The Gentle Shepherd: A Pastoral Comedy Part 10

ACT FIRST.

_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.

SANG I.--The wawking of the fauld.

PATIE sings.

_My_ Peggy _is a young thing, Just enter'd in her teens, Fair as the day, and sweet as May, Fair as the day, and always gay.

My_ Peggy _is a young thing, And I'm not very auld; Yet well I like to meet her, at The wawking of the fauld._

_My_ Peggy _speaks sae sweetly, Whene'er we meet alane, I wish nae mair to lay my care, I wish nae mair of a' that's rare.

My_ Peggy _speaks sae sweetly, To a' the lave I'm cauld; But she gars a' my spirits glow At wawking of the fauld._

_My_ Peggy _smiles sae kindly, Whene'er I whisper love, That I look down on a' the town, That I look down upon a crown.

My_ Peggy _smiles sae kindly, It makes me blyth and bauld; And naething gi'es me sic delight, As wawking of the fauld._

_My_ Peggy _sings sae saftly, When on my pipe I play; By a' the rest it is confest, By a' the rest that she sings best.

My_ Peggy _sings sae saftly, And in her sangs are tauld, With innocence, the wale of sense, At wawking of the fauld._

PATIE.

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 thee 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.

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.

_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 la.s.s's e'e.

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 may'st 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 said 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 naething 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 b.u.mbaz'd, and unko blate: But yesterday I met her 'yont a know, She fled as frae a sh.e.l.lycoat or 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 could 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 thrawn-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 la.s.s 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 kilt.i.t, and did sweetly shaw Her straight bare legs that whiter were than snaw; Her c.o.c.kernony 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'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 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.

SANG II.--_Tune_, Fy gar rub her o'er wi' strae.

_Dear_ Roger, _if your_ Jenny _geck, And answer kindness with a slight, Seem unconcern'd at her neglect, For women in a man delight; But them despise who're soon defeat, And with a simple face give way To a repulse;--then be not blate, Push boldly on, and win the day.

When maidens, innocently young, Say aften what they never mean, Ne'er mind their pretty lying tongue, But tent the language of their een: If these agree, and she persist To answer all your love with hate, Seek elsewhere to be better blest, And let her sigh when 'tis too late._

_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.