— The wawking of the fauld . PATIE sings . My Peggy is a young thing , Just enter 'd in her teens , Fair as the day , and sweet as May , Fair as the day , and always gay . My Peggy is a young thing , And I 'm not very auld ; Yet well I like to meet her , at The wawking of the fauld . My Peggy speaks sae sweetly , Whene'er we meet alane , I wish nae mair to lay my care , I wish nae mair of a ’ that 's rare . My Peggy speaks sae sweetly , To a ’ the lave I 'm cauld ; But she gars a ’ my spirits glow At wawking of the fauld . My Peggy smiles sae kindly , Whene'er I whisper love , That I look down on a ’ the town , That I look down upon a crown . My Peggy smiles sae kindly , It makes me blyth and bauld ; And naething gi'es me sic delight , As wawking of the fauld . My Peggy sings sae saftly , When on my pipe I play ; By a ’ the rest it is confest , By a ’ the rest that she sings best . My Peggy sings sae saftly , And in her sangs are tauld , With innocence , the wale of sense , At wawking of the fauld . PATIE . This sunny morning , Roger , chears my blood , And puts all nature in a jovial mood . How heartsome ‘ tis to see the rising plants ! To hear the birds chirm o'er their pleasing rants ! How halesome ‘ tis to snuff the cauler air , And all the sweets it bears , when void of care ! What ails thee , Roger , then ? what gars thee grane ? Tell me the cause of thy ill-season 'd pain .