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A dyvour buys your butter, woo, and cheefe.
Bat, or the day of payment, breaks and flees.
Wi* glooman brow the laird feeks in his rent:
' Tis no to gie ; your merchant's to the bent:
His honour maunna want; he poins your gear :
Syne, driven frae houfe and hald, where will ye fteer?
Dear Meg, be wife, and lead a fingle life ;
Troth, it's nae mows to be a married wife.
Peggy- May fie ill luck befa' that filiy fhe
Wha has fie fears, for that was never me.
Let fouk bode wiel, and flirive to do their beft ;
Nae mair's requir'd ; let heaven make out the reft.
I've heard my honeft uncle afcen fay
That lads Ihou'd a* for wives that's virtuous pray ;
For the maift thrifty man could never get
A wiel ftor'd room, unlefs his wife wad let :
Wherefore nocht fliall be wanting on my part
To gather wealth to raife my Shepherd's heart :
Whate'er he wins, I'll guide wi' canny care,
And win the vogue at market, tron, or fair.
For healfome, clean, cheap, and fufficient ware.
A flock of lambs, cheei°, butter, and fome woo,
Shall firfi: be fald to pay rhe laird his due :
Syne a' behind's our ain thus without fear,
Wi' love and rowth we thro' the warld will fteer ;
And when my fate in bairns and gear grows rife,
Ke'U blefs the day he gat me for his wife.
Jenny. But what if fome young giglet on the green,
Wi' dimpled cheeks, and tvva bewitching een,
Shou'd gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg,
And her kend kifles hardly worth a feg ?
P^iSy- Nae mair of that— Dear Jenny, to be freci
Tfeere's fome meB conftanter in love tkan we ;

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