Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 107

A trotting burnie wimpling through the ground, Its channel peebles shining smooth and round: Here view twa barefoot beauties clean and clear; First please your eye, then 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, This shining day will bleach our linen clean; The water's clear, the lift[3] unclouded blue, Will mak them like a lily wet with dew.

_Peggy_. Gae farrer up the burn to Habbie's How, Where a' that's sweet in spring and simmer grow: Between twa birks, out o'er a little linn,[4]

The water fa's, and maks a singin' din: A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as gla.s.s, Kisses with easy whirls the bordering gra.s.s.

We'll end our washing while the morning's cool, And when the day grows het we'll to the pool, There wash oursells; 'tis healthfu' now in May, And sweetly caller on sae warm a day.

_Jenny_. Daft la.s.sie, when we're naked, what'll ye say, Giff our twa herds come brattling down the brae, And see us sae?--that jeering fellow, Pate, Wad taunting say, 'Haith, la.s.ses, ye're no blate.'[5]

_Peggy_. 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 neighbours a' tent this as well as I; That Roger lo'es ye, yet ye carena by.

What ails ye at him? Troth, between us twa, He's wordy you the best day e'er ye saw.

_Jenny_. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end; A herd mair sheepish yet I never kenn'd.

He kames his hair, indeed, and gaes right snug, With ribbon-knots at his blue bonnet lug; Whilk pensylie[6] he wears a thought a-jee,[7]

And spreads his garters diced beneath his knee.

He falds his owrelay[8] down his breast with care, And few gangs 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.'

_Peggy_. Ye dash the lad with constant slighting pride, Hatred for love is unco sair to bide: But ye'll repent ye, if his love grow cauld;-- What like's a dorty[9] maiden when she's auld?

Like dawted wean[10] that tarrows at its meat,[11]

That for some f.e.c.kless[12] whim will orp[13] and greet: The lave laugh at it till the dinner's past, And syne the fool thing is obliged to fast, Or scart anither's leavings at the last.

Fy, Jenny! think, and dinna sit your time.

_Jenny_. I never thought a single life a crime.

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

_Jenny_. If Roger is my jo, he kens himsell, For sic a tale I never heard him tell.

He glowers[14] and sighs, and I can guess the cause: But wha's obliged 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 chiels may a' knit up themselves for me.

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

_Jenny_. Heh! la.s.s, how can ye lo'e that rattleskull?

A very deil, that aye maun have his will!

We soon will hear what a poor fechtin' life You twa will lead, sae soon's ye're man and wife.

_Peggy_. 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 lay my head.

There he 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.

_Jenny_. 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 your 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 delight, Ae day be dumb, and a' the neist he'll flyte: And maybe, in his barlichood's,[15] ne'er stick To lend his loving wife a loundering lick.

_Peggy_. Sic coa.r.s.e-spun thoughts as that want pith to move My settled 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.[16]

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 thirl like music through my heart.

How blithely can he sport, and gently rave, And jest at little fears that fright the lave.

Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill, He reads feil[17] 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 gate, The rest seem coofs compared with my dear Pate; His better sense will lang his love secure: Ill-nature hefts in sauls are weak and poor.

_Jenny._ Hey, 'bonnyla.s.s of Branksome!' or't be lang, Your witty Pate will put you in a sang.

Oh, 'tis a pleasant thing to be a bride!

Syne whinging gets about your ingle-side, Yelping for this or that with fasheous[18] din: To mak them brats then ye maun toil and spin.

Ae wean fa's sick, and scads itself wi' brue,[19]

Ane breaks his shin, anither tines his shoe: The 'Deil gaes o'er John Wabster:'[20] hame grows h.e.l.l, When Pate misca's ye waur than tongue can tell.

_Peggy._ Yes, it's 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 loves makes care delight?

_Jenny_. But poort.i.th, Peggy, is the warst of a', Gif o'er your heads ill chance should beggary draw: There little love or canty cheer can come Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom.[21]

Your nowt may die; the speat[22] may bear away Frae aff the howms your dainty rucks of hay; The thick-blawn wreaths of snaw, or blashy thows, May smoor your wethers, and may rot your ewes; A dyvour[23] buys your b.u.t.ter, woo', and cheese, But, or the day of payment, breaks and flees; With gloomin' brow the laird seeks in his rent, 'Tis no to gie, your merchant's to the bent; His honour maunna want, he poinds your gear; Syne driven frae house and hald, where will ye steer?-- Dear Meg, be wise, and lead a single life; Troth, it's nae mows[24] to be a married wife.

_Peggy_. May sic ill luck befa' that silly she, Wha has sic fears, for that was never me.

Let fowk bode weel, and strive to do their best; Nae mair's required--let Heaven make out the rest.

I've heard my honest uncle aften say, That lads should a' for wives that's vertuous pray; For the maist thrifty man could never get A well-stored room, unless his wife wad let: Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part To gather wealth to raise my shepherd's heart.

Whate'er he wins, I'll guide with canny care, And win the vogue at market, tron, or fair, For healsome, clean, cheap, and sufficient ware.

A flock of lambs, cheese, b.u.t.ter, 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[25] we through 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.

_Jenny_. But what if some young giglet on the green, With dimpled cheeks, and twa bewitching een, Should gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg, And her kenn'd kisses, hardly worth a feg?

_Peggy_. 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 pa.s.sions wad our peace beguile: Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks[26]at hame, 'Tis ten to ane their wives are maist to blame.

Then I'll employ with pleasure a' my art To keep him cheerfu', 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 through 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 hag-abag[27] I'll spread upon his board, And serve him with the best we can afford: Good-humour and white bigonets[28] shall be Guards to my face, to keep his love for me.

_Jenny_. A dish of married love right soon grows cauld, And dozins[29] down to nane, as fowk grow auld.

_Peggy_. But we'll grow auld together, and ne'er find The loss of youth, when love grows on the mind.

Bairns and their bairns make sure a firmer tie, Than aught 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 pressed, Till wide their spreading branches are increased, And in their mixture now are fully blessed: This shields the other frae the eastlin' blast; That in return defends it frae the wast.

Sic as stand single, (a state sae liked by you,) Beneath ilk storm frae every airt[30] maun bow.

_Jenny_. I've done,--I yield, dear la.s.sie; I maun yield, Your better sense has fairly won the field.

With the a.s.sistance of a little fae Lies dern'd within my breast this mony a day.

_Peggy_. Alake, poor pris'ner!--Jenny, that's no fair, That ye'll no let the wee thing take the air: Haste, let him out; we'll tent as well's we can, Gif he be Bauldy's, or poor Roger's man.

_Jenny_. Anither time's as good; for see the sun Is right far up, and we're not 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 you a' my mind; For this seems true--nae la.s.s can be unkind.

[_Exeunt_.

[1] Howm: holm.

[2] Claes: clothes.