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These works divine, which, on his death-bed laid, 105
To thee, O Craggs, th' expiring sage conveyed,
Great, but ill-omened monument of fame,

Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim.
Swift after him thy social spirit flies,

And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies.
Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell
In future tongues: each other's boast! farewell,
Farewell! whom joined in fame, in friendship tried,
No chance could sever, nor the grave divide.

ΙΙΟ

5

ALLAN RAMSAY

THE GENTLE SHEPHERD

ACT I. SCENE II

A flow'rie howm, between twa verdant braes,
Where lasses use to wash an' spread their claes,
A trotting burnie wimpling thro' the ground,
Its channel pebbles shining smooth an' round:
Here view twa barefoot beauties, clean an' clear;
First please your eye, next gratify your ear:
While Jenny what she wishes discommends,
An' Meg wi' better sense, true love defends.

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.

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:
A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass,
10 Kisses, wi' easy whirls, the bord'ring grass.
We'll end our washing while the morning's cool;
An' when the day grows het, we'll to the pool,

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,
Wad taunting say, Haith lasses, ye're no blate.

Peggy. We're far frae ony road, an' out o' 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 wi' disdain?
The neibours a' tent this as weel as I,
That Roger looeş ye, yet ye carena 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 kaims his hair, indeed, an' gaes right snug,
Wi' ribbon-knots at his blue bannet lug,
Whilk pensylie he wears a-thought a-jee,
An' spreads his gartens diced beneath his knee;
He falds his o'erlay down his breast wi' care,
An' 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.

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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:

What like's a dorty maiden when she's auld?

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Like dawted wean, that tarrows at its meat,
That for some feckless whim will orp an' greet;
The lave laugh at it, till the dinner's past;
An' syne the fool thing is obliged to fast,
45 Or scart anither's leavings at the last.
Fy! Jenny, think, an dinna sit your time.

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, an' we for men.
50 Jenny. If Roger is my jo, he kens himsell,
For sic a tale I never heard him tell.

He glowrs an' sighs, an' I can guess the cause; But wha's oblig'd to spell' his hums an' haws? Whene'er he likes to tell his mind mair plain, 55 I'se tell him frankly ne'er to do't again.

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They're fools that slav'ry like, an' may be free;
The chiels may a' knit up themsells for me.

Peggy. Be doing your wa's; for me I hae a mind To be as yielding as my Patie's kind.

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

You twa will lead, sae soon's ye're man an' wife.

Peggy. I'll rin the risk, nor hae I ony fear,

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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,
He'll look upon you as his tether-stake,
An' think he's tint his freedom for your sake.
Instead then o' lang days o' sweet delyte,
Ae day be dumb, an' a' the neist he'll flyte:
An' may be, in his barlickhoods, ne'er stick,
To lend his loving wife a loundering lick.

Peggy. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thae want pith

to move

My settled mind; I'm o'er far gane in love.
Patie to me is dearer than my breath,

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But want o' him I dread nae other skaith.

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There's nane o' a' the herds that tread the green
Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een:

An' then he speaks wi' sic a taking art,

His words they thirle like music thro' my heart.

How blythly can he sport, an' gently rave,
An' jest at feckless fears that fright the lave!
Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill,

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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.
His better sense will lang his love secure;

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Ill-nature heffs in sauls that's weak an' poor.

Jenny. Hey, Bonny lass o' Branksome! or't be lang, 100 Your witty Pate will put you in a sang.

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