Go search among your idle dreams,
  Your busy or your vain extremes;
  And find a life of equal bliss,
  Or own the next begun in this.

ALLAN RAMSAY

  From THE GENTLE SHEPHERD

  PATIE AND ROGER

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

Patie. My Peggy is a young thing, Just entered 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 wauking 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 wauking 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 blythe and bauld,
  And naething gi’es me sic delight
  At wauking 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 wauking of the fauld.

  This sunny morning, Roger, chears my blood,
  And puts all Nature in a jovial mood. 
  How hartsome is’t to see the rising plants,
  To hear the birds chirm o’er their pleasing rants!

  How halesom ’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-seasoned pain.

Roger. 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, oppressed with never-ending grief, Maun ay despair of lighting on relief.

* * * * *

  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 confused with mony a vexing thought;
  Yet I am tall, and as well built as thee,
  Nor mair unlikely to a lass’s eye;
  For ilka sheep ye have I’ll number ten,
  And should, as ane may think, come farer ben.

* * * * *