WHY, Robin! Robin! boatman! He's not awake yet, as I live; though he know'd we shou'd want to be ferry'd over early this morn­ing.—Call him, Thomas.

Holloa! Who calls there?

We want, if you please, Robin, to be ferry'd over to market.

That you shall, my pretty lasses: I'll be wi' you presently. Bear a hand, my lads, and be untying the boat.

Will you give us a song the while, Patty? I remember as how you sung us a pretty one last week, all about the May.

Zooks! Patty, you sing like a sky-lark; but come, we'll ha' it in the boat.

Ay, ay, we'll ha' it in the boat.

They are gone without me: the boat goes swiftly with the stream.—Heigho!—They sing; they are merry; with me those happy days are over.—Edward thinks me unfaithful, and has not been at the Grange these three days. He wove me this basket as we sat near the little holt of osiers and willows by the river's side.

[Page 6] I'll sit down on the stile and wait Robin's return.

They are only the girls of the village, Sir, ferrying over to market.

Here's one seems to be left behind.

'Tis Marian, your Honor; Oliver Mea­dow's daughter at the Grange.

What do you do here, pretty Marian? Why are you not with your companions?

I was too late, Sir.

That's pity; but you shan't lose your market; I'll buy your strawberries; carry them up to the hall

How very lovely! the pure colour­ing of nature, with the artless smile of simplicity and truth; I have observ'd her more than once with admiration when dancing on the village green.

Let the huntsmen lead the hounds round to the other park-gate; we will throw off at the entrance of the heath: and let my horses be brought this way.

The gay expansion of my heart this morning, and the flow of good humour which I can scarce express, seem propitious to the poor stag, if a hunter's en­thusiasm does not check it.

Come here, Marian.—What is the matter, my little girl? You don't seem so gay as usual.

No. Sir.

Pray tell me: does anything vex you? A sweetheart, perhaps.—

No, Sir; he never vex'd me in his life.

Then you have a sweetheart, pretty Marian?

I had, Sir. There's nobody to blame but my father; he consented I shou'd have Ed­ward; and was impatient if he did not see him come running over the lea every evening at folding­time; but now my father has changed his mind, and says I must hold my head higher.

And why has he chang'd his mind, Marian?

Because I am grown rich, Sir. My god-mother has left me three hundred pounds for a portion; and that is the cause of all my mis­fortunes.

Where is your father, Marian?

Gone to Lincoln with some sheep, Sir; but I expect him home very early.

Perhaps I may be able to serve you, Marian—Send your father to me as soon as he returns.

If your Honor cou'd but persuade my father to take the money and leave me Edward—But Edward no longer loves me, and it's all my father's fault.

I'll shorten my chace to-day, to devote a few hours to the happiness of this charming girl—But I will first speak to Edward, and be certain he has constancy to deserve her.

Your Honor's horses are just on the other side of the gate, Sir.

'Tis very well; let somebody go to Ed­ward, the young man who writes for me, and de­sire him to be at the hall at twelve.

Why so melancholy, my lad? I'll be bound for it Marian loves you, though she seems a little shy at present.—Didn't I see her look back at you twenty times last night at folding of the lambs, as she walk'd slowly towards home, leaning on her father's arm?

I wish I cou'd believe you, Robin; and surely a mind like hers must be incapable of falsehood.

And why shou'dn't your mind be at ease? Odd's heart! you're enough to spoil all the girls in the parish—Now I'll tell you my way—I ax'd Patty what time I shou'd bring the boat; and she said as how she had rather come round over the brig; so I shall e'en let her come round over the brig.

And repent it when you have done, like enough—I cou'dn't have serv'd my Fanny so—But where will you find two prettier lasses than Patty or Fanny? or two truer suitors than Robin and I?—Nay, for that matter, who so happy as we country lads?

Here comes pretty Marian! Don't be shy, nor mind her vagaries! sit down on the stile [Page 11] and make as if you did not see her—Thomas and I will step into the house the while.

Do you love me still, Marian?

Do you ask me, Edward?

—My father wants me to marry Robin, because he has ten acres of land, be­sides the ferry, and a vote in the country, and milks four cows; but I won't marry Robin, nor anybody but Edward.

How could I be so unjust, Marian?

My father values wealth; but for me, the kindness of my honoured godmother is only welcome in the hope of sharing it with Edward!

I know my Marian's generous bosom well; therefore, though I was so unjust to doubt her constancy, I never had the meanness to suspect any acquisition of fortune could occasion it.

Yonder's your father, Marian, hobbling along towards the Grange—whip over the stile—go the nearest way, and be at home before him.

Didn't I tell you, my lad, that Marian loved you?—Why, you've got quite another face, man!

How different looks the whole scene around me! Nature now resumes all her charms.

Where did you leave the lasses, Thomas?

In the market, but they'll soon be here; they only stop at the cherry-holt on the other side of the water to get some fresh cherries and posies to sell at the fair. William and I pro­mised to meet them at the brig.

You see, Thomas, every one to his lik­ing; Edward is inveigled by Marian's brown [Page 13] locks—You love Fanny the Pindar's daughter, and I'm in love with Patty Clover; we fancied one another when bairns—I lik'd her afore I knew what liking was.

Thomas, let's have a drink; 'tis a main good thing after a walk—I've a brave barrel of ale just broach'd for the fair.—Come, Thomas.

As you command me to speak, Sir, your tenants have but one wish, that you wou'd bring down a lady to replace your honor'd mother.

Be assured, Edward, I shall marry the moment I am tired of being a batchelor: in the meantime, my tenants may be perfectly easy:— [Page 14] pleasure without remorse, the rose without the thorn, is my pursuit.—Yet I cannot convince the girls of this; even the lively Patty, whom I shou'd think less apprehensive, if she meets me alone, darts from me with the swiftness of a lapwing: she reminds me of that beautiful Ode of Horace, which a very slight alteration makes exactly to my purpose.

Come here, Robin.—What time does your little fair on the green begin?—I intend to be there, and give the girls fairings.

At one o'clock, your Honor, and ends at milking time. We have been drinking your Honor's good health

I'll return your compliment, Robin; I am this moment returned from the chace, and [Page 15] shall have no objection to a draught of your family liquor.

How kind your Honor is!—

One may know his Honor to be a gen­tleman born, by his not having a morsel of pride.—I remember hearing his Honor bear a bob once in the very ballad we were going to sing.

You shall hear me again, Robin.—I wish you to call at the hall about two o'clock, Edward, as I have something particular to say to you.

No, Robin, I can't forget it; to let me come round over the brig in the broiling sun, when the boat was idle at home!

Why, I ax'd if I shou'd bring the boat, but you said no.

But you knows young maidens often say no when they mean to say yes.

But how should I know that?

You should ha' found it out.

You joke, Patty—you know I loves you.

I knows nothing, but that I'll go meet my mother in the Thirty Acres afore I go to the fair; now don't you be following me

How pretty she looks! I'll follow her if she goes to the Thirty Acres, and twenty miles be­yond.

Ise unco weary, Jamie.

I ken a gude auld wife sitting by her door—she looks kind—sit thee down by her, Peggy, whilst I open my warehouse o' geer.

I ha' gang'd to London and a' about—I do' no' like the lasses o' the sooth; they are a' unco proud, and the lassies cheeks ruddled o'er laike a sheep after sheering—They lack wit too; lack the sharp air o' the north to quacken their understandings—then they gabble fic gibberish, it gars me laugh to hear them; but a' hereabout you speak the language in a' its purity, almost as weel as we do in Scotland. Your Lincoln is for a' the world laike our Dundee; and the lassies are sa pratty, and the lads sa kind and sa courteous, I almost fancied myself at haime.

We have rare land, my lad, and a kind landlord, and that makes our hearts merry.

Eh! Jamie can be as merry as the best o' ye—When I hard the sweet twang o' the bag­pipe, and ken'd sic bra' lads and lassies, my heart danc'd aboot as leight as a feather.

Do you remember, Marian, the first time I ever saw you? I came a stranger from the distant banks of Tyne—you were preparing to dance on the green—I offered my hand, you kindly gave me yours; you had a garland of flowers on your head, which, during the dance, you placed on mine.

How my heart beat when you spoke to me! You were so different from the young men of our village; so genteel and yet so modest—then you spoke so kind! your words were like the honey dew—Yes, Edward, I remember well!

I hard it all; hard him tell old Susan as how he would have me if so be I was willing, and feoff me in ten acres of as good freehold land as any in the county. Nay, if he'll feofft me he cer­tainly loves me, for I've ne'er a penny o' portion—but he mus'n't know I listen'd; I'll steal away afore he comes.

You owes me a kiss, Patty, ever since last Tuesday, when I gave your mother a new churn; you promised to pay me o' Saturday, and this is Friday afternoon!

And what then, Robin?

Why then, I'll have it to-day; there's no harm in a day more or less between true sweet­hearts! [Page 24]

Zooks! I believe you have bewitched me, Patty.

For shame, Robin! there's his Honor!

His Honor's a brave gentleman; but ain't I a freeholder; and mayn't I kiss who I please? Howsomever, let's go chuse our fairings, Patty!

Why do you fly me, my pretty lassie? I mean you no harm.

I donna know that—I donna laike when great lairds are sa free wi' poor lassies; I wonna be woo'd; I'se Jamie's bride, and my gude will is a' for him—I ha' lov'd him lang; he's a neighbour's bairn, and I ken his bringing up.

Only take this ribbon, my pretty lassie, to tie on your bosom.

I'se none o' your gear, gude Sir; there's planty o' lassies on the green, and a' bra' and bonny.

O that Peggy were in her ain country! But I'll sit me down by Jamie; his heart is kind, and he has na mair guile than a maiden—He's mair than a brother to me: he wadded me at the auld kirk, afore he wou'd let me gang wi' him—Bonny are the days since I call'd him my ain

A milking! a milking!

A milking! a milking!

Don't hurry on so, Marian; you won't hear me: I tell you again and again he's a rover; wanders about the country, and has a sweetheart wherever he comes—He sends all his earnings to a wench in the North country.

Indeed, my dear father, they slander him; his heart is as free from guile as my own.

Boddikins! when will women be wise? But I can tell you more: I saw him a little agone in the wood; he took a sort of picture out of his pocket, a little wee thing, no bigger nor a crown­piece; I stole softly, peep'd over his shoulder, and [Page 26] saw it with my own eyes: 'twas as feat a lass as one shall see on a summer's day; he kissed it, and seem'd ready to cry.—Yes, he kiss'd it, and put it to his bosom, just for all the world as if it had been a live sweetheart.

'Tis impossible! father, you must have been mistaken—

Mistaken! Why, there it is then: he dropp'd it, and I pick'd it up

Will you be­lieve your father now?

Wou'd to Heaven I always had! Can you forgive me, father?

Haud away! Don't be coaxing o' me. Come with me to his Honor; he shall know all.

Oh, Edward! if truth is a stranger to that breast—

Truth, quotha!

If Edward is indeed false, I may grieve, but can never change; he first won my heart, and I can never love another.

Come, come away, girl.

You are very kind, my little girls; but why so fearful?

If your Honor wou'd but bring us down a lady—

Your apprehensions make me smile: you are all very pretty; but I have not the remotest design on any of you—You will find me the protector, not the invader of innocence!

If I cou'd speak three words to your Honor—

Certainly, Oliver: I wanted also to speak three words to you.

I will be justified, Marian. Your father's suspicions, for I will not call 'em yours, have drawn from me a secret which the wealth of worlds shou'd not! This picture he shew'd you is the lively image of a mother, dear to me as the life-blood which warms my heart; and the money I sent was to her.

[Page 28]

Take my three hundred pounds for her, Edward; we are both young enough to work.

Why, you are a fool, Marian; what argufies all he has said?—A pretty choice you have made!

I can never make a second.

You shall not, my good girl—I have talked with Edward, and find he deserves you; in the station of a cottager, he has the sentiments and the manners of a gentleman.—Oliver, I will place Edward in a respectable situation, and make him more than an equal match for Marian.

You sha' na need, gude Sir.—My bonny chiel, art here?

Jamie here! Then I need no other vindication—Do you know that picture, Jamie?

Eh! 'Tis thy gude Mamy; her mild eyne, and her pratty kind lucks! She has been unco sad for thee: she sands me now to seek thee, and to tall thee a' the gude tidings.—The auld [Page 29] carle is deed that made a false will for her uncle: his conscience prack'd him at last, and he has left her her ain.—Do you ken you hoose by the hill­side? 'Tis now your gude Mamy's, wi' a thoosand acres of bra' land, and siller besides planty—She pines to share it wi' thee, and wi' the kind lassie wha chose thee wi'out means.

Then I indeed am happy! A for­tune, the gift of a beloved parent, and shared with Marian, who chose me in poverty, is bliss beyond my fondest hopes.

Eh! She's a paragon of a Mamy!

How shall I thank you for your kind intentions, Sir?

By making Marian happy.—Oliver, are you now satisfied with your son-in-law?

I am so asham'd, Sir—and so overjoy'd—Edward a 'Squire, and Marian a 'Squire's lady!—Nay, I always said Marian lov'd his young Honor.

Your kindness, Sir Henry, makes me speak more of myself than I meant to do. My parents were both of good birth, but little indebted to fortune: my father died too young to provide for, and my mother retired on a small annuity to the banks of Tyne: unable to give me a learned education, she gave me, in the noblest sense of the word, a liberal one; and inspired me with her own and my father's virtues.

Worthy young man!—Oliver, you shall have the farm I promis'd Edward; and to stock it you will permit to be my care, Sir.

You are all too kind to me, your Honor.

I have been thinking the little adventures of this day might be thrown into a [Page 30] drama—On that idea we'll venture at a Finale, and suppose it addressed to an indulgent and candid Audience.