Patie. Daft gowk! leave aff that silly whinging way!  Seem careless:  there’s my hand ye’ll win the day.  Hear how I served my lass I love as weel As ye do Jenny and with heart as leel.  Last morning I was gay and early out; Upon a dyke I leaned, glowring about.  I saw my Meg come linkan o’er the lea; I saw my Meg, but Peggy saw na me, For yet the sun was wading thro’ the mist, And she was close upon me e’er she wist:  Her coats were kiltit, and did sweetly shaw Her straight bare legs, that whiter were than snaw.  Her cockernony snooded up fou sleek, Her haffet-locks hang waving on her cheek; Her cheeks sae ruddy, and her een sae clear; And, oh, her mouth’s like ony hinny pear; Neat, neat she was in bustine waistcoat clean, As she came skiffing o’er the dewy green.  Blythesome I cried, ’My bonnie Meg, come here!  I ferly wherefore ye’re sae soon asteer,

  But I can guess ye’re gawn to gather dew.’ 
  She scoured awa, and said, ‘What’s that to you?’
  ‘Then fare ye weel, Meg Dorts, and e’en’s ye like,’
  I careless cried, and lap in o’er the dyke. 
  I trow when, that she saw, within a crack
  She came with a right thieveless errand back: 
  Misca’d me first; then bade me hound my dog,
  To wear up three waff ewes strayed on the bog. 
  I leugh, an sae did she:  then with great haste
  I clasped my arms about her neck and waist,
  About her yielding waist, and took a fourth
  Of sweetest kisses frae her glowing mouth;
  While hard and fast I held her in my grips,
  My very saul came louping to my lips;
  Sair, sair she flet wi’ me ’tween ilka smack,
  But weel I kenned she meant nae as she spak. 
  Dear Roger, when your jo 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 wood.

  Dear Roger, if your Jenny geck,
  And answer kindness with a slight,
  Seem unconcerned at her neglect;
  For women in a man delight,
  But them despise who’re soon defeat
  And with a simple face give way
  To a repulse:  then he not blate;
  Push bauldly on, and win the day.

  When maidens, innocently young,
  Say aften what they never mean,
  Ne’er mind their pretty lying tongue,
  But tent the language of their een: 
  If these agree, and she persist
  To answer all your love with hate,
  Seek elsewhere to be better blest,
  And let her sigh when’tis too late.

  Roger. Kind Patie, now fair fa’ your honest heart! 
  Ye’re ay sae cadgy, and have sie an art

  To hearten ane; for now, as clean’s a leek,
  Ye’ve cherished me since ye began to speak. 
  Sae, for your pains, I’ll mak ye a propine
  (My mother, rest her saul! she made it fine)—­
  A tartan plaid, spun of good hawslock woo,
  Scarlet and green the sets, the borders blue,
  With spraings like gowd and siller crossed with black;
  I never had it yet upon my back: 
  Weel are ye wordy o’ ’t, what have sae kind
  Sed up my reveled doubts and cleared my mind.