LONDON: Printed by A. Strahan, Printers-Street; FOR T. N. LONGMAN AND O. REES, PATERNOSTER-ROW. 1800. [Price One Shilling.]



  • Sir Henry Truman Mr. INCLEDON.
  • Oliver (Father to Marian) Mr. THOMPSON.
  • Edward (her Lover) Mr. JOHNSTONE.
  • Robin Mr. BLANCHARD.
  • Jamie Mr. POWELL.
  • Thomas Mr. DARLEY.
  • William Mr. GRAY.
  • Servant Mr. ABBOT.
  • Marian Mrs. BILLINGTON.
  • Patty Mrs. MARTYR.
  • Fanny Mrs. BARNET.
  • Kitty Mrs. ARNOLD.
  • Peggy Mrs. MOUNTAIN.
  • Villagers, Country Girls, &c.


TIME—A Day in May.



SCENE I.—A rural Scene; on the right hand Sir HENRY TRUMAN’s Park-Wall just appears, with an iron Palisade—Gate half open, and a Stile near the Gate.—At the back of the Scene a River; beyond which is a Road winding up the side of a Hill—A small House close to the River, with a Window to the Stage—Near the House, bending over the River, a Willow, to which the Boat is fastened.—The Sun appears as just risen.

PATTY, FANNY, and KITTY appear, walking up to the Boatman’s House, with Baskets of Fruit and Flowers on their arms, as for the Market—THOMAS and WILLIAM following.


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 morn|ing.—Call him, Thomas.

(They all go up to the window.)




The sun gaily peeps o’er the hills;

Sweet airs from the jessamins blow;

Wake, Robin! blithe Robin; here’s three pretty maids

A tapping at your window.







All three.

Here’s three pretty maids,

Three pretty maids,

A tapping at your window.

Robin (at the window).

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.

(THOMAS and WILLIAM go up to 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.


Now the wintry storms are o’er,

Spring unlocks her verdant store;

Smiling pleasure crowns the day;

Sweetly breathes the blushing May.

O’er the daisy-painted mead

Now the wanton lambkins spread,

Ever playful, ever gay,

Fond to welcome in the May.



Now responsive through the grove,

Softer tun’d to spring and love,

Echo, with her sportive lay,

Joins our carols to the May.

(During the last stanza ROBIN enters.)


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.

(ROBIN hands PATTY into the boat; the others follow: they cross the river singing the first stanza in chorus.)

Enter MARIAN with a basket of fruit and flowers—she looks after them, then sits down on the stile.


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.


By the osiers so dank

As we sat on the bank,

And look’d at the swell of the billow,

This basket he wove

As a token of love,

Alas! ’twas the branch of the willow.

Now sad all the day

Thro’ the meadows I stray,

And rest flies at night from my pillow:

The garland I were

From my ringlets I tore,

Alas! must I wear the green willow!


I’ll sit down on the stile and wait Robin’s return.

Enter Sir HENRY TRUMAN, and a SERVANT following.

(Sir HENRY looks back at the river.)


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

Sir H.

Here’s one seems to be left behind.


‘Tis Marian, your Honor; Oliver Mea|dow’s daughter at the Grange.

Sir H.

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

Marian (rises and curtsies).

I was too late, Sir.

Sir H.

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

(gives her money—She goes out through the park-gate).

How very lovely! the pure colour|ing 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.

(To the SERVANT)

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.



To the chace, to the chace: on the brow of the hill

Let the hounds meet the sweet-breathing morn;

Whilst full to the welkin, their notes, clear and shrill,

Join the sound of the heart-chearing horn.

What music celestial! when urging the race,

Sweet echo repeats, “To the chace, to the chace.”



Our pleasure transports us—How gay flies the hour!

Sweet health and quick spirits attend;

Not sweeter when evening convenes to the bow’r,

And we meet the lov’d smile of a friend.

See the stag just before us! he starts at the cry,

He stops—his strength fails—speak my friends—must he die?

His innocent aspect, whilst standing at bay,

His expression of anguish and pain,

All plead for compassion—your looks seem to say

Let him bound o’er his forests again.

Quick! release him to dart o’er the neighbouring plain;

Let him live, let him bound o’er his forests again.

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 en|thusiasm does not check it.

Enter MARIAN, but seeing Sir HENRY she retires.

Sir H.

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

Marian (sighing).

No. Sir.

Sir H.

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


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

Sir H.

Then you have a sweetheart, pretty Marian?


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

Sir H.

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 mis|fortunes.

Sir H.

Where is your father, Marian?


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

Sir H.

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.


Too happy when Edward was kind,

My father agreed to our love;

No cares e’er disorder’d my mind.

I sung as I travers’d the grove.

Like the lark’s was each note of my song;

Serene were my chearful days spent;

Whilst eve brought my shepherd along;

My shepherd—fond love and content.


Sir H.

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.



Sir H.

‘Tis very well; let somebody go to Ed|ward, the young man who writes for me, and de|sire him to be at the hall at twelve.


ROBIN and THOMAS appear in and land from the boat—EDWARD enters, stands pensive—ROBIN taps him on the shoulder.


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.


Who can suspect sweet Marian’s faith

That hears her softly speak?

Or doubt the candid blush of truth

Which mantles on her cheek?

Those accents never can deceive;

No guile that bosom knows;

Pure as th’ untainted breath of morn,

And chaste as falling snows.

Unheeded pass’d the dancing hours

Which saw our growing flame;

The grove, the dell, the fanning breeze,

The glow of noon the same.

But now no more the dell delights,

The grove or fanning breeze;

The taste of nature’s genuine charms

Demands the mind at ease.




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?


How blest our condition! how jocund our day!

Ye swains, can our pleasures be told?

To range in sweet order the rows of new hay,

To lead the stray’d lamb to the fold.

To fetch up the kine for the maiden we love,

And guard her from noon’s burning beam;

To guide her dear steps, when she leads thro’ the grove

The heifer which pants for the stream.

To carry her pail when with milk it o’erflows;

To wait while she rests on the stile;

To gather the king-cup, the woodbine, and rose,

To make her a posy the while.

‘Tis Fanny, the lovely, who causes my smart;

‘Tis she does all maidens excel;

If you ask her dear name who has conquer’d my heart,

‘Tis Fanny, the pride of the dell.

‘Tis Fanny, sweet Fanny!

‘Tis Fanny, sweet Fanny, the pride of the dell!


Here comes pretty Marian! Don’t be shy, nor mind her vagaries! sit down on the stile


and make as if you did not see her—Thomas and I will step into the house the while.

[Exeunt ROBIN and THOMAS into the house.

(EDWARD sits on the stile and plays on the flute.)


(She goes softly up to him, throws flowers at him from her basket—EDWARD turns—she stops, looks confused, he runs to her and takes her hand.)


Do you love me still, Marian?


Do you ask me, Edward?

(hiding her face with her apron.)

—My father wants me to marry Robin, because he has ten acres of land, be|sides 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!

(looking down and playing with the strings of her hat.)


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.

Enter ROBIN from the House.


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

[Exit MARIAN, led off by EDWARD.




Re-enter EDWARD with THOMAS.

Robin (takes EDWARD’s hand).

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.


Ye happy pairs, sincere and kind,

‘Tis here you taste each joy refin’d;

Fair truth and love delight to dwell

At yonder cottage on the dell.

Light as the fairy step at morn,

Swift passing o’er, th’ unbending corn;

All other pleasures weakly move

The heart awake to generous love!

How dear sweet Marian’s artless sighs!

Hers the mild eloquence of eyes;

When constancy’s all-cheering ray

Drives ev’ry jealous thought away.

Far hence be doubt and tender fears;

How blest the life which love endears!

When truth informs the glowing cheek,

O Love! thy transports who can speak?

Enter SERVANT, whispers EDWARD, and exit.


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 pro|mised to meet them at the brig.


You see, Thomas, every one to his lik|ing; Edward is inveigled by Marian’s brown


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.


When little on the village-green

We play’d, I learnt to love her;

She seem’d to me some fairy queen,

So light tripp’d Patty Clover.

With every simple childish art,

I try’d each day to move her;

The cherry pluck’d, the bleeding heart,

To give to Patty Clover.

The fairest flowers to deck her breast,

I chose, an infant lover:

I stole the goldfinch from its nest

To sing to Patty Clover.

[Exeunt through park-gate.


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.

[Exeunt into house.

Enter Sir HENRY and EDWARD.


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.

Sir H.

Be assured, Edward, I shall marry the moment I am tired of being a batchelor: in the meantime, my tenants may be perfectly easy:—


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.


Patty flies me like a fawn,

Which, thro’ some sequester’d lawn,

Panting seeks the mother deer

Not without a panic fear

Of the gently breathing breeze

And the motion of the trees—

O’er the cool sequester’d lawn

Patty flies me like a fawn.

If the curling leaves but shake,

If a lizard stir the brake,

Frighted it begins to freeze

Trembling both at heart and knees;

Thus alarm’d with causeless fear

Fancy paints a lover near:

Whilst along the dewy lawn

Patty flies me like a fawn.

Enter ROBIN with a jug, and THOMAS at the door, bowing.

Sir H.

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

(shews the jug).

Sir H.

I’ll return your compliment, Robin; I am this moment returned from the chace, and


shall have no objection to a draught of your family liquor.


How kind your Honor is!—


One may know his Honor to be a gen|tleman 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.

Sir H.

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.




Truth exalts the generous soul!


Seek him in the social bowl.


Seek him.


Seek him.


Seek him.


Seek him.


Seek him in the social bowl.


Mirth’s the med’cine of the soul!


Find him in the social bowl.


Find him, &c.




Carking care consumes the soul.


Drown him in the social bowl.


Drown him, &c.


Sorrow wears the weary soul!


Sink him in the social bowl.


Sink him, &c.


Seek him.


Find him.


Drown him.


Sink him.


Sink him in the social bowl.






SCENE—The Village-Green—Stalls set out for a Country Fair—A different and more distant view of the River, with the Bridge over—On each side Cottages interspersed, and a clump of Trees at a little distance—A Public House high up the Stage, with a Bench at the Door: some Villagers sitting on it, others walking about cheapening Ribbons, &c.

Enter PATTY, KITTY, FANNY, THOMAS and WILLIAM over the bridge singing.


Yon poplars which wave in the gale

Bid the swain be as active as day:

Let the poplar’s example prevail,

All nature is blithsome and gay.


How sweet is the song in the vale!

The song which makes vocal the grove:

Let the blackbird’s example prévail;

Her notes are the language of love.



(ROBIN just appears, but retires; PATTY sees him, whispers THOMAS and WILLIAM: they form a trio-groupe on one side.—ROBIN comes forward, takes FANNY and KITTY under each arm, and form a trio-groupe on the other—PATTY coquetting with the men—ROBIN with the girls.—All six repeat the last stanza.)


Young William is constant as light,

And Thomas has truth on his brow,

Whilst Robin resembles the blight

Which mildews the bud on the bough.

(Gives a nosegay to each.)


False Patty is changeful as air,

Inconstancy sits on her brow,

Whilst Robin still true to the fair,

Leaves its sweets to the bud on the bough.

(Gives a ribbon to each.)

THOMAS, WILLIAM, KITTY, and FANNY come forward singing.

No longer repine and complain,

Nor fill with your murmurs the grove;

For pleasure, sweet pleasure, not pain—

The fond bosom was fashion’d to love.

ROBIN and PATTY advance, and all six repeat the last stanza.

No longer repine, &c.

(ROBIN offers to take PATTY’s hand—she draws it back.)


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

(goes, but looks back on ROBIN).



How pretty she looks! I’ll follow her if she goes to the Thirty Acres, and twenty miles be|yond.


JAMIE and PEGGY come forward followed by the bagpipes.


Ken ye not my blithsome bairns

My love is Scottish Jamie,

Wha’se luking for a bonny child

That’s wander’d fra’ his mamy.

Wander’d fra’, &c.

O’er hill and dale, through bog and mire,

I gang’d alang wi’ Jamie;

In bonnet blue and tartan plaid

He woo’d me fra’ my mamy.

Woo’d me fra’, &c.

Come bring, come bring your siller here

For ribbons, garters, glasses:

Here’s Jamie fresh fra’ bra’ Dundee

Wi’ gear for pratty lasses.

Geer for pratty, &c.



Come buy, come buy, my pratty maids,

And bring your siller here;

Here’s Jamie fresh fra’ bra’ Dundee,

Wha’ brings you mickle gear.

Brings you, &c.


Ken ye not, &c.


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.

(PEGGY goes up to the old Woman, who invites her into the Cottage—JAMIE opens his pack on the bench by the public house, and PEGGY sings—the Villagers gather round him.)


Come buy, come buy, my pratty maids,

And bring your siller here;

Here’s Jamie fresh fra’ bra’ Dundee,

Wha’ brings ye mickle gear.

Jamie (to THOMAS and WILLIAM).

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 bag|pipe, and ken’d sic bra’ lads and lassies, my heart danc’d aboot as leight as a feather.

[Exit into the house.

EDWARD and MARIAN come forward.


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!



Marian scorns each sordid pleasure,

Joys which fortune can impart;

Love alone is real treasure,

Treasure of the feeling heart.


All you fruitful vales possessing,

Were their flocks thy Marian’s part,

Only valu’d were the blessing,

Giv’n to Edward with my heart!




Giv’n to Edward with thy heart!


Giv’n to Edward with my heart!


Only valu’d were the blessing.

Giv’n to Edward with thy / my heart.

[She leans on his arm and they exeunt.

Enter PATTY.


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 cer|tainly 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.



I hard it all behind you tree;

My Robin only proves me;

No more I’ll grieve, my heart’s at ease;

I’ll steal away, he loves me.



Enter ROBIN.


I was to blame to be so wild;

My Patty only proves me;

I saw her hide, she look’d and smil’d,

I sure believes she loves me.


I’ll fetch my pail and milk my kine

Since Robin only proves me;

He still is true, his heart is mine,

No more I’ll grieve, he loves me.

(ROBIN takes PATTY’s hand.)


My Patty is the sweetest lass,

Her pouting only proves me;

I saw her hide, she look’d and smil’d—

I sure believes she loves me.


I’ll fetch my / her pail and milk my / her kine,

Since Robin / Patty only proves me;

How blithe our days! I’ll ne’er repine,

Since Robin / Patty truly loves me!


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 sweet|hearts!


(kisses her.)

Zooks! I believe you have bewitched me, Patty.

Enter Sir HENRY—then goes into the Cottage, and enters with PEGGY, talking to her.


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!

[They retire up.

Sir H.

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.

Sir H.

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.


I canno’ laike ye, gentle Sir,

Altho’ a Laird ye be:

I laike a bonny Scottish lad

Wha brought me fra’ Dundee.

(Sir HENRY offers to take her hand.)

Haud away! haud away!

Wi’ Jamie o’er the lea

I gang’d alang wi’ free gude will,

He’s a’ the world to me.



I’se gang’d wi’ Jamie fra’ Dundee

To cheer the lanesome way,

His cheeks are ruddy o’er wi’ halth,

He’s frolick as the May.

The laverock mounts to hail the morn,

The lintwhite swells her throat,

But neither are sa sweet, sa clear

As Jamie’s tunefu’ note.

Haud away, &c.

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

(she goes to the bench and sits by JAMIE—The bell rings the girls all together.)


A milking! a milking!

All the Girls.

A milking! a milking!

[Exeunt all—different ways.

Enter MARIAN hastily, and OLIVER following.


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 crown|piece; I stole softly, peep’d over his shoulder, and


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

(she looks at the picture, throws it down, leans on OLIVER’s shoulder, and wipes her eyes with her apron).

Will you be|lieve your father now?


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

Oliver (taking up the picture).

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.



How can I forget the fond hour

When Edward first offer’d his heart?

At eve on the green, in the bow’r,

I trembled for fear we shou’d part.

You left me, dear Edward! forlorn,

When night sent the shepherds to rest;

I watch’d the first streaks of the morn,

I saw you return, and was blest.





Enter the Girls from milking, with pails on their heads, and Sir HENRY talking to them—they offer him milk from their pails.

Sir H.

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


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

Sir H.

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!

[Exeunt Girls.

Enter OLIVER, bowing to Sir HENRY.


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

Sir H.

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

Enter EDWARD leading in MARIAN, who struggles to get from him.


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.



With truth on her lips she my infancy form’d,

A stranger to falsehood and art;

She charg’d me to speak to the maid of my choice

No language but that of the heart.

I heard her—obeyed; and when Marian’s soft voice,

Mild as love, added wings to the dart,

Sincere my expression, though ardent, I spoke

No language but that of the heart.


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.

Sir H.

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.


Jamie (throws down his pack, runs hastily up to EDWARD and embraces him).

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


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 hill|side? ‘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 for|tune, 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?

Sir H.

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.

Sir H.

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.

Sir H. (to EDWARD.)

I have been thinking the little adventures of this day might be thrown into a


drama—On that idea we’ll venture at a Finale, and suppose it addressed to an indulgent and candid Audience.

Enter THOMAS, FANNY, &c.



Still from grave to lively changing,

When the poet quits his ease,

O’er the wilds of fancy ranging,

How his bosom pants to please.

Still from grave, &c.


Though our love to one is bounded,

Love, the smiling child of ease;

Yet by pretty maids surrounded,

How delightsome ’tis to please.

Though our love, &c.


Though I love my Robin dearly,

More than holidays or ease;

Yet when lads will court me chearly,

Sure it is no harm to please.


Fond I mark the swell of pleasure,

When I see the tender dove

Fluttering round his heart’s best treasure,

Emblem of my constant love.


Edward’s faithful heart my treasure,

Dearest object of my love!

Poor to me all other pleasure,

Fondly constant as the dove.




One ingenuous passion fires us,

Scorning ev’ry meaner toil,

When ambition’s hope inspires us,

‘Tis meet to your favouring smile.


If there is a joy transcending,

Dear as truth, content, or ease;

When to gain your smile contending,

This bright circle ’tis to please.

(The last stanza is repeated by the whole chorus.)