 | The Soldier's Return |  |
11
ACT I.
SCENE I.
A range of hills, o'erhung with waving woods,
That spread their dark green bosoms to the clouds,
And seem to crave the tribute of a show'r,
Grateful to woodland plant and mountain flow'r—
A glen beneath frae whilk a bick'rin' burn
Strays round the knowes, wi' bonny wimplin' turn,
Syne trottin' down-wards thro' the cultur'd lands,
Runs by whare Gaffer's humble biggin' stands:
His wife an' him are at some family plea,
To bear what ails them, just step in and see.
That spread their dark green bosoms to the clouds,
And seem to crave the tribute of a show'r,
Grateful to woodland plant and mountain flow'r—
A glen beneath frae whilk a bick'rin' burn
Strays round the knowes, wi' bonny wimplin' turn,
Syne trottin' down-wards thro' the cultur'd lands,
Runs by whare Gaffer's humble biggin' stands:
His wife an' him are at some family plea,
To bear what ails them, just step in and see.
Gaffer and Mirren.
Mirren.
“Love should be free!”—My trouth but ye craw crouse,
You a Gudeman, an' canna' rule your house!
Had I a father's pow'r, I'd let her see,
Wi' vengeance, whether or no that love be free.
She kends right weel Muirland has ilk thing ready,
An's fit to keep her busket like a lady,
12
She skits an' flings like ony towmont filly—
Deil, nor ye'd broke your leg, gaun cross the hallan,
That day ye fee'd the skelpor Highland callan,
We've fed him, clad him—what's our mense for't a'?
Base wretch, to steal our Dochter's heart awa'!
“Love should be free!” gude trouth, a bonny story!
That Muirland maun be lost for Highland Harry.
Muirland comes down this night—to tauk's nae use,
For she shall gie consent or lea' the house.
Oddsaffs! my heart did never wallop cadgier
Than when the Laird took Harry for a sodger;
An' now she sits a' day sae dowf an' blearie,
An' sings luve sangs about her Highland Harry.
Gaf.
Indeed Gude-wife, the lad did weel enough,
Was eident ay, an' deftly hel' the pleugh;
But Muirland's up in years, an' shame to tell,
Has ne'er been married tho' as auld's mysel';
His locks are lyart, an' his joints are stiff,
A staff wad set him better than a wife.
Sooner shall roses in December blaw,
Sooner shall tulips flourish i'the snaw,
Sooner the woods shall bud wi' winter's cauld,
Than lasses quit a young man for an auld:
13
My say shall never mak' them disagree.
Mir.
Ye hinna' the ambition o'a mouse,
She'll gie consent this night or lea' the house.
Enter Jean in haste.
Jean.
Father the sheep are nibblin' i'the corn,
Wee Saundy's chain'd auld Bawtie to the thorn,
An' bauson'd Crummock's broken frae the sta'.
Och! a's gaen wrang since Harry gaed awa'.
(Aside.
Gaf.
A house divided a gangs to the devil.—
[Exit.
Mir.
Dochter come here—now let us reason civil.
Isn't siller mak's our ladies gang sae braw?
Isn't siller buys their cleuks an' bonnets a'?
Isn't siller busks them up wi' silks an' sattins,
Wi' umbrellas, muffs, claeth-shoon, an' patons?
Our Lady,—what is't gars us curtsey till her,
An' ca' her Mam? why, just 'cause she has siller;
Isn't siller mak's our gentles fair an sappy?
Whilk lets us see, it's siller mak's fouks happy.
Jean.
Mither, ae simple question let me speir,
Is Muirland fat or fair wi' a' his gear?
Auld croighlin Wight, to hide the ails o'age,
He capers like a monkey on a stage;
14
Wi's auld beard slaver'd wi' tobacco spittle.—
Mir.
Peace, wardless slut—O, whan will youth be wise!
Ye'll slight your carefu' Mither's gude advice:
I've brought you up, an' made you what ye are;
An' that's your thanks for a' my toil an' care:
Muirland comes down this night, sae drap your stodgin',
For ye must gie consent or change your lodgin'.
[Exit.
Jean.
E'en turn me out, Muirland I'll never marry,
What's wealth or life without my dearest Harry?
SONG.
Set to Music by Mr. Ross, Organist, Aberdeen.
Our bonny Scots lads in their green tartan plaids,
Their blue-belted bonnets, an' feathers sae braw,
Rank't up on the green war' fair to be seen,
But my bonny young laddie was fairest of a';
His cheeks war' as red as the sweet heather-bell,
Or the red western cloud lookin' down on the snaw,
His lang yellow hair o'er his braid shoulders fell,
An' the eén o'the lasses war' fix'd on him a'.
Their blue-belted bonnets, an' feathers sae braw,
Rank't up on the green war' fair to be seen,
But my bonny young laddie was fairest of a';
His cheeks war' as red as the sweet heather-bell,
Or the red western cloud lookin' down on the snaw,
His lang yellow hair o'er his braid shoulders fell,
An' the eén o'the lasses war' fix'd on him a'.
My heart sunk wi' wae on the wearifu' day,
When torn frae my bosom they march'd him awa',
He bade me farewell, he cried “O be leel.”
An' his red cheeks war' wet wi' the tears that did fa'.
Ah! Harry my love, tho' thou ne'er shou'dst return,
Till life's latest hour, I thy absence will mourn,
An' memory shall fade, like the leaf on the tree,
E'er my heart spare ae thought on anither but thee.
When torn frae my bosom they march'd him awa',
He bade me farewell, he cried “O be leel.”
An' his red cheeks war' wet wi' the tears that did fa'.
15
Till life's latest hour, I thy absence will mourn,
An' memory shall fade, like the leaf on the tree,
E'er my heart spare ae thought on anither but thee.
[Exit.
SCENE II.
Harry return'd, as servant to the Laird,Finds, for a whyle, his presence may be spar'd,
An' here, his lane, he wanders o'er each scene,
Whare first he lov'd an' fondly woo'd his Jean:
He sees her cot, an' fain wad venture in,
But weel he minds her mither's no' his frien'.
Harry.
Tir'd with the painful sight of human ills,
Hail Caledonia! hail my native hills!
Here exil'd virtue rears her humble cell,
With nature's jocund, honest sons to dwell;
And hospitality, with open door,
Invites the stranger and the wand'ring poor;
Tho' winter scowls along our northern sky,
In hardships rear'd we learn humanity:
Nor dare deceit here point her rankling dart,
A Scotchman's eye's the window of his heart.—
Hail Caledonia! hail my native hills!
Here exil'd virtue rears her humble cell,
With nature's jocund, honest sons to dwell;
And hospitality, with open door,
Invites the stranger and the wand'ring poor;
Tho' winter scowls along our northern sky,
In hardships rear'd we learn humanity:
16
A Scotchman's eye's the window of his heart.—
When fate and adverse fortune bore me far,
O'er field and flood to join the din of war,
My young heart sicken'd, gloomy was my mind,
My love, my friends, my country all behind.
But whether tost upon the briny flood,
Or drag'd to combat in the scene of blood,
Hope, like an angel, charm'd my cares away,
And pointed forward to this happy day.
Full well I mind yon breckan-skirted thorn,
That sheds its milk-white blosoms by the burn,
There first my heart life's highest bliss did prove,
'Twas there my Jeanie blushing own'd her love.
Yon dark green plantins on the mountain's brow,
Yon yellow whins an' broomy knowes below,
Bring to my mind the happy, happy days,
I spent with her upon these rural braes—
But while remembrance, thus, my bosom warms,
I long to clasp my charmer in my arms.
O'er field and flood to join the din of war,
My young heart sicken'd, gloomy was my mind,
My love, my friends, my country all behind.
But whether tost upon the briny flood,
Or drag'd to combat in the scene of blood,
Hope, like an angel, charm'd my cares away,
And pointed forward to this happy day.
Full well I mind yon breckan-skirted thorn,
That sheds its milk-white blosoms by the burn,
There first my heart life's highest bliss did prove,
'Twas there my Jeanie blushing own'd her love.
Yon dark green plantins on the mountain's brow,
Yon yellow whins an' broomy knowes below,
Bring to my mind the happy, happy days,
I spent with her upon these rural braes—
But while remembrance, thus, my bosom warms,
I long to clasp my charmer in my arms.
[Exit.
17
SCENE III.
Now Mirren's to the burn to sine her kirn,Here Jeanie waefu' sits an' reels her pirn,
While honest Gaffer ay for peace inclin'd,
Is ha'flins vext, an' freely speaks his mind.
Gaffer.
Thy Mither's gair an' set upon the warl,
It's Muirland's gear that gars her like the carl,
But nature bids thee spurn the silly tyke,
An' wha wou'd wed wi' ane they canna' like;
Just speak thy mind an' tell him ance for a',
That eighteen ne'er can 'gree wi' sixty-twa:
A mair disgusting sight I never knew,
Than youthfu' folly 'neath an' auld grey pow.
Enter Mirren blythely.
Mir.
Here comes our nei'bour hurryin' frae the muir,
Mak' a' things snod, fey haste red up the floor;
18
Reflects an honour on our family:
Now lassie, mind my high comman' in this,
Whatever Muirland says, ye'll answer Yes.
Jean.
Whatever Muirland says! it shall be so,
But soon as morning comes I'll answer No.
(Aside
Enter Muirland.
Muir.
Peace to the biggin'—he, he, he. (Gigles.)
how's a?
Mir.
Gayly, a thank you—William come awa',
An' tell us how ye fen' this night yoursel'?
Muir.
He, he—his name be prais'd! faith unco weel,
I ne'er was ha'f sae strang in a' my days,
I'm grown sae fat, I'm like to burst my claise!
Nae won'er o't! I'm just now at my prime,
I'm just now five and threty come the time!
Ho, ho, ho, ho. (coughs)
I pity them wha're auld!
Yestreen I catch'd a wee bit croighl o'cauld.
Gaf.
(disgusted)
I might excuse a foolish, untaught bairn.
But second childhood, sure will never learn.
(Aside.
[Exit.
19
half-blind with age, slips on his Spectacles secretly, recognizes Jean, advances to her and sings.
SONG.
Air.—“whistle owre the lave o't.”
O lassie will ye tak a' man,
Rich in housin', gear an' lan',
Deil tak' the cash! that I soud ban,
Nae mair I'll be the slave o't;
I'll buy you claise to busk you braw,
A ridin' pouney, pad an' a',
On fashion's tap we'll drive awa',
Whip, spur, an' a' the lave o't.
Rich in housin', gear an' lan',
Deil tak' the cash! that I soud ban,
Nae mair I'll be the slave o't;
I'll buy you claise to busk you braw,
A ridin' pouney, pad an' a',
On fashion's tap we'll drive awa',
Whip, spur, an' a' the lave o't.
O Poortith is a wintry day,
Cheerless, blirtie, cauld, an' blae,
But baskin' under fortune's ray,
There's joy what e'er ye'd have o't;
Then gies your han' ye'll be my wife,
I'll mak' you happy a' your life,
We'll row in luve an' siller rife,
Till death wind up the lave o't.
Cheerless, blirtie, cauld, an' blae,
But baskin' under fortune's ray,
There's joy what e'er ye'd have o't;
Then gies your han' ye'll be my wife,
I'll mak' you happy a' your life,
We'll row in luve an' siller rife,
Till death wind up the lave o't.
Mir,
Nae toilin' there to raise a heavy rent,
Our fortune's made—O lassie gie consent!
(Aside to Jean
Muir.
Ye'll get a gouden ring an' siller brotch,
An' now an' then we'll hurl in a coach;
20
In passin' poor fouk, how we'll flught and skit!
Jean.
An' tho' ye're rather auld I'm rather young,
Our ages mix'd will stop the warl's tongue.
Muir.
Auld, said ye! No. Ye surely speak in jest.
Your Mither ken's I'm just now at my best!
Mir.
The lass is blunt, she means na' as she says,
Ye ne'er look'd ha'f sae weel in a' your days!!!
Wi' canny care I've spun a pickle yarn,
That honest-like we might set aff our bairn;
If gang wi' me we'll o'er to Wabster Pate's,
An' see him weavin' at the bridal sheets.
Muir.
The bridal sheets! he, he, he, he, what bliss!
The bridal sheets! O gies an erl-kiss!
Mir.
Fey! come awa', and dinna' think o'kissin'
Till ance Mess John hae gien you baith his blessin'.
[Exuent
Jean,
Solus.
Alas! my Mither's just like Whang the Miller,
O'erturns her house in hopes o'fin'ing siller!
For soon's I see the morning's first faint gleam,
She wakens sorrowing frae her gouden dream.
O'erturns her house in hopes o'fin'ing siller!
For soon's I see the morning's first faint gleam,
She wakens sorrowing frae her gouden dream.
21
Air.—“Morneen I Gaberland.”
Blythe was the time when he fee'd wi' my Father, O
Happy war' the days when we herded the gither, O
Sweet war' the hours when he row'd me in his plaidie, O
An' vow'd to be mine, my dear Highland laddie, O
But ah! waes me! wi' their sodg'ring sae gaudy, O
The Laird's wys'd awa' my braw Highland laddie, O
Misty are the glens, an' the dark hills sae cloudy, O
That ay seem'd sae blythe wi' my dear Highland laddie, O.
Happy war' the days when we herded the gither, O
Sweet war' the hours when he row'd me in his plaidie, O
An' vow'd to be mine, my dear Highland laddie, O
But ah! waes me! wi' their sodg'ring sae gaudy, O
The Laird's wys'd awa' my braw Highland laddie, O
Misty are the glens, an' the dark hills sae cloudy, O
That ay seem'd sae blythe wi' my dear Highland laddie, O.
The blae-berry banks, now, are lonesome an' dreary, O
Muddy are the streams that gush'd down sae clearly, O
Silent are the rocks that echoed sae gladly, O
The wild melting strains o'my dear Highland laddie, O
Farewell my ewes! an' farewell my doggie, O
Farewell ye knowes! now sae cheerless an' scroggie, O
Farewell Glen-feoch! my Mammy and my Daddie, O
I will lea' you a', for my dear Highland laddie, O.
Muddy are the streams that gush'd down sae clearly, O
Silent are the rocks that echoed sae gladly, O
The wild melting strains o'my dear Highland laddie, O
Farewell my ewes! an' farewell my doggie, O
Farewell ye knowes! now sae cheerless an' scroggie, O
Farewell Glen-feoch! my Mammy and my Daddie, O
I will lea' you a', for my dear Highland laddie, O.
Thro' distant towns I'll stray a hapless stranger,
In thoughts o'him I'll brave pale want an' danger,
An' as I go, poor weeping, mournfu' pond'rer,
Still some kind heart will cheer the weary wand'rer,
In thoughts o'him I'll brave pale want an' danger,
An' as I go, poor weeping, mournfu' pond'rer,
Still some kind heart will cheer the weary wand'rer,
[Exit.
| The Soldier's Return | |