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Dialogue on agarriage.

PEGGY AND JENNY.

A flowery howm, between twa verdant braes,
Where lasses used to wash and spread their claes,
A trottin' burnie whimpling through the ground,
Its channel peebles, shining, smooth and round :
Hlere view twa barefoot beauties, clean and clear ;
First please your eye, then gratisy your ear :
While Jenny what she wishes discommends,
And Meg, wi' better sense, true love defends.

Jenny. Come, Meg, let's fa’ to wark upon this green, This shining day will bleach our linen clean ; The water clear, the lift's unclouded blue, Will mak them like a lily wet wi' dew.

Peggy. Gae farer up the burn to Habbie's How,
Where a' the sweets o' spring an' simmer grow;
Between twa birks, out o'er a little linn,
The water fa’s and maks a singin' din :
A pool breast-deep beneath as clear as glass,
Kisses with easy whirls the bord'ring grass.
We'll end our washing while the morning's cool,
And when the day grows het, we'll to the pool ;
There wash oursels—’tis healthfu' now in May,
And sweetly cauler on sae warm a day.

Jenny. Daft lassie, when we're naked, what'll ye say Gif our twa herds come brattling down the brae, And see us sae ? that jeering fallow Pate, Wad taunting say, Haith, lasses, ye’re no blate!

Peggy. We're far frae ony road, and out o' sight; The lads they're feeding far beyont the height. But tell me now, dear Jenny (we're our lane), What gars ye plague your wooer wi' disdain ? The neibours a' tent this as weel as I, That Roger loes ye, yet ye carena by. What ails ye at him ? Troth, between us twa, He's wordy you the best day e'er ye saw.

Jenny. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end ;
A herd mair sheepish yet I never kend.
He kaims his hair, indeed, and gaes right snug,
Wi' ribbon knots at his blue bonnet lug,
Whilk pensylie he wears a thought a-jee,
And spreads his gartens diced beneath his knee:
He faulds his o'erlay down his breast wi' care,
And few gang trigger to the kirk or fair :
For a' that, he can neither sing nor say,
Except “ How d'ye ?"--or, “ There's a bonny day.”

Peggy. Ye dash the lad wi' constant slighting pride, Hatred for love is unco sair to bide; But ye'll repent ye, if his love grow cauld : What like's a dorty maiden when she's auld ?

W

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