Part 7

ACCEPT, O EGLINTOUN! the rural lays, That, bound to thee, thy duteous Poet pays! The muse, that oft has rais'd her tuneful strains, A frequent guest on SCOTIA'S blissful plains, That oft has sung, her list'ning youth to move, The charms of beauty and the force of love, Once more resumes the still successful lay, Delighted, thro' the verdant meads to stray. O! come, invok'd, and pleas'd, with Her repair, To breathe the balmy sweets of purer air, In the cool evening negligently laid, Or near the stream, or in the rural shade, Propitious hear, and, as thou hear'st, approve The GENTLE SHEPHERD'S tender tale of love. Instructed from these scenes, what glowing fires Inflame the breast that real love inspires! The fair shall read of ardours, sighs, and tears, All that a lover hopes, and all he fears: Hence, too, what passions in his bosom rise! What dawning gladness sparkles in his eyes! When first the fair one, piteous of his fate, Cur'd of her scorn, and vanquish'd of her hate, With willing mind, is bounteous to relent, And blushing, beauteous, smiles the kind consent! Love's passion here in each extreme is shown, In Charlot's smile, or in Maria's frown. With words like these, that fail'd not to engage, Love courted beauty in a golden age, Pure and untaught, such nature first inspir'd, Ere yet the fair affected phrase desir'd. His secret thoughts were undisguis'd with art, His words ne'er knew to differ from his heart: He speaks his love so artless and sincere, As thy Eliza might be pleas'd to hear. Heaven only to the Rural State bestows Conquest o'er life, and freedom from its woes: Secure alike from Envy and from Care; Nor rais'd by Hope, nor yet depress'd by Fear: Nor Want's lean hand its happiness constrains, Nor Riches torture with ill-gotten gains. No secret Guilt its stedfast peace destroys, No wild Ambition interrupts its joys. Blest still to spend the hours that Heav'n has lent In humble goodness, and in calm content: Serenely gentle, as the thoughts that roll, Sinless and pure, in fair Humeia's soul. But now the Rural State these joys has lost; Even swains no more that innocence can boast: Love speaks no more what beauty may believe, Prone to betray, and practis'd to deceive. Now happiness forsakes her blest retreat, The peaceful dwellings where she fix'd her seat; The pleasing fields she wont of old to grace, Companion to an upright sober race; When on the sunny hill, or verdant plain, Free and familiar with the sons of men, To crown the pleasures of the blameless feast, She uninvited came a welcome guest; Ere yet an age, grown rich in impious arts, Brib'd from their innocence incautious hearts: Then grudging hate, and sinful pride succeed, Cruel revenge, and false unrighteous deed; Then dow'rless beauty lost the power to move; The rust of lucre stain'd the gold of love: Bounteous no more, and hospitably good, The genial hearth first blush'd with stranger's blood: The friend no more upon the friend relies, And semblant falsehood puts on truth's disguise: The peaceful houshold fill'd with dire alarms; The ravish'd virgin mourns her slighted charms: The voice of impious mirth is heard around; In guilt they feast, in guilt the bowl is crowned: Unpunish'd violence lords it o'er the plains, And Happiness forsakes the guilty swains. Oh Happiness! from human search retir'd, Where art thou to be found, by all desir'd? Nun, sober and devout! why art thou fled, To hide in shades thy meek contented head? Virgin of aspect mild! ah! why, unkind, Fly'st thou, displeas'd, the commerce of mankind? O! teach our steps to find the secret cell, Where, with thy sire, Content, thou lov'st to dwell. Or say, dost thou, a duteous handmaid, wait Familiar at the chambers of the great? Dost thou pursue the voice of them that call To noisy revel, and to midnight ball? O'er the full banquet when we feast our soul, Dost thou inspire the mirth, or mix the bowl? Or, with th' industrious planter dost thou talk, Conversing freely in an evening walk? Say, does the miser e'er thy face behold, Watchful and studious of the treasur'd gold? Seeks Knowledge, not in vain, thy much lov'd pow'r, Still musing silent at the morning hour? May we thy presence hope in war's alarms, The Statesman's wisdom, or the Fair-one's charms? In vain our flatt'ring hopes our steps beguile, The flying good eludes the searcher's toil: In vain we seek the city or the cell, Alone with Virtue knows the Pow'r to dwell. Nor need mankind despair these joys to know, The gift themselves may on themselves bestow. Soon, soon we might the precious blessing boast, But many passions must the blessing cost; Infernal Malice, inly pining Hate, And Envy, grieving at another's state: Revenge no more must in our hearts remain, Or burning Lust, or Avarice of gain. When these are in the human bosom nurst, Can Peace reside in dwellings so accurst? Unlike, O EGLINTOUN! thy happy breast, Calm and serene enjoys the heavenly guest; From the tumultuous rule of passions free'd, Pure in thy thought, and spotless in thy deed: In virtues rich, in goodness unconfin'd, Thou shin'st a fair example to thy kind; Sincere and equal to thy neighbour's fame, How swift to praise, but how averse to blame! Bold in thy presence bashful Sense appears, And backward Merit loses all its fears. Supremely blest by Heav'n, Heav'n's richest grace, Confest is thine, an early blooming race; Whose pleasing smiles shall guardian Wisdom arm, Divine Instruction! taught of thee to charm: What transports shall they to thy soul impart, (The conscious transports of a parent's heart) When thou behold'st them of each grace possest, And sighing youths imploring to be blest! After thy image form'd, with charms like thine, Or in the visit, or the dance to shine: Thrice happy! who succeed their mother's praise, The lovely EGLINTOUNS of future days. Meanwhile peruse the following tender scenes, And listen to thy native Poet's strains: In ancient garb the home-bred muse appears, The garb our Muses wore in former years: As in a glass reflected, here behold How smiling goodness look'd in days of old: Nor blush to read where beauty's praise is shown, And virtuous love, the likeness of thy own; While, 'midst the various gifts that gracious Heaven, Bounteous to thee, with righteous hand has given, Let this, O EGLINTOUN! delight thee most, T' enjoy that Innocence the world has lost.

W. H.

TO

JOSIAH BURCHET, ESQ.,

SECRETARY OF THE ADMIRALTY,

WITH THE FIRST SCENE OF THE GENTLE SHEPHERD.

The nipping frosts, the driving snaw, Are o'er the hills and far awa'; Bauld Boreas sleeps, the Zephyres blaw, And ilka thing Sae dainty, youthfou, gay, and bra', Invites to sing.

Then let's begin by creek of day, Kind muse skiff to the bent away, To try anes mair the landart lay, With a' thy speed, Since BURCHET awns that thou can play Upon the reed.

Anes, anes again beneath some tree Exert thy skill and nat'ral glee, To him wha has sae courteously, To weaker sight, Set these[57] rude sonnets sung by me In truest light.

[Footnote 57: _To weaker sight, set these_, &c.] Having done me the honour of turning some of my pastoral poems into English, justly and elegantly.]

In truest light may a' that's fine In his fair character still shine, Sma' need he has of sangs like mine To beet his name; For frae the north to southern line, Wide gangs his fame.

His fame, which ever shall abide, Whilst hist'ries tell of tyrants pride, Wha vainly strave upon the tide T' invade these lands, Where Britain's royal fleet doth ride, Which still commands.

These doughty actions frae his pen,[58] Our age, and these to come, shall ken, How stubborn navies did contend Upon the waves, How free-born Britons faught like men, Their faes like slaves.

[Footnote 58: _Frae his pen._] His valuable Naval History.]

Sae far inscribing, Sir, to you, This country sang, my fancy flew, Keen your just merit to pursue; But ah! I fear, In giving praises that are due, I grate your ear.

Yet tent a poet's zealous pray'r; May powers aboon, with kindly care, Grant you a lang and muckle skair Of a' that's good, Till unto langest life and mair You've healthfu' stood.

May never care your blessings sowr, And may the muses, ilka hour, Improve your mind, and haunt your bow'r; I'm but a callan: Yet may I please you, while I'm your Devoted _Allan_.

THE PERSONS.

MEN.

SIR WILLIAM WORTHY. PATIE, the Gentle Shepherd, in love with Peggy. ROGER, a rich young shepherd, in love with Jenny. SYMON, } two old shepherds, tenants to Sir William. GLAUD, } BAULDY, a hynd engaged with Neps.

WOMEN.

PEGGY, thought to be Glaud's niece. JENNY, Glaud's only daughter. MAUSE, an old woman, supposed to be a witch. ELSPA, Symon's wife. MADGE, Glaud's sister.

SCENE.--A Shepherd's Village, and Fields some few miles from Edinburgh.

_Time of Action within twenty hours._

First act begins at eight in the morning. Second act begins at eleven in the forenoon. Third act begins at four in the afternoon. Fourth act begins at nine o'clock at night. Fifth act begins by day light next morning.

THE

GENTLE SHEPHERD.

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 lass'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 bumbaz'd, and unko blate: But yesterday I met her 'yont a know, She fled as frae a shellycoat 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 lass 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 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 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. 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 lasses 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 glass, Kisses with easy whirles the bordring grass: 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 lassie, 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, lasses, 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 feckless 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.