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STILL that same aspect-placid, cold, and bright!-
Oh, how dost thou reproach us for the hours
That in delusive pleasures took their flight,
For time that vain anxiety devours-

For life consumed by many a poisonous blight,
That might have yielded else immortal flowers!-
What sad reproof thy pallid gleams impart !
How speaks thy solemn silence to the heart!

II.

Though changeful, yet unchanged-thou art the same,
While we scarce call to mind what once we were!
Some praise the mildness of thy lambent flame,
And falsely deem thy quietude to share ;
Far different homage rather shouldst thou claim-
Even MOCKERY lurks amid that chilling glare;
And thou art placid-calm-from trouble free-
The storm clouds ride aloft-but vex not thee!

III.

Yes there are sCORN and MOCKERY in that gaze!-
Thou tell'st of hopes that will revive no more-

Of sunny hours and aye-departed days

Of beauteous forms that smiled and bloom'd of yore!
Well-be it mine, beneath thy silvery rays,

To brood on recollection's mournful store;

Let visions triumph o'er this present scene,

And that shall seem to be, which once has been !*

G.

This fragment is the commencement of a poem in 100 stanzas, containing remem

brances from the author's own life.

THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR.

Class V.

THE LASSES.

GREAT have been the conquests, and grievous the deray wrought in the human heart by some of these mountain nymphs. The confusion that particular ones have sometimes occasioned for a year or two almost exceeds credibility. Every young man in the bounds was sure either to be in love with her, or believed himself to be so; and as all these would be running on a Friday's evening to woo her, of course the pride and vanity of the fair was raised to such a height that she would rarely yield a preference to any, but was sure to put them all off with gibes and jeers. This shyness, instead of allaying, never fails to increase the fervour of the flame; an emulation, if not a rivalship, is excited among the younkers, until the getting a single word exchanged with the reigning beauty becomes a matter of thrilling interest to many a tender-hearted swain; but, generally speaking, none of these admired beauties are married till they settle into the more quiet vale of life, and the current of admiration has turned toward others. Then do they betake themselves to sober reflection, listen to the most rational, though not the most youthful of their lovers, and sit down, contented through life to share the toils, sorrows, and joys of the married life, and the humble

cot.

I am not now writing of ladies, nor of "farmers' bonny daughters;" but merely of country maidens, such as ewe-milkers, hay-workers, har'stshearers, the healthy and comely daughters of shepherds, hinds, country tradesmen, and small tenants; in short, all the rosy, romping, and lighthearted dames that handle the sickle, the hoe, the hay-raik, and the fleece. And of these I can say, to their credit, that there is rarely an instance happens of a celebrated beauty among them turning out a bad, or even an indifferent wife. Whether it is owing to the circumstance of their never marrying very young, (for a youthful marriage of a pair who have nought but their experience and a good name to depend on for the support of a family,

is far from being a prudent, or highly commendable step,) or whether it be that these belles having had too much experience in the follies and flippancies of youthful love, and youthful lovers, make their choice at last on principles of reason, suffice it, that the axiom is a true one. But there is another reason which must not be lost sight of. That class of young men never flock about, or make love to a girl who is not noted for activity as well as beauty. Cleverness is always the first recommendation; and consequently, when such a one chooses to marry, it is natural to suppose that her good qualities will then be exerted to the utmost, which before were only occasionally called into exercise. Experience is indeed the great teacher among the labouring class, and her maxims are carried down from father to son in all their pristine strength. Seldom are they violated in anything, and never in this. No young man will court a beautiful daw, unless he be either a booby, or a rake, who does it for some selfish purpose, not to be mentioned nor thought of in the annals of virtuous love.

In detailing the ravages of country beauty, I will be obliged to take fictitious or bynames to illustrate true stories, on account of many circumstances that have occurred at periods subsequent to the incidents related. Not the least of these is the great change that time has effected in every one of those pinks of rustic admiration. How would it look if ODoherty or yourself, at your annual visit here, were to desire me to introduce you to one of these by her name and sirname, and I were to take you to see a reverend grannie; or at best, a russet dame far advanced in life, with wrinkles instead of roses, and looks of maternal concern instead of the dimpling smile, and glance of liquid beauty? Ah, no, dear sir! let us not watch the loveliest of all earthly flowers till it becomes degraded in our eyes by a decay which it was born to undergo. Let it be a dream in our philosophy that it still remains in all its prime, and that so it will remain

in some purer clime through all the vicissitudes of future ages.

As I have not been an eye-witness to many of the scenes I mean to detail, I judge it best to give them as the relation of the first person, in the same manner as they have been rehearsed to me, whether that person chanced to be the principal or not. Without this mode I might make a more perfect arrangement in my little love stories, but could not give them any degree of the interest they appeared to me to possess, or define the characters by letting them speak for themselves.

"Wat, what was the matter wi' you, that ye never keepit your face to the minister the last Sabbath day? Yon's an unco unreverend gate in a kirk, man. I hae seen you keep a good ce on the preacher, an' take good tent o' what was gaun too; and troth I'm wae to see ye altered to the waur."

"I kenna how I might chance to be lookin', but I hope I was listening as weel as you, or ony that was there. Heighow! It's a weary warld this!"

"What has made it siccan a weary warld to poor Wat? I'm sure it wasna about the ills o' life that the minister was preachin' that day, that has gart ye change sae sair? Now, Wat, I tentit ye weel a' the day, an' I'll be in your debt for a toop lamb at Michaelsmass, gin ye'll just tell me ae distinct sentence o' the sermon on Sabbath last." "Hout, Jock, man! ye ken I dinna want to make a jest about ony saucred or religious thing; an' as for your paulie toop lamb, what care I for it?" "Ye needna think to win aff that gate, callant. Just confess the truth, that ye never yet heard a word the good man said, for that baith your heart an' your ee was fixed on some object in the contrair direction. An' I may be mistaen, but I think I could guess what it was."

"Whisht, lad, an' let us alane o' your sinfu' surmecses. I might turn my back on the minister during the time o' the prayer, but that was for getting a lean on the seat, an' what ill was in that?"

"Ay, an' ye might likewise hirsel yoursel up to the corner o' the seat a' the time o' baith the sermons, an' lean your head on your hand, an' look through your fingers too. Can ye

deny this? Or that your een were fixed the hale day on ae particular place?"

"Aweel, I winna gie a friend the lee to his face. But an ye had lookit as weel at a' the rest as at me, ye wad hae seen that a' the men in the kirk were lookin' the same gate."

"An' a' at the same object too? An' a' as deeply interested in it as you? Isna that what ye're thinkin? Ah, Wat, Wat! love winna hide! I saw a pair o' slae-black een that threw some gayan saucy disdainfu' looks up the kirk, an' I soon saw the havoc they were makin', an' had made, i' your simple honest heart. Wow, man! but I fear me you are in a bad predickiment."

"Ay, ay. Between twa friends, Jock, there never was a lad in sic a predickiment as I am. I needna keep ought frae you; but for the life that's i' your bouk dinna let a pater about it escape frae atween your lips. I wadna that it were kend how deeply I am in love, an' how little it is like to be requited, for the hale warld. But I am this day as miserable a man as breathes the breath o' life. For I like yon lass as man never likit another, an' a' that I get is scorn, an' gibes, an' mockery in return. O Jock, I wish I was dead in an honest natural way, an' that my burial day were the morn!"

"Weel, after a', I daresay that is the best way o' winding up a hopeless love scene. But only it ought surely to be the last resource. Now, will ye be candid, and tell me gin ye hae tried all lawful endeavours to preserve your ain life, as the commandment requires us to do, ye ken? Hae ye courtit the lass as a man ought to hae courtit her who is in every respect her equal?"

"Oh, yes, I have! I have told her a' my love, an' a' my sufferings; but it has been only to be mockit, an' sent about my business."

"An' ye wad whine, an' make wry faces, as you are doing just now? Na, na, Wat, that's no the gate o't;-a maid maun just be wooed in the same spirit that she shews, an' when she shews sauciness, there's naething for it but taking a step higher than her in the same humour, letting her always ken, an' always see, that you are naturally her superior, an' that you are even stooping from your dignity when you condescend to ask her to become your equal. If she refuse to be your

joe at the fair, never either whine or look disappointed, but be sure to wale the bonniest lass in the market, an' lead her to the same party where your saucy dame is. Take her to the top o' the dance, the top o' the table at dinner, an' laugh, an' sing; an' aye between whisper your bonny partner; an' if your ain lass disna happen to be unco weel buckled, it is ten to ane she will find an opportunity of offering you her company afore night. If she look angry or affronted at your attentions to others, you are sure o' her. They are queer creatures the lasses, Wat, an' I rather dread ye haena muckle skill or experience in their bits o' wily gates. For, to tell you the truth, there's naething pleases me sae weel as to see them begin to pout, an' prim their bits o' gabs, an' look sulky out frae the wick o' the ee, an' gar ilka feather an' flower-knot quiver wi' their angry capers. O the dear, sweet jewels! When I see ane o' them in sic a key, I could just take her a' in my arms!"

"If you had ever loved as I do, Jock, ye wad hae found little comfort in their offence. For my part, every disdainfu' word that yon dear, lovely lassie says, goes to my heart like a red-hot spindle. My life is bound up in her favour. It is only in it that I can live, move, or breathe; an' whenever she says a severe or cutting word to me, I feel as if ane o' my members were torn away, and am glad to escape as lang as I am onything ava; for I find, if I war to remain, a few mae siccan sentences wad soon annihilate me."

"O sic balderdash! In three months' time I shall take in hand to bring her to your ain terms, if you will take my advice. When I speak o' your ain terms, mind I take it for granted that you will never propose ony that are not strictly honourable."

"That you may rely on. I would sooner think of wranging my own flesh an' blood than suffer a thought to waver about my heart to her prejudice. But, O man, speak; for ye are garring a' the blood in my veins rin up to my head, as gin it war a thousand ants running races.

33

"Weel, Wat, in the first place, I propose to gang down yonder a night by mysel', an' speak baith to her father an' her, to find how the land lies; an' after that we can gang down baith thegether, an' gie her a fair broad

side. The deil's in't, if we sanna bring her to reason."

Wat scratched his head, and pulled the grass (that was quite blameless in the affair) furiously up by the roots, but made no answer. On being urged to declare his sentiments, he said, "I dinna ken about that way o'ganging down your lane; I wish you maunna stick by the auld fisher's rule, 'Every man for his ain hand.' That I ken weel, that nae man alive can see her, an' speak to her, and no be in love wi' her.'

"It is a good thing in love affairs, Wat, that there are hardly two in the world wha think the same way."

"Ay, but this is a particular case, for a' the men in the country think the same gate here, an' rin the same gate to the wooing. It is impossible to win near the house on a Friday night without rinning your head against that of some rival, like twa toops fightin' about a ewe. Na, na, John, this plan o' gangin' down by yoursel' winna do. An' now when I think on't, ye had better no gang down ava, for if we gang down friends, we'll come up enemies, an' that wadna be a very agreeable catastroff."

"Now shame fa' me gin ever I heard sic nonsense! To think that a' the warld see wi' your een! Hear ye, Wat.-I wadna gie that snap o' my fingers for her. I never saw her till Sunday last, when I came to your kirk ance errand for that purpose, an' I wadna ken her again gin I war to meet her here come out to the glen wi' your whey-what ails you, fool, that you're dightin' your een?"

"Come out to the glen wi' my whey! Ah, man! the words gaed through me like the stang of a bumbee.

Come out to the glen wi' my whey! Gude forgie my sin, what is the reason I canna thole that thought? That were a consummation devoutly to be wussed, as the soloquy in the Collection says. I fear I'll never see that blessed an' lovely sight! But, Jock, take my advice; stay at hame, an' gangna near her, gin ye wad enjoy ony peace o' conscience."

"Ye ken naething about the women, Wat, an' as little about me. If I gang near her, it will only be to humble her a wee, by mocking at her influence among the young men, an' bringing her to reason, for your sake. Jock the Jewel wadna say wae's me!'

for the best lass's frown in a' the kingdom o' Britain. Whatever some o' them might do for his, that's no his right to say."

Jock the Jewel went down in all his might and high experience to put everything to rights between his friend Wat and the bonny Snaw-fleck, as this spink of a mountain damsel was called, for every girl in the whole parish was named after one of the birds of the air; and every man, too, young and old, had his by-name, by which we shall distinguish them all for the present. The Snaw-fleck's father was called Tod-Lowrie, (the fox ;) his eldest daughter, the Eagle; the second, the Sea-maw; and his only son was denominated the Foumart, (polecat ;) from a notable hunt he once had with one of these creatures in the middle of the night, in a strange house; and it was the worst name I ever heard for a young man. Our disconsolate lover was called Window Wat, on account of his bashful nature, and, as they alleged, for hanging always about the windows when he went a-courting, and never venturing in. It was a good while after this first rencounter before the two shepherds met again with that convenience so as to resume their love affairs. But at length an occasion offered, and then- But we must suffer every man to tell his own tale, else the sport will be spoilt.

"Weel, Wat, hae ye been ony mair down at Lowrie's Lodge, sin' I saw you ?"

"An' if I hae, I hae been little the better o' you. I heard that you were there before me, an sinsyne too."

"Now, Wat, that's mere jealousy an' suspicion, for ye didna see the lass to ken whether I was there or not. I ken ye wad be hingin' about the window-soles as usual, keekin' in, feastin' your een, seein' other woosters beikin' their shins at the ingle, but for a' that durstna venture ben. Come, I dinna like siccan sackless gates as thae. I was down, I'se no deny't, but I gaed to wark in a different manner. Unco cauldrife wark that o' standin' peengin' about windows, man. Come, tell me a' your expedition, an' I'll tell you mine, like friends, ye ken."

"Mine's no ill to tell. I gaed down that night after I saw you, e'en though Wednesday be the widower's night; there were more there than I, but I was fear'd ye had got there afore me, VOL. XV.

and then, wi' your great skill o' the ways o' women, ye might hae left me nae chance at a'. I was there, but I might as weel hae staid at hame, for there were sae mony o' the out-wale wallietragle kind o' wooers there, like mysel, a' them that canna win forret on a Friday night, that I got the back o' the hallan to keep; but there's ae good thing about the auld Tod's house, they never ditt up their windows. Ane sees aye what's gaun on within doors. They leave a' their actions open to the ee of God an' man, yon family, an' I often think it is nae ill sign o' them. Auld Tod-Lowrie himsel sometimes looks at the window in a kind o' considering mood, as if doubtful that at that moment he is both overheard and overseen; but, or it is lang, he cocks up his bonnet and cracks as crouse as ever, as if he thought again, There's aye ae ee that sees me at a' times, an' a ear that hears me, an' when that's the case, what need I care for a' the birkies o' the land!' I like that open independent way that the family has. But O, they are surely sair harassed wi' wooers.

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"The wooers are the very joy o' their hearts, excepting the Foumart's; he hates them a' unless they can tell him hunders o' lies about battles, bogles, an' awfu' murders, an' persecutions. An' the leaving o' the windows open too is not without an aim. The Eagle's beginning to weary for a husband; an' if ye'll notice how dink she dresses hersel ilka night, an' jinks away at the muckle wheel as she war spinning for a wager. They hae found out that they are often seen at night yon lasses; and though they hae to work the foulest work o' the bit farm a' the day when naebody sees them, at night they are a' dressed up like pet-ewes for a market, an' ilka ane is acting a part. The Eagle is yerkin' on at the wheel, and now and then gi'en a smirk wi her face to the window. The Snawfleck sits busy in the neuk, as sleek as a kinnen, and the auld clocker fornent her, admirin' an' misca'in' her a' the time. The white Seamaw flees up an' down the house, but an' ben, ae while i'the spense, ane i' the awmrie, an' then to the door wi' a soap-suds. Then the Foumart, he sits knitting his stocking, an' quarrelling wi' the hale tot o' them. The feint a haed he minds but sheer ill nature. If there be a good body i' the house, the auld 2 Q

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