The brawest beau in borrows town, In a' his airs, with art made ready, He's finer far in 's tartan plaidy. O'er benty hill with him I'll run, And leave my Lawland kin and dady; 15 Frae winter's cauld and summer's sun He'll screen me with his Highland plaidy. 20 A painted room and silken bed May please a Lawland laird and lady, THE GENTLE SHEPHERD Beneath the south side of a craigy bield, Poor Roger granes, till hollow echoes ring; Patie. My Peggy is a young thing, Just entered in her teens, Fair as the day, and sweet as May, 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. 5 ΙΟ My Peggy speaks sae sweetly I wish nae mair to lay my care, But she gars a' my spirits glow My Peggy smiles sae kindly It makes me blythe and bauld, 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, How hartsom is 't to see the rising plants, 30 35 40 To hear the birds chirm o'er their pleasing rants! 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. 50 The saughs on boggie ground shall cease to thrive, 55 Roger. Sae might I say; but it's no easy done By ane whase saul's sae sadly out of tune. 60 They dit their lugs, syne up their leglens cleek, For ilka sheep ye have I'll number ten, And should, as ane may think, come farer ben. And downa eithly wi' your cunzie part; 65 70 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', 75 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. 80 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. 85 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: 90 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, Patie. Now, to a friend, how silly's this pretence, 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; 105 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. 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; 115 He sighs for Neps: sae that may stand for that. I still maun doat, and thole her proud disdain. Till he yowled fair she strak the poor dumb tyke; She wad have shawn mair kindness to my beast. 120 號 Yet tauntingly she at her cousin speered 125 Gif she could tell what tune I played, and sneered. Patie. E'en do sae, Roger; wha can help misluck, Saebeins she be sic a thrawn-gabbit chuck? 130 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 140 And she was close upon me e'er she wist: Her coats were kiltit, and did sweetly shaw 145 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; 150 155 She scoured awa, and said, “What's that to you?" 160 165 170 Seem to forsake her, soon she'll change her mood; |