Slike strani

The brawest beau in borrows town,

In a' his airs, with art made ready,
Compared to him, he's but a clown;

He's finer far in 's tartan plaidy.

O'er benty hill with him I'll run,

And leave my Lawland kin and dady;


Frae winter's cauld and summer's sun

He'll screen me with his Highland plaidy.


A painted room and silken bed

May please a Lawland laird and lady,
But I can kiss and be as glad

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Beneath the south side of a craigy bield,
Where crystal springs the halesome waters yield,
Twa youthfu' shepherds on the gowans lay,
Tenting their flocks ae bonny morn of May.

Poor Roger granes, till hollow echoes ring;
But blither Patie likes to laugh and sing.

Patie. My Peggy is a young thing,

Just entered 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 wauking of the fauld.



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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 wauking 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 blythe and bauld,
And naething gi'es me sic delight
At wauking 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 wauking of the fauld.

This sunny morning, Roger, chears my blood,
And puts all Nature in a jovial mood.

How hartsom is 't to see the rising plants,




To hear the birds chirm o'er their pleasing rants!
How halesom 't is 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-seasoned pain.

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Roger. 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, oppressed with never-ending grief,

Maun ay despair of lighting on relief.

Patie. The bees shall loathe the flow'r 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 à tear.


Roger. Sae might I say; but it's no easy done

By ane whase saul's sae 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 confused with mony a vexing thought;
Yet I am tall, and as well built as thee,
Nor mair unlikely to a lass's eye;

For ilka sheep ye have I'll number ten,

And should, as ane may think, come farer ben.
Patie. 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.

Roger. My byar tumbled, nine braw nowt were smoored,

Three elf-shot were; yet I these ills endured.

In winter last my cares were very sma',


Tho' scores of wethers perished in the snaw.

Patie. Were your bien rooms as thinly stocked as mine, Less ye wad loss and less ye wad repine: He that has just enough can soundly sleep; The o'ercome only fashes fouk to keep.


Roger. 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, brised beneath the burden, thou cry dool, And awn that ane may fret that is nae fool.


Patie. Sax good fat lambs, I sauld 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!

Roger. Na, Patie, na! I'm nae sic churlish beast,

Some other thing lies heavier at my breast:

I dreamed a dreary dream this hinder night,
That gars my flesh a' creep yet with the fright.

Patie. 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.

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Take courage, Roger! me your sorrows tell,

And safely think nane kens them but yoursell.

Roger. Indeed now, Patie, ye have guessed o'er true,

And there is naething I'll keep up frae you.

Me dorty Jenny looks upon asquint;


To speak but till her I dare hardly mint.

In ilka place she jeers me air and late,

And gars me look bombazed and unco blate.
But yesterday I met her yont a knowe;
She fled as frae a shelly-coated cow.

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She Bauldy loo'es, Bauldy that drives the car,

But gecks at me and says I smell of tar.

Patie. But Bauldy loo'es not her, right well I wat;


He sighs for Neps: sae that may stand for that.
Roger. I wish I cou'dna loo'e her-but in vain!

I still maun doat, and thole her proud disdain.
My Bawty is a cur I dearly like:

Till he yowled fair she strak the poor dumb tyke;
If I had filled 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 played ye never heard sic spite;
"O'er Bogie" was the spring, and her delyte;


Yet tauntingly she at her cousin speered


Gif she could tell what tune I played, and sneered.
Flocks, wander where ye like; I dinna care!
I'll break my reed, and never whistle mair.

Patie. E'en do sae, Roger; wha can help misluck,

Saebeins she be sic a thrawn-gabbit chuck?
Yonder's a craig; since ye have tint all houp,


Gae till 't your ways and tak the lover's loup.

Roger. I needna mak sic speed my blood to spill;

I'll warrant death come soon eneugh a-will.

Patie. Daft gowk! leave aff that silly whinging way! 135 Seem careless: there's my hand ye 'll win the day.

Hear how I served my lass I love as weel
As ye do Jenny and with heart as leel.
Last morning I was gay and early out;
Upon a dyke I leaned, glowring about.
I saw my Meg come linkan o'er the lea;
I saw my Meg, but Peggy saw na me,
For yet the sun was wading thro' the mist,


And she was close upon me e'er she wist:

Her coats were kiltit, and did sweetly shaw


Her straight bare legs, that whiter were than snaw.

Her cockernony snooded up fou sleek,

Her haffet-locks hang waving on her cheek;

Her cheeks sae ruddy, and her een sae clear;
And, oh, her mouth's like ony hinny pear;
Neat, neat she was in bustine waistcoat clean,
As she came skiffing o'er the dewy green
Blythsome I cried, "My bonnie Meg, come here!
I ferly wherefore ye're sae soon asteer,
But I can guess ye're gawn to gather dew."



She scoured awa, and said, “What's that to you?"
"Then fare ye weel, Meg Dorts, and e'en's ye like,"
I careless cried, and lap in o'er the dyke.
I trow when that she saw, within a crack
She came with a right thieveless errand back:
Misca'd me first; then bade me hound my dog,
To wear up three waff ewes strayed on the bog.
I leugh, an sae did she: then with great haste
I clasped my arms about her neck and waist,
About her yielding waist, 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 louping to my lips;
Sair, sair she flet wi' me 'tween ilka smack,
But weel I kenned she meant nae as she spak.
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.

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