The Gentle Shepherd: A Pastoral Comedy Part 11

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 tak 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 mysell. [_Exeunt._

_ACT I.--SCENE II._

A flowrie howm between twa verdant braes, Where la.s.ses 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.

_Jenny._

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 sing and din; A pool breast-deep beneath, as clear as gla.s.s, Kisses with easy whirles the bordring 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 our sells--'tis healthfu' now in May, And sweetly cauler on sae warm a day.

_Jen._ Daft la.s.sie, 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, la.s.ses, 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 loes 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 die'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 f.e.c.kless 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.

SANG III.--_Tune_, Polwart on the Green.

_The dorty will repent, If lover's heart grow cauld,_ _And nane her smiles will tent, Soon as her face looks auld._

_The dawted bairn thus takes the pet, Nor eats, tho' hunger crave, Whimpers and tarrows at its meat, And's laught at by the lave._

_They jest it till the dinner's past; Thus by itself abus'd, The fool thing is oblig'd to fast, Or eat what they've refus'd._

_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_?

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 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! la.s.s, how can you loo that rattle-skull, A very deil that ay maun hae his will?

We'll soon hear 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.

SANG IV.--_Tune_, O dear mother, what shall I do?

_O dear_ Peggy, _love's beguiling, We ought not to trust his smiling; Better far to do as I do, Lest a harder luck betyde you.

La.s.ses, when their fancy's carry'd, Think of nought but to be marry'd: Running to a life destroys Heartsome, free, and youthfu' joys._

_Peg._ Sic coa.r.s.e-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 f.e.c.kless 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.

SANG V.--_Tune_, How can I be sad on my wedding-day?

_How shall I be sad, when a husband I hae, That has better sense than ony of thae Sour weak silly fallows, that study like fools, To sink their ain joy, and make their wives snools.

The man who is prudent ne'er lightlies his wife, Or with dull reproaches encourages strife; He praises her virtues, and ne'er will abuse Her for a small failing, but find an excuse._

_Jen._ Hey! bonny la.s.s 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 wi' broe, Ane breaks his shin, anither tynes his shoe; The Deel gaes o'er John Wobster, hame grows h.e.l.l, When Pate misca's ye war than tongue can tell.