University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

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.

SCENE II.

A flowrie Howm between twa verdent 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.
Jen.
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 singand 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 loos 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 dic'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.

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?
When e'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 ye loo that Rattle-scull,
A very Deel that ay maun hae his Will?
We'll soon here 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.

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.

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 we 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 shou'd 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 cou'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,
Should 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 ev'ry 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.

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.