O 'tis a pleasant thing to be a bride;
Syne whinging getts about your ingle-side,
Yelping for this or that wi' fasheous din;

105 To mak them brats then ye maun toil and spin. Ae wean fa's sick, ane scads itsell wi' broe,

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Ane breaks his shin, anither tines his shoe;

The Deil gaes o'er Jock Wabster, hame grows hell, An' Pate misca's ye waur than tongue can tell.

Peggy. Yes, it's a heartsome thing to be a wife, When round the ingle-edge young sprouts are rife. Gif I'm sae happy, I shall hae delight

To hear their little plaints, an' keep them right.
Wow! Jenny, can there greater pleasure be,
115 Than see sic wee tots toolying at your knee;
When a' they ettle at their greatest wish,

120

Is to be made o', an' obtain a kiss?

Can there be toil in tenting day an' night

The like o' them, when love makes care delight? Jenny. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst o' a', Gif o'er your heads ill-chance should begg'ry draw, But little love or canty cheer can come Frae duddy doublets, an' a pantry toom. Your nowt may die; - the spate may bear away 125 Frae aff the howms your dainty rucks o' hay; The thick-blawn wreaths o' snaw, or blashy thows, May smoor your wathers, an' may rot your ewes. A dyvour buys your butter, woo, and cheese, But, or the day o' payment, breaks, an' flees:

Wi' gloomin' brow, the laird seeks in his rent;
It's no to gie; your merchant's to the bent:

His honour maunna want; he poinds your gear:
Syne, driven frae house an' hald, where will ye steer?
Dear Meg, be wise, an' live a single life;
Troth, it's 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 fouk bode weel, an' strive to do their best;
Nae mair's required; let Heav'n mak 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,
An' win the vogue at market, tron, or fair,
For halesome, clean, cheap, and sufficient ware.
A flock o' lambs, cheese, butter, an' some woo,
Shall first be sald, to pay the laird his due;
Syne a' behind's our ain. Thus, without fear,
Wi' love an' rowth, we thro' the warld will steer;
An' when my Pate in bairns an' gear grows rife,
He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife.

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Jenny. But what if some young giglet on the green, 155 Wi' dimpled cheeks an' twa bewitching een,

Shou'd gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg,

An' her kend kisses, hardly worth a feg?

Peggy. Nae mair o' that — Dear Jenny, to be free,
160 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, an wi' kindness smile,
When our short passions wad our peace beguile:
165 Sae, when soe'er they slight their maiks at hame,
It's ten to ane the wives are maist to blame.
Then I'll employ wi' pleasure a' my art
To keep him cheerfu', an' secure his heart.
At e'en, when he comes weary frae the hill,
170 I'll hae a' things made ready to his will.

In winter, when he toils thro' wind an' rain,
A bleezing ingle, an' a clean hearth-stane;
An' soon as he flings by his plaid an' staff,
The seething pat's be ready to tak aff;
175 Clean hag-a-bag I'll spread upon his board,
An' serve him wi' the best we can afford;
Good humour an' white bigonets shall be
Guards to my face, to keep his love for me.

Jenny. A dish o' married love right soon grows
cauld,

180 An' dosens down to nane, as fouk grow auld.

Peggy. But we'll grow auld thegither, an' ne'er find The loss o' youth, when love grows on the mind. Bairns and their bairns mak sure a firmer tye, Than aught in love the like of us can spy.

See yon twa elms that grow up side by side,

Suppose them, some years syne, bridegroom an' bride;
Nearer an' nearer ilka year they've prest,

Till wide their spreading branches are increas'd
An' in their mixture now are fully blest:
This, shields the other frae the eastlin blast,
That, in return, defends it frae the wast.
Sic as stand single (a state sae liked by you!)
Beneath ilk storm, frae every airt, 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.

Jenny, that's no fair,

Peggy. Alake, poor pris'ner!
That ye'll no let the wee thing tak the air:

Haste, let him out; we'll tent as well's we can,
Gif he be Bauldy's or poor Roger's man.

Jenny. Anither time's as good — for see, the sun
Is right far up, an' 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.

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LOCHABER NO MORE

FAREWELL to Lochaber, an' farewell my Jean,
Where heartsome wi' thee I've mony day been;
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more,

We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more.

These tears that I shed, they are a' for my dear,
An' no for the dangers attending on weir,
Tho' borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore,
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.

Tho' hurricanes rise, an' rise every wind,

They'll ne'er mak a tempest like that in my mind;
Tho' loudest o' thunders on louder waves roar,
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore.
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain'd;
By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gain'd;
An' beauty an' love's the reward o' the brave,
An' I must deserve it before I can crave.

Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse;
Since honour commands me, how can I refuse?
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee,

An' without thy favour I'd better not be.
I gae, then, my lass, to win honour an' fame,
An' if I shou'd luck to come gloriously hame,
I'll bring a heart to thee wi' love running o'er,
An' then I'll leave thee an' Lochaber no more.