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Who is, as they have said, the very match Which our old laird is planning for his son.

Ay, he may plan, but love will have its way,— Free, fitful love thinks scorn of prudent planning. No, young Dunarden went not to the town, With simple Culloch for his sole attendant, To see the provost's daughter.

And so he will not join us till the evening?

No, damsels; but here's ribands for the bride, And for ye all, which he has sent by me. Now they who have the nimblest hands amongst ye, Will catch their favourite colours as they fly. [Exeunt.