University of Virginia Library

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.
Pat.
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 the[e] 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.
Tempest 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 Eye.
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 mayst 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 sald 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 nathing 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 Shelly-coated 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 cou'd 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 thrawin-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're 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.

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 take 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 my sell.

Exeunt.