ACT THIRD.

SCENE I.

Now turn your eyes beyond yon spreading lime,
And tent a man whase beard seems bleech'd with time;
An elvand fills his hand, his habit mean:
Nae doubt ye'll think he has a pedlar been.
But whisht! it is the knight in masquerade,
That comes hid in this cloud to see his lad.
Observe how pleas'd the loyal sufferer moves
Thro' his auld av'news, anes delightfu' groves.
Sir William solus.
The gentleman thus hid in low disguise,
I'll for a space unknown delight mine eyes,
With a full view of every fertile plain,
Which once I lost,—which now are mine again.
Yet 'midst my joys, some prospects pain renew,
Whilst I my once fair seat in ruins view.
Yonder, ah me! it desolately stands,
Without a roof; the gates faln from their bands;
The casements all broke down; no chimney left;
The naked walls of tap'stry all bereft:
My stables and pavilions, broken walls!
That with each rainy blast decaying falls:
My gardens, once adorn'd the most compleat,
With all that nature, all that art makes sweet;
Where, round the figur'd green, and peeble walks,
The dewy flowers hung nodding on their stalks:
But, overgrown with nettles, docks and brier,
No jaccacinths or eglintines appear.
How do those ample walls to ruin yield,
Where peach and nect'rine branches found a beild,
And bask'd in rays, which early did produce
Fruit fair to view, delightfu' in the use!
All round in gaps, the most in rubbish ly,
And from what stands the wither'd branches fly.
These soon shall be repair'd:—And now my joy
Forbids all grief,—when I'm to see my Boy,
My only prop, and object of my care,
Since Heaven too soon call'd hame his Mother fair.
Him, ere the rays of reason clear'd his thought,
I secretly to faithful Symon brought,
And charg'd him strictly to conceal his birth,
'Till we should see what changing times brought forth.
Hid from himself, he starts up by the dawn,
And ranges careless o'er the height and lawn,
After his fleecy charge, serenely gay,
With other shepherds whistling o'er the day.
Thrice happy life! that's from ambition free;
Remov'd from crowns and courts, how chearfully
A quiet contented mortal spends his time
In hearty health, his soul unstain'd with crime!
Or sung as follows.

SANG XII.—Tune, Happy Clown.

Hid from himself, now by the dawn,
He starts as fresh as roses blawn;
And ranges o'er the heights and lawn,
After his bleeting flocks.
Healthful, and innocently gay,
He chants and whistles out the day;
Untaught to smile, and then betray,
Like courtly weathercocks.
Life happy, from ambition free,
Envy, and vile hypocrisie,
Where truth and love with joy agree,
Unsully'd with a crime:
Unmov'd with what disturbs the great,
In propping of their pride and state,
He lives, and unafraid of fate,
Contented spends his time.
Now tow'rds good Symon's house I'll bend my way,
And see what makes yon gamboling to day,
All on the green, in a fair wanton ring,
My youthful tenants gayly dance and sing. [Exit.

ACT III.—SCENE II.

'Tis Symon's house, please to step in,
And vissy't round and round;
There's nought superfluous to give pain,
Or costly to be found.
Yet all is clean: a clear peat-ingle
Glances amidst the floor;
The green-horn spoons, beech-luggies mingle,
On skelfs foregainst the door.
While the young brood sport on the green,
The auld anes think it best,
With the Brown Cow to clear their een,
Snuff, crack, and take their rest.
Symon, Glaud, and Elspa.
Glaud.
We anes were young our sells—I like to see
The bairns bob round with other merrilie.
Troth, Symon, Patie's grown a strapan lad,
And better looks than his I never bade.
Amang our lads, he bears the gree awa',
And tells his tale the cleverest of them a'.
Els. Poor man!—he's a great comfort to us baith:
God mak him good, and hide him ay frae skaith.
He is a bairn, I'll say't, well worth our care,
That ga'e us ne'er vexation late or air.
Glaud. I trow, goodwife, if I be not mistane, }
He seems to be with Peggy's beauty tane, }
And troth, my niece is a right dainty we'an, }
As ye well ken: a bonnier needna be,
Nor better,—be't she were nae kin to me.
Sym. Ha! Glaud, I doubt that ne'er will be a match
My Patie's wild, and will be ill to catch:
And or he were, for reasons I'll no tell,
I'd rather be mixt with the mools my sell.
Glaud. What reason can ye have? There's nane, I'm sure,
Unless ye may cast up that she's but poor:
But gif the lassie marry to my mind,
I'll be to her as my ain Jenny kind.
Fourscore of breeding ews of my ain birn,
Five ky that at ae milking fills a kirn,
I'll gi'e to Peggy that day she's a bride;
By and attour, gif my good luck abide,
Ten lambs at spaining-time, as lang's I live,
And twa quey cawfs I'll yearly to them give.
Els. Ye offer fair, kind Glaud; but dinna speer
What may be is not fit ye yet should hear.
Sym. Or this day eight days likely he shall learn,
That our denial disna slight his bairn.
Glaud. Well, nae mair o't,—come, gie's the other bend;
We'll drink their healths, whatever way it end.
[Their healths gae round.
Sym. But will ye tell me, Glaud,—by some 'tis said,
Your niece is but a Fundling that was laid
Down at your hallon-side, ae morn in May,
Right clean row'd up, and bedded on dry hay?
Glaud. That clatteran Madge, my titty, tells sic flaws,
When e'er our Meg her cankart humour gaws.
Enter Jenny.
Jen. O father! there's an auld man on the green,
The fellest fortune-teller e'er was seen:
He tents our loofs, and syne whops out a book,
Turns o'er the leaves, and gie's our brows a look;
Syne tells the oddest tales that e'er ye heard.
His head is gray, and lang and gray his beard.
Sym. Gae bring him in; we'll hear what he can say:
Nane shall gang hungry by my house to day.
[Exit Jenny.
But for his telling fortunes, troth I fear,
He kens nae mair of that than my gray mare.
Glaud. Spae-men! the truth of a' their saws I doubt;
For greater liars never ran there out.
Returns Jenny, bringing in Sir William; with them Patie.
Sym. Ye're welcome, honest carle;—here take a seat.
Sir Will. I give ye thanks, Goodman; I'se no be blate.
Glaud. [drinks.] Come t'ye, friend:—How far came ye the day?
Sir Will. I pledge ye, nibour:—E'en but little way:
Rousted with eild, a wee piece gate seems lang;
Twa miles or three's the maist that I dow gang.
Sym. Ye're welcome here to stay all night with me,
And take sic bed and board as we can gi' ye.
Sir Will. That's kind unsought.—Well, gin ye have a bairn
That ye like well, and wad his fortune learn,
I shall employ the farthest of my skill,
To spae it faithfully, be't good or ill.
Sym. [pointing to Patie.] Only that lad;—alake! I have nae mae,
Either to make me joyful now, or wae.
Sir Will. Young man, let's see your hand;—what gars ye sneer?
Pat. Because your skill's but little worth I fear.
Sir Will. Ye cut before the point.—But, billy, bide,
I'll wager there's a mouse mark on your side.

Els. Betooch-us-to! and well I wat that's true:
Awa, awa! the deil's o'er grit wi' you.
Four inch aneath his oxter is the mark,
Scarce ever seen since he first wore a sark.
Sir Will. I'll tell ye mair, if this young lad be spar'd
But a short while, he'll be a braw rich laird.
Els. A laird! Hear ye, Goodman!—what think ye now?
Sym. I dinna ken: Strange auld man! What art thou?
Fair fa' your heart; 'tis good to bode of wealth:
Come turn the timmer to laird Patie's health.
[Patie's health gaes round.
Pat. A laird of twa good whistles, and a kent,
Twa curs, my trusty tenants, on the bent,
Is all my great estate—and like to be:
Sae, cunning carle, ne'er break your jokes on me.
Sym. Whisht, Patie,—let the man look o'er your hand,
Aftimes as broken a ship has come to land.
[Sir William looks a little at Patie's hand, then
counterfeits falling into a trance, while they endeavour
to lay him right.]
Els. Preserve's!—the man's a warlock, or possest
With some nae good,—or second sight, at least:
Where is he now?——
Glaud. ——He's seeing a' that's done
In ilka place, beneath or yont the moon.
Els. These second sighted fowk, his peace be here!
See things far aff, and things to come, as clear
As I can see my thumb.—Wow, can he tell
(Speer at him, soon as he comes to himsell)
How soon we'll see Sir William? Whisht, he heaves,
And speaks out broken words like ane that raves.
Sym. He'll soon grow better;—Elspa, haste ye, gae,
And fill him up a tass of Usquebae.
Sir William starts up, and speaks.
A Knight that for a Lyon fought,
Against a herd of bears,
Was to lang toil and trouble brought,
In which some thousands shares.
But now again the Lyon rares,
And joy spreads o'er the plain:
The Lyon has defeat the bears,
The Knight returns again.
That Knight, in a few days, shall bring
A Shepherd frae the fauld
And shall present him to his King,
A subject true and bauld.
He Mr. Patrick shall be call'd:
All you that hear me now,
May well believe what I have tald;
For it shall happen true.
Sym. Friend, may your spaeing happen soon and weel;
But, faith, I'm redd you've bargain'd with the deil,
To tell some tales that fowks wad secret keep:
Or do ye get them tald you in your sleep?

Sir Will. Howe'er I get them, never fash your beard;
Nor come I to redd fortunes for reward:
But I'll lay ten to ane with ony here,
That all I prophesy shall soon appear.
Sym. You prophesying fowks are odd kind men!
They're here that ken, and here that disna ken,
The wimpled meaning of your unco tale,
Whilk soon will mak a noise o'er moor and dale.
Glaud. 'Tis nae sma' sport to hear how Sym believes,
And takes't for gospel what the spae-man gives
Of flawing fortunes, whilk he evens to Pate:
But what we wish, we trow at ony rate.
Sir Will. Whisht, doubtfu' carle: for ere the sun
Has driven twice down to the sea,
What I have said ye shall see done
In part, or nae mair credit me.
Glaud. Well, be't sae, friend, I shall say nathing mair;
But I've twa sonsy lasses young and fair,
Plump ripe for men: I wish ye cou'd foresee
Sic fortunes for them might prove joy to me.
Sir Will. Nae mair thro' secrets can I sift,
Till darkness black the bent:
I have but anes a day that gift;
Sae rest a while content.
Sym. Elspa, cast on the claith, fetch butt some meat,
And, of your best, gar this auld stranger eat.
Sir Will. Delay a while your hospitable care;
I'd rather enjoy this evening calm and fair,

Around yon ruin'd tower, to fetch a walk
With you, kind friend, to have some private talk.
Sym. Soon as you please I'll answer your desire:—
And, Glaud, you'll take your pipe beside the fire;
We'll but gae round the Place, and soon be back,
Syne sup together, and tak our pint, and crack.
Glaud. I'll out a while, and see the young anes play.
My heart's still light, abeit my locks be gray.
[Exeunt.