[] MARIAN.

ACT I.

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.

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.

[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 Mea⯑dow'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 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.

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 en⯑thuſiaſm 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 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.

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.

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 Ed⯑ward, the young man who writes for me, and de⯑ſire 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 [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, 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!

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 pro⯑miſed to meet them at the brig.

You ſee, Thomas, every one to his lik⯑ing; Edward is inveigled by Marian's brown [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:—[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 [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 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.

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.

ACT II.

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 be⯑yond.

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 bag⯑pipe, 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 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.

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! [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 crown⯑piece; I ſtole ſoftly, peep'd over his ſhoulder, and [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 be⯑lieve 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.

[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 [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 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?

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