The Gentle Shepherd: A Pastoral Comedy Part 12

_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 poort.i.th, Peggy, is the warst of a', Gif o'er your heads ill chance should 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 b.u.t.ter, 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 you'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, 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 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, Shou'd 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 pa.s.sions 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 s.h.i.+elds 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 every airth, maun bow.

_Jen._ 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 Lyes darn'd within my breast this mony a day.

SANG VI.--_Tune_, Nansy's to the green-wood gane.

_I yield, dear la.s.sie, you have won, And there is nae denying, That sure as light flows frae the sun, Frae love proceeds complying.

For a' that we can do or say 'Gainst love, nae thinker heeds us, They ken our bosoms lodge the fae That by the heartstrings leads us._

_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 la.s.s can be unkind.

[_Exeunt._

_End of the_ FIRST ACT.

ACT SECOND.

_SCENE I._

A snug thack-house, before the door a green; Hens on the midding, ducks in dubs are seen.

On this side stands a barn, on that a byre; A peat-stack joins, and forms a rural square.

The house is Gland's;--there you may see him lean, And to his divot-seat invite his frien'.

GLAUD _and_ SYMON.

_Glaud._

Good-morrow, nibour Symon,--come sit down, And gie's your cracks.--What's a' the news in town?

They tell me ye was in the ither day, And sald your Crummock and her ba.s.send quey.

I'll warrant ye've coft a pund of cut and dry; Lug out your box, and gie's a pipe to try.

_Sym._ With a' my heart;--and tent me now, auld boy, I've gather'd news will kittle your mind with joy.

I cou'dna rest till I came o'er the burn, To tell ye things have taken sic a turn, Will gar our vile oppressors stend like flaes, And skulk in hidlings on the hether braes.

_Glaud._.Fy, blaw! Ah! Symie, ratling chiels ne'er stand To cleck and spread the grossest lies aff hand, Whilk soon flies round like will-fire far and near: But loose your poke, be't true or fause, let's hear.

_Sym._ Seeing's believing, Glaud, and I have seen Hab, that abroad has with our Master been; Our brave good Master, wha right wisely fled, And left a fair estate, to save his head: Because ye ken fou well he bravely chose To stand his liege's friend with great Montrose.

Now Cromwell's gane to Nick; and ane ca'd Monk Has play'd the Rumple a right slee begunk, Restor'd King Charles, and ilka thing's in tune: And Habby says, we'll see Sir William soon.

_Glaud._ That makes me blyth indeed;--but dinna flaw: Tell o'er your news again! and swear till't a'; And saw ye Hab! and what did Halbert say?

They have been e'en a dreary time away.

Now G.o.d be thanked that our laird's come hame; And his estate, say, can he eithly claim?

_Sym._ They that hag-raid us till our guts did grane, } Like greedy bairs, dare nae mair do't again; } And good Sir William sall enjoy his ain. }

SANG VII.--_Tune_, Cauld kail in Aberdeen.

_Cauld be the rebels cast, Oppressors base and b.l.o.o.d.y, I hope we'll see them at the last Strung a' up in a woody.

Blest be he of worth and sense, And ever high his station, That bravely stands in the defence Of conscience, king and nation._

_Glaud._ And may he lang; for never did he stent Us in our thriving, with a racket rent: Nor grumbl'd, if ane grew rich; or shor'd to raise Our mailens, when we pat on Sunday's claiths.

_Sym._ Nor wad he lang, with senseless saucy air, Allow our lyart noddles to be bare.

"Put on your bonnet, Symon;--tak a seat.-- How's all at hame?--How's Elspa? How does Kate?

How sells black cattle?--What gi'es woo this year?"

And sic like kindly questions wad he speer.