I can't think for the life of me what my father would be at, running about so:—I must get him out some how, for if Colin should come, and he should see him—

What are you standing here with your hands before you like a gentlewoman for?

Father, I—

I—well—why don't you go to work?

I left my work, father, to look for—

To look for what?

A—for your—a—for your hat, father.

My hat!—what the devil do you want with my hat?—well there then you have found [...]t, 'tis upon my head.

Because seeing you run about so, I [...]hought you wanted it to go out.

To go out!—what should I go out [...]or?

Why you talked of going out to buy [...]ome corn.

Yes, but my neighbour Higgins's son [...]s gone to buy for us both.

What, Colin!

Yes, Colin—what do you sigh for?

Nothing,

See who's at [...]he door.

I can't get him out.

Sighing and whining—A young dog, [...]e has caught her, I can see that plain enough.

'Tis farmer Higgins, father.

Farmer, I am glad to see thee—go and [...]raw some ale, daughter,

Well, neighbour Gregory, how dost?

Why, neighbour, I should be better if was better pleas'd.

Ay!—why, what has fallen out to vex [...]ee?

Thou shalt know—but first let me ask thy advice—we are both widowers, you know your wife has left you a son, and mine has left me a daughter.

Rose and Colin.

True—but if thy lot had been to have had the daughter instead of the son, and a young impudent dog had come when thou wast in the field, or at market, or in the barn—

What, telling a soft tale in her ear, I warrant you—why I'd tell him, says I, calling him by his name—says I, my child is another guess sort of a child, she is not for thee, thou art a libertine, and if thou com'st here again, I shall be angry, I shall brush thy jacket.

Well said, neighbour Higgins—now hear what I have got to say—last night I had been late cocking the hay, and when I come home, being a sort of owl light, I could just see some thing crawl upon all fours towards the door, so taking it sor a dog I gave it a good kick—upon this my daughter runs up to me with—dear father, I'm glad you're come home, I'm glad to see you, I'm glad no mischief has hap­pened to her, I'm glad,

So, so.

And all this thou see'st that I might not find out what sort of a four-legged animal it was—but I'cod I was too cunning for her—look­ing out of the window, I found Mr. Dog to be no other than Master Colin, your son.

Ah, ah!—This is the reason he is sigh­ing and flouting about so then—I can't get him of late days to mind any kind of work.

Nor can I my daughter.

What shall we do?

Why, truly, I don't know.

Suppose we marry them together.

That's true—but suppose this should be only a flighty pack of nonsense that will last but a month.

Try 'em, try 'em, let us try 'em.

How!

Here comes your daughter, seem as if we had quarrelled, and forbid me your house, then presently come to me that we may counsel together.

An old doating fool, to pretend that I don't know the price of grain,

Call that indeed clear wheat, when it has been half eat up by the rats.

Dear me, they seem to be quarrelling—here's the ale, father; will you please to drink, neighbour Higgins?

Not I—I won't taste a drop of his ale.

Put it down, daughter—put it down—he shan't taste a drop of it, was it ever so.

Dear father, what's the matter?

In one word, get out of my house.

I don't want to stay in it—and, dy'e mark me? never let you or your's come near mine—an old stupid—doating—not know the price of corn indeed!

Go thy ways, thou old fool—and thou, daughter, if I ever know thee speak to his son—I am going out, and if thou suffer'st that young dog to come lurking about my house—see'st thou this oak saplin—he shall get it—however for this time the key shall answer for thee—as I go out I'll double lock the door.

Yonder he goes—what can be the matter—they were such good friends too—'tis a sad thing not to be dutiful—but 'tis a sadder thing not to love Colin.

Rose! Rose!

Oh dear! 'tis him, and the door is double-locked.

Rose, open the door—I've watched the old man out—what the mischief, is not she at home?—let us see.

I can't open it, dear Colin—my father has locked it—come again in the evening; he does not hear me sure—

dear me, he's gone—Oh! how my heart beats—that I could not speak to him now—he was in a great hurry to go I think—Oh! the wicked rogue, there he is climbing up at the window—I'll hide myself, and vex him a little in his turn.

Rose!—Rose!—no, there's nobody at home; well, I'll leave her the posey I brought, however;

The deuce take it, I have let it fall upon the ground, and ten to one if her father don't trample upon it—if I could but get in now I could put it upon the table—hang it, I can get in well enough—

Well done I—my hat's tumbled—never mind—I can pick it up when I go out.

Ah you rogue you—what you are there?

Yes, dear Colin—but don't come down, go away directly.

Nay, but dear Rose.

I'll tell thee all at night—pray now go, you frighten me out of my wits; besides, the window opens into Goody Fidget's garden, and she's a scandalous old gossip.

Never mind her.

My father is at the door—I hear him.

Odds wounds! I'll get away then—one kiss.

No, no—make haste.

How happened it that [Page 19] the casement is got so fast now—here he comes, I must e'en stay where I am.

Yes, yes, 'tis just as I feared; 'tis in every body's mouth—heyday! what's all this—the spinning-wheel in one place—the flax in an­other—nothing but tidling and tidling of that damned lace—'twould be better for you if you'd mind your spinning—Ah well, my comfort is, that rogue Colin's far enough off; his father has sent him away for three years

what, you pout about it—'tis cruel, is it not?—she shall have her Colin—Colin—the very name puts me in a passion; I'll trim him—I'll—but he's gone—he's gone, that's my com­fort

come take your wheel and go to your work—I have not had my afternoon's nap—I'll try if I can sleep while you sing.

Do, father—if you don't take your af­ternoon's nap I am afraid you'll be sick

Come, sing.

What shall I sing, father?—that song about Colin?

Always Colin—nothing but Colin—sing what you've a mind—if I sleep about an hour wake me, do you hear?

Yes, father.

Icod, and so I have—what the deuce, Rose, put it in your head to sing that song?

What's that!—what the devil's that—Is the house tumbling down!—what's the matter!—

Dear father!—Colin!—

Who the devil have we got here?

Why, 'tis I.

Oh! 'tis you, you young rascal, is it!—and where did you come from?—through the roof of the house, or down the chimney?

You have not hurt yourself, Colin, have you?

No, Rose—you en't frighten'd, I hope, are you?

Frighten'd! how the devil should she be otherwise, coming into my house like a bomb or a cannon-ball—but you can set all to rights—don't be frightened, Rose, 'tis I, your dear Colin—but tell me, once for all, what brought you here?

I come—I—I—come, neighbour.

I come—I—I—come—for what?

To bring you home—

What!

That.

That—what the devil's that?

Why, the saddle and bridle you lent father.

Lent father—why, you dog, I never lent your father a saddle and bridle.

I hope you are pretty well, neighbour Gregory, and your daughter Rose.

Oh! yes, yes, we are mighty well, and now pray get about your business.

Lord! farmer Gregory, why are you hasty? it did not use to be so.

Here comes your father—he'll tell you why so.

So, farmer, Goody Fidgit here has a fine story to tell you.

Ay! why, to what do we owe the sight of her?

Why, you owe the sight of me to your own goings on—Lord! Lord! that pa­rents, now-a days, have no more prudence—you ought to be ashamed of yourselves, two men of your age—Thou, Nicholas Gregory, was born the 7th of January, in the year—

Well, well, we know how old we are—go on.

And you have no more grace than to let that forward minx, your daughter, chatter to that rogue Colin, every night, out of the window.

Dear, dear, how can that be, when I lie in the next room to my father?

So you do; and you get up again, and creep down a ladder by the way of the grainery.

Lord! lord!

Ah, 'tis no secret—all the village knows it.

I wish I could catch any body telling me of it, I'd have a touch at them.

Well, I tell thee of it then; now thou may'st have a touch at me if thou wilt.

'Tis a great lie, I tell you.

It is, is it—tell me then, what did you knock at that door for, but just now, when farmer Gregory was out?

What for—why, to come in, to be sure.

But you found it locked; and, so rather than fail, you climbed up the wall, and jumped into my garden.

That's another lie, Goody.

We shall see—I can shew your father the fig-tree you broke in getting up.

What a wicked old woman you must be!

I tell you 'tis a pack of spight and malice—you broke the fig-tree yourself, I sup­pose, and now you have a mind to say I did it.

And pray was it I too dropped this hat,

which I found under the window?

Oh! ho! I am no longer at a loss to know how he came into the house.

Rose!

Colin!—what shall we do?

Get out of the house directly, you dog, and wait for me at the door.

And do you so, to your chamber, this minute.

Neighbour Higgins.

Neighbour Gregory.

Shall we try them any longer?

They'll only make fools of us if we do.

Why, I believe you are in the right—come here, both of you,

'tis more than you deserve, but we forgive you; and you, young dog, if you don't make her a good husband—

Ah! neighbour, there's no fear of that.

Well, we have made good the old proverb at least.