Harry. My heart was never on a cantier key,
I'll sing you one with true spontaneous glee.
SONG.
Air,— “My laddie is gane.”
From the rude bustling camp to the calm rural plain,
I've come, my dear JEANIE, to bless thee again ;
Still burning for honour our warriors may roam,
But the laurel I wished for I've won it at home :
All the glories of conquest no joy could impart,
When far from the kind little girl of my heart ;
Now, safely returned, I will leave thee no more,
But love my dear JEANIE till life's latest hour.
The sweets of retirement, how pleasing to me !
Possessing all worth, my dear JEANIE, in thee !
Our flocks early bleating will wake us to joy,
And our raptures exceed the warm tints in the sky !
In sweet rural pastimes our days still will glide,
Till time looking back will admire at his speed,
Still blooming in Virtue, tho youth then be o'er,
I'll love my dear JEANIE till life's latest hour.
Enter MUIRLAND.
Muir. That's nobly sung, my hearty sodger callan!
I've heard you a, ahint the byre door hallan;
I see my fauts, I've chang'd my foolish views,
An now I'm come to beg for your excuse,
The sang sings true, I own't without a swither,
“Auld age an young can ne'er gree thegither.” [1]
I think, thro life I'll mak a canny fen
Wi hurcheon Nancy o the Hazel-glen;
She has my vows, but ay I lat her stan,
In hopes to won that bonnie lassie's han ;
O foolish thocht ! I maist coud greet wi spite,
But it was sleeky luve had a the wyte :
Nae mair let fortune pride in her deserts,
Her goud may purchase han's, but ne'er can sowther hearts.
Gaf. The man wha sees his fauts an strives to men’ ‘em,
Does mair for virtue than he ne'er had haen ‘em;
An he wha deals in scandal, only gains
A rich repay of scandal for his pains :
Ye hae our free excuse, ye needna doot it,
Ye'll ne'er, for us, mair hear a word about it.
Muir. That's a I wish't,—I coudna bide the thocht,
To live on earth an bear your scorn in oucht ;
My heart's now hale—ye sune shall hear the banns
Proclaim'd in the Parish Kirk 'tween me an Nans ;
I'm no the first auld chiel who's gotten a slicht,—
I’ll owre the muir,—sae, fareweel a this nicht ! [Exit.
Gaf. Of a experience, that bears aff the bell,
Whilk lets a body, richtly ken himsel.
Jean. May lasses, when their joes are far frae hare,
Bid stragglin wooers gang the gates they came,
Else, aiblins, when their muneshine courtship's past,
They'll hae to wed auld dotards at the last.
[1] “Crabbed age and youth cannot live together.”—Shakespere, “The Passionate Pilgrim,” stanza 10.