An' her kend kisses, hardly worth a feg?
Peggy. Nae mair o' that — Dear Jenny, to be free,
160 There's some men constanter in love than we:
Nor is the ferly great, when nature kind
Has blest them wi' solidity of mind.
They'll reason calmly, an wi' kindness smile,
When our short passions wad our peace beguile:
165 Sae, when soe'er they slight their maiks at hame,
It's ten to ane the wives are maist to blame.
Then I'll employ wi' pleasure a' my art
To keep him cheerfu', an' secure his heart.
At e'en, when he comes weary frae the hill,
170 I'll hae a' things made ready to his will.
In winter, when he toils thro' wind an' rain,
A bleezing ingle, an' a clean hearth-stane;
An' soon as he flings by his plaid an' staff,
The seething pat's be ready to tak aff;
175 Clean hag-a-bag I'll spread upon his board,
An' serve him wi' the best we can afford;
Good humour an' white bigonets shall be
Guards to my face, to keep his love for me.
Jenny. A dish o' married love right soon grows
cauld,
180 An' dosens down to nane, as fouk grow auld.
Peggy. But we'll grow auld thegither, an' ne'er find
The loss o' youth, when love grows on the mind.
Bairns and their bairns mak 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 an' bride;
Nearer an' nearer ilka year they've prest,
Till wide their spreading branches are increas'd
An' in their mixture now are fully blest:
This, shields the other frae the eastlin blast,
That, in return, defends it frae the wast.
Sic as stand single (a state sae liked by you!)
Beneath ilk storm, frae every airt, maun bow.
Jenny. I've done - I yield, dear lassie, I maun
yield:
Your better sense has fairly won the field,
With the assistance of a little fae
Lies darn'd within my breast this mony a day.
Peggy. Alake, poor pris'ner! Jenny, that's no fair, That ye'll no let the wee thing tak 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, an' we're not yet begun
To freath the graith; if canker'd Madge, our aunt,
Come up the burn, she'll gie's a wicked rant:
But when we've done, I'll tell ye a' my mind;
FAREWELL to Lochaber, an' farewell my Jean,
Where heartsome wi' thee I've mony day been;
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more,
We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more..
These tears that I shed, they are a' for my dear,
An' no for the dangers attending on weir,
Tho' borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore,
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.
Tho' hurricanes rise, an' rise every wind,
They'll ne'er mak a tempest like that in my mind;
Tho' loudest o' thunders on louder waves roar,
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore.
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain'd;
By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gain'd;
An' beauty an' love's the reward o' the brave,
An' I must deserve it before I can crave.
Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse;
Since honour commands me, how can I refuse?
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee,
An' without thy favour I'd better not be.
I gae, then, my lass, to win honour an' fame,
An' if I shou'd luck to come gloriously hame,
I'll bring a heart to thee wi' love running o'er,
An' then I'll leave thee an' Lochaber no more.
SILENT nymph, with curious eye!
Who, the purple evening, lie
On the mountain's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of busy man;
Painting fair the form of things,
While the yellow linnet sings;
Or the tuneful nightingale
Charms the forest with her tale; -
Come, with all thy various dues,
Come and aid thy sister Muse;
Now, while Phoebus riding high,
Gives lustre to the land and sky!
Grongar Hill invites my song,
Draw the landscape bright and strong;
Grongar, in whose mossy cells
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells;
Grongar, in whose silent shade,
For the modest Muses made,
So oft I have, the evening still,
At the fountain of a rill,
Sate upon a flowery bed,
With my hand beneath my head;
While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood,
Over mead and over wood,
From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.
About his chequered sides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meads behind,
And groves, and grottoes where I lay,
And vistas shooting beams of day:
Wide and wider spreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal:
The mountains round, unhappy fate!
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise:
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly-risen hill.
Now, I gain the mountain's brow,
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapours intervene;
But the gay, the open scene
Does the face of Nature show,
In all the hues of Heaven's bow!
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.
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