he has himself given several particulars, which confirm the report of those who knew him. In height he was only five feet four inches, of a swarthy complexion, active and tidy in his habits, fond of his food and his drink, yet averse to gluttony and drunkenness. His vanity, which certainly appeared a very prominent feature of his character, was probably not in excess of that of most men who have won equal fame, but, allied to his frank and genial disposition, was less under control; yet, being without pride or affectation, he avoided giving offence either in his writings or conversation. To the formation of religious and political opinions, it is doubtful if he ever applied himself with sufficient earnestness to have very decided convictions, and his times presented aspects, in both directions, which did not make the study inviting for one of his disposition. He records himself that he was neither Whig nor Tory; but Chalmers, in a note to this, says that he was a zealous Tory from principle, but being much caressed by Baron Clerk, and other gentlemen of opposite principles, made him affect outward neutrality. Any one who compares Ramsay's works with those of Burns, and other writers of modern Scotch literature, will at once see how much of the initial work is due to him-work for which none of them was so specially qualified. Had Burns appeared at Ramsay's time, and in Ramsay's circumstances, it is more than likely that he would have met the fate of poor Fergusson, before he had produced any of those unrivalled songs which will ever remain among the noblest gems of our literature. It is greatly to the credit of Ramsay's character that he kept the golden mean in his conduct, amidst a state of society the most dangerous to a young man with natural sociability, and that, amid the engagements of an exacting occupation, he found time for prosecuting his literary studies so as to have left not only a large number of poetical pieces of great merit, but to have pointed the way in the various directions in which the future genius of his country was to make her fame familiar to the world. THE LEGEND OF THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. THE time of the action of the drama, which extends only to twenty-four hours, is shortly after the restoration of Charles II., but arises out of events of twenty years' previous occurrence. A loyalist knight, to whom the poet gives the character-name of Sir William Worthy, proprietor (we shall assume) of the estate of Newhall, about sixteen miles south of Edinburgh, is obliged to quit his native country, during the protectorate of Cromwell, leaving his infant son and heir, Patrick (Patie), in charge of Symon, a faithful pastoral tenant; with strict injunctions to bring him up as his own son. Sir William's sister was married to a landed proprietor about fifty miles westward, in Ayr or Dumfries shire, and both she and her husband died during his exile, leaving an infant daughter, their heiress, to the care of her uncle and aunt. Mause, the child's nurse, having her suspicions roused regarding the safety of her charge, contrived to steal away with her by night, and having got eastward the length of Newhall, to avoid discovery, left her at the door of a shepherd named Glaud; and took a cottage in the neighbourhood, that she might watch over her safety. The foundling is named Peggy, and brought up as Glaud's niece. The action begins on a fine summer morning, "beneath the south side of a craigy bield," or sheltering rock, when Patie, and Roger, a wealthy companion shepherd, hold a confidential tête-à-tête regarding the progress of their love affairs, Patie being in love with Peggy, and Roger with Jenny, Glaud's only daughter. A corresponding dialogue takes place between Peggy and Jenny at the washing-green. Symon having been in Edinburgh, learns the news of the restoration and Sir William's return, and invites Glaud and the young folk to his house to celebrate the event. While they are amusing themselves, Sir William, disguised as a mendicant fortune-teller, makes his appearance, and reads Patie's fortune; and having found that his injunctions were observed, makes himself known as Sir William, and claims Patie as his son and heir. The comic interlude which helps to enliven the piece, and leads to the unfolding the mystery of Peggy's parentage, arises out of the presumption of a half-witted hind named Bauldy, who slights his sweetheart Neps, and makes love to Peggy. Failing to make any impression by fair means, he resolves upon foul, and applies to Mause, whom he supposes to be a witch, to help him with her art to turn Peggy's affections from Patie, and towards himself. Mause feigns compliance; and with the help of Madge, Glaud's sister, lays a plot for him, by which, through his superstitious fears, he is almost driven out of his senses, and accuses Mause of raising the deil for his destruction. The matter is referred to Sir William, before whom convenes the whole rustic community. Having convinced Bauldy of his errors, Sir William is struck with Peggy's resemblance to his sister, and inquires of Glaud as to her parentage, who relates the story of her "finding.' Mause then clears up the mystery, and Peggy is recognised by Sir William as his niece. This removes all objections to her union with Patie, the Gentle Shepherd, and minor matters being settled as might be expected, the curtain falls. characteristic features of the drama.] [The specimens given indicate the THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. ACT FIRST.-SCENE I. PROLOGUE. 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 and Roger. Pat. This sunny morning, Roger, cheers my blood, And puts all nature in a jovial mood. 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. And downa eithly wi' your cunzie part; care. Rog. My byre tumbled, nine braw nowt were smoor'd Rog. I'm born, O Patie! to a thrawart Three elf-shot were, yet I these ills endur'd: fate; In winter last, my cares were very sma,' I'm born to strive with hardships sad and Tho' scores of wathers perish'd in the great : Tempests may cease to jaw the rowin' flood, But I, opprest with never-ending grief, snaw. Pat. Were your bein rooms as thinly stock'd as mine, Less you wad loss, and less you wad repine. He that has just enough can soundly sleep; Pat. The bees shall loathe the flower, The o'ercome only fashes fowk to keep. and quit the hive, The saughs on boggie ground shall cease to thrive, Rog. May plenty flow upon thee for a cross, Ere scornfu' queans, or loss of warldly gear, That thou may'st thole the pangs of mony Shall spill my rest, or ever force a tear. Rog. Sae might I say; but it's no easy By ane whase saul is sadly out of tune. 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, thought: a loss : O may'st thou doat on some fair paughty wench, That ne'er will lout thy lowan drowth 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 sauld them ilka clute At the West-port, and bought a winsome flute, While I'm confus'd with mony a vexing 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! Yet I am tall, and as well built as thee, Pat. But ablins, neibour, ye have not a heart, Rog. Na, Patie, na! I'm nae sic churlish beast, Some other thing lies heavier at my breast: scorn. I dream'd a dreary dream this hinder night, With a' her face she shaws a cauldrife 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 Last night I play'd ye never heard sic O'er Bogie was the spring, and her delight; Flocks, wander where ye like, I dinna care, Your well seen love, and dorty Jenny's | I'll break my reed, and never whistle mair. pride. Take courage, Roger, me your sorrows tell, And safely think nane kens them but yoursell. Pat. E'en do sae, Roger, wha can help Saebeins she be sic a thrawn-gabbit chuck, Rog. Indeed now, Patie, ye have Gae till't your ways and take the lover's guess'd owre true, And there is naething I'll keep up frae you, To speak but till her I dare hardly mint : But yesterday I met her 'yont a knowe, car, But gecks at me, and says I smell of tar. 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 whinging way; Seem careless; there's my hand, ye'll win Hear how I serv'd my lass I love as weel Pat. But Bauldy loes not her, right Upon a dike I lean'd glowring about, well I wat : He sighs for Neps;-sae that may stand for that. I saw my Meg come linkan o'er the lea; Rog. I wish I couldna lo'e her-but in Her coats were kiltit, and did sweetly shaw vain, I still maun doat, and thole her proud disdain. My Bawty is a cur I dearly like, E'en while he fawn'd, she strak the poor dumb tyke: If I had fill'd a nook within her breast, She wad have shown mair kindness to my beast. When I begin to tune my stock and horn, Her straight bare legs, that whiter were than snaw: Her cockermony snooded up fou sleek, Her haffet-locks hung waving on her cheek; Her cheeks sae ruddy, and her een sae And Oh! her mouth's like ony hinny pear. clean, As she came skiffing o'er the dewy green, come here, I ferly wherefore ye're sae soon asteer; But I can guess, ye're gawn to gather dew:" A tartan plaid, spun of good hawslock Woo, Scarlet and green the sets, the borders blue: With spraings like gowd and siller, cross'd with black; She scour'd awa, and said, "What's that I never had it yet upon my back. Weel are ye wordy o't, wha have sae kind to you?" "Then fare ye well, Meg Dorts, and Redd up my ravel'd doubts, and clear'd e'en's ye like," I careless cried, and lap in o'er the dike. my mind. Pat. Well, haud ye there ;-and since ye've frankly made A present to me of your braw new plaid, Misca'd me first-then bade me hound My flute's be yours, and she too that's sae my dog, To wear up three waff ewes stray'd on the bog. I leugh, and sae did she; then with great haste nice Shall come a-will, gif ye'll tak my advice. Rog. As ye advise, I'll promise to observ't; I clasp'd my arms about her neck and But ye maun keep the flute, ye best Gae woo anither, and she'll gang clean To season meat with health instead of wud. Rog. Kind Patie, now fair fa' your Ye're aye sae cadgy and have sic an art My mother (rest her saul!), she made it fine, spice. When we have ta'en the grace-drink at the well, I'll whistle syne, and sing t'ye like mysell. [Exeunt. |
