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O let me lie within your breaſt:
Add at your dainty tazle feaſt:
Well do I like your goud to finger,
And ſit to her your ſt—ſs Singer.
While on thus ſun ſide o' the brae,
Belongs to you, my limbs I'll lay
Roſie. I own, ſweet Sir, ye woo me frankly,
But a' your courtſhip ſars ſae rankly,
Of selfiſh intereſt, that I'm flead,
My perſon leaſt employs your head.
Joukum What a diſtinction's this your making
When your poor lover's heart is breaking;
With little logic I can thew,
That every thing you have is you:
Beſides the beauties of your perſon,
Theſe beds of flowers you ſet your a--e on,
Your claiths, your lands, and lying pelf,
Are every ane your very self,
And add freſh luſture to theſe graces,
With which adorn'd 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 ſhou'd prove falſe and fickle.
Joukum. I troth my rugged billy Briſtle,
About his gentrie makes ſic fiſtle,
That if a body contradict him
He's ready with a durk to ſtick him;
That wearies me of hame I vow,
And fain would live and die with you.
Bard Observing Jouk a wee tate tipſy,
Smirking reply'd the pauky gipſy.