast.
When I begin to tune my stock and horn,

Wi' a' her face she shaws a cauldrife scorn.

Last night I play'd, (ye never heard sic spite!)
O'er Bogie was the spring, and her delyte;

Yet, tauntingly, she at her cousin speer'd,

Gif she cou'd tell what tune I play'd, and sneer'd.
Flocks, wander where ye like, I dinna care,

I'll break my reed, and never whistle mair.

Patie. E'en do sae, Roger, wha can help misluck, Saebeins she be sic a thrawn-gabbit chuck?

Yonder's a craig, sin' ye hae tint a' houp,

Gae till't your ways, and tak the lover's loup.

Roger. I needna mak sic speed my blood to spill,

I'll warrant death come soon eneugh a-will.

Patie. Daft gowk! leave aff that silly whinging way;

Seem careless, there's my hand ye'll win the day.

Hear how I serv'd my lass I looe as weel,
As ye do Jenny, and wi' heart as leal.
Last morning I was gay and early out,
Upon a dyke I lean'd, glowring about;
I saw my Meg come linking o'er the lee;
I saw my Meg, but Maggy saw nae me;
For yet the sun was wading thro' the mist,
And she was close upon me e'er she wist;

Neat, neat she was, in bustine waistcoat clean,

As she came skiffing o'er the dewy green: Blythesome, I cry'd, "My bonny Meg, come here,

I ferly wherefore ye're sae soon asteer;

But I can guess, ye're gawn to gather dew:"
She scour'd awa, an' said, "What's that to you?"
"Then fare ye weel, Meg Dorts, and e'en's ye like,”
I careless cry'd, and lap in o'er the dyke;
I trow, when that she saw, within a crack,
She cam with a right thieveless errand back;
Misca'd me first, then bade me hound my dog,
To wear up three waff ewes stray'd on the bog.

Dear Roger, when your joe puts on her gloom,
Do ye sae too, and never fash your thumb,
Seem to forsake her, soon she'll change her mood;
Gae woo anither, and she'll gang clean wud.

Roger. Kind Patie, now fair fa' your honest heart,
Ye're ay sae cadgy, and hae sic an art
To hearten ane: for now, as clean's a leek,
Ye've cherish'd me since ye began to speak.
Sae, for your pains, I'll mak you a propine,
(My mother, rest her saul! she made it fine;)
A tartan plaid, spun of good hawslock woo,
Scarlet an' green the sets, the borders blue:
Wi' spraings like gowd an' siller, cross'd wi' black;
I never had it yet upon my back.

Weel are ye wordy o't, wha hae sae kind

Redd up my ravel'd doubts, and clear'd my mind.

Patie. Weel, haud ye there-and since ye've frankly made

To me a present o' your bran new plaid,