O let me He within your breast:
And at your dainty table feast;
Well do I like your gowd to finger.
And fit to hear your———Singer;
While on this sun shine o’ the brae,
Belongs to you my limbs I'll lay.
Rosie. I own Sweet Sir ye woo me frankly
But a' yoar courtship fars sae rankly
Of selfish int‘rest that im steed
My person least employ’s your head.
Jouk. What a distinction's this you’re making,
When your poor lover’s heart is breaking ;
Wi' little logic I can shew,
That every thing you have is you;
Besides the beauties of your person,
These beds of floors you set your a—e on,
Your claithes, your land your liyng pelf,
Are ev’ry ane your very self,
And add fresh lustre to those graces
With which adorned your saul and face is.
Rosie. Ye seem to have a loving flame
For me, and hate your native hame,
That gars me ergh to trust you meikle.
For fear you should prove fale and fickle,
Jouk. In troh my rugged billy Bristle,
About his gentry maks sick fistle,
That if a body contradict him
He’s ready wi’ a dark to stick him;
That wearies me o' hame, I vow
And fain would live and die wi' you.
Bard. Observing Jouk a wee ttle tipsy,
Smirking reply’d the pauky gipsy,
I
