Classic Poem

ACT I.

SCENE I.

P ATIE and R OGER .

SANG I.

Tune — " The wauking of the faulds. "

PATIE .

M Y 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 wauking of the fauld.

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
Whene'er we meet alane,
I wish nae wair to lay my care,
I wish nae mair of a' that 's rare,
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
To all 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 blyth and bauld;
And nathing gi'es me sic delight
As 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 tald,
With innocence the wale of sense,
At wauking of the fauld.

This sunny morning, Roger, cheers 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 halesome is 't to snuff the cawler 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.

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 grien for lambkins' blood;
But I, opprest with never-ending grief,
Maun ay despair of lighting on relief.

PATIE .

The bees shall loath the flow'r, and quit the hive,
The saughs on boggie ground shall cease to thrive,
Ere scornfu' queans, or loss of warldly gear,
Shall spill my rest, or ever force a tear.

ROGER .

Sae might I say; but it 's no easy done
By ane whase saul 's sae sadly out of tune.
Ye have sae saft a voice, and slid a tongue,
You are the darling baith of 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 ee;
For ilka sheep ye have I 'll number ten,
And should, as ane may think, come farther 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 smoor'd,
Three elf-shot were, yet I these ills endur'd:
In winter last my cares were very sma',
Tho' scores of wethers perish'd in the snaw.

PATIE .

Were your bien rooms as thinly stock'd as mine,
Less ye wad loss, and less ye wad repine.
He that has just enough can soundly sleep;
The o'ercome only fashes fowk 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 drowth to quench:
'Till bris'd 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 dream'd 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.
Take courage, Roger, me your sorrows tell,
And safely think nane kens them but yoursell.

ROGER .

Indeed now, Patie, ye have guess'd o'er true;
And there is naithing 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 ear and late,
And gars me look bombaz'd and unko blate.
But yesterday I met her yont a know,
She fled as frae a shelly-coated kow.
She Bauldy looes, Bauldy that drives the car,
But gecks at me, and says I smell of tar.

PATIE .

But Bauldy looes not her; right well I wat,
He sighs for Neps: sae that may stand for that.

ROGER .

I wish I cou'd na looe her; — but in vain,
I still maun doat, and thole her proud disdain.
My Bawty is a cur I dearly like,
'Till he yowl'd sair she strak the poor dumb tyke:
If I had fill'd a nook within her breast,
She wad have shewn 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.

PATIE .

E'en do sae, Roger, wha can help misluck?
Saebins she be sic a thrawin gabbit chuck,
Yonder 's a craig, since ye have tint all hope,
Gae till 't your ways, and take the lover's lowp.

ROGER .

I needna mak sic speed my blood to spill,
I 'll warrant death come soon enough a-will.

PATIE .

Dast gowk! leave aff that silly whingin 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 dyke I lean'd, glowring about,
I saw my Meg come linkan o'er the lee;
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 O! 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 cry'd, " My bonny Meg, come here,
" I ferly wherefore, ye 're so soon asteer?
" But I can guess, ye 're gawn to gather dew. "
She scour'd away, 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 dyke.
I trow, when that she saw, within a crack,
She came with a right thieveless errand back:
Miscaw'd me first; then bad me hound my dog,
To wear up three waff ewes stray'd on the bog.
I leugh; and sae did she; then with great haste
I clasp'd 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 lowping to my lips.
Sair, sair she flet wi' me 'tween ilka smack,
But weel I kend 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.

SANG II.

Tune — " Fye, gar rub her o'er with 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 bauldly on, and win the day.

When maidens, innocently young,
Say often 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.

ROGER .

Kind Patie, now fair fa your honest heart,
Ye 're 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 mak 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 blue:
With spraings like gowd and siller cross'd with black;
I never had it yet upon my back.
Weel are ye wordy o't, wha have sae kind
Red up my revel'd doubts, and clear'd my mind.

PATIE .

Weel, had ye there; and since ye' ve frankly made
To me a present of your braw new plaid,
My flute 's be yours, and she too that 's sae nice,
Shall come a-will, gif ye 'll take my advice.

ROGER .

As ye advise, I 'll promise to observe '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.

PATIE .

But first we 'll take a turn up to the height,
And see gif all our flocks be feeding right;
Be that time bannocks and a sheeve 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 syne, and sing t' ye like mysell.

SCENE II.

Peggy and Jenny .

Jenny .

Come, Meg, let 's fa to wark upon this green,
This shining day will bleach our linen clean;
The water 's clear, the lift unclouded blew,
Will make them like a lily wet with dew.

PEGGY .

Gae farer up the burn to Habbie's How,
Where a' that 's sweet in spring and simmer grow:
Between twa birks out o'er a little lin,
The water fa's, and makes a singand din:
A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass,
Kisses with easy whirles the bord'ring grass.

We 'll end our washing while the morning 's cool,
And when the day grows het we 'll to the pool,
There wash oursells; 'tis healthfu' now in May,
And sweetly cauler on sae warm a day.

JENNY .

Daft lassie, when we 're naked, what 'll ye say,
Giff our twa herds come brattling down the brae,
And see us sae? — that jeering fellow, Pate,
Wad taunting say, " Haith, lasses, ye 're no blate. "

PEGGY .

We 're far frae ony road, and out of sight;
The lads they 're feeding far beyont the hight;
But tell me now, dear Jenny, we 're our lane,
What gars ye plague your wooer with disdain?
The neighbours a' tent this as well as I;
That Roger loo 's ye, yet ye care na by.
What ails ye at him? Troth, between us twa,
He 's wordy you the best day e'er ye saw.

JENNY .

I dinna like him, Peggy, there 's an end;
A herd mair sheepish yet I never kend.
He kames his hair, indeed, and gaes right snug,
With ribbon-knots at his blue bonnet lug;
Whilk pensylie he wears a thought a-jee,
And spreads his garters dic'd beneath his knee.
He falds his owrelay down his breast with care,
And few gangs 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. "

PEGGY .

Ye dash the lad with constant slighting pride,
Hatred for love is unco sair to bide:
But ye 'll repent ye, if his love grow cauld,
Wha likes a dorty maiden when she 's auld?
Like dawted wean that tarries 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.

JENNY .

I never thought a single life a crime.

PEGGY .

Nor I: but love in whispers lets us ken,
That men were made for us, and we for men.

JENNY .

If Roger is my jo, he kens himsell,
For sic a tale I never heard him tell.
He glowrs and sighs, and I can guess the cause:
But wha 's oblig'd to spell his hums and haws?
Whene'er he likes to tell his mind mair plain,
I'se tell him frankly ne'er to do 't again.
They 're fools that slav'ry like, and may be free;
The chiels may a' knit up themselves for me.

PEGGY .

Be doing your ways: for me, I have a mind
To be as yielding as my Patie 's kind.

JENNY .

Heh! lass, how can ye loo that rattle-skull?
A very deel, that ay maun have his will.
We soon will hear what a poor feightan life
You twa will lead, sae soon 's ye 're man and wife.

PEGGY .

I 'll rin the risk; nor have I ony fear,
But rather think ilk langsome day a year,
'Till I with pleasure mount my bridal-bed,
Where on my Patie's breast I 'll lay my head.
There he may kiss as lang as kissing 's good,
And what we do there 's nane dare call it rude.
He 's get his will; why no? 'tis good my part
To give him that, and he 'll give me his heart.

JENNY .

He may indeed for ten or fifteen days
Mak meikle o' ye, with an unco fraise,
And daut ye baith afore fowk and your lane:
But soon as your newfangleness is gane,
He 'll look upon you as his tether-stake,
And think he 's tint his freedom for your sake.
Instead then of lang days of sweet delyte,
Ae day be dumb, and a' the neist he 'll flyte:
And may be, in his barlichoods, ne'er stick
To lend his loving wife a loundering lick.

SANG IV.

Tune — " O dear mother, what shall I do? "

O dear Peggy, love 's beguiling,
We ought not to trust his smiling;
Better far to do as I do,
Lest a harder luck betide you.
Lasses, when their fancy 's carried,
Think of nought but to be marry'd;
Running to a life destroys
Heartsome, free, and youthfu' joys.

PEGGY .

Sic coarse-spun thoughts as that want pith to move
My settl'd mind; I 'm o'er fare gane in love.
Patie to me is dearer than my breath,
But want of him I dread nae other skaith.
There 's nane of a' the herds that tread the green
Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een.
And then he speaks with sic a taking art,
His words they thirle like music thro' my heart.
How blythly can he sport, and gently rave,
And jest at little fears that fright the lave.
Ilk day that he 's alane upon the hill,
He reads feil books that teach him meikle skill;
He is — but what need I say that or this,
I 'd spend a month to tell you what he is!
In a' he says or does there 's sic a gate,
The rest seem coofs, compar'd with my dear Pate;
His better sense will lang his love secure:
Ill-nature hefts in sauls are weak and poor.

SANG V.

Tune — " How can I be sad on my wedding-day? "

How shall I be sad when a husband I hae,
That has better sense than ony of thae;
Sour, weak, silly fellows, that study, like fools,
To sink their ain joy, and make their wives snools.
The man who is prudent ne'er lightlies his wife,
Or with dull reproaches encourages strife,
He praises her virtue, and ne'er will abuse
Her for a small failing, but find an excuse.

JENNY .

Hey, " bonny lass of Branksome! " or 't be lang,
Your witty Pate will put you in a sang.
O 'tis a pleasant thing to be a bride!
Syne whindging gets about your ingle-side,
Yelping for this or that with fasheous din:
To make them brats then ye man toil and spin.
Ae wean fa's sick, an scads itself wi' brue,
Ane breaks his shin, anither tines his shoe:
The " Deel gaes o'er John Wabster: " hame grows hell,
When Pate miscaws ye war than tongue can tell.

PEGGY .

Yes, it 's 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?

JENNY .

But poortith, Peggy, is the warst of a',
Gif o'er your heads ill chance should begg'ry draw:
There little love or canty cheer can come
Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom.
Your nowt may die; the speat may bear away
Frae aff the howms your dainty rucks of hay;
The thick-blawn wreaths of snaw, or blashy thows,
May smoor your wethers, and may rot your ews;
A dyvour buys your butter, woo, and cheese,
But or the day of payment breaks and flees;
With glooman brow the laird seeks in his rent,
'Tis no to gie, your merchant's to the bent;
His honour maunna want, he poinds your gear;
Syne driven frae house and hald, where will ye steer? —
Dear Meg, be wise, and lead a single life;
Troth, it 's nae mows to be a married wife.

PEGGY .

May sic ill luck befa' that silly she,
Wha has sic fears, for that was never me.
Let fowk bode weel, 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 should a' for wives that 's vertuous pray;
For the maist thrifty man could 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.
Whate'er he wins I 'll guide with canny care,
And win the vogue at market, tron, or fair,
For healsome, clean, cheap, and sufficient ware.
A flock of lambs, cheese, butter, 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 throw the warld will steer;
And when my Pate in bairns and geer grows rife,
He 'll bless the day he gat me for his wife.

JENNY .

But what if some young giglit on the green,
With dimpled cheeks, and twa bewitching een,
Shou'd gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg,
And her kend kisses, hardly worth a feg?

PEGGY .

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 caumly, and with kindness smile,
When our short passions wad our peace beguile:
Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks at hame,
'Tis ten to ane their wives are maist to blame.
Then I 'll employ with pleasure a' my art
To keep him cheerfu', and secure his heart.
At ev'n, 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 hag-abag 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.

JENNY .

A dish of married love right soon grows cauld,
And dozins down to nane, as fowk grow auld.

PEGGY .

But we 'll grow auld together, and ne'er find
The loss of youth, when love grows on the mind.
Bairns and their bairns make sure a firmer tye,
Than aught 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 increas'd,
And in their mixture now are fully blest:
This shields 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 airt man bow.

JENNY .

I 've done. — I yield, dear lassie, I man yield,
Your better sense has fairly won the field,
With the assistance of a little fae
Lies dern'd within my breast this mony a day.

SANG VI.

Tune — " Nansy 's to the green-wood gane. "

I yield, dear lassie, 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.

PEGGY .

Alake, poor pris'ner! — Jenny, that 's no fair,
That ye 'll no let the wie thing take the air:
Haste, let him out; we'll tent as well 's we can,
Gif he be Bauldy's, or poor Roger's man.

JENNY .

Anither time 's as good; for see the sun
Is right far up, and we 're not yet begun
To freath the graith: if canker'd Madge, our aunt,
Come up the burn, she 'll gie us a wicked rant:
But when we 've done, I 'll tell you a' my mind;
For this seems true — nae lass can be unkind.