Chapter IV: Preface (3)

"_Ramsay_ was a man of strong natural, though few acquired parts, possessed of much humour, and native poetic fancy. Born in a pastoral country, he had strongly imbibed the manners and humours of that life. As I knew him well, an honest man, and of great pleasantry, it is with peculiar satisfaction I seize this opportunity of doing justice to his memory, in giving testimony to his being the author of the _Gentle Shepherd_, which, for the natural ease of the dialogue, the propriety of the characters, perfectly similar to the pastoral life in Scotland, the picturesque scenery, and, above all, the simplicity and beauty of the fable, may justly rank amongst the most eminent pastoral dramas that our own or any other nation can boast of. Merit will ever be followed by detraction. The envious tale, that the _Gentle Shepherd_ was the joint composition of some wits with whom _Ramsay_ conversed, is without truth. It might be sufficient to say, that none of these gentlemen have left the smallest fragment behind them that can give countenance to such a claim. While I passed my infancy at _Newhall_, near _Pentland hills_, where the scenes of this pastoral poem are laid, the seat of Mr. _Forbes_, and the resort of many of the _literati_ at that time, I well remember to have heard _Ramsay_ recite, as his own production, different scenes of the _Gentle Shepherd_, particularly the first two, before it was printed. I believe my honourable friend Sir _James Clerk of Pennycuik_, where _Ramsay_ frequently resided, and who I know is possessed of several original poems composed by him, can give the same testimony."

"_P.S._ The above note was shewn to Sir _James Clerk_, and had his approbation."[47]

[Footnote 47: Poetical Remains of James 1st of Scotland; p. 189.]

HUGH BLAIR, D.D. 1783.

"I must not omit the mention of another _pastoral drama_, which will bear being brought into comparison with any composition of this kind, in any language; that is, Allan Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd. It is a great disadvantage to this beautiful poem, that it is written in the old rustic dialect of Scotland, which, in a short time, will probably be entirely obsolete, and not intelligible; and it is a farther disadvantage that it is so entirely formed on the rural manners of Scotland, that none but a native of that country can thoroughly understand or relish it. But, though subject to these local disadvantages, which confine its reputation within narrow limits, it is full of so much natural description, and tender sentiment, as would do honour to any poet. The characters are well drawn, the incidents affecting; the scenery and manners lively and just. It affords a strong proof, both of the power which nature and simplicity possess, to reach the heart in every sort of writing; and of the variety of pleasing characters and subjects with which _pastoral poetry_, when properly managed, is capable of being enlivened."[48]

[Footnote 48: Blair's Lectures on Rhetoric, vol. iii. p. 126.]

JOHN PINKERTON. 1786.

"ALLAN RAMSAY. The convivial buffoonery of this writer has acquired him a sort of reputation, which his poetry by no means warrants; being far beneath the middling, and showing no spark of genius. Even his buffoonery is not that of a tavern, but that of an ale-house.

"The _Gentle Shepherd_ all now allow the sole foundation of his fame. Let us put it in the furnace a little; for, if it be gold, it will come out the purer. Dr. Beattie, in his Essay on Laughter and Ludicrous Composition, observes, that the effect of the Gentle Shepherd is ludicrous from the contrast between meanness of phrase, and dignity or seriousness of sentiment. This is not owing to its being written in the Scotish dialect, now left to the peasantry, as that ingenious writer thinks; for the first part of Hardyknute, written in that very dialect, strikes every English reader as sublime and pathetic to the highest degree. In fact this glaring defect proceeds from Allan Ramsay's own character as a buffoon, so evident from all his poems, and which we all know he bore in private life; and from Allan's total ignorance of the Scotish tongue, save that spoken by the mob of Mid Lothian. It is well known that a comic actor of the Shuter or Edwin class, though highly meritorious in his line, yet, were he to appear in any save _queer_ characters, the effect would even be more ludicrous than when he was in his proper parts, from the contrast of the man with his assumed character. This applies also to authors; for Sterne's sermons made us laugh, though there was nothing laughable in them: and, had Rabelais, or Sterne, written a pastoral opera, though the reader had been ignorant of their characters, still a something, a je ne sçai quoi, in the phraseology, would have ever provoked laughter. But this effect Ramsay has even pushed further; for, by his entire ignorance of the Scotish tongue, save that spoken by the mob around him, he was forced to use the very phraseology of the merest vulgar, rendered yet more ridiculous by his own turn to low humour; being himself indeed one of the mob, both in education and in mind. So that putting such _queer_ language into the mouth of respectable characters--nay, pretending to clothe sentiments, pathos, and all that, with such phraseology--his whole Gentle Shepherd has the same effect as a gentleman would have who chose to drive sheep on the highway with a harlequin's coat on. This radical defect at once throws the piece quite out of the class of good compositions.

* * * * *

"Allan was indeed so much a _poet_, that in his _Evergreen_ he even puts rhyming titles to the old poems he publishes; and by this silly idea, and his own low character, has stamped a kind of ludicrous hue on the old Scotish poetry, of which he pretended to be a publisher, that even now is hardly eradicated, though many editors of great learning and high respectability have arisen.

* * * * *

"I have been the fuller on this subject, because, to the great discredit of taste in Scotland, while we admire the effusions of this scribbler, we utterly neglect our really great poets, such as Barbour, Dunbar, Drummond, &c. There is even a sort of national prejudice in favour of the Gentle Shepherd, because it is our only drama in the Scotish language; yet we ought to be ashamed to hold prejudices so ridiculous to other nations, and so obnoxious to taste, and just criticism. I glory in Scotland as my native country; and, while I try to root up all other prejudices out of my mind, shall ever nourish my partiality to my country; as, if that be a prejudice, it has been esteemed an honest and a laudable one in all ages; and is, indeed, the only prejudice perfectly consonant to reason, and vindicable by truth. But Scotland has no occasion to recur to false history, false taste, false science, or false honours of any kind. In the severest light of truth she will stand very conspicuous. Her sons, in trying to adorn her, have shown remarkable defects of judgment. The ancient history of the Picts, so splendid in the page of Tacitus, is lost in our own fables. We neglect all our great poets, and are in raptures with Allan Ramsay. Our prejudices are as pitiful as strong; and we know not that the truth would make us far more illustrious, than all our dreams of prejudice, if _realized_, to use an expression of impossibility. Good sense in antiquities, and good taste in poetry, are astonishingly wanting in Scotland to this hour."[49]

[Footnote 49: Ancient Scotish Poems. Vol. I. London, 1786.]

JOSEPH RITSON. 1794.

"Ramsay was a man of strong natural parts, and a fine poetical genius, of which his celebrated _pastoral_ The Gentle Shepherd will ever remain a substantial monument; and though some of his songs may be deformed by far-fetched allusions and pitiful conceits, _The Lass of Patie's Mill_, _The Yellow-hair'd Laddie_, _Farewell to Lochaber_, and some others, must be allowed equal to any, and even superior, in point of pastoral simplicity, to most lyric productions, either in the Scotish or any other language."[50]

[Footnote 50: Ritson's Hist. Essay on Scotish Song, p. lxiii.]

WILLIAM ROSCOE. 1795.

"Whether the dialect of Scotland be more favourable to attempts of this nature, or whether we are to seek for the fact in the character of the people, or the peculiar talents of the writers, certain it is, that the idiom of that country has been much more successfully employed in poetical composition, than that of any other part of these kingdoms, and that this practice may here be traced to a very early period. In later times the beautiful _dramatic poem_ of The Gentle Shepherd has exhibited rusticity without vulgarity, and elegant sentiment without affectation. Like the heroes of Homer, the characters of this piece can engage in the humblest occupations without degradation."[51]

[Footnote 51: Roscoe's Life of Lorenzo de' Medici, vol. i. p. 296.]

THOMAS CAMPBELL. 1819.

"The admirers of the Gentle Shepherd, must perhaps be contented to share some suspicion of national partiality, while they do justice to their own feeling of its merit. Yet as this drama is a picture of rustic Scotland, it would perhaps be saying little for its fidelity, if it yielded no more agreeableness to the breast of a native than he could expound to a stranger by the strict letter of criticism. We should think the painter had finished the likeness of a mother very indifferently, if it did not bring home to her children traits of undefinable expression which had escaped every eye but that of familiar affection. Ramsay had not the force of Burns; but, neither, in just proportion to his merits, is he likely to be felt by an English reader. The fire of Burns' wit and passion glows through an obscure dialect by its confinement to short and concentrated bursts. The interest which Ramsay excites is spread over a long poem, delineating manners more than passions; and the mind must be at home both in the language and manners, to appreciate the skill and comic archness with which he has heightened the display of rustic character without giving it vulgarity, and refined the view of peasant life by situations of sweetness and tenderness, without departing in the least degree from its simplicity. The Gentle Shepherd stands quite apart from the general pastoral poetry of modern Europe. It has no satyrs, nor featureless simpletons, nor drowsy and still landscapes of nature, but distinct characters and amusing incidents. The principal shepherd never speaks out of consistency with the habits of a peasant, but he moves in that sphere with such a manly spirit, with so much cheerful sensibility to its humble joys, with maxims of life so rational and independent, and with an ascendency over his fellow swains so well maintained by his force of character, that if we could suppose the pacific scenes of the drama to be suddenly changed into situations of trouble and danger, we should, in exact consistency with our former idea of him, expect him to become the leader of the peasants, and the Tell of his native hamlet. Nor is the character of his mistress less beautifully conceived. She is represented, like himself, as elevated, by a fortunate discovery, from obscure to opulent life, yet as equally capable of being the ornament of either. A Richardson or a D'Arblay, had they continued her history, might have heightened the portrait, but they would not have altered its outline. Like the poetry of Tasso and Ariosto, that of the Gentle Shepherd is engraven on the memory of its native country. Its verses have passed into proverbs and it continues to be the delight and solace of the peasantry whom it describes."[52]

[Footnote 52: Campbell's British Poetry, vol. v. pp. 344-346.]

LEIGH HUNT. 1848.

"Poetical expression in humble life is to be found all over the south. In the instances of Burns, Ramsay, and others, the north also has seen it. Indeed, it is not a little remarkable, that Scotland, which is more northern than England, and possesses not even a nightingale, has had more of it than its southern neighbour."

"Allan Ramsay is the prince of the homely pastoral drama. He and Burns have helped Scotland for ever to take pride in its heather, and its braes, and its bonny rivers, and be ashamed of no honest truth in high estate or in low; an incalculable blessing. Ramsay is entitled not only to the designation we have given him, but in some respects is the best pastoral writer in the world. There are, in truth, two sorts of genuine pastoral--the high ideal of Fletcher and Milton, which is justly to be considered the more poetical,--and the homely ideal, as set forth by Allan Ramsay and some of the Idyls of Theocritus, and which gives us such feelings of nature and passion as poetical rustics not only can, but have entertained and eloquently described. And we think the Gentle Shepherd, 'in some respects,' the best pastoral that ever was written, not because it has anything, in a poetical point of view, to compare with Fletcher and Milton, but because there is, upon the whole, more faith and more love in it, and because the kind of idealized truth which it undertakes to represent, is delivered in a more corresponding and satisfactory form than in any other entire pastoral drama. In fact, the Gentle Shepherd has no alloy whatsoever to its pretensions, _such as they are_--no failure in plot, language, or character--nothing answering to the coldness and irrelevances of 'Comus,' nor to the offensive and untrue violations of decorum in the 'Wanton Shepherdess' of Fletcher's pastoral, and the pedantic and ostentatious chastity of his Faithful one. It is a pure, healthy, natural, and (of its kind) perfect plant, sprung out of an unluxuriant but not ungenial soil; not hung with the beauty and fragrance of the productions of the higher regions of Parnassus; not waited upon by spirits and enchanted music; a dog-rose, if you will; say rather, a rose in a cottage-garden, dabbled with the morning dew, and plucked by an honest lover to give to his mistress.

"Allan Ramsay's poem is not only a probable and pleasing story, containing charming pictures, much knowledge of life, and a good deal of quiet humour, but in some respects it may be called classical, if by classical is meant ease, precision, and unsuperfluousness of style. Ramsay's diction is singularly straightforward, seldom needing the assistance of inversions; and he rarely says anything for the purpose of 'filling up;'--two freedoms from defect the reverse of vulgar and commonplace; nay, the reverse of a great deal of what pretends to be fine writing, and is received as such. We confess we never tire of dipping into it, 'on and off,' any more than into Fletcher or Milton, or into Theocritus himself, who, for the union of something higher with true pastoral, is unrivalled in short pieces. The Gentle Shepherd is not a forest, nor a mountain-side, nor Arcady; but it is a field full of daisies, with a brook in it, and a cottage 'at the sunny end;' and this we take to be no mean thing, either in the real or the ideal world. Our Jar of Honey may well lie for a few moments among its heather, albeit filled with Hybla. There are bees, 'look you,' in Habbie's How. Theocritus and Allan shake hands over a shepherd's pipe. Take the beginning of Scene ii., Act i., both for description and dialogue:--

'A flowrie howm between twa verdant braes,
Where lasses use to wash and spread their claiths,
_A trotting burnie wimpling thro' the ground,
Its channel peebles, shining, smooth, and round_;
Here view _twa barefoot beauties_ clean and clear;
First please your eye, next gratify your ear,
While Jenny _what she wishes discommends_,
And Meg, with better sense true love defends.

JENNY.

Come, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this green,
The shining day will bleech our linen clean;
The water's clear, the lift unclouded blew,
Will make them _like a lilly wet with dew_.

PEGGY.

Go farer up the burn to Habby's How,
Where a' the sweets of spring and summer 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 bordring grass_:
We'll end our washing while the morning's cool,
And when the day grows het, we'll to the pool,
There wash our sells--'tis healthfu' now in May,
And sweetly cauler on sae warm a day.'

"This is an out-door picture. Here is an in-door one quite as good--nay, better.

'_While Peggy laces up her bosom fair,
With a blew snood Jenny binds up her hair_;
Glaud by his morning ingle takes a beek,
_The rising sun shines motty thro' the reek,
A pipe his mouth; the lasses please his een,
And now and than his joke maun interveen._'

"We would quote, if we could--only it might not look so proper, when isolated--the whole song at the close of Act the Second. The first line of it alone is worth all Pope's pastorals put together, and (we were going to add) half of those of Virgil; but we reverence too much the great follower of the Greeks, and true lover of the country. There is more sentiment, and equal nature, in the song at the end of Act the Fourth. Peggy is taking leave of her lover, who is going abroad:--

At setting day, and rising morn,
With soul that still shall love thee,
I'll ask of Heaven thy safe return,
With all that can improve thee.
I'll visit aft the Birken Bush,
Where first thou kindly told me
Sweet tales of love, _and hid my blush,
Whilst round thou didst enfold me_.
'To all our haunts I will repair,
By Greenwood-shaw or fountain;
Or where the summer-day I'd share
With thee upon yon mountain.
There will I tell the trees and flowers,
From thoughts unfeign'd and tender,
_By vows_ you're mine, _by love_ is yours
A heart which cannot wander.'

"The charming and so (to speak) natural flattery of the loving delicacy of this distinction--

'_By vows_ you're mine, _by love_ is yours,'

was never surpassed by a passion the most refined. It reminds us of a like passage in the anonymous words (Shakspeare might have written them) of the fine old English madrigal by Ford, 'Since first I saw your face.' Perhaps Ford himself wrote them; for the author of that music had sentiment enough in him for anything. The passage we allude to is--

'What, I that _loved_, and you that _liked_,
Shall _we_ begin to wrangle?'

The highest refinement of the heart, though too rare in most classes, is luckily to be found in all; and hence it is, that certain meetings of extremes in lovers of different ranks in life are not always to be attributed either to a failure of taste on the one side, or unsuitable pretensions on the other. Scotish dukes have been known to meet with real Gentle-Shepherd heroines; and everybody knows the story of a lowly Countess of Exeter, who was too sensitive to survive the disclosure of the rank to which her lover had raised her."[53]

[Footnote 53: A Jar of Honey from Mount Hybla, by L. Hunt, p. 106. London, 1848.]

ANECDOTE OF LADY STRANGE.

During nearly twenty years of the latter part of Ramsay's life, "he continued occasionally to write epistles in verse, and other short pieces, as he had done before, for the entertainment of his private friends. When urged by some of them to give some more of his works to the press, he said that he was more inclined, if it were in his power, to recall much of what he had already written, and that if half his printed books were burnt, the other half, like the Sybil's books, would become more valuable by it."[54] Still more deeply was this feeling entertained by his son, who hesitated not to express it in a manner more emphatic than respectful to his father's memory. On one occasion, in London, and in the house of Lady Strange, widow of the celebrated engraver of that name--a lady whose kindness to her countrymen and predilection for Scotland will long be remembered--he is said to have declared that if he could purchase every copy of his father's writings, even at the cost of a thousand pounds, he would commit them to the flames. "Indeed, sir," replied the lady, misunderstanding his meaning, "then let me tell you that if you could, and should do so, your labour would be lost, for I can," says she, "repeat from memory _every word_ of the Gentle Shepherd, and were you to consume every copy of it, I would write out that matchless poem with my own hand, and cause it to be printed at my own charges."[55]

[Footnote 54: Lives of Eminent Scotsmen. London, 1821.]

[Footnote 55: We are indebted for this anecdote to the venerable George Thomson, Esq., the correspondent of Burns and publisher of his finest songs, now living and in the 93d year of his age, who had it from--Macgowan, Esq., a gentleman formerly well known in this city, as having been told him by Lady Strange herself.

[Ramsay's Poems. Ed. 1850]

LIST OF ALLAN RAMSAY'S WORKS.

POEMS.--Edinburgh, 1721-28. 4to. 2 vols. First collective edition.
Many other editions. _See Preface, page_ ix.

THE EVERGREEN, being a Collection of Scots Poems, wrote by the
Ingenious before 1600. Edinburgh, 1724. 16mo. 2 vols. Reprinted,
1761 and 1824.

THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. Edinburgh, 1724, &c.--4 vols. 12mo. A
well-known collection of Songs, English as well as Scotish, by
several hands. Many other editions.

TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY--circa 1726. "Music for Allan Ramsay's
collection of Scots Songs: Set by Alexander Stuart, and engraved
by R. Cooper, vol. First. Edinburgh; printed and sold by Allan
Ramsay."

This is a small oblong volume of 156 pages, divided into six parts,
and contains the music of seventy-one Songs, selected from the
first volume of the Tea-Table Miscellany, printed in 1724. It is
very scarce, and no second volume ever appeared.

THE GENTLE SHEPHERD, a Scots Pastoral Comedy. Edinburgh, 1725. First
edition. Numerous other editions. _See Preface, page_ x.
Included in all the collective editions of the Poems.

_Translations._--By Cornelius Vanderstop. London, 1777. 8vo.--By W.
Ward. London, 1785. 8vo.--By Margaret Turner. London, 1790. 8vo.

FABLES.--A Collection of thirty Fables. Edinburgh, 1730. First
collective edition. The greater part of these were included in
the quarto of 1728, and are to be found in all the more recent
editions of the Poems.

PROVERBS.--A Collection of Scots Proverbs. Edinburgh, 1737. 12mo.
Numerous editions.

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

SUSANNA,

_COUNTESS OF EGLINTOUN_.[56]

MADAM,

The love of approbation, and a desire to please the best, have ever encouraged the Poets to finish their designs with chearfulness. But, conscious of their own inability to oppose a storm of spleen and haughty ill-nature, it is generally an ingenious custom amongst them to chuse some honourable shade.

Wherefore, I beg leave to put my Pastoral under your Ladyship's protection. If my Patroness says, the Shepherds speak as they ought, and that there are several natural flowers that beautify the rural wild, I shall have good reason to think myself safe from the awkward censure of some pretending judges that condemn before examination.

[Footnote 56: "This is the same dignified lady, to whom, at the age of eighty-five, Johnson, and Boswell, offered their homage; whose powers of pleasing continued so resplendent as to charm the fastidious sage into a declaration that, in visiting such a woman, he had spent his day well. This celebrated patroness of poets was the accomplished daughter of the noble house of Kennedy, who having married, in 1708, Alexander the Earl of Eglinton, by whom she had three sons, two of whom succeeded to the earldom, and seven daughters who married into honourable families, died on the 18th of March, 1780, at the patriarchal age of ninety-one."--_Geo. Chalmers' Life of Ramsay, page xxxiv., edition of 1800._]

I am sure of vast numbers that will crowd into your Ladyship's opinion, and think it their honour to agree in their sentiments with the Countess of EGLINTOUN, whose penetration, superior wit, and sound judgment, shines with an uncommon lustre, while accompanied with the diviner charms of goodness and equality of mind.

If it were not for offending only your Ladyship, here, Madam, I might give the fullest liberty to my muse to delineate the finest of women, by drawing your Ladyship's character, and be in no hazard of being deemed a flatterer; since flattery lyes not in paying what's due to merit, but in praises misplaced.

Were I to begin with your Ladyship's honourable birth and alliance, the field's ample, and presents us with numberless great and good Patriots that have dignified the names of KENNEDY and MONTGOMERY: Be that the care of the herauld and historian. 'Tis personal merit, and the heavenly sweetness of the fair, that inspire the tuneful lays. Here every Lesbia must be excepted, whose tongues give liberty to the slaves, which their eyes had made captives. Such may be flatter'd; but your Ladyship justly claims our admiration and profoundest respect: for, whilst you are possest of every outward charm in the most perfect degree, the never-fading beauties of wisdom and piety, which adorn your Ladyship's mind, command devotion.

"All this is very true," cries one of better sense than good nature, "but what occasion have you to tell us the sun shines, when we have the use of our eyes, and feel his influence?"--Very true; but I have the liberty to use the Poet's privilege, which is, "To speak what every body thinks." Indeed, there might be some strength in the reflection, if the Idalian registers were of as short duration as life: but the bard, who fondly hopes immortality, has a certain praise-worthy pleasure in communicating to posterity the fame of distinguished characters.----I write this last sentence with a hand that trembles between hope and fear: But if I shall prove so happy as to please your Ladyship in the following attempt, then all my doubts shall vanish like a morning vapour:--I shall hope to be classed with Tasso and Guarini, and sing with Ovid,

"If 'tis allowed to Poets to divine,
One half of round eternity is mine."

MADAM,

Your Ladyship's most obedient,

and most devoted servant,

ALLAN RAMSAY.

EDINBURGH, _June_, 1725.

TO THE

COUNTESS OF EGLINTOUN,

WITH THE FOLLOWING PASTORAL.

ACCEPT, O EGLINTOUN! the rural lays,
That, bound to thee, thy duteous Poet pays!
The muse, that oft has rais'd her tuneful strains,
A frequent guest on SCOTIA'S blissful plains,
That oft has sung, her list'ning youth to move,
The charms of beauty and the force of love,
Once more resumes the still successful lay,
Delighted, thro' the verdant meads to stray.
O! come, invok'd, and pleas'd, with Her repair,
To breathe the balmy sweets of purer air,
In the cool evening negligently laid,
Or near the stream, or in the rural shade,
Propitious hear, and, as thou hear'st, approve
The GENTLE SHEPHERD'S tender tale of love.
Instructed from these scenes, what glowing fires
Inflame the breast that real love inspires!
The fair shall read of ardours, sighs, and tears,
All that a lover hopes, and all he fears:
Hence, too, what passions in his bosom rise!
What dawning gladness sparkles in his eyes!
When first the fair one, piteous of his fate,
Cur'd of her scorn, and vanquish'd of her hate,
With willing mind, is bounteous to relent,
And blushing, beauteous, smiles the kind consent!
Love's passion here in each extreme is shown,
In Charlot's smile, or in Maria's frown.
With words like these, that fail'd not to engage,
Love courted beauty in a golden age,
Pure and untaught, such nature first inspir'd,
Ere yet the fair affected phrase desir'd.
His secret thoughts were undisguis'd with art,
His words ne'er knew to differ from his heart:
He speaks his love so artless and sincere,
As thy Eliza might be pleas'd to hear.
Heaven only to the Rural State bestows
Conquest o'er life, and freedom from its woes:
Secure alike from Envy and from Care;
Nor rais'd by Hope, nor yet depress'd by Fear:
Nor Want's lean hand its happiness constrains,
Nor Riches torture with ill-gotten gains.
No secret Guilt its stedfast peace destroys,
No wild Ambition interrupts its joys.
Blest still to spend the hours that Heav'n has lent
In humble goodness, and in calm content:
Serenely gentle, as the thoughts that roll,
Sinless and pure, in fair Humeia's soul.
But now the Rural State these joys has lost;
Even swains no more that innocence can boast:
Love speaks no more what beauty may believe,
Prone to betray, and practis'd to deceive.
Now happiness forsakes her blest retreat,
The peaceful dwellings where she fix'd her seat;
The pleasing fields she wont of old to grace,
Companion to an upright sober race;
When on the sunny hill, or verdant plain,
Free and familiar with the sons of men,
To crown the pleasures of the blameless feast,
She uninvited came a welcome guest;
Ere yet an age, grown rich in impious arts,
Brib'd from their innocence incautious hearts:
Then grudging hate, and sinful pride succeed,
Cruel revenge, and false unrighteous deed;
Then dow'rless beauty lost the power to move;
The rust of lucre stain'd the gold of love:
Bounteous no more, and hospitably good,
The genial hearth first blush'd with stranger's blood:
The friend no more upon the friend relies,
And semblant falsehood puts on truth's disguise:
The peaceful houshold fill'd with dire alarms;
The ravish'd virgin mourns her slighted charms:
The voice of impious mirth is heard around;
In guilt they feast, in guilt the bowl is crowned:
Unpunish'd violence lords it o'er the plains,
And Happiness forsakes the guilty swains.
Oh Happiness! from human search retir'd,
Where art thou to be found, by all desir'd?
Nun, sober and devout! why art thou fled,
To hide in shades thy meek contented head?
Virgin of aspect mild! ah! why, unkind,
Fly'st thou, displeas'd, the commerce of mankind?
O! teach our steps to find the secret cell,
Where, with thy sire, Content, thou lov'st to dwell.
Or say, dost thou, a duteous handmaid, wait
Familiar at the chambers of the great?
Dost thou pursue the voice of them that call
To noisy revel, and to midnight ball?
O'er the full banquet when we feast our soul,
Dost thou inspire the mirth, or mix the bowl?
Or, with th' industrious planter dost thou talk,
Conversing freely in an evening walk?
Say, does the miser e'er thy face behold,
Watchful and studious of the treasur'd gold?
Seeks Knowledge, not in vain, thy much lov'd pow'r,
Still musing silent at the morning hour?
May we thy presence hope in war's alarms,
The Statesman's wisdom, or the Fair-one's charms?
In vain our flatt'ring hopes our steps beguile,
The flying good eludes the searcher's toil:
In vain we seek the city or the cell,
Alone with Virtue knows the Pow'r to dwell.
Nor need mankind despair these joys to know,
The gift themselves may on themselves bestow.
Soon, soon we might the precious blessing boast,
But many passions must the blessing cost;
Infernal Malice, inly pining Hate,
And Envy, grieving at another's state:
Revenge no more must in our hearts remain,
Or burning Lust, or Avarice of gain.
When these are in the human bosom nurst,
Can Peace reside in dwellings so accurst?
Unlike, O EGLINTOUN! thy happy breast,
Calm and serene enjoys the heavenly guest;
From the tumultuous rule of passions free'd,
Pure in thy thought, and spotless in thy deed:
In virtues rich, in goodness unconfin'd,
Thou shin'st a fair example to thy kind;
Sincere and equal to thy neighbour's fame,
How swift to praise, but how averse to blame!
Bold in thy presence bashful Sense appears,
And backward Merit loses all its fears.
Supremely blest by Heav'n, Heav'n's richest grace,
Confest is thine, an early blooming race;
Whose pleasing smiles shall guardian Wisdom arm,
Divine Instruction! taught of thee to charm:
What transports shall they to thy soul impart,
(The conscious transports of a parent's heart)
When thou behold'st them of each grace possest,
And sighing youths imploring to be blest!
After thy image form'd, with charms like thine,
Or in the visit, or the dance to shine:
Thrice happy! who succeed their mother's praise,
The lovely EGLINTOUNS of future days.
Meanwhile peruse the following tender scenes,
And listen to thy native Poet's strains:
In ancient garb the home-bred muse appears,
The garb our Muses wore in former years:
As in a glass reflected, here behold
How smiling goodness look'd in days of old:
Nor blush to read where beauty's praise is shown,
And virtuous love, the likeness of thy own;
While, 'midst the various gifts that gracious Heaven,
Bounteous to thee, with righteous hand has given,
Let this, O EGLINTOUN! delight thee most,
T' enjoy that Innocence the world has lost.

W. H.

TO

JOSIAH BURCHET, ESQ.,

SECRETARY OF THE ADMIRALTY,

WITH THE FIRST SCENE OF THE GENTLE SHEPHERD.

The nipping frosts, the driving snaw,
Are o'er the hills and far awa';
Bauld Boreas sleeps, the Zephyres blaw,
And ilka thing
Sae dainty, youthfou, gay, and bra',
Invites to sing.

Then let's begin by creek of day,
Kind muse skiff to the bent away,
To try anes mair the landart lay,
With a' thy speed,
Since BURCHET awns that thou can play
Upon the reed.

Anes, anes again beneath some tree
Exert thy skill and nat'ral glee,
To him wha has sae courteously,
To weaker sight,
Set these[57] rude sonnets sung by me
In truest light.

[Footnote 57: _To weaker sight, set these_, &c.] Having done me the honour of turning some of my pastoral poems into English, justly and elegantly.]

In truest light may a' that's fine
In his fair character still shine,
Sma' need he has of sangs like mine
To beet his name;
For frae the north to southern line,
Wide gangs his fame.

His fame, which ever shall abide,
Whilst hist'ries tell of tyrants pride,
Wha vainly strave upon the tide
T' invade these lands,
Where Britain's royal fleet doth ride,
Which still commands.

These doughty actions frae his pen,[58]
Our age, and these to come, shall ken,
How stubborn navies did contend
Upon the waves,
How free-born Britons faught like men,
Their faes like slaves.

[Footnote 58: _Frae his pen._] His valuable Naval History.]

Sae far inscribing, Sir, to you,
This country sang, my fancy flew,
Keen your just merit to pursue;
But ah! I fear,
In giving praises that are due,
I grate your ear.

Yet tent a poet's zealous pray'r;
May powers aboon, with kindly care,
Grant you a lang and muckle skair
Of a' that's good,
Till unto langest life and mair
You've healthfu' stood.

May never care your blessings sowr,
And may the muses, ilka hour,
Improve your mind, and haunt your bow'r;
I'm but a callan:
Yet may I please you, while I'm your
Devoted _Allan_.

THE PERSONS.

MEN.

SIR WILLIAM WORTHY.
PATIE, the Gentle Shepherd, in love with Peggy.
ROGER, a rich young shepherd, in love with Jenny.
SYMON, } two old shepherds, tenants to Sir William.
GLAUD, }
BAULDY, a hynd engaged with Neps.

WOMEN.

PEGGY, thought to be Glaud's niece.
JENNY, Glaud's only daughter.
MAUSE, an old woman, supposed to be a witch.
ELSPA, Symon's wife.
MADGE, Glaud's sister.

SCENE.--A Shepherd's Village, and Fields some few miles from Edinburgh.

_Time of Action within twenty hours._

First act begins at eight in the morning.
Second act begins at eleven in the forenoon.
Third act begins at four in the afternoon.
Fourth act begins at nine o'clock at night.
Fifth act begins by day light next morning.

THE

GENTLE SHEPHERD.

ACT FIRST.

_SCENE I._

Beneath the south-side of a craigy beild,
Where crystal springs the halesome waters yield,
Twa youthful shepherds on the gowans lay,
Tenting their flocks ae bonny morn of May.
Poor Roger granes, till hollow echoes ring;
But blyther Patie likes to laugh and sing.

PATIE _and_ ROGER.

SANG I.--The wawking of the fauld.

PATIE sings.

_My_ 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 wawking of the fauld._

_My_ Peggy _speaks sae sweetly,
Whene'er we meet alane,
I wish nae mair to lay my care,
I wish nae mair of a' that's rare.
My_ Peggy _speaks sae sweetly,
To a' the lave I'm cauld;
But she gars a' my spirits glow
At wawking 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 naething gi'es me sic delight,
As wawking 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 tauld,
With innocence, the wale of sense,
At wawking of the fauld._

PATIE.

This sunny morning, Roger, chears my blood,
And puts all nature in a jovial mood.
How heartsome 'tis to see the rising plants!
To hear the birds chirm o'er their pleasing rants!
How halesome 'tis to snuff the cauler 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.

_Rog._ 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, opprest with never ending grief,
Maun ay despair of lighting on relief.

_Pat._ The bees shall loath the flower, and quit the hive,
The saughs on boggie-ground shall cease to thrive,
Ere scornful queans, or loss of warldly gear,
Shall spill my rest, or ever force a tear.

_Rog._ Sae might I say; but 'tis no easy done
By ane whase saul is sadly out of tune.
You have sae saft a voice, and slid a tongue,
You are the darling of baith 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 e'e.
For ilka sheep ye have, I'll number ten,
And should, as ane may think, come farer ben.

_Pat._ 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.

_Rog._ 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 wathers perish'd in the snaw.

_Pat._ Were your bein rooms as thinly stock'd as mine,
Less you wad lose, and less you wad repine.
He that has just enough, can soundly sleep;
The o'ercome only fashes fowk to keep.

_Rog._ 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 bris'd beneath the burden, thou cry dool,
And awn that ane may fret that is nae fool.

_Pat._ Sax good fat lambs I said 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!

_Rog._ Na, Patie, na! I'm nae sic churlish beast,
Some other thing lyes heavier at my breast:
I dream'd a dreary dream this hinder night,
That gars my flesh a' creep yet with the fright.

_Pat._ 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 your sell.

_Rog._ Indeed now, Patie, ye have guess'd o'er true,
And there is naething I'll keep up frae you:
Me dorty Jenny looks upon a-squint;
To speak but till her I dare hardly mint:
In ilka place she jeers me air and late,
And gars me look bumbaz'd, and unko blate:
But yesterday I met her 'yont a know,
She fled as frae a shellycoat or kow.
She Bauldy loes, Bauldy that drives the car;
But gecks at me, and says I smell of tar.

_Pat._ But Bauldy loes not her, right well I wat;
He sighs for Neps--sae that may stand for that.

_Rog._ I wish I cou'dna loo her--but in vain,
I still maun doat, and thole her proud disdain.
My Bawty is a cur I dearly like,
Even while he fawn'd, she strak the poor dumb tyke:
If I had fill'd a nook within her breast,
She wad have shawn 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.

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

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

_Pat._ Daft gowk! leave off that silly whindging 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 dike I lean'd glowring about,
I saw my Meg come linkan o'er the lee;
I saw my Meg, but Meggy saw na me:
For yet the sun was wading thro' the mist,
And she was closs upon me ere 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 cheek sae ruddy, and her een sae clear;
And O! her mouth's like ony hinny pear.
Neat, neat she was, in bustine waste-coat clean,
As she came skiffing o'er the dewy green.
Blythsome, I cry'd, My bonny Meg, come here,
I ferly wherefore ye're sae soon asteer;
But I can guess, ye'er gawn to gather dew:
She scour'd awa, 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 dike.
I trow, when that she saw, within a crack,
She came with a right thievless errand back;
Misca'd me first,--then bade me hound my dog
To wear up three waff ews stray'd on the bog.
I leugh, and sae did she; then with great haste
I clasp'd my arms about her neck and waste,
About her yielding waste, 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 well I kent she meant nae as she spake.
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_, Fy gar rub her o'er wi' 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 boldly on, and win the day.
When maidens, innocently young,
Say aften 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._

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

_Pat._ Well, hald ye there;--and since ye've frankly made
A present to me of your braw new plaid,
My flute's be your's, and she too that's sae nice
Shall come a will, gif ye'll tak my advice.

_Rog._ As ye advise, I'll promise to observ'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.

_Pat._ But first we'll tak a turn up to the height,
And see gif all our flocks be feeding right.
Be that time, bannocks, and a shave 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 fine, and sing t'ye like mysell. [_Exeunt._

_ACT I.--SCENE II._

A flowrie howm between twa verdant braes,
Where lasses use to wash and spread their claiths,
A trotting burnie wimpling thro' the ground,
Its channel peebles, shining, smooth and round;
Here view twa barefoot beauties clean and clear;
First please your eye, next gratify your ear,
While Jenny what she wishes discommends,
And Meg with better sense true love defends.

PEGGY _and_ JENNY.

_Jenny._

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

_Peg._ Go farer up the burn to Habby's How,
Where a' the sweets of spring and summer grow;
Between twa birks, out o'er a little lin
The water fa's, and makes a sing and din;
A pool breast-deep beneath, as clear as glass,
Kisses with easy whirles the bordring grass:
We'll end our washing while the morning's cool,
And when the day grows het, we'll to the pool,
There wash our sells--'tis healthfu' now in May,
And sweetly cauler on sae warm a day.

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

_Peg._ We're far frae ony road, and out of 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 with disdain?
The nibours a' tent this as well as I,
That Roger loes you, yet ye carna by.
What ails ye at him? Trowth, between us twa,
He's wordy you the best day e'er ye saw.

_Jen._ I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end;
A herd mair sheepish yet I never kend.
He kaims his hair indeed, and gaes right snug,
With ribbon-knots at his blew bonnet-lug;
Whilk pensily he wears a thought a-jee,
And spreads his garters die'd beneath his knee.
He falds his owrlay down his breast with care;
And few gang 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_.

_Peg._ Ye dash the lad with constant slighting pride,
Hatred for love is unco sair to bide:
But ye'll repent ye, if his love grows cauld.
What like's a dorty maiden when she's auld?
Like dawted we'an, that tarrows 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._

_Jen._ I never thought a single life a crime.

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

_Jen._ 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 slavery like, and may be free:
The cheils may a' knit up themsells for me.

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

_Jen._ Heh! lass, how can you loo that rattle-skull,
A very deil that ay maun hae his will?
We'll soon hear tell what a poor fighting life
You twa will lead, sae soon's ye're man and wife.

_Peg._ 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 lean my head.
There we 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.

_Jen._ 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 his 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 delite,
Ae day be dumb, and a' the neist he'll flite:
And may be, in his barlickhoods, 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 betyde you.
Lasses, when their fancy's carry'd,
Think of nought but to be marry'd:
Running to a life destroys
Heartsome, free, and youthfu' joys._

_Peg._ Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thae want pith to move
My settl'd mind, I'm o'er far 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 musick thro' my heart.
How blythly can he sport, and gently rave,
And jest at feckless fears that fright the lave?
Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill,
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 you what he is!
In a' he says or does, there's sic a gait,
The rest seem coofs compar'd with my dear Pate.
His better sense will lang his love secure:
Ill-nature heffs 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 fallows, 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 virtues, and ne'er will abuse
Her for a small failing, but find an excuse._