Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind,
They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind;
Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar,
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore.
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained;
By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained;
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave,
And I must deserve it before I can crave.

Then glory, my Jeany, man plead my excuse;
Since honour commands me, how can I refuse?
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee,
And without thy favour I'd better not be.
I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame,
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame,
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er,
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.

[Rustic Courtship.]

[From the Gentle Shepherd.'-Act I.] Hear how I served my lass I love as well As ye do Jenny, and with heart as leal. Last morning I was gay and early out, Upon a dike I leaned, glowering about, I saw my Meg come linkin' o'er the lee; I saw my Meg, but Meggy saw na me; For yet the sun was wading through the mist, And she was close upon me e'er she wist; Her coats were kiltit, and did sweetly shaw Her straight bare legs that whiter were than snaw. Her cockernony snooded up fu' sleek, Her haffet locks hang waving on her cheek; Her cheeks sae ruddy, and her e'en sae clear; And oh her mouth's like ony hinny pear. Neat, neat she was, in bustine waistcoat clean, As she came skiffing o'er the dewy green. Blythsome I cried, My bonny Meg, come here, I ferly wherefore ye're so soon asteer? But I can guess, ye're gaun to gather dew.' She scoured away, and said, 'What's that to you?' Then, fare-ye-weel, Meg-dorts, and e'en's ye like,' I careless cried, and lap in o'er the dike. I trow, when that she saw, within a crack, She came with a right thieveless errand back. Misca'd me first; then bade me hound my dog, To wear up three waff ewes strayed on the bog. I leugh; and sae did she; then with great haste I clasped my arms about her neck and waist; About her yielding waist, and took a fouth Of sweetest kisses frae her glowing mouth. While hard and fast I held her in my grips, My very saul came louping to my lips. Sair, sair she flet wi' me 'tween ilka smack, But weel I kend she meant nae as she spak. Dear Roger, when your jo puts on her gloom, Do ye sae too, and never fash your thumb. Seem to forsake her, soon she'll change her mood; Gae woo anither, and she'll gang clean wud.

[Dialogue on Marriage.]

PEGGY and JENNY.

Jenny, Come, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this green;
This shining day will bleach our linen clean;
The water clear, the lift unclouded blue,
Will mak them like a lily wet wi' dew.

Peggy. Gae far'er up the burn to Habbie's How,
There a' the sweets o' spring and summer grow:
There 'tween twa birks, out ower a little lin,
The water fa's and maks a singin' din;
A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass,
Kisses wi' easy whirls the bordering grass.
We'll end our washing while the morning's cool;
And when the day grows het, we'll to the pool,

There wash oursells-'tis healthfu' now in May,
And sweetly cauler on sae warm a day.

Jenny. Daft lassie, when we're naked, what'll ye say
Gif our twa herds come brattling down the brae,
And see us sae?—that jeering fallow Pate
Wad taunting say, 'Haith, lasses, ye're no blate!'
Peggy. We're far frae ony road, and out o' sight;
The lads they're feeding far beyont the height.
But tell me, now, dear Jenny, we're our lane,
What gars ye plague your wooer wi' disdain?
The neebours a' tent this as weel as I,
That Roger loes ye, yet ye carena by.
What ails ye at him? Troth, between us twa,
He's wordy you the best day e'er ye saw.

Jenny. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end;
A herd mair sheepish yet I never kend.
He kames his hair, indeed, and gaes right snug,
Wi' ribbon knots at his blue bannet lug,
Whilk pensily he wears a thought a-jee,
And spreads his gartens diced beneath his knee;
He falds his o'erlay down his breast wi' care,
And few gang trigger to the kirk or fair:
For a' that, he can neither sing nor say,
Except, 'How d'ye ?'-or, 'There's a bonny day.'

Peggy. Ye dash the lad wi' constant slighting pride, Hatred for love is unco sair to bide:

But ye'll repent ye, if his love grow cauld-
What like's a dorty maiden when she's auld?
Like dawted wean, that tarrows at its meat,
That for some feckless whim will orp and greet;
The lave laugh at it, till the dinner's past,
And syne the fool thing is obliged to fast,
Or scart anither's leavings at the last.
Fy! Jenny, think, and dinna sit your time.

Jenny. I never thought a single life a crime.
Peggy. Nor I: but love in whispers lets us ken,
That men were made for us, and we for men.

Jenny. If Roger is my jo, he kens himsell,
For sic a tale I never heard him tell.
He glowrs and sighs, and I can guess the cause;
But wha's obliged to spell his hums and haws!
Whene'er he likes to tell his mind mair plain,
I'se tell him frankly ne'er to do't again.
They're fools that slavery like, and may be free;
The chiels may a' knit up themsells for me.

Peggy. Be doing your wa's; for me, I hae a mind To be as yielding as my Patie's kind.

Jenny. Heh lass! how can ye loe that rattle-skull! A very deil, that aye maun hae his wull; We'll soon hear tell, what a poor fechting life You twa will lead, sae soon's ye're man and wife. Peggy. I'll rin the risk, nor hae I ony fear, But rather think ilk langsome day a year, Till I wi' pleasure mount my bridal-bed, Where on my Patie's breast I'll lean my head. Jenny. He may, indeed, for ten or fifteen days, Mak meikle o' ye, wi' an unco fraise, And daut ye baith afore fouk, and your lane; But soon as his newfangledness is gane, He'll look upon you as his tether-stake, And think he's tint his freedom for your sake. Instead then o' lang days o' sweet delight, Ae day be dumb, and a' the neist he'll flyte: And maybe, in his barleyhoods, ne'er stick To lend his loving wife a loundering lick. Peggy. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thae want pith

to move

My settled mind; I'm ower far gane in love.
Patie to me is dearer than my breath;
But want o' him, I dread nae other skaith.
There's nane o' a' the herds that tread the green
Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een:
And then he speaks wi' sic a taking art-
His words they thirle like music through my heart.
How blythely can he sport, and gently rave,
And jest at feckless fears that fright the lave!

Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill,

He reads fell books that teach him meikle skill.
He is but what need I say that or this?
I'd spend a month to tell you what he is!
In a' he says or does, there's sic a gate,

The rest seem coofs compared wi' my dear Pate.
His better sense will lang his love secure ;
Ill-nature hefts in sauls that's weak and poor.

Then I'll employ wi' pleasure a' my art
To keep him cheerfu', and secure his heart.
At e'en, when he comes weary frae the hill,
I'll hae a' things made ready to his will;
In winter, when he toils through wind and rain,
A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearthstane;
And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff,
The seething pat's be ready to tak aff;

Your witty Pate will put you in a sang.
Oh, 'tis a pleasant thing to be a bride;
Syne whingeing getts about your ingle-side,
Yelping for this or that wi' fasheous din:

To mak them brats, then ye maun toil and spin.
Ae wean fa's sick, ane scads itsell wi' broe,
Ane breaks his shin, anither tines his shoe;
The Deil gaes o'er Jock Wabster, hame grows hell,
And Pate misca's ye waur than tongue can tell!

Peggy. Yes, it's a heartsome thing to be a wife,
When round the ingle-edge young sprouts are rife.
Gif I'm sae happy, I shall hae delight

To hear their little plaints, and keep them right.
Wow! Jenny, can there greater pleasure be,
Than see sic wee tots toolying at your knee;
When a' they ettle at-their greatest wish,
Is to be made o' and obtain a kiss?

Can there be toil in tenting day and night
The like o' them, when love maks care delight?

Jenny. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst o' a';
Gif o'er your heads ill-chance should begg'ry draw,
But little love or canty cheer can come
Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom.
Your nowt may die-the spate may bear away
Frac aff the howms your dainty rucks o' hay.
The thick-blawn wreaths o' snaw, or blashy thows,
May smoor your wathers, and may rot your ewes.
A dyvour buys your butter, woo, and cheese,
But, or the day o' payment, breaks, and flees.
Wi' gloomin' brow, the laird seeks in his rent;
It's no to gie; your merchant's to the bent.
His honour maunna want-he poinds your gear;
Syne, driven frae house and hald, where will ye

steer?

Dear Meg, be wise, and live a single life;
Troth, it's nae mows to be a married wife.

Peggy. May sic ill luck befa' that silly she
Wha has sic fears, for that was never me.
Let fouk bode weel, and strive to do their best;
Nae mair's required; let Heaven mak out the rest.
I've heard my honest uncle aften say,
That lads should a' for wives that's virtuous pray;
For the maist thrifty man could never get
A weel-stored room, unless his wife wad let:
Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part,
To gather wealth to raise my shepherd's heart:
Whate'er he wins, I'll guide wi' canny care,
And win the vogue at market, tron, or fair,
For halesome, clean, cheap, and sufficient ware.
A flock o' lambs, cheese, butter, and some woo,
Shall first be sald to pay the laird his due;
Syne a' behind's our ain. Thus, without fear,
Wi' love and rowth, we through the warld will steer;
And when my Pate in bairns and gear grows rife,
He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife.

Jenny. But what if some young giglet on the green, Wi' dimpled cheeks and twa bewitching een, Should gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg, And her kenn'd kisses, hardly worth a feg?

Peggy. Nae mair o' that-Dear Jenny, to be free, There's some men constanter in love than we : Nor is the ferly great, when nature kind Has blest them wi' solidity o' mind. They'll reason calmly, and wi' kindness smile, When our short passions wad our peace beguile : Sac, whensoe'er they slight their maiks at hame, It's ten to ane the wives are maist to blame.

And serve him wi' the best we can afford;
Good humour and white bigonets shall be
Guards to my face, to keep his love for me.
Jenny. A dish o' married love right soon grows cauld,
And dosens down to nane, as fouk grow auld.

Peggy. But we'll grow auld thegither, and ne'er find
The loss o' youth, when love grows on the mind.
Bairns and their bairns mak sure a firmer tie,
Than aught in love the like of us can spy.
See yon twa elms that grow up side by side,
Suppose them some years syne bridegroom and bride;
Nearer and nearer ilka year they've prest,
Till wide their spreading branches are increast,
And in their mixture now are fully blest:
This shields the ither frae the eastlin blast,
That, in return, defends it frae the wast.
Sic as stand single (a state sae liked by you!)
Beneath ilk storm, frae every airt, maun bow.
Jenny. I've done-I yield, dear lassie; I maun yield;
Your better sense has fairly won the field,
With the assistance of a little fae

Lies darned within my breast this mony a day.

Peggy. Alake, poor prisoner! Jenny, that's no fair, That ye'll no let the wee thing tak the air: Haste, let him out; we'll tent as weel's we can, Gif he be Bauldy's or poor Roger's man.

Jenny. Anither time's as good-for see, the sun
Is right far up, and we're not yet begun

To freath the graith-if cankered Madge, our aunt,
Come up the burn, she'll gie's a wicked rant:
But when we've done, I'll tell ye a' my mind;
For this seerns true-nae lass can be unkind.

DRAMATISTS.

In

The dramatic literature of this period was, like its general poetry, polished and artificial. In tragedy, the highest name is that of Southerne, who may claim, with Otway, the power of touching the passions, yet his language is feeble compared with that of the great dramatists, and his general style low and unimpressive. Addison's 'Cato' is more properly a classical poem than a drama-as cold and less vigorous than the tragedies of Jonson. comedy, the national taste is apparent in its faithful and witty delineations of polished life, of which Wycherley and Congreve had set the example, and which was well continued by Farquhar and Vanbrugh. Beaumont and Fletcher first introduced what may be called comedies of intrigue, borrowed from the Spanish drama; and the innovation appears to have been congenial to the English taste, for it still pervades our comic literature. vigorous exposure of the immorality of the stage by Jeremy Collier, and the essays of Steele and Addison, improving the taste and moral feeling of the public, a partial reformation took place of those nuisances of the drama which the Restoration had introduced. The Master of the Revels, by whom all plays had to be licensed, also aided in this work of retrenchment; but a glance at even those improved plays of the reign of William III. and his successors, will show that ladies frequenting the theatres had still occasion to wear masks, which Colley Cibber says they usually did on the first days of acting of a new play.

The

THOMAS SOUTHERNE.

THOMAS SOUTHERNE (1659–1746) may be classed either with the last or the present period. His life was long, extended, and prosperous. He was a native of Dublin, but came to England, and enrolled himself in the Middle Temple as a student of law. He afterwards entered the army, and held the rank of captain under the Duke of York, at the time of Monmouth's insurrection. His latter days were spent in retirement, and in the possession of a considerable fortune.

Southerne wrote ten plays, but only two exhibit his characteristic powers, namely, Isabella, or the Fatal Marriage, and Oroonoko. The latter is founded on an actual occurrence; Oroonoko, an African prince, having been stolen from his native kingdom of Angola, and carried to one of the West India islands. The impassioned grandeur of Oroonoko's sufferings, his bursts of horror and indignation at the slave trade, and his unhappy passion for Imoinda, are powerful and pathetic. In the following scene, the hero and heroine unexpectedly meet after a long

absence:

That I would have: my husband! then I am
Alive, and waking to the joys I feel:

They were so great, I could not think 'em true;
But I believe all that you say to me:
For truth itself, and everlasting love,
Grows in this breast, and pleasure in these arms.
Oroo. Take, take me all; inquire into my heart
(You know the way to every secret there),
My heart, the sacred treasury of love:
And if, in absence, I have misemployed
A mite from the rich store; if I have spent
A wish, a sigh, but what I sent to you,
May I be cursed to wish and sigh in vain,
And you not pity me.

Imo. Oh! I believe,

And know you by myself. If these sad eyes,
Since last we parted, have beheld the face
Of any comfort, or once wished to see
The light of any other heaven but you,
May I be struck this moment blind, and lose
Your blessed sight, never to find you more.
Oroo. Imoinda! Oh! this separation
Has made you dearer, if it can be so,
Than you were ever to me. You appear
Like a kind star to my benighted steps,
To guide me on my way to happiness:

Bland. Sir, we congratulate your happiness; I do most heartily.

Lieut. And all of us: but how it comes to pass-
Oroo. That would require

Even

More precious time than I can spare you now.
I have a thousand things to ask of her,
And she as many more to know of me.
But you have made me happier, I confess,
Acknowledge it, much happier than I
Have words or power to tell you. Captain, you,
I wo'not say you have betrayed me now:
you, who most have wronged me, I forgive.
I'll think you but the minister of fate,
To bring me to my loved Imoinda here.
Of such endearments, all this tenderness?
Imo. How, how shall I receive you? how be worthy
These are the transports of prosperity,
When fortune smiles upon us.

Oroo. Let the fools

Who follow fortune live upon her smiles;
All our prosperity is placed in love;
We have enough of that to make us happy.
This little spot of earth you stand upon
Is more to me than the extended plains
Of my great father's kingdom. Here I reign
In full delights, in joys to power unknown;
Your love my empire, and your heart my throne.
[Exeunt.

Mr Hallam says that Southerne was the first Engslaves and the cruelties of their West Indian bondage. lish writer who denounced (in this play) the traffic in

This is an honour which should never be omitted in any mention of the dramatist. Isabella' is more correct and regular than Oroonoko,' and the part of the heroine affords scope for a tragic actress, scarcely inferior in pathos to Belvidera. Otway, however, has more depth of passion, and more vigorous delineation of character. The plot of 'Isabella' is simple. In abject distress, and believing her husband, Biron, to be dead, Isabella is hurried into a second marriage. Biron returns, and the distress of the heroine terminates in madness and death. Comic scenes are interspersed throughout Southerne's tragedies, which, though they relieve the sombre colouring of the main action and interest of the piece, are sometimes misplaced and unpleasant.

[Return of Biron.]

A Chamber-Enter ISABELLA.

Isa. I've heard of witches, magic spells, and charms, That have made nature start from her old course; The sun has been eclipsed, the moon drawn down From her career, still paler, and subdued

To the abuses of this under world.
Now I believe all possible. This ring,
This little ring, with necromantic force,
Has raised the ghost of pleasure to my fears;
Conjured the sense of honour and of love
Into such shapes, they fright me from myself!
I dare not think of them.

Enter NURSE.

Nurse. Madam, the gentleman's below.
Isa. I had forgot; pray, let me speak with him;
[Exit Nurse.

This ring was the first present of my love
To Biron, my first husband; I must blush
To think I have a second. Biron died

Isa. Well, both; both well;

Bir. Oh! come again;

Thy Biron summons thee to life and love;
Thy once-loved, ever-loving husband calls—
Thy Biron speaks to thee.

Excess of love and joy, for my return,
Has overpowered her. I was to blame
To take thy sex's softness unprepared;
But sinking thus, thus dying in my arms,
This ecstacy has made my welcome more

Than words could say. Words may be counterfeit,
False coined, and current only from the tongue,
Without the mind; but passion's in the soul,
And always speaks the heart.

And may he prove a father to your hopes,
Though we have found him none.

Bir. Come, no more tears.

Isa. Seven long years of sorrow for your loss Have mourned with me.

Bir. And all my days to come

Shall be employed in a kind recompense

For thy afflictions. Can't I see my boy?

Isa. He's gone to bed; I'll have him brought to you. Bir. To-morrow I shall see him; I want rest Myself, after this weary pilgrimage.

Isa. Alas! what shall I get for you?

Bir. Nothing but rest, my love. To-night I would not

Be known, if possible, to your family:

I see my nurse is with you; her welcome
Would be tedious at this time;

To-morrow will do better.

Isa. I'll dispose of her, and order everything As you would have it.

[Exit.

Bir. Grant me but life, good Heaven, and give the

means

To make this wondrous goodness some amends;
And let me then forget her, if I can.

O! she deserves of me much more than I
Can lose for her, though I again could venture

A father and his fortune for her love!

You wretched fathers, blind as fortune all!
Not to perceive that such a woman's worth

Oh, tell me all,

For every thought confounds me.

Bir. My best life! at leisure all.

Isa. We thought you dead; killed at the siege of Candy.

Bir. There I fell among the dead;

But hopes of life reviving from my wounds,

I was preserved but to be made a slave.

I often writ to my hard father, but never had

An answer; I writ to thee too.

Isa. What a world of wo

Had been prevented but in hearing from you!
Bir. Alas! thou could'st not help me.

What is your trash, what all your heaps of gold,
Compared to this, my heartfelt happiness?
What has she, in my absence, undergone?

I must not think of that; it drives me back
Upon myself, the fatal cause of all.

Enter ISABella.

Isa. I have obeyed your pleasure; Everything is ready for you.

Bir. I can want nothing here; possessing thee, All my desires are carried to their aim

Of happiness; there's no room for a wish,
But to continue still this blessing to me;

I know the way, my love. I shall sleep sound.
Isa. Shall I attend you?

Bir. By no means;

I've been so long a slave to others' pride,
To learn, at least, to wait upon myself;
You'll make haste after?

Isa. I'll but say my prayers, and follow you.
[Exit Biron

My prayers! no, I must never pray again.
Prayers have their blessings, to reward our hopes,
But I have nothing left to hope for more.
What Heaven could give I have enjoyed; but now
The baneful planet rises on my fate,
And what's to come is a long life of wo;
Yet I may shorten it.

I promised him to follow-him!

My husband! Ha! What then is Villeroy?
Oh, Biron, hadst thou come but one day sooner!
[Weeping.

What's to be done? for something must be done.
Two husbands! married to both,
And yet a wife to neither. Hold, my brain-
Ha! a lucky thought

Works the right way to rid me of them all;
All the reproaches, infamies, and scorns,
That every tongue and finger will find for me.
Let the just horror of my apprehensions
But keep me warm; no matter what can come.
'Tis but a blow; yet I will see him first,
Have a last look, to heighten my despair,
And then to rest for ever.