These works divine, which, on his death-bed laid, And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies. ALLAN RAMSAY THE GENTLE SHEPHERD ACT I. SCENE II A flow'rie howm, between twa verdant braes, Peggy and Jenny Jenny. Come, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this green, The shining day will bleach our linen clean; The water's clear, the lift unclouded blue, Will mak them like a lily wet wi' dew. 5 Peggy. Gae farer up the burn to Habbie's Howe, Where a' the sweets o' spring an' simmer grow: Between twa birks, out o'er a little lin, The water fa's an' maks a singan din: There wash oursells 'tis healthfu' now in May, An' sweetly cauler on sae warm a day. Jenny. Daft lassie, when we're naked, what'll ye say 15 Gif our twa herds come brattling down the brae, An' see us sae? that jeering fallow Pate, Peggy. We're far frae ony road, an' out o' sight; A herd mair sheepish yet I never kend. 20 25 Jenny. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end; He kaims his hair, indeed, an' gaes right snug, 30 Wi' ribbon-knots at his blue bannet lug, An' spreads his gartens diced beneath his knee; For a' that he can neither sing nor say, 35 Except, "How d'ye?" or "There's a bonny day." Peggy. Ye dash the lad wi' constant slighting pride, Hatred for love is unco sair to bide: But ye'll repent ye, if his love grow cauld: 40 Like dawted wean, that tarrows at its meat, Jenny. I never thought a single life a crime. He glowrs an' sighs, an' I can guess the cause; They're fools that slav'ry like, an' may be free; Peggy. Be doing your wa's; for me I hae a mind To be as yielding as my Patie's kind. 60 Jenny. Heh, lass! how can ye looe that rattle-skull? A very deil, that ay maun hae his will. We'll soon hear tell, what a poor fechting life Jenny. He may indeed, for ten or fifteen days, Mak meikle o' ye, wi' an unco fraise, An' daut ye baith afore fouk, an' your lane; But soon as his newfangleness is gane, Peggy. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thae want pith to move My settled mind; I'm o'er far gane in love. But want o' him I dread nae other skaith. There's nane o' a' the herds that tread the green An' then he speaks wi' sic a taking art, His words they thirle like music thro' my heart. 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 ye what he is! In a' he says or does, there's sic a gate, The rest seem coofs compar'd wi' my dear Pate. Jenny. Hey, Bonny lass o' Branksome! or't be lang, 100 Your witty Pate will put you in a sang. |