One, and but one poor solitary cave, Too sparing of her favours, nature gave; That one alone (hard tax on Scottish pride!) Shelter at once for man and beast supplied. There snares without, entangling briars spread, And thistles, arm'd against the invader's head, Stood in close ranks, all entrance to oppose; Thistles now held more precious than the rose. All creatures which, on nature's earliest plan, Were formed to loathe and to be loathed by man, 320 Which owed their birth to nastiness and spite, Deadly to touch, and hateful to the sight; Creatures which, when admitted in the ark, Their saviour shunn'd, and rankled in the dark, Found place within: marking her noisome road With poison's trail, here crawl'd the bloated toad; There webs were spread of more than common size, And half-starved spiders prey'd on half-starved flies; In quest of food, efts strove in vain to crawl; Slugs, pinch'd with hunger, smear'd the slimy wall: 330 The cave around with hissing serpents rung; On the damp roof unhealthy vapour hung; And Famine, by her children always known, As proud as poor, here fix'd her native throne. Here, for the sullen sky was overcast, And summer shrunk beneath a wintry blast-- A native blast, which, arm'd with hail and rain, Beat unrelenting on the naked swain, The boys for shelter made; behind, the sheep, Of which those shepherds every day _take keep_, 340 Sickly crept on, and, with complainings rude, On nature seem'd to call, and bleat for food. JOCKEY. _Sith_ to this cave by tempest we're confined, And within _ken_ our flocks, under the wind, Safe from the pelting of this perilous storm, Are laid _emong_ yon thistles, dry and warm, What, Sawney, if by shepherds' art we try To mock the rigour of this cruel sky? What if we tune some merry roundelay? Well dost thou sing, nor ill doth Jockey play. 350 SAWNEY. Ah! Jockey, ill advisest thou, _I wis_, To think of songs at such a time as this: Sooner shall herbage crown these barren rocks, Sooner shall fleeces clothe these ragged flocks, Sooner shall want seize shepherds of the south, And we forget to live from hand to mouth, Than Sawney, out of season, shall impart The songs of gladness with an aching heart. JOCKEY. Still have I known thee for a silly swain; Of things past help, what boots it to complain? 360 Nothing but mirth can conquer fortune's spite; No sky is heavy, if the heart be light: Patience is sorrow's salve: what can't be cured, So Donald right areads, must be endured. SAWNEY. Full silly swain, _I wot_, is Jockey now. How didst thou bear thy Maggy's falsehood? How, When with a foreign loon she stole away, Didst thou forswear thy pipe and shepherd's lay? Where was thy boasted wisdom then, when I Applied those proverbs which you now apply? 370 JOCKEY.