The works of Allan Ramsay edited by Burns Martin ... and John W. Oliver [... and Alexander M. Kinghorn ... and Alexander Law] |
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 | The works of Allan Ramsay |  |
141
Patie and Roger.
Beneath the South-side of a Craigy Bield,
Where a clear Spring did healsome Water yield,
Twa youthfou Shepherds on the Gowans lay,
Tenting their Flocks ae bonny Morn of May:
Poor Roger gran'd till hollow Echoes rang,
While merry Patie humm'd himsel a Sang:
Then turning to his Friend in blythsome Mood,
Quoth he, How does this Sunshine chear my Blood?
How heartsome is't to see the rising Plants?
To hear the Birds chirm o'er their Morning Rants?
How tosie is't to snuff the cauller Air,
And a' 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.
ROGER.
Where a clear Spring did healsome Water yield,
Twa youthfou Shepherds on the Gowans lay,
Tenting their Flocks ae bonny Morn of May:
Poor Roger gran'd till hollow Echoes rang,
While merry Patie humm'd himsel a Sang:
Then turning to his Friend in blythsome Mood,
Quoth he, How does this Sunshine chear my Blood?
How heartsome is't to see the rising Plants?
To hear the Birds chirm o'er their Morning Rants?
How tosie is't to snuff the cauller Air,
And a' 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.
I'm born, O Patie, to a thrawart Fate!
I'm born to strive with Hardships dire 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.
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The Bees shall loath the Flower and quite the Hive,
The Saughs on boggy Ground shall cease to thrive,
E'er scornfou Queans, or Loss of warldly Gear,
Shall spill my Rest, or ever force a Tear.
ROGER.
Sae might I say, but it's nae easy done
By ane wha's Saul is sadly out o' 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, syn 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 shap'd as thee,
Nor mair unlikely to a Lasse's Eye:
For ilka Sheep ye have I'll number ten,
And should, as ane might think, come farrer ben.
PATIE.
But ablins, Nibour, ye have not a Heart,
Nor downa eithly wi' your Cunzie part:
If that be true, what signifies your Gear?
And mind that's scrimpit never wants some Care.
ROGER.
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 Wedders perish'd in the Sna.
143
Were your bein Rooms as thinly stock'd as mine,
Less you wad loss, and less you wad repine:
He wha has just enough can soundly sleep,
The O'ercome only fashes Fowk to keep.
ROGER.
May Plenty flow upon thee for a Cross,
That thou may'st thole the Pangs of frequent Loss;
O may'st thou dote on some fair paughty Wench,
Wha ne'er will lout thy lowan Drouth to quench,
Till, birs'd beneath the Burden, thou cry Dool,
And awn that ane may fret that is nae Fool.
PATIE.
Sax good fat Lambs, I sald them ilka Cloot
At the West-Port , and bought a winsome Flute,
Of Plumb-tree made, with Iv'ry Virles round,
A dainty Whistle wi' a pleasant Sound;
I'll be mair canty wi't, and ne'er cry Dool,
Than you with a your Gear, ye dowie Fool.
ROGER.
Na, Patie, na, I'm nae sic churlish Beast,
Some ither Things ly heavier at my Breast;
I dream'd a dreery Dream this hinder Night.
That gars my Flesh a' creep yet wi' the Fright.
144
Now to your 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.
ROGER.
O Patie, ye have ghest indeed o'er true,
And there is naething I'll keep up frae you;
Me dorty Jenny looks upon asquint,
To speak but till her I dare hardly mint;
In ilka Place she jeers me air and late,
And gars me look bumbas'd and unco blate,
But Yesterday I met her yont a Know,
She fled as frae a Shellycoat or Kow;
She Bauldy loo's, Bauldy that drives the Car,
But gecks at me, and says I smell o' Tar.
PATIE.
But Bauldy loo's nae her right well I wat,
He sighs for Neps;—Sae that may stand for that.
ROGER.
I wish I cou'd na loo her,—but in vain,
I still maun dote and thole her proud Disdain.
My Bauty is a Cur I dearly like,
Till he youl'd fair, she strake the poor dumb Tyke:
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She wad ha'e shawn mair Kindness to my Beast.
When I begin to tune my Stock and Horn,
With a' her Face she shaws a cauldrife Scorn:
Last Time I play'd, ye never saw sic Spite,
O'er Bogie was the Spring, and her Delyte,
Yet tauntingly she at her Nibour speer'd
Gin 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.
PATIE.
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 a' Hope,
Gae till't ye'r ways, and take the Lover's Loup.
ROGER.
I need na make sic Speed my Blood to spill,
I'll warrand Death come soon enough a will.
PATIE.
Daft Gowk! Leave aff that silly whindging Way,
Seem careless, there's my Hand ye'll win the Day.
Last Morning I was unco airly out,
Upon a Dyke I lean'd and glowr'd about;
I saw my Meg come linkan o'er the Lee,
I saw my Meg, but Maggie saw na me:
For yet the Sun was wading throw the Mist,
And she was closs upon me e'er she wist.
Her Coats were kiltit, and did sweetly shaw
Her straight bare Legs, which whiter were than Snaw:
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Her haffet Locks hung 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 Wastecoat clean,
As she came skiffing o'er the dewy Green:
Blythsome I cry'd, My bonny Meg come here,
I fairly wherefore ye'er sae soon a steer:
But now I 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 Dyke.
I trow, when that she saw, within a crack
With a right thieveles Errand she came back;
Miscau'd me first,—then bade me hound my Dog
To weer up three waff Ews were on the Bog.
I leugh, and sae did she, then wi' 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 glowan Mouth:
While hard and fast I held her in my Grips,
My very Saul came louping to my Lips.
Sair, sair she flete wi' me 'tween ilka Smak,
But well I kend she mean'd na as she spak.
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.
ROGER.
Kind Patie, now fair faw your honest Heart,
Ye'r ay sae kedgie, and ha'e sick an Art
To hearten ane:—For now as clean's a Leek
Ye've cherisht me since ye began to speak:
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My Mither, honest Wife, has made it fine;
A Tartan Plaid, spun of good hauslock Woo,
Scarlet and green the Sets, the Borders Blue,
With Spraings like Gou'd and Siller, cross'd wi' black,
I never had it yet upon my Back.
Well are ye wordy o't, wha ha'e sae kind
Redd up my ravel'd Doubts, and clear'd my Mind.
PATIE.
Well, hadd ye there,—and since ye've frankly made
A Present to me of your bra new Plaid,
My Flute's be yours, and she too that's sae nice,
Shall come a Will, if you'll take my Advice.
ROGER.
As ye advise, I'll promise to observ't,
But ye maun keep the Flute, ye best deserv't;
Now take it out, and gi'es a bonny Spring,
For I'm in tift to hear you play or sing.
PATIE.
But first we'll take a Turn up to the Hight,
And see gin a' our Flocks be feeding right:
Be that Time Bannocks and a Shave of Cheese
Will make a Breakfast that a Laird might please;
148
To season Meat wi' Health instead of Spice:
When we ha'e ta'en the Grace-Drink at this Well,
I'll whistle fine, and sing t'ye like my sell.
Bewitch'd, shot by Fairies, Country People tell odd Tales of this Distemper amongst Cows. When Elf-shot, the Cow falls down suddenly dead, no Part of the Skin is pierced, but often a little triangular flat Stone is found near the Beast, as they report, which is call'd the Elf's Arrow.
One of those frightful Spectres the ignorant People are terrified at, and tell us strange Stories of; that they are clothed with a Coat of Shells, which make a horrid rattling, that they'll be sure to destroy one, if he gets not a running Water between him and it; it dares not meddle with a Woman with Child, &c.
A fine Wool which is pull'd off the Necks of Sheep before the Knife be put in, this being so much gain'd without spoiling the Sale of the Skin, is gather'd for such an Use.
The King's Health, begun first by the religious Margaret Queen of Scots, known by the Name of St. Margaret. The Piety of her Design was to oblige the Courtiers not to rise from Table till the Thanksgiving Grace was said, well judging, that tho some Folks have little Regard for Religion, yet they will be mannerly to their Prince.
| The works of Allan Ramsay | |