O PATIE, let me gang, I mauna stay;
We're baith cry'd hame, and Jenny she's away.
I'm laith to part sae soon; now we're alane,
And Roger he's away wi' Jenny gane;
They're as content, for aught I hear or see,
To be alane themselves, I judge, as we.
Here, where primroses thickest paint the green,
Hard by this little burnie let us lean:
Hark! how the lav'rocks chant aboon our heads,
The scented meadows-birds--and healthy breeze,
For aught I ken, may mair than Peggy please.
wrang me sair, to doubt my being kind;
In speaking sae, ye ca' me dull and blind,
Gif I could fancy aught's sae sweet or fair
As my sweet Meg, or worthy of my care.
Thy breath is sweeter than the sweetest brier,
Thy cheek and breast the finest flow'rs appear:
Thy words excel the maist delightfu' notes
That warble through the merle or mavis' throats :
With thee I tent nae flowers that busk the field,
Or ripest berries that our mountains yield :
The sweetest fruits that hing upon the tree
Are far inferior to a kiss of thee.
But Patrick for some wicked end may fleech,
And lambs should tremble when the foxes preach.
I darena stay ;-ye joker, let me gang;
Anither lass may gar ye change your sang;
Your thoughts may flit, and I may thole the wrang.
Sooner a mother shall her fondness drap,
And wrang the bairn sits smiling on her lap:
The sun shall change, the moon to change shall cease, The gaits to clim,—the sheep to yield the fleece,
Ere ought by me be either said or done,
Shall skaith our love; I swear by a' aboon.
Then keep your aith but mony lads will swear,
And be mansworn to twa in half a year:
Now I believe ye like me wonder weel;
But if a fairer face your heart shou'd steal,
Your Meg, forsaken, bootless might relate
How she was dauted anes by faithless Pate.
I'm sure I canna change, ye needna fear,
Tho' we're but young, I've loo'd you mony a year:
I mind it weel, when thou coud'st hardly gang,
Or lisp out words, I choos'd ye frae the thrang
Of a' the bairns, and led thee by the hand,
Thou smiling by my side,-I took delight
To pou the rashes green wi' roots sae white,
Of which, as weel as my young fancy cou'd,
For thee I plet the flow'ry belt and snood.
When first thou gade wi' shepherds to the hill,
And I to milk the ews first try'd my skill,
To bear the leglen was nae toil to me,
When at the bught at ev'n I met wi' thee.
When corns grew yellow, and the hether-bells
Bloom'd bonny on the muir and rising fells,
Nae birns, or briers, or whins, e'er troubled me,
Gif I cou'd find blae berries ripe for thee.
When thou didst wrestle, run, or putt the stane,
And wan the day, my heart was flightering fain:
At a' these sports thou still gave joy to me;
For nane can wrestle, run, or putt wi' thee.
Jenny sings saft the "Broom of Cowden knows,"
And Rosie lilts the "Milking of the ews;"
There's nane, like Nancy, "Jenny Nettles" sings:
At turns in " Maggy Lawder," Marion dings:
But when my Peggy sings wi' sweeter skill
The "Boatman," or the "Lass of Patie's Mill,"
It is a thousand times mair sweet to me;
Tho' they sing weel, they canna sing like thee.
Wert thou a giglet gawky like the lave,
That little better than our nowt behave,
At naught they'll ferly, senseless tales believe,.
Be blyth for silly hechts, for trifles grieve-
Sic ne'er cou'd win my heart, that kenna how
Either to keep a prize, or yet prove true:
But thou in better sense, without a flaw,
As in thy beauty, far excels them a'.
Continue kind, and a' my care shall be,
Agreed;—but harken, yon's auld aunty's cry, I ken they'll wonder what can make us stay.
And let them ferly, now a kindly kiss,
Or five score good anes wadna be amiss;
And syne we'll sing the sang wi' tunefu' glee,
That I made up last owk on you and me.
Sing first, syne claim your hyre—
My Peggy, why in tears?
Smile as ye wont, allow nae room for fears: Tho' I'm nae mair a shepherd, yet I'm thine.
I dare not think sae high-I now repine
At the unhappy chance that made not me
A gentle match, or still a herd kept thee.
Wha can, withouten pain, see frae the coast,
The ship that bears his a' like to be lost?
Like to be carried by some rever's hand
Far frae his wishes to some distant land.
Ne'er quarrel fate, whilst it wi' me remains
To raise thee up, or still attend these plains.
My father has forbid our loves, I own:
But love's superior to a parent's frown:
I falsehood hate: come kiss thy cares away;
I ken to love as weel as to obey.
Sir William's generous; leave the task to me
To mak strict duty and true love agree.
Speak on! speak ever thus, and still my grief;
But short I dare to hope the fond relief;
New thoughts a gentler face will soon inspire,
|