If it were not for offending only your Ladyship, here, Madam, I might give the fullest liberty to my muse to delineate the finest of women, by drawing your Ladyship's character, and be in no hazard of being deemed a flatterer; since flattery lyes not in paying what's due to merit, but in praises misplaced.

Were I to begin with your Ladyship's honourable birth and alliance, the field's ample, and presents us with numberless great and good Patriots that have dignified the names of Kennedy and Montgomery: Be that the care of the herauld and historian. 'Tis personal merit, and the heavenly sweetness of the fair, that inspire the tuneful lays. Here every Lesbia must be excepted, whose tongues give liberty to the slaves, which their eyes had made captives. Such may be flatter'd; but your Ladyship justly claims our admiration and profoundest respect: for, whilst you are possest of every outward charm in the most perfect degree, the never-fading beauties of wisdom and piety, which adorn your Ladyship's mind, command devotion.

"All this is very true," cries one of better sense than good nature, "but what occasion have you to tell us the sun shines, when we have the use of our eyes, and feel his influence?"—Very true; but I have the liberty to use the Poet's privilege, which is, "To speak what every body thinks." Indeed, there might be some strength in the reflection, if the Idalian registers were of as short duration as life: but the bard, who fondly hopes immortality, has a certain praise-worthy pleasure in communicating to posterity the fame of distinguished characters.——I write this last sentence with a hand that trembles between hope and fear: But if I shall prove so happy as to please your Ladyship in the following attempt, then all my doubts shall vanish like a morning vapour:—I shall hope to be classed with Tasso and Guarini, and sing with Ovid,

"If 'tis allowed to Poets to divine,
One half of round eternity is mine."
 
 
Madam,
Your Ladyship's most obedient,
and most devoted servant,
ALLAN RAMSAY.
Edinburgh, June, 1725.

TO THE

COUNTESS OF EGLINTOUN,

WITH THE FOLLOWING PASTORAL.

Accept, O Eglintoun! the rural lays,
That, bound to thee, thy duteous Poet pays!
The muse, that oft has rais'd her tuneful strains,
A frequent guest on Scotia's blissful plains,
That oft has sung, her list'ning youth to move,
The charms of beauty and the force of love,
Once more resumes the still successful lay,
Delighted, thro' the verdant meads to stray.
O! come, invok'd, and pleas'd, with Her repair,
To breathe the balmy sweets of purer air,
In the cool evening negligently laid,
Or near the stream, or in the rural shade,
Propitious hear, and, as thou hear'st, approve
The Gentle Shepherd's tender tale of love.
Instructed from these scenes, what glowing fires
Inflame the breast that real love inspires!
The fair shall read of ardours, sighs, and tears,
All that a lover hopes, and all he fears:
Hence, too, what passions in his bosom rise!
What dawning gladness sparkles in his eyes!
When first the fair one, piteous of his fate,
Cur'd of her scorn, and vanquish'd of her hate,
With willing mind, is bounteous to relent,
And blushing, beauteous, smiles the kind consent!
Love's passion here in each extreme is shown,
In Charlot's smile, or in Maria's frown.
With words like these, that fail'd not to engage,
Love courted beauty in a golden age,
Pure and untaught, such nature first inspir'd,
Ere yet the fair affected phrase desir'd.
His secret thoughts were undisguis'd with art,
His words ne'er knew to differ from his heart:
He speaks his love so artless and sincere,
As thy Eliza might be pleas'd to hear.
Heaven only to the Rural State bestows
Conquest o'er life, and freedom from its woes:
Secure alike from Envy and from Care;
Nor rais'd by Hope, nor yet depress'd by Fear:
Nor Want's lean hand its happiness constrains,
Nor Riches torture with ill-gotten gains.
No secret Guilt its stedfast peace destroys,
No wild Ambition interrupts its joys.
Blest still to spend the hours that Heav'n has lent
In humble goodness, and in calm content:
Serenely gentle, as the thoughts that roll,
Sinless and pure, in fair Humeia's soul.
But now the Rural State these joys has lost;
Even swains no more that innocence can boast:
Love speaks no more what beauty may believe,
Prone to betray, and practis'd to deceive.
Now happiness forsakes her blest retreat,
The peaceful dwellings where she fix'd her seat;
The pleasing fields she wont of old to grace,
Companion to an upright sober race;
When on the sunny hill, or verdant plain,
Free and familiar with the sons of men,
To crown the pleasures of the blameless feast,
She uninvited came a welcome guest;
Ere yet an age, grown rich in impious arts,
Brib'd from their innocence incautious hearts:
Then grudging hate, and sinful pride succeed,
Cruel revenge, and false unrighteous deed;
Then dow'rless beauty lost the power to move;
The rust of lucre stain'd the gold of love:
Bounteous no more, and hospitably good,
The genial hearth first blush'd with stranger's blood:
The friend no more upon the friend relies,
And semblant falsehood puts on truth's disguise:
The peaceful houshold fill'd with dire alarms;
The ravish'd virgin mourns her slighted charms:
The voice of impious mirth is heard around;
In guilt they feast, in guilt the bowl is crowned:
Unpunish'd violence lords it o'er the plains,
And Happiness forsakes the guilty swains.
Oh Happiness! from human search retir'd,
Where art thou to be found, by all desir'd?
Nun, sober and devout! why art thou fled,
To hide in shades thy meek contented head?
Virgin of aspect mild! ah! why, unkind,
Fly'st thou, displeas'd, the commerce of mankind?
O! teach our steps to find the secret cell,
Where, with thy sire, Content, thou lov'st to dwell.
Or say, dost thou, a duteous handmaid, wait
Familiar at the chambers of the great?
Dost thou pursue the voice of them that call
To noisy revel, and to midnight ball?
O'er the full banquet when we feast our soul,
Dost thou inspire the mirth, or mix the bowl?
Or, with th' industrious planter dost thou talk,
Conversing freely in an evening walk?
Say, does the miser e'er thy face behold,
Watchful and studious of the treasur'd gold?
Seeks Knowledge, not in vain, thy much lov'd pow'r,
Still musing silent at the morning hour?
May we thy presence hope in war's alarms,
The Statesman's wisdom, or the Fair-one's charms?
In vain our flatt'ring hopes our steps beguile,
The flying good eludes the searcher's toil:
In vain we seek the city or the cell,
Alone with Virtue knows the Pow'r to dwell.
Nor need mankind despair these joys to know,
The gift themselves may on themselves bestow.
Soon, soon we might the precious blessing boast,
But many passions must the blessing cost;
Infernal Malice, inly pining Hate,
And Envy, grieving at another's state:
Revenge no more must in our hearts remain,
Or burning Lust, or Avarice of gain.
When these are in the human bosom nurst,
Can Peace reside in dwellings so accurst?
Unlike, O Eglintoun! thy happy breast,
Calm and serene enjoys the heavenly guest;
From the tumultuous rule of passions free'd,
Pure in thy thought, and spotless in thy deed:
In virtues rich, in goodness unconfin'd,
Thou shin'st a fair example to thy kind;
Sincere and equal to thy neighbour's fame,
How swift to praise, but how averse to blame!
Bold in thy presence bashful Sense appears,
And backward Merit loses all its fears.
Supremely blest by Heav'n, Heav'n's richest grace,
Confest is thine, an early blooming race;
Whose pleasing smiles shall guardian Wisdom arm,
Divine Instruction! taught of thee to charm:
What transports shall they to thy soul impart,
(The conscious transports of a parent's heart)
When thou behold'st them of each grace possest,
And sighing youths imploring to be blest!
After thy image form'd, with charms like thine,
Or in the visit, or the dance to shine:
Thrice happy! who succeed their mother's praise,
The lovely Eglintouns of future days.
Meanwhile peruse the following tender scenes,
And listen to thy native Poet's strains:
In ancient garb the home-bred muse appears,
The garb our Muses wore in former years:
As in a glass reflected, here behold
How smiling goodness look'd in days of old:
Nor blush to read where beauty's praise is shown,
And virtuous love, the likeness of thy own;
While, 'midst the various gifts that gracious Heaven,
Bounteous to thee, with righteous hand has given,
Let this, O Eglintoun! delight thee most,
T' enjoy that Innocence the world has lost.
W. H.

TO

JOSIAH BURCHET, ESQ.,

SECRETARY OF THE ADMIRALTY,

WITH THE FIRST SCENE OF THE GENTLE SHEPHERD.

The nipping frosts, the driving snaw,
Are o'er the hills and far awa';
Bauld Boreas sleeps, the Zephyres blaw,
And ilka thing
Sae dainty, youthfou, gay, and bra',
Invites to sing.
 
Then let's begin by creek of day,
Kind muse skiff to the bent away,
To try anes mair the landart lay,
With a' thy speed,
Since Burchet awns that thou can play
Upon the reed.
 
Anes, anes again beneath some tree
Exert thy skill and nat'ral glee,
To him wha has sae courteously,
To weaker sight,
Set these[57] rude sonnets sung by me
In truest light.
 
In truest light may a' that's fine
In his fair character still shine,
Sma' need he has of sangs like mine
To beet his name;
For frae the north to southern line,
Wide gangs his fame.
 
His fame, which ever shall abide,
Whilst hist'ries tell of tyrants pride,
Wha vainly strave upon the tide
T' invade these lands,
Where Britain's royal fleet doth ride,
Which still commands.
 
These doughty actions frae his pen,[58]
Our age, and these to come, shall ken,
How stubborn navies did contend
Upon the waves,
How free-born Britons faught like men,
Their faes like slaves.
 
Sae far inscribing, Sir, to you,
This country sang, my fancy flew,
Keen your just merit to pursue;
But ah! I fear,
In giving praises that are due,
I grate your ear.
 
Yet tent a poet's zealous pray'r;
May powers aboon, with kindly care,
Grant you a lang and muckle skair
Of a' that's good,
Till unto langest life and mair
You've healthfu' stood.
 
May never care your blessings sowr,
And may the muses, ilka hour,
Improve your mind, and haunt your bow'r;
I'm but a callan:
Yet may I please you, while I'm your
Devoted Allan.

THE PERSONS.

MEN.

Sir William Worthy.
Patie, the Gentle Shepherd, in love with Peggy.
Roger, a rich young shepherd, in love with Jenny.
Symon, } two old shepherds, tenants to Sir William.
Glaud, }
Bauldy, a hynd engaged with Neps.

WOMEN.

Peggy, thought to be Glaud's niece.
Jenny, Glaud's only daughter.
Mause, an old woman, supposed to be a witch.
Elspa, Symon's wife.
Madge, Glaud's sister.

SCENE.—A Shepherd's Village, and Fields some few miles from Edinburgh.

Time of Action within twenty hours.

First act begins at eight in the morning.
Second act begins at eleven in the forenoon.
Third act begins at four in the afternoon.
Fourth act begins at nine o'clock at night.
Fifth act begins by day light next morning.

THE

GENTLE SHEPHERD.

ACT FIRST.

SCENE I.

Beneath the south-side of a craigy beild,
Where crystal springs the halesome waters yield,
Twa youthful shepherds on the gowans lay,
Tenting their flocks ae bonny morn of May.
Poor Roger granes, till hollow echoes ring;
But blyther Patie likes to laugh and sing.

Patie and Roger.

SANG I.—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.

Rog. I'm born, O Patie! to a thrawart fate;
I'm born to strive with hardships sad and great.
Tempests may cease to jaw the rowan flood,
Corbies and tods to grein for lambkins blood;
But I, opprest with never ending grief,
Maun ay despair of lighting on relief.

Pat. The bees shall loath the flower, and quit the hive,
The saughs on boggie-ground shall cease to thrive,
Ere scornful queans, or loss of warldly gear,
Shall spill my rest, or ever force a tear.

Rog. Sae might I say; but 'tis no easy done
By ane whase saul is sadly out of tune.
You have sae saft a voice, and slid a tongue,
You are the darling of baith auld and young.
If I but ettle at a sang, or speak,
They dit their lugs, syne up their leglens cleek;
And jeer me hameward frae the loan or bught,
While I'm confus'd with mony a vexing thought;
Yet I am tall, and as well built as thee,
Nor mair unlikely to a lass's e'e.
For ilka sheep ye have, I'll number ten,
And should, as ane may think, come farer ben.

Pat. But ablins, nibour, ye have not a heart,
And downa eithly wi' your cunzie part.
If that be true, what signifies your gear?
A mind that's scrimpit never wants some care.

Rog. My byar tumbled, nine braw nowt were smoor'd,
Three elf-shot were; yet I these ills endur'd:
In winter last, my cares were very sma',
Tho' scores of wathers perish'd in the snaw.

Pat. Were your bein rooms as thinly stock'd as mine,
Less you wad lose, and less you wad repine.
He that has just enough, can soundly sleep;
The o'ercome only fashes fowk to keep.

Rog. May plenty flow upon thee for a cross,
That thou may'st thole the pangs of mony a loss.
O may'st thou doat on some fair paughty wench,
That ne'er will lout thy lowan drouth to quench,
'Till bris'd beneath the burden, thou cry dool,
And awn that ane may fret that is nae fool.

Pat. Sax good fat lambs I said them ilka clute
At the West-Port, and bought a winsome flute,
Of plum-tree made, with iv'ry virles round;
A dainty whistle, with a pleasant sound:
I'll be mair canty wi't, and ne'er cry dool,
Than you with all your cash, ye dowie fool!

Rog. Na, Patie, na! I'm nae sic churlish beast,
Some other thing lyes heavier at my breast:
I dream'd a dreary dream this hinder night,
That gars my flesh a' creep yet with the fright.

Pat. Now, to a friend, how silly's this pretence,
To ane wha you and a' your secrets kens:
Daft are your dreams, as daftly wad ye hide
Your well seen love, and dorty Jenny's pride.
Take courage, Roger, me your sorrows tell,
And safely think nane kens them but your sell.

Rog. Indeed now, Patie, ye have guess'd o'er true,
And there is naething I'll keep up frae you:
Me dorty Jenny looks upon a-squint;
To speak but till her I dare hardly mint:
In ilka place she jeers me air and late,
And gars me look bumbaz'd, and unko blate:
But yesterday I met her 'yont a know,
She fled as frae a shellycoat or kow.
She Bauldy loes, Bauldy that drives the car;
But gecks at me, and says I smell of tar.

Pat. But Bauldy loes not her, right well I wat;
He sighs for Neps—sae that may stand for that.

Rog. I wish I cou'dna loo her—but in vain,
I still maun doat, and thole her proud disdain.
My Bawty is a cur I dearly like,
Even while he fawn'd, she strak the poor dumb tyke:
If I had fill'd a nook within her breast,
She wad have shawn mair kindness to my beast.
When I begin to tune my stock and horn,
With a' her face she shaws a caulrife scorn.
Last night I play'd, ye never heard sic spite,
O'er Bogie was the spring, and her delyte;
Yet tauntingly she at her cousin speer'd,
Gif she could tell what tune I play'd, and sneer'd.
Flocks, wander where ye like, I dinna care,
I'll break my reed, and never whistle mair.

Pat. E'en do sae, Roger, wha can help misluck,
Saebeins she be sic a thrawn-gabet chuck?
Yonder's a craig, since ye have tint all hope,
Gae till't your ways, and take the lover's lowp.

Rog. I needna mak' sic speed my blood to spill,
I'll warrant death come soon enough a will.

Pat. Daft gowk! leave off that silly whindging way;
Seem careless, there's my hand ye'll win the day.
Hear how I serv'd my lass I love as well
As ye do Jenny, and with heart as leel:
Last morning I was gay and early out,
Upon a dike I lean'd glowring about,
I saw my Meg come linkan o'er the lee;
I saw my Meg, but Meggy saw na me:
For yet the sun was wading thro' the mist,
And she was closs upon me ere she wist;
Her coats were kiltit, and did sweetly shaw
Her straight bare legs that whiter were than snaw;
Her cockernony snooded up fou sleek,
Her haffet-locks hang waving on her cheek;
Her cheek sae ruddy, and her een sae clear;
And O! her mouth's like ony hinny pear.
Neat, neat she was, in bustine waste-coat clean,
As she came skiffing o'er the dewy green.
Blythsome, I cry'd, My bonny Meg, come here,
I ferly wherefore ye're sae soon asteer;
But I can guess, ye'er gawn to gather dew:
She scour'd awa, and said, What's that to you?
Then fare ye well, Meg Dorts, and e'en's ye like,
I careless cry'd, and lap in o'er the dike.
I trow, when that she saw, within a crack,
She came with a right thievless errand back;
Misca'd me first,—then bade me hound my dog
To wear up three waff ews stray'd on the bog.
I leugh, and sae did she; then with great haste
I clasp'd my arms about her neck and waste,
About her yielding waste, and took a fouth
Of sweetest kisses frae her glowing mouth.
While hard and fast I held her in my grips,
My very saul came lowping to my lips.
Sair, sair she flet wi' me 'tween ilka smack;
But well I kent she meant nae as she spake.
Dear Roger, when your jo puts on her gloom,
Do ye sae too, and never fash your thumb.
Seem to forsake her, soon she'll change her mood;
Gae woo anither, and she'll gang clean wood.

SANG II.—Tune, Fy gar rub her o'er wi' strae.

Dear Roger, if your Jenny geck,
    And answer kindness with a slight,
Seem unconcern'd at her neglect,
    For women in a man delight;
But them despise who're soon defeat,
    And with a simple face give way
To a repulse;—then be not blate,
    Push boldly on, and win the day.
When maidens, innocently young,
    Say aften what they never mean,
Ne'er mind their pretty lying tongue,
    But tent the language of their een:
If these agree, and she persist
    To answer all your love with hate,
Seek elsewhere to be better blest,
    And let her sigh when 'tis too late.

Rog. Kind Patie, now fair fa' your honest heart,
Ye're ay sae cadgy, and have sic an art
To hearten ane: For now as clean's a leek,
Ye've cherish'd me since ye began to speak.
Sae for your pains, I'll make ye a propine.
My mother, (rest her saul!) she made it fine,
A tartan plaid, spun of good hawslock woo,
Scarlet and green the sets, the borders blew,
With spraings like gowd and siller, cross'd with black;
I never had it yet upon my back.
Well are ye wordy o't, wha have sae kind
Red up my revel'd doubts, and clear'd my mind.

Pat. Well, hald ye there;—and since ye've frankly made
A present to me of your braw new plaid,
My flute's be your's, and she too that's sae nice
Shall come a will, gif ye'll tak my advice.

Rog. As ye advise, I'll promise to observ't;
But ye maun keep the flute, ye best deserv't.
Now tak it out, and gie's a bonny spring;
For I'm in tift to hear you play and sing.

Pat. But first we'll tak a turn up to the height,
And see gif all our flocks be feeding right.
Be that time, bannocks, and a shave of cheese,
Will make a breakfast that a laird might please;
Might please the daintiest gabs, were they sae wise,
To season meat with health instead of spice.
When we have tane the grace-drink at this well,
I'll whistle fine, and sing t'ye like mysell.      [Exeunt.

ACT I.—SCENE II.

A flowrie howm between twa verdant braes,
Where lasses use to wash and spread their claiths,
A trotting burnie wimpling thro' the ground,
Its channel peebles, shining, smooth and round;
Here view twa barefoot beauties clean and clear;
First please your eye, next gratify your ear,
While Jenny what she wishes discommends,
And Meg with better sense true love defends.

Peggy and Jenny.

Jenny.

Come, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this green,
The shining day will bleech our linen clean;
The water's clear, the lift unclouded blew,
Will make them like a lilly wet with dew.

Peg. Go farer up the burn to Habby's How,
Where a' the sweets of spring and summer grow;
Between twa birks, out o'er a little lin
The water fa's, and makes a sing and din;
A pool breast-deep beneath, as clear as glass,
Kisses with easy whirles the bordring grass:
We'll end our washing while the morning's cool,
And when the day grows het, we'll to the pool,
There wash our sells—'tis healthfu' now in May,
And sweetly cauler on sae warm a day.

Jen. Daft lassie, when we're naked, what'll ye say,
Gif our twa herds come brattling down the brae,
And see us sae? that jeering fallow Pate
Wad taunting say, Haith, lasses, ye're no blate.

Peg. We're far frae ony road, and out of sight;
The lads they're feeding far beyont the height:
But tell me now, dear Jenny, (we're our lane,)
What gars ye plague your wooer with disdain?
The nibours a' tent this as well as I,
That Roger loes you, yet ye carna by.
What ails ye at him? Trowth, between us twa,
He's wordy you the best day e'er ye saw.

Jen. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end;
A herd mair sheepish yet I never kend.
He kaims his hair indeed, and gaes right snug,
With ribbon-knots at his blew bonnet-lug;
Whilk pensily he wears a thought a-jee,
And spreads his garters die'd beneath his knee.
He falds his owrlay down his breast with care;
And few gang trigger to the kirk or fair.
For a' that, he can neither sing nor say,
Except, How d'ye?—or, There's a bonny day.

Peg. Ye dash the lad with constant slighting pride,
Hatred for love is unco sair to bide:
But ye'll repent ye, if his love grows cauld.
What like's a dorty maiden when she's auld?
Like dawted we'an, that tarrows at its meat,
That for some feckless whim will orp and greet.
The lave laugh at it, till the dinner's past, }
And syne the fool thing is oblig'd to fast, }
Or scart anither's leavings at the last. }
Fy, Jenny, think, and dinna sit your time.

SANG III.—Tune, Polwart on the Green.

  The dorty will repent,
      If lover's heart grow cauld,
  And nane her smiles will tent,
      Soon as her face looks auld.

  The dawted bairn thus takes the pet,
      Nor eats, tho' hunger crave,
  Whimpers and tarrows at its meat,
      And's laught at by the lave.

  They jest it till the dinner's past;
      Thus by itself abus'd,
  The fool thing is oblig'd to fast,
      Or eat what they've refus'd.

Jen. I never thought a single life a crime.

Peg. Nor I—but love in whispers lets us ken,
That men were made for us, and we for men.

Jen. If Roger is my jo, he kens himsell;
For sic a tale I never heard him tell.
He glowrs and sighs, and I can guess the cause,
But wha's oblig'd to spell his hums and haws?
Whene'er he likes to tell his mind mair plain,
I'se tell him frankly ne'er to do't again.
They're fools that slavery like, and may be free:
The cheils may a' knit up themsells for me.

Peg. Be doing your ways; for me, I have a mind
To be as yielding as my Patie's kind.

Jen. Heh! lass, how can you loo that rattle-skull,
A very deil that ay maun hae his will?
We'll soon hear tell what a poor fighting life
You twa will lead, sae soon's ye're man and wife.

Peg. I'll rin the risk; nor have I ony fear,
But rather think ilk langsome day a year,
Till I with pleasure mount my bridal-bed,
Where on my Patie's breast I'll lean my head.
There we may kiss as lang as kissing's good,
And what we do, there's nane dare call it rude.
He's get his will: Why no? 'Tis good my part
To give him that; and he'll give me his heart.

Jen. He may indeed, for ten or fifteen days,
Mak meikle o' ye, with an unco fraise,
And daut ye baith afore fowk and your lane:
But soon as his newfangleness is gane,
He'll look upon you as his tether-stake,
And think he's tint his freedom for your sake.
Instead then of lang days of sweet delite,
Ae day be dumb, and a' the neist he'll flite:
And may be, in his barlickhoods, ne'er stick
To lend his loving wife a loundering lick.

SANG IV.—Tune, O dear mother, what shall I do?

    O dear Peggy, love's beguiling,
    We ought not to trust his smiling;
    Better far to do as I do,
    Lest a harder luck betyde you.
    Lasses, when their fancy's carry'd,
    Think of nought but to be marry'd:
    Running to a life destroys
    Heartsome, free, and youthfu' joys.

Peg. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thae want pith to move
My settl'd mind, I'm o'er far gane in love.
Patie to me is dearer than my breath;
But want of him I dread nae other skaith.
There's nane of a' the herds that tread the green
Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een.
And then he speaks with sic a taking art,
His words they thirle like musick thro' my heart.
How blythly can he sport, and gently rave,
And jest at feckless fears that fright the lave?
Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill,
He reads fell books that teach him meikle skill.
He is—but what need I say that or this?
I'd spend a month to tell you what he is!
In a' he says or does, there's sic a gait,
The rest seem coofs compar'd with my dear Pate.
His better sense will lang his love secure:
Ill-nature heffs in sauls are weak and poor.

SANG V.—Tune, How can I be sad on my wedding-day?

How shall I be sad, when a husband I hae,
That has better sense than ony of thae
Sour weak silly fallows, that study like fools,
To sink their ain joy, and make their wives snools.
The man who is prudent ne'er lightlies his wife,
Or with dull reproaches encourages strife;
He praises her virtues, and ne'er will abuse
Her for a medium failing, but find an excuse.

Jen. Hey! bonny lass of Branksome, or't be lang,
Your witty Pate will put you in a sang.
O! 'tis a pleasant thing to be a bride;
Syne whindging getts about your ingle-side,
Yelping for this or that with fasheous din,
To mak them brats then ye maun toil and spin.
Ae we'an fa's sick, ane scads it sell wi' broe,
Ane breaks his shin, anither tynes his shoe;
The Deel gaes o'er John Wobster, hame grows hell,
When Pate misca's ye war than tongue can tell.

Peg. Yes, 'tis a heartsome thing to be a wife,
When round the ingle-edge young sprouts are rife.
Gif I'm sae happy, I shall have delight,
To hear their little plaints, and keep them right.
Wow! Jenny, can there greater pleasure be,
Than see sic wee tots toolying at your knee;
When a' they ettle at—their greatest wish,
Is to be made of, and obtain a kiss?
Can there be toil in tenting day and night,
The like of them, when love makes care delight?

Jen. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst of a',
Gif o'er your heads ill chance should beggary draw:
But little love, or canty chear can come,
Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom.
Your nowt may die—the spate may bear away
Frae aff the howms your dainty rucks of hay.—
The thick blawn wreaths of snaw, or blashy thows,
May smoor your wathers, and may rot your ews.
A dyvour buys your butter, woo and cheese,
But, or the day of payment, breaks and flees.
With glooman brow the laird seeks in his rent:
'Tis no to gi'e; your merchant's to the bent;
His Honour mauna want, he poinds your gear:
Syne, driven frae house and hald, where will ye steer?
Dear Meg, be wise, and live a single life;
Troth 'tis nae mows to be a marry'd wife.

Peg. May sic ill luck befa' that silly she,
Wha has sic fears; for that was never me.
Let fowk bode well, and strive to do their best;
Nae mair's requir'd, let Heaven make out the rest.
I've heard my honest uncle aften say,
That lads shou'd a' for wives that's vertuous pray:
For the maist thrifty man you'd never get
A well stor'd room, unless his wife wad let:
Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part,
To gather wealth to raise my Shepherd's heart.
What e'er he wins, I'll guide with canny care, }
And win the vogue, at market, tron, or fair, }
For halesome, clean, cheap and sufficient ware. }
A flock of lambs, cheese, butter, and some woo,
Shall first be sald, to pay the laird his due;
Syne a' behind's our ain.—Thus, without fear,
With love and rowth we thro' the warld will steer:
And when my Pate in bairns and gear grows rife,
He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife.

Jen. But what if some young giglit on the green,
With dimpled cheeks, and twa bewitching een,
Shou'd gar your Patie think his haff-worn Meg,
And her kend kisses, hardly worth a feg?

Peg. Nae mair of that:—Dear Jenny, to be free,
There's some men constanter in love than we:
Nor is the ferly great, when nature kind
Has blest them with solidity of mind.
They'll reason calmly, and with kindness smile,
When our short passions wad our peace beguile.
Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks at hame,
'Tis ten to ane the wives are maist to blame.
Then I'll employ with pleasure a' my art
To keep him chearfu', and secure his heart.
At even, when he comes weary frae the hill,
I'll have a' things made ready to his will.
In winter, when he toils thro' wind and rain,
A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearth-stane.
And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff,
The seething pot's be ready to take aff.
Clean hagabag I'll spread upon his board,
And serve him with the best we can afford.
Good humour and white bigonets shall be
Guards to my face, to keep his love for me.

Jen. A dish of married love right soon grows cauld,
And dosens down to nane, as fowk grow auld.

Peg. But we'll grow auld togither, and ne'er find
The loss of youth, when love grows on the mind.
Bairns, and their bairns, make sure a firmer ty,
Than ought in love the like of us can spy.
See yon twa elms that grow up side by side,
Suppose them, some years syne, bridegroom and bride;
Nearer and nearer ilka year they've prest, }
'Till wide their spreading branches are increast, }
And in their mixture now are fully blest. }
This shields the other frae the eastlin blast,
That in return defends it frae the west.
Sic as stand single,—a state sae lik'd by you!
Beneath ilk storm, frae every airth, maun bow.

Jen. I've done,—I yield, dear lassie, I maun yield,
Your better sense has fairly won the field,
With the assistance of a little fae
Lyes darn'd within my breast this mony a day.

SANG VI.—Tune, Nansy's to the green-wood gane.

  I yield, dear lassie, you have won,
      And there is nae denying,
  That sure as light flows frae the sun,
      Frae love proceeds complying.
  For a' that we can do or say
      'Gainst love, nae thinker heeds us,
  They ken our bosoms lodge the fae
      That by the heartstrings leads us.

Peg. Alake! poor prisoner! Jenny, that's no fair,
That ye'll no let the wee thing tak the air:
Haste, let him out, we'll tent as well's we can,
Gif he be Bauldy's or poor Roger's man.

Jen. Anither time's as good,—for see the sun
Is right far up, and we're no yet begun
To freath the graith;—if canker'd Madge our aunt
Come up the burn, she'll gie's a wicked rant:
But when we've done, I'll tell ye a' my mind;
For this seems true,—nae lass can be unkind.
[Exeunt.

End of the First Act.

ACT SECOND.

SCENE I.

A snug thack-house, before the door a green;
Hens on the midding, ducks in dubs are seen.
On this side stands a barn, on that a byre;
A peat-stack joins, and forms a rural square.
The house is Gland's;—there you may see him lean,
And to his divot-seat invite his frien'.

Glaud and Symon.

Glaud.

Good-morrow, nibour Symon,—come sit down,
And gie's your cracks.—What's a' the news in town?
They tell me ye was in the ither day,
And sald your Crummock and her bassend quey.
I'll warrant ye've coft a pund of cut and dry;
Lug out your box, and gie's a pipe to try.

Sym. With a' my heart;—and tent me now, auld boy,
I've gather'd news will kittle your mind with joy.
I cou'dna rest till I came o'er the burn,
To tell ye things have taken sic a turn,
Will gar our vile oppressors stend like flaes,
And skulk in hidlings on the hether braes.

Glaud..Fy, blaw! Ah! Symie, ratling chiels ne'er stand
To cleck and spread the grossest lies aff hand,
Whilk soon flies round like will-fire far and near:
But loose your poke, be't true or fause, let's hear.

Sym. Seeing's believing, Glaud, and I have seen
Hab, that abroad has with our Master been;
Our brave good Master, wha right wisely fled,
And left a fair estate, to save his head:
Because ye ken fou well he bravely chose
To stand his liege's friend with great Montrose.
Now Cromwell's gane to Nick; and ane ca'd Monk
Has play'd the Rumple a right slee begunk,
Restor'd King Charles, and ilka thing's in tune:
And Habby says, we'll see Sir William soon.

Glaud. That makes me blyth indeed;—but dinna flaw:
Tell o'er your news again! and swear till't a';
And saw ye Hab! and what did Halbert say?
They have been e'en a dreary time away.
Now God be thanked that our laird's come hame;
And his estate, say, can he eithly claim?

Sym. They that hag-raid us till our guts did grane, }
Like greedy bairs, dare nae mair do't again; }
And good Sir William sall enjoy his ain. }

SANG VII.—Tune, Cauld kail in Aberdeen.

  Cauld be the rebels cast,
      Oppressors base and bloody,
  I hope we'll see them at the last
      Strung a' up in a woody.
  Blest be he of worth and sense,
      And ever high his station,
  That bravely stands in the defence
      Of conscience, king and nation.

Glaud. And may he lang; for never did he stent
Us in our thriving, with a racket rent:
Nor grumbl'd, if ane grew rich; or shor'd to raise
Our mailens, when we pat on Sunday's claiths.

Sym. Nor wad he lang, with senseless saucy air,
Allow our lyart noddles to be bare.
"Put on your bonnet, Symon;—tak a seat.—
How's all at hame?—How's Elspa? How does Kate?
How sells black cattle?—What gi'es woo this year?"
And sic like kindly questions wad he speer.

SANG VIII.—Tune, Mucking of Geordy's byar.

  The laird wha in riches and honour
      Wad thrive, should be kindly and free,
  Nor rack the poor tenants wha labour
      To rise aboon poverty:
  Else like the pack-horse that's unfother'd,
      And burden'd, will tumble down faint:
  Thus virtue by hardship is smother'd,
      And rackers aft tine their rent.

Glaud. Then wad he gar his Butler bring bedeen
The nappy bottle ben, and glasses clean,
Whilk in our breast rais'd sic a blythsome flame,
As gart me mony a time gae dancing hame.
My heart's e'en rais'd! Dear nibour, will ye stay,
And tak your dinner here with me the day?
We'll send for Elspath too—and upo' sight,
I'll whistle Pate and Roger frae the height:
I'll yoke my sled, and send to the neist town,
And bring a draught of ale baith stout and brown,
And gar our cottars a', man, wife and we'an,
Drink till they tine the gate to stand their lane.

Sym. I wad na bauk my friend his blyth design,
Gif that it hadna first of a' been mine:
For heer-yestreen I brew'd a bow of maut,
Yestreen I slew twa wathers prime and fat;
A firlot of good cakes my Elspa beuk,
And a large ham hings reesting in the nook:
I saw my sell, or I came o'er the loan,
Our meikle pot that scads the whey put on,
A mutton-bouk to boil:—And ane we'll roast;
And on the haggies Elspa spares nae cost;
Sma' are they shorn, and she can mix fu' nice
The gusty ingans with a curn of spice:
Fat are the puddings,—heads and feet well sung.
And we've invited nibours auld and young,
To pass this afternoon with glee and game,
And drink our Master's health and welcome-hame.
Ye mauna then refuse to join the rest,
Since ye're my nearest friend that I like best.
Bring wi'ye a' your family, and then,
When e'er you please, I'll rant wi' you again.

Glaud. Spoke like ye'r sell, auld-birky, never fear
But at your banquet I shall first appear.
Faith we shall bend the bicker, and look bauld,
Till we forget that we are fail'd or auld.
Auld, said I!—troth I'm younger be a score,
With your good news, than what I was before.
I'll dance or e'en! Hey! Madge, come forth: D'ye hear?

Enter Madge.

Mad. The man's gane gyte! Dear Symon, welcome here.
What wad ye, Glaud, with a' this haste and din?
Ye never let a body sit to spin.

Glaud. Spin! snuff—Gae break your wheel, and burn your tow,
And set the meiklest peat-stack in a low;
Syne dance about the bane-fire till ye die,
Since now again we'll soon Sir William see.

Mad. Blyth news indeed! And wha was't tald you o't?

Glaud. What's that to you?—Gae get my Sunday's coat;
Wale out the whitest of my bobbit bands,
My white-skin hose, and mittons for my hands;
Then frae their washing, cry the bairns in haste,
And make yoursells as trig, head, feet, and waist,
As ye were a' to get young lads or e'en;
For we're gaun o'er to dine with Sym bedeen.

Sym. Do, honest Madge:—And, Glaud, I'll o'er the gate,
And see that a' be done as I wad hae't. [Exeunt.

ACT II.—SCENE II.

The open field.—A cottage in a glen,
An auld wife spinning at the sunny end.—
At a medium distance, by a blasted tree,
With falded arms, and haff rais'd look, ye see
Bauldy his lane.

Bauldy.

What's this!—I canna bear't! 'tis war than hell,
To be sae burnt with love, yet darna tell!
O Peggy, sweeter than the dawning day,
Sweeter than gowany glens, or new mawn hay;
Blyther than lambs that frisk out o'er the knows;
Straighter than ought that in the forest grows:
Her een the clearest blob of dew outshines;
The lilly in her breast its beauty tines.
Her legs, her arms, her cheeks, her mouth, her een,
Will be my dead, that will be shortly seen!
For Pate loes her,—waes me! and she loes Pate;
And I with Neps, by some unlucky fate,
Made a daft vow:—O but ane be a beast
That makes rash aiths till he's afore the priest!
I dare na speak my mind, else a' the three,
But doubt, wad prove ilk ane my enemy.
'Tis sair to thole;—I'll try some witchcraft art,
To break with ane, and win the other's heart.
Here Mausy lives, a witch, that for sma' price
Can cast her cantrips, and give me advice.
She can o'ercast the night, and cloud the moon,
And mak the deils obedient to her crune.
At midnight hours, o'er the kirk-yards she raves,
And howks unchristen'd we'ans out of their graves;
Boils up their livers in a warlock's pow,
Rins withershins about the hemlock low;
And seven times does her prayers backward pray,
Till Plotcock comes with lumps of Lapland clay,
Mixt with the venom of black taids and snakes;
Of this unsonsy pictures aft she makes
Of ony ane she hates—and gars expire
With slaw and racking pains afore a fire;
Stuck fu' of prins, the devilish pictures melt,
The pain, by fowk they represent, is felt.
And yonder's Mause: Ay, ay, she kens fu' well,
When ane like me comes rinning to the deil.
She and her cat sit beeking in her yard,
To speak my errand, faith amaist I'm fear'd:
But I maun do't, tho' I should never thrive;
They gallop fast that deils and lasses drive. [Exit.

ACT II.—SCENE III.

  A green kail-yard, a little fount,
    Where water poplan springs;
  There sits a wife with wrinkled-front,
    And yet she spins and sings.

SANG IX.—Tune, Carle an the King come.

Mause sings.

  Peggy, now the King's come,
    Peggy, now the King's come;
  Thou may dance, and I shall sing,
    Peggy, since the King's come.
  Nae mair the hawkies shalt thou milk,
    But change thy plaiding-coat for silk,
  And be a lady of that ilk,
    Now, Peggy, since the King's come.

Enter Bauldy.

Baul. How does auld honest lucky of the glen?
Ye look baith hale and fere at threescore ten.

Mause. E'en twining out a threed with little din,
And beeking my cauld limbs afore the sun.
What brings my bairn this gate sae air at morn?
Is there nae muck to lead?—to thresh nae corn?

Baul. Enough of baith:—But something that requires
Your helping hand, employs now all my cares.

Mause. My helping hand, alake! what can I do,
That underneath baith eild and poortith bow?

Baul. Ay, but ye're wise, and wiser far than we,
Or maist part of the parish tells a lie.

Mause. Of what kind wisdom think ye I'm possest,
That lifts my character aboon the rest?

Bauld. The word that gangs, how ye're sae wise and fell,
Ye'll may be take it ill gif I shou'd tell.

Mause. What fowk says of me, Bauldy, let me hear;
Keep nathing up, ye nathing have to fear.

Baul. Well, since ye bid me, I shall tell ye a',
That ilk ane talks about you, but a flaw.
When last the wind made Glaud a roofless barn;
When last the burn bore down my Mither's yarn;
When Brawny elf-shot never mair came hame;
When Tibby kirn'd, and there nae butter came;
When Bessy Freetock's chuffy-cheeked we'an
To a fairy turn'd, and cou'd na stand its lane;
When Watie wander'd ae night thro' the shaw,
And tint himsell amaist amang the snaw;
When Mungo's mear stood still, and swat with fright,
When he brought east the howdy under night;
When Bawsy shot to dead upon the green,
And Sara tint a snood was nae mair seen:
You, Lucky, gat the wyte of a' fell out,
And ilka ane here dreads you round about.
And sae they may that mint to do ye skaith:
For me to wrang ye, I'll be very laith;
But when I neist make grots, I'll strive to please
You with a firlot of them mixt with pease.

Mause. I thank ye, lad;—now tell me your demand,
And, if I can, I'll lend my helping hand.

Baul. Then, I like Peggy,—Neps is fond of me;—}
Peggy likes Pate,—and Patie's bauld and slee,      }
And loes sweet Meg.—But Neps I downa see.—}
Cou'd ye turn Patie's love to Neps, and than
Peggy's to me,—I'd be the happiest man.

Mause. I'll try my art to gar the bowls row right;
Sae gang your ways, and come again at night;
'Gainst that time I'll some simple things prepare,
Worth all your pease and grots; tak ye nae care.

Baul. Well, Mause, I'll come, gif I the road can find:
But if ye raise the deil, he'll raise the wind;
Syne rain and thunder may be, when 'tis late,
Will make the night sae rough, I'll tine the gate.
We're a' to rant in Symie's at a feast,
O! will ye come like badrans, for a jest?
And there ye can our different 'haviours spy:
There's nane shall ken o't there but you and I.

Mause. 'Tis like I may,—but let na on what's past
'Tween you and me, else fear a kittle cast.

Baul. If I ought of your secrets e'er advance,
May ye ride on me ilka night to France.
[Exit Bauldy.
 
Mause her lane.
Hard luck, alake! when poverty and eild,
Weeds out of fashion, and a lanely beild,
With a sma' cast of wiles, should in a twitch,
Gi'e ane the hatefu' name a wrinkled Witch.
This fool imagines, as do mony sic,
That I'm a wretch in compact with Auld Nick;
Because by education I was taught
To speak and act aboon their common thought.
Their gross mistake shall quickly now appear;
Soon shall they ken what brought, what keeps me here;
Nane kens but me,—and if the morn were come,
I'll tell them tales will gar them a' sing dumb.      [Exit.

ACT II.—SCENE IV.

  Behind a tree, upon the plain,
    Pate and his Peggy meet;
  In love, without a vicious stain,
  The bonny lass and chearfu' swain
    Change vows and kisses sweet.
Patie and Peggy.
Peggy.
O Patie, let me gang, I mauna stay,
We're baith cry'd hame, and Jenny she's away.

Pat. I'm laith to part sae soon; now we're alane,
And Roger he's awa with Jenny gane:
They're as content, for ought I hear or see,
To be alane themsells, I judge, as we.
Here, where primroses thickest paint the green,
Hard by this little burnie let us lean.
Hark how the lavrocks chant aboon our heads!
How saft the westlin winds sough thro' the reeds.

Peg. The scented meadows,—birds,—and healthy breeze,
For ought I ken, may mair than Peggy please.

Pat. Ye wrang me sair, to doubt my being kind;
In speaking sae, ye ca' me dull and blind,
Gif I cou'd fancy ought's sae sweet or fair
As my dear Meg, or worthy of my care.
Thy breath is sweeter than the sweetest brier;
Thy cheek and breast the finest flowers appear.
Thy words excel the maist delightfu' notes,
That warble through the merl or mavis' throats.
With thee I tent nae flowers that busk the field,
Or ripest berries that our mountains yield.
The sweetest fruits that hing upon the tree,
Are far inferior to a kiss of thee.

Peg. But Patrick, for some wicked end, may fleech,
And lambs should tremble when the foxes preach.
I dare na stay—ye joker, let me gang, }
Anither lass may gar ye change your sang; }
Your thoughts may flit, and I may thole the wrang. }

Pat. Sooner a mother shall her fondness drap,
And wrang the bairn sits smiling on her lap;
The sun shall change, the moon to change shall cease,
The gaits to clim,—the sheep to yield the fleece,
Ere ought by me be either said or done,
Shall skaith our love; I swear by all aboon.

Peg. Then keep your aith:—But mony lads will swear,
And be mansworn to twa in haff a year.
Now I believe ye like me wonder well;
But if a fairer face your heart shou'd steal,
Your Meg forsaken, bootless might relate,
How she was dauted anes by faithless Pate.

Pat. I'm sure I canna change, ye needna fear;
Tho' we're but young, I've loo'd you mony a year.
I mind it well, when thou cou'd'st hardly gang,
Or lisp out words, I choos'd ye frae the thrang
Of a' the bairns, and led thee by the hand,
Aft to the Tansy-know or Rashy-strand.
Thou smiling by my side,—I took delite,
To pu' the rashes green, with roots sae white,
Of which, as well as my young fancy cou'd,
For thee I plet the flowry belt and snood.

Peg. When first thou gade with shepherds to the hill,
And I to milk the ews first try'd my skill;
To bear a leglen was nae toil to me,
When at the bught at e'en I met with thee.

Pat. When corns grew yellow, and the hether-bells
Bloom'd bonny on the moor and rising fells,
Nae birns, or briers, or whins e'er troubled me,
Gif I cou'd find blae berries ripe for thee.

Peg. When thou didst wrestle, run, or putt the stane,
And wan the day, my heart was flightering fain:
At all these sports thou still gave joy to me;
For nane can wrestle, run, or putt with thee.

Pat. Jenny sings saft the Broom of Cowden-knows,
And Rosie lilts the Milking of the Ews;
There's nane like Nansie, Jenny Nettles sings;
At turns in Maggy Lauder Marion dings:
But when my Peggy sings, with sweeter skill,
The Boat-man, or the Lass of Patie's Mill;
It is a thousand times mair sweet to me:
Tho' they sing well, they canna sing like thee.

Peg. How eith can lasses trow what they desire!
And roos'd by them we love, blaws up that fire:
But wha loves best, let time and carriage try;
Be constant, and my love shall time defy.
Be still as now, and a' my care shall be,
How to contrive what pleasant is for thee.
 
The foregoing, with a medium variation, was sung at the acting, as follows.

SANG X.—Tune, The Yellow-hair'd Laddie.

Peggy.
When first my dear laddie gade to the green hill,
And I at ew-milking first sey'd my young skill,
To bear the milk-bowie, nae pain was to me,
When I at the bughting forgather'd with thee.
 
Patie.
When corn-riggs wav'd yellow, and blue hether-bells
Bloom'd bonny on moorland and sweet rising fells,
Nae birns, briers, or breckens gave trouble to me,
If I found the berries right ripen'd for thee.
 
Peggy.
When thou ran, or wrestled, or putted the stane,
And came aff the victor, my heart was ay fain;
Thy ilka sport manly gave pleasure to me;
For nane can putt, wrestle, or run swift as thee.
 
Patie.
Our Jenny sings saftly the Cowden Broom-knows,
And Rosie lilts sweetly the Milking the Ews;
There's few Jenny Nettles like Nansie can sing;
At Throw the Wood Laddie, Bess gars our lugs ring.
But when my dear Peggy sings with better skill,
The Boat-man, Tweed-side, or the Lass of the Mill,
'Tis many times sweeter and pleasing to me;
For tho' they sing nicely, they cannot like thee.
 
Peggy.
How easy can lasses trow what they desire!
And praises sae kindly encreases love's fire:
Give me still this pleasure, my study shall be,
To make myself better and sweeter for thee.

Pat. Wert thou a giglit gawky like the lave,
That little better than our nowt behave;
At nought they'll ferly;—senseless tales believe;
Be blyth for silly heghts, for trifles grieve:—
Sic ne'er you'd win my heart, that kenna how,
Either to keep a prize, or yet prove true.
But thou, in better sense, without a flaw,
As in thy beauty, far excels them a',
Continue kind; and a' my care shall be,
How to contrive what pleasing is for thee.

Peg. Agreed;—but harken! yon's auld aunty's cry;
I ken they'll wonder what can make us stay.

Pat. And let them ferly.—Now, a kindly kiss,
Or five score good anes wad not be amiss;
And syne we'll sing the sang with tunefu' glee,
That I made up last owk on you and me.

Peg. Sing first, syne claim your hire.—

Pat.——Well, I agree.

SANG XI.—To its own Tune.

Patie sings.
By the delicious warmness of thy mouth,
And rowing eyes that smiling tell the truth,
I guess, my lassie, that as well as I,
You're made for love; and why should ye deny?
 
Peggy sings.
But ken ye, lad, gin we confess o'er soon,
Ye think us cheap, and syne the wooing's done?
The maiden that o'er quickly tines her power,
Like unripe fruit, will taste but hard and sowr.
 
Patie sings.
But gin they hing o'er lang upon the tree,
Their sweetness they may tine; and sae may ye.
Red checked you completely ripe appear;
And I have thol'd and woo'd a lang haff year.
 
Peggy singing, falls into Patie's arms.
Then dinna pu' me, gently thus I fa'
Into my Patie's arms, for good and a'.
But stint your wishes to this kind embrace;
And mint nae farther till we've got the grace.
 
Patie, with his left hand about her waste.
O charming armfu'! hence ye cares away!
I'll kiss my treasure a' the live-lang day;
All night I'll dream my kisses o'er again,
Till that day come that ye'll be a' my ain.
 
Sung by both.
Sun, gallop down the westlin skies,
Gang soon to bed, and quickly rise;
O lash your steeds, post time away,
And haste about our bridal day:
And if ye're wearied, honest light,
Sleep, gin ye like, a week that night.
[Exeunt.
End of the Second Act.

ACT THIRD.

SCENE I.

Now turn your eyes beyond yon spreading lime,
And tent a man whase beard seems bleech'd with time;
An elvand fills his hand, his habit mean:
Nae doubt ye'll think he has a pedlar been.
But whisht! it is the knight in masquerade,
That comes hid in this cloud to see his lad.
Observe how pleas'd the loyal sufferer moves
Thro' his auld av'news, anes delightfu' groves.
 
Sir William solus.
The gentleman thus hid in low disguise,
I'll for a space unknown delight mine eyes,
With a full view of every fertile plain,
Which once I lost,—which now are mine again.
Yet 'midst my joys, some prospects pain renew,
Whilst I my once fair seat in ruins view.
Yonder, ah me! it desolately stands,
Without a roof; the gates faln from their bands;
The casements all broke down; no chimney left;
The naked walls of tap'stry all bereft:
My stables and pavilions, broken walls!
That with each rainy blast decaying falls:
My gardens, once adorn'd the most compleat,
With all that nature, all that art makes sweet;
Where, round the figur'd green, and peeble walks,
The dewy flowers hung nodding on their stalks:
But, overgrown with nettles, docks and brier,
No jaccacinths or eglintines appear.
How do those ample walls to ruin yield,
Where peach and nect'rine branches found a beild,
And bask'd in rays, which early did produce
Fruit fair to view, delightfu' in the use!
All round in gaps, the most in rubbish ly,
And from what stands the wither'd branches fly.
  These soon shall be repair'd:—And now my joy
Forbids all grief,—when I'm to see my Boy,
My only prop, and object of my care,
Since Heaven too soon call'd hame his Mother fair.
Him, ere the rays of reason clear'd his thought,
I secretly to faithful Symon brought,
And charg'd him strictly to conceal his birth,
'Till we should see what changing times brought forth.
Hid from himself, he starts up by the dawn,
And ranges careless o'er the height and lawn,
After his fleecy charge, serenely gay,
With other shepherds whistling o'er the day.
Thrice happy life! that's from ambition free;
Remov'd from crowns and courts, how chearfully
A quiet contented mortal spends his time
In hearty health, his soul unstain'd with crime!
 
Or sung as follows.

SANG XII.—Tune, Happy Clown.

Hid from himself, now by the dawn,
He starts as fresh as roses blawn;
And ranges o'er the heights and lawn,
After his bleeting flocks.
Healthful, and innocently gay,
He chants and whistles out the day;
Untaught to smile, and then betray,
Like courtly weathercocks.

Life happy, from ambition free,
Envy, and vile hypocrisie,
Where truth and love with joy agree,
Unsully'd with a crime:
Unmov'd with what disturbs the great,
In propping of their pride and state,
He lives, and unafraid of fate,
Contented spends his time.

  Now tow'rds good Symon's house I'll bend my way,
And see what makes yon gamboling to day,
All on the green, in a fair wanton ring,
My youthful tenants gayly dance and sing. [Exit.

ACT III.—SCENE II.

'Tis Symon's house, please to step in,
  And vissy't round and round;
There's nought superfluous to give pain,
  Or costly to be found.
Yet all is clean: a clear peat-ingle
  Glances amidst the floor;
The green-horn spoons, beech-luggies mingle,
  On skelfs foregainst the door.
While the young brood sport on the green,
  The auld anes think it best,
With the Brown Cow to clear their een,
  Snuff, crack, and take their rest.
Symon, Glaud, and Elspa.
Glaud.
We anes were young our sells—I like to see
The bairns bob round with other merrilie.
Troth, Symon, Patie's grown a strapan lad,
And better looks than his I never bade.
Amang our lads, he bears the gree awa',
And tells his tale the cleverest of them a'.

Els. Poor man!—he's a great comfort to us baith:
God mak him good, and hide him ay frae skaith.
He is a bairn, I'll say't, well worth our care,
That ga'e us ne'er vexation late or air.

Glaud. I trow, goodwife, if I be not mistane, }
He seems to be with Peggy's beauty tane, }
And troth, my niece is a right dainty we'an, }
As ye well ken: a bonnier needna be,
Nor better,—be't she were nae kin to me.

Sym. Ha! Glaud, I doubt that ne'er will be a match
My Patie's wild, and will be ill to catch:
And or he were, for reasons I'll no tell,
I'd rather be mixt with the mools my sell.

Glaud. What reason can ye have? There's nane, I'm sure,
Unless ye may cast up that she's but poor:
But gif the lassie marry to my mind,
I'll be to her as my ain Jenny kind.
Fourscore of breeding ews of my ain birn,
Five ky that at ae milking fills a kirn,
I'll gi'e to Peggy that day she's a bride;
By and attour, gif my good luck abide,
Ten lambs at spaining-time, as lang's I live,
And twa quey cawfs I'll yearly to them give.

Els. Ye offer fair, kind Glaud; but dinna speer
What may be is not fit ye yet should hear.

Sym. Or this day eight days likely he shall learn,
That our denial disna slight his bairn.

Glaud. Well, nae mair o't,—come, gie's the other bend;
We'll drink their healths, whatever way it end.
[Their healths gae round.
Sym. But will ye tell me, Glaud,—by some 'tis said,
Your niece is but a Fundling that was laid
Down at your hallon-side, ae morn in May,
Right clean row'd up, and bedded on dry hay?

Glaud. That clatteran Madge, my titty, tells sic flaws,
When e'er our Meg her cankart humour gaws.
Enter Jenny.
Jen. O father! there's an auld man on the green,
The fellest fortune-teller e'er was seen:
He tents our loofs, and syne whops out a book,
Turns o'er the leaves, and gie's our brows a look;
Syne tells the oddest tales that e'er ye heard.
His head is gray, and lang and gray his beard.

Sym. Gae bring him in; we'll hear what he can say:
Nane shall gang hungry by my house to day.
[Exit Jenny.
But for his telling fortunes, troth I fear,
He kens nae mair of that than my gray mare.

Glaud. Spae-men! the truth of a' their saws I doubt;
For greater liars never ran there out.
Returns Jenny, bringing in Sir William; with them Patie.
Sym. Ye're welcome, honest carle;—here take a seat.

Sir Will. I give ye thanks, Goodman; I'se no be blate.

Glaud. [drinks.] Come t'ye, friend:—How far came ye the day?

Sir Will. I pledge ye, nibour:—E'en but little way:
Rousted with eild, a wee piece gate seems lang;
Twa miles or three's the maist that I dow gang.

Sym. Ye're welcome here to stay all night with me,
And take sic bed and board as we can gi' ye.

Sir Will. That's kind unsought.—Well, gin ye have a bairn
That ye like well, and wad his fortune learn,
I shall employ the farthest of my skill,
To spae it faithfully, be't good or ill.

Sym. [pointing to Patie.] Only that lad;—alake! I have nae mae,
Either to make me joyful now, or wae.

Sir Will. Young man, let's see your hand;—what gars ye sneer?

Pat. Because your skill's but little worth I fear.

Sir Will. Ye cut before the point.—But, billy, bide,
I'll wager there's a mouse mark on your side.

Els. Betooch-us-to! and well I wat that's true:
Awa, awa! the deil's o'er grit wi' you.
Four inch aneath his oxter is the mark,
Scarce ever seen since he first wore a sark.

Sir Will. I'll tell ye mair, if this young lad be spar'd
But a short while, he'll be a braw rich laird.

Els. A laird! Hear ye, Goodman!—what think ye now?

Sym. I dinna ken: Strange auld man! What art thou?
Fair fa' your heart; 'tis good to bode of wealth:
Come turn the timmer to laird Patie's health.
[Patie's health gaes round.
Pat. A laird of twa good whistles, and a kent,
Twa curs, my trusty tenants, on the bent,
Is all my great estate—and like to be:
Sae, cunning carle, ne'er break your jokes on me.

Sym. Whisht, Patie,—let the man look o'er your hand,
Aftimes as broken a ship has come to land.
[Sir William looks a little at Patie's hand, then
counterfeits falling into a trance, while they endeavour
to lay him right.]
Els. Preserve's!—the man's a warlock, or possest
With some nae good,—or second sight, at least:
Where is he now?——

Glaud. ——He's seeing a' that's done
In ilka place, beneath or yont the moon.

Els. These second sighted fowk, his peace be here!
See things far aff, and things to come, as clear
As I can see my thumb.—Wow, can he tell
(Speer at him, soon as he comes to himsell)
How soon we'll see Sir William? Whisht, he heaves,
And speaks out broken words like ane that raves.

Sym. He'll soon grow better;—Elspa, haste ye, gae,
And fill him up a tass of Usquebae.
Sir William starts up, and speaks.
A Knight that for a Lyon fought,
  Against a herd of bears,
Was to lang toil and trouble brought,
  In which some thousands shares.

But now again the Lyon rares,
  And joy spreads o'er the plain:
The Lyon has defeat the bears,
  The Knight returns again.

That Knight, in a few days, shall bring
  A Shepherd frae the fauld
And shall present him to his King,
  A subject true and bauld.

He Mr. Patrick shall be call'd:
  All you that hear me now,
May well believe what I have tald;
  For it shall happen true.

Sym. Friend, may your spaeing happen soon and weel;
But, faith, I'm redd you've bargain'd with the deil,
To tell some tales that fowks wad secret keep:
Or do ye get them tald you in your sleep?

Sir Will. Howe'er I get them, never fash your beard;
Nor come I to redd fortunes for reward:
But I'll lay ten to ane with ony here,
That all I prophesy shall soon appear.

Sym. You prophesying fowks are odd kind men!
They're here that ken, and here that disna ken,
The wimpled meaning of your unco tale,
Whilk soon will mak a noise o'er moor and dale.

Glaud. 'Tis nae sma' sport to hear how Sym believes,
And takes't for gospel what the spae-man gives
Of flawing fortunes, whilk he evens to Pate:
But what we wish, we trow at ony rate.

Sir Will. Whisht, doubtfu' carle: for ere the sun
  Has driven twice down to the sea,
What I have said ye shall see done
  In part, or nae mair credit me.

Glaud. Well, be't sae, friend, I shall say nathing mair;
But I've twa sonsy lasses young and fair,
Plump ripe for men: I wish ye cou'd foresee
Sic fortunes for them might prove joy to me.

Sir Will. Nae mair thro' secrets can I sift,
  Till darkness black the bent:
I have but anes a day that gift;
  Sae rest a while content.

Sym. Elspa, cast on the claith, fetch butt some meat,
And, of your best, gar this auld stranger eat.

Sir Will. Delay a while your hospitable care;
I'd rather enjoy this evening calm and fair,

Around yon ruin'd tower, to fetch a walk
With you, kind friend, to have some private talk.

Sym. Soon as you please I'll answer your desire:—
And, Glaud, you'll take your pipe beside the fire;
We'll but gae round the Place, and soon be back,
Syne sup together, and tak our pint, and crack.

Glaud. I'll out a while, and see the young anes play.
My heart's still light, abeit my locks be gray.
[Exeunt.