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 CELEBRATED 
 
 SONGS 
 
 H 
 
 FROM KING JAMES V. TO HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 
 
 Edited with Memoirs and Notes, 
 
 BY 
 
 John D. Ross, 
 
 Oh sing to me auld Scotland's sangs, I lo'e them best o' a'! 
 Oh sing them, for njy heart belangs to Scotland far awa'! 
 
 They breathe the sweets o' field an' fell, 
 
 Where bloom the thistle an' bluebell, 
 While tales o' glorious deeds they tell, an' loyal hearts reca'. 
 ««:*«** **« 
 
 I care nae for their foreign trills, they ha'e nae pith to me; 
 They speak nae o' the heather hills, nor burnies gushin' free: 
 
 They're cauld an' tuneless to my ear, 
 
 They canna draw the burnin' tear 
 Like Scottish lays I lo'e sae dear, an' shall dae till I dee. 
 
 — DalrympU. 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 
 WILLIAM PAGAN, Jr. & SON, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 352 Pearl Street. 
 
 1887. 
 
 > J > 
 J > > > 
 
 
 • i ) i i i a 

 
 " Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1886, by 
 
 William Pagan, Jr. & Son, 
 in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington." 
 
 William Pagan, Jr. & Son, 
 
 printers and stkreotypers 
 
 352 Pearl Street^ 
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 • • ••• *•• 
 
 • • • • • • 
 
 • •• 
 
 • « •
 
 866/ 
 L87?7 
 
 k 
 
 S* Wliile this worh ivas in course of compilation, special permission 
 was received from the late General Grant, to insert the 
 following dedication in it when completed: 
 
 "To 
 
 General Ulysses S. Grant, 
 
 Ex-President of the United States of America, 
 
 "^ This Collection of Songs from the land of his forefathers, 
 
 is respectfully and with permission 
 
 (fi Dedicated." 
 
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 CELEBRATED 
 
 SONGS OF SCOTLAND, 
 
 FROM KING JAMES V TO HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 
 
 THE GABERLUNZIE MAN. 
 
 The authorship of this humorous old 
 song is generally ascribed to King James 
 V. He was born at Linlithgow Palace on 
 April lo, 1512, the year previous to that in 
 which his father, King James IV, was slain 
 at Flodden. The Scottish nation did not 
 recover for many years from the effects of 
 the terrible defeat which they suffered on 
 this memorable battlefield, and, conse- 
 quently, the reign of James V extended 
 over a very gloomy and discontented period 
 of their history. He is known to have 
 traveled about the country in disguise, 
 listening to the complaints of his subjects, 
 and in not a few instances is credited with 
 having engaged in exploits somewhat sim- 
 ilar to the one described in the song. He 
 died at Falkirk Palace on December 13, 
 1542, a few days after the birth of his 
 daughter, the famous Mary Queen of Scots. 
 The " Gaberlunzie Man," which means an 
 old beggar, or pedlar, appeared in the 
 "Tea Table Miscellany." It contains a 
 number of excellent old Scottish words. 
 
 The pawkie auld carle came o'er the 
 
 lea, 
 Wi' mony gude e'ens and days to me, 
 Saying gudewife, for your courtesie. 
 
 Will you lodge a silly puir man ? 
 The nicht was cauld, the carle was wat, 
 And down ayont the ingle he sat ; 
 My daughter's shouthers he 'gan to 
 clap, 
 
 And cadgily ranted and sang. 
 
 O wow ! quo he, were I as free 
 As first when I saw this countrie, 
 How blythe and merry wad I be ! 
 And I wad never think lang. 
 
 He grew csftity, and she grew fain: 
 But little did her auld minny ken 
 What thir slie twa together were 
 say'ng, 
 When wooing they were sae thrang. 
 
 And O! quo' he, and ye were as black 
 As e'er the crown of my daddy's hat, 
 'Tis I wad lay thee by my back, 
 
 And awa' wi' me thou should gang. 
 And O! quo' she, an' I were as white 
 As e'er the snaw lay on the dike, 
 I'd deed me braw and lady like, 
 
 And awa' wi' thee I would gang. 
 
 Between the twa was made a plot: 
 They raise awee afore the cock, 
 And wilily they shot the lock. 
 
 And fast to the bent are they gane. 
 Up in the morn the auld wife raise. 
 And at her leisure put on her claise; 
 Syne to the servant's bed she gaes, 
 
 To speer for the silly puir man. 
 
 She gaed to the bed where the beggar 
 
 lay. 
 The strae was cauld, he was away. 
 She clapt her hands, cry'd, Waladay! 
 For some of our gear will be gane. 
 Some ran to coffer, and some to kist, 
 But nought was stown that cou'd be 
 
 mist, 
 She danc'd her lane, cry'd, Praise be 
 
 blest! 
 I have lodged a leal poor man. 
 
 Since naething's awa', as we can learn, 
 The kirn's to kirn, and milk to earn,
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Gae butt the house, lass, and waken 
 my bairn, 
 And bid her come quickly ben. 
 The servant gaed where the daughter 
 
 lay, 
 The sheets were cauld, she was away, 
 And fast to the gudewife 'gan say. 
 She's aff wi' the gaberlunzie man. 
 
 O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin. 
 
 And haste ye find these traytors again ; 
 
 For she's be burn't, and he's be slain. 
 
 The wearifu, gaberlunzie man. 
 Some rade upo' horse, some ran a fit, 
 The wife was wud, and out o' her wit; 
 She cou'd na gang, nor yet cou'd she 
 sit, 
 
 But aye she curs'd and she ban'd. 
 
 Mean time, far hind out o'er the lea, 
 Fu' snug in a glen where nane could 
 
 see, 
 The twa wi' kindly sport and glee, 
 
 Cut frae a new cheese a whang — 
 The priving was good, it pleased them 
 
 baith. 
 To lo'e her for aye, he ga'e her his aith, 
 Quo' she, to leave thee I will be laith, 
 My winsome gaberlunzie man. 
 
 O kend my minny I were wi' you, 
 Ill-far'dly wad she crook her mou', 
 Sic a puir man she'd never trow. 
 
 After the gaberlunzie man. 
 My dear, quo' he, ye're yet o'er young, 
 And ha'e nae learn'd the beggar's 
 
 tongue. 
 To follow me fra town to town, 
 
 And carry the gaberlunzie on. 
 
 Wi' caulk and keel I'll win your bread. 
 And spindles and whorles for them 
 
 wha need, 
 Whilk is a gentle trade indeed, 
 
 To carry the gaberlunzie on. 
 I'll bow my leg, and crook my knee, 
 And draw a black clout o'er my e'e, 
 A cripple or blind they will ca' me. 
 
 While we shall be merry and sing. 
 
 MUIRLAND WILLIE. 
 
 ASCRIBED TO KING JAMES V. 
 
 " It is certainly a composition of consid- 
 erable antiquity, probably from style and 
 structure of verse by the author of the 
 'Gaberlunzie Man.' " — Chavibers. 
 
 " This lightsome ballad gives a particu- 
 lar drawing of those ruthless times, when 
 thieves were rife, and the lads went a-woo- 
 ingin their warlike habiliments, not know- 
 ing whether they would tilt with lips or 
 lances." — Bttrns. 
 
 First printed in the " Tea Table Miscel- 
 lany," and afterwards with the music in 
 the "Orpheus Caledonius." 
 
 Harken, and I will tell you how 
 Young Muirland Willie came to woo, 
 Tho' he could neither say nor do; 
 
 The truth I tell to you. 
 But ay he crys, whate'er betide, 
 Maggy I'se ha'e to be my bride. 
 With a fal, dal, &c. 
 
 On his gray yade as he did ride, 
 With durk and pistol by his side, 
 He prick'd her on wi' meikle pride, 
 
 Wi' meikle mirth and glee; 
 Out o'er yon moss, out o'er yon muir. 
 Till he came to her dady's door, 
 With a fal, dal, &c. 
 
 Goodman, quoth he, be ye within, 
 I'm come your doughter's love to win; 
 I care no for making meikle din. 
 
 What answer gi' ye me ? 
 Now, wooer, quoth he, wou'd ye light 
 
 down, 
 I'll gie ye my doughter's love to win, 
 With a fal, dal, &c. 
 
 Now, wooer, sin ye are lighted down, 
 Where do. ye win, or in what town ? 
 I think my doughter winna gloom 
 
 On sick a lad as ye. 
 The wooer he step'd up the house. 
 And wow but he was wond'rous 
 crouse, 
 With a fal, dal, &c.
 
 CELEDIiATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 3 
 
 I have three owsen in a plough, 
 Twa good ga'en yads, and gear 
 
 enough, 
 The place they ca' it Cadeneugh; 
 
 I scorn to tell a lie: 
 Besides, I had frae the great laird 
 A peat pat, and a lang-kail-yard, 
 With a fal, dal, &c. 
 
 The maid put on her kirtle brown, 
 She was the brawest in a' the town 
 I wat on him she didna gloom, 
 
 But blinkit bonnilie. 
 The lover he stended up in haste. 
 And gript her hard about the waist, 
 With a fal, dal, &c. 
 
 To win your love, maid, I'm come 
 
 here, 
 I'm young, and ha'e enough o' gear, 
 And for mysel' ye needna fear, 
 Trowth try me when ye like, 
 He took aff his bonnet, and spat in 
 
 his chow. 
 He dightit his gab, and he prie'd her 
 
 mou', 
 With a fal, dal, &c. 
 
 The maiden blush'd and bing'd fu' 
 
 law, 
 She hadna will to say him na. 
 But to her daddy she left it a', 
 
 As they twa cou'd agree. 
 The lover he gied her the tither kiss, 
 Syne ran to her dady, and tell'd him 
 this, 
 With a fal, dal, &c. 
 
 Your doughter wad na say me na 
 But to yoursel' she has left it a', 
 As we cou'd gree between us twa; 
 
 Say what'll ye gi' me wi' her ? 
 Now, wooer, quo' he, I ha'e no meikle, 
 But sic's I ha'e ye's get a pickle, 
 With a fal, dal, &c. 
 
 A kilnfu' of corn I'll gi'e to thee, 
 Three soums of sheep, twa good 
 mild ky, 
 
 Ye's ha'e the wadding dinner free; 
 
 Troth I dow do no mair. 
 Content, quo' he, a bargain be't; 
 I'm far frae hame, make haste, let's 
 do't. 
 With a fal, dal, &c. 
 
 The bridal day it came to pass, 
 With mony a blythsome lad and lass ; 
 But sicken a day there never was, 
 
 Sic mirth was never seen. 
 This winsome couple straked hands, 
 Mess John ty'd up the marriage 
 bands. 
 With a fal, dal, &c. 
 
 And our bride's maidens, were na few, 
 Wi' tap-knots, lug-knots, a' in blew, 
 Frae tap to tae they were braw new, 
 
 And blinkit bonnilie; 
 Their toys and mutches were sae clean. 
 They glanc'd in our ladses' e'en, 
 With a fal, dal, &c. 
 
 Sic hirdum, dirdum, and sic din. 
 Wi' he o'er her, and she o'er him , 
 The minstrels they did never blin, 
 
 Wi' meikle mirth and glee. 
 And ay they bobit, and ay they beckt, 
 And ay their lips together met. 
 With a fal, dal, &c. 
 
 MAGGIE LAUDER. 
 
 ASCRIBED TO FRANCIS SEMPLE OF 
 BELTREES. 
 
 "This old song," says Burns, "so 
 pregnant with Scottish naivete and energy, 
 is much relished by all ranks, notwith- 
 standing its broad wit and palpable 
 allusions. Its language is a precious 
 model of imitation — si}', sprightly, and 
 forcibi)' expressive. Maggie's tongue 
 wags out the nicknames of Rob the Piper 
 with all the careless lightsomeness of 
 unrestrained gaiety." The authorship of 
 Maggie Lauder has for many years been a 
 subject of great dispute among song and 
 ballad authorities. It is generally ascribed 
 to Francis Semple of Beltrees in Renfrew- 
 shire, who was born about the beginning of
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 the seventeenth century; but it is certainly- 
 very strange, if the song really dates so 
 far back as this, that Ramsay did not give 
 it a place in the "Tea-Table Miscellany." 
 There are a few other disputed points in 
 connection with the song, such as whether 
 Maggie Lauder was a real or imaginary 
 person, and again, whether it was she or 
 the piper or both that were "gaun to 
 Fife" when they met and indulged in the 
 memorable scene which followed. These 
 are questions of minor importance, how- 
 ever, and it makes very little difference 
 whether they are ever satisfactorily settled 
 or not. Semple died about the year 1682. 
 An excellent sequel to this song was 
 written by Charles Gray. It begins: 
 
 "The Cantie Spring scarce rear'd her head." 
 
 "Wha wadna be in love 
 
 Wi' bonnie Maggie Lauder ? 
 A piper met her gaun to Fife, 
 
 And speir'd what was't they ca'd 
 her; — 
 Right scornfully she answer'd him, 
 
 Begone you hallanshaker ! 
 Jog on your gate, you bladderskate. 
 
 My name is Maggie Lauder. 
 
 -Maggie quo' he, and by my bags, 
 
 I'm fidgin' fain to see thee; 
 Sit down by me, my bonnie bird, 
 
 In troth I winna steer the; 
 For I'm a piper to my trade, 
 
 My name is Rob the Ranter; 
 The lasses loup as they were daft. 
 
 When I blaw up my chanter. 
 
 Piper, quo' Meg, ha'e ye your bags ? 
 
 Or is your drone in order ? 
 If ye be Rob, I've heard of you, 
 
 Live you upo' the border ? 
 The lasses a', baith far and near. 
 
 Have heard o' Rob the Ranter ; 
 I'll shake my foot wi' right gude will, 
 
 Gif you'll blaw up your chanter. 
 
 Then to his bags he flew wi' speed. 
 About the drone he twisted ; 
 
 Meg up and wallop'd o'er the green, 
 For brawly could she frisk it. 
 
 Weel done ! quo' he — play up! quo' 
 she; 
 
 Weel bobbed! quo' Rob the Ranter; 
 'Tis worth my while to play indeed, 
 
 When I ha'e sic a dancer. 
 
 Weel ha'e you play'd your part, quo' 
 Meg, 
 
 Your cheeks are like the crimson; 
 There's nane in Scotland plays sae 
 weel. 
 
 Since we lost Habbie Simpson. 
 I've lived in Fife, baith maid and wife, 
 
 These ten years and a quarter; 
 Gin' ye should come to Anster fair, 
 
 Speir ye for Maggie Lauder. 
 
 TRE BLYTHESOME BRIDAL. 
 
 ASCRIBED TO FRANCIS SEMPLE, OF 
 BELTREES. 
 
 The authorship has also been claimed 
 for Sir William Scott, of Thirlestane who 
 died in 1725. It first appeared in '.'Wat- 
 son's Collection" and afterwards in the 
 "Tea-Table Miscellany." "This song," 
 says Burns, "has humor and a felicity of 
 expression worthy of Ramsay, with even 
 more than his wonted broadness and 
 sprightly language. The Witty Catalogue 
 of Names, with their Historical Epithets, 
 are done in the true Lowland Scottish 
 taste of an age ago, when every house- 
 holder was nicknamed either from some 
 prominent part of his character, person, 
 or lands and housen, which he rented. 
 Thus — ' Skape fitted Rob.' ' Thrawn- 
 viou'd Rab o' the Dubs.' ' Roarin Jock i' 
 the Swair.' ' Slaverin' Siffi/iiie o' Tod- 
 shazv.' 'Souple Kate o' Jrongray,' &c. &c." 
 
 Fy, let US a' to the bridal, 
 
 For there'll be liltin' there; 
 For Jock's to be married to Maggie, 
 
 The lass wi' the gowden hair. 
 And there'll be langkale and parridge, 
 
 And bannocks o' barley meal; 
 And there'll be guid saut herrin' 
 
 To relish a cog o' guid ale. 
 
 Fy, let us a', &c.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 And there'll be 
 
 And Will wi' 
 And there'll be 
 
 And Andrew 
 And there'll be 
 
 Wi' thumless 
 And there'll be 
 
 And Lawrie, 
 
 Sandie the souter, 
 the mickle mou'; 
 Tam the bluter, 
 the tinkler, I trow, 
 bow-leggit Robbie, 
 Katie's gudeman; 
 blue-cheekit Dobbie, 
 they laird o' the land. 
 
 And there'll be sow-libber Patie, 
 
 And plookie-fac'd Wat o' the mill;, 
 Capper-nosed Francie, and Gibbie, 
 
 That wins in the howe o' the hill. 
 And there'll be Alaster Sibbie, 
 
 That in wi' black Bessie did mool, 
 Wi' sneevlin' Lillie, and Tibbie, 
 
 The lass that sits aft on the stool. 
 
 And there'll be Judan Maclowrie, 
 
 And blinkin' daft Barbara Macleg; 
 Wi' flae-luggit shairnie-faced Lawrie, 
 
 And shangie-mou'd haluket Meg. 
 And there'll be happer-hipp'd Nancie, 
 
 And fairy-faced Flowrie by name. 
 Muck Mau'die, and fat-luggit Grizzie, 
 
 The lass wi' the gowden wame. 
 
 And there'll be Girnagain Gibbie, 
 
 And his glaikit wife Jenny Bell; 
 And misle-shinn'd Mungo Macapie, 
 
 The lad that was skipper himsell, 
 There lads and lasses in pearlings 
 
 Will feast in the heart o' the ha', 
 On Sybows, and reefarts, and carlins, 
 
 That are baith sodden and raw. 
 
 And there'll be fadges and brachen. 
 
 And fouth o' gude gabbocks o' 
 skate, 
 Powsondie, and drammock, and 
 crowdie. 
 
 And caller nowt-feet on a plate: 
 And there'll be partens and buckles. 
 
 And whytens and speldins enew. 
 And singit sheep-heads and a haggis. 
 
 And scadlips to sup till ye spew. 
 
 And there'll be gude lapper-milk keb- 
 bucks, 
 
 And sowens, and farles, and baps, 
 Wi' swats and weel-scraped painches, 
 
 And brandy in stoups and in caups; 
 And there'll be meal-kail and kustocks, 
 
 Wi' skink to sup till ye rive; 
 And roasts to roast on a brander, 
 
 Of flouks that were taken alive. 
 
 Scrapped haddocks, wilks, dulse, and 
 tangle. 
 
 And a mill o' good sneeshin' to prie; 
 When weary wi' eatin' and drinkin'. 
 
 We'll rise up and dance till we dee. 
 Fy, let us a' to the bridal, 
 
 For there'll be liltin' there; 
 For Jock's to be married to Maggie, 
 
 The lass wi' the gowden hair. 
 
 THE MILLER. 
 
 SIR JOHN CLARK, BART. 
 
 The first stanza belongs to an old song. 
 Sir John Clark, Bart, of Pennycuick was 
 born about the 3'ear 1680, and died in 
 1755. For nearly fifty years he held the 
 honorable appointment of a Baron of 
 Exchequer in Scotland. He was an accom- 
 plished scholar and an excellent author- 
 it}- on antiquities. 
 
 Merry may the maid be 
 
 That marries the miller, 
 For foul day or fair day 
 
 He's aye bringing till her; 
 Has aye a penny in his purse 
 
 For dinner and for supper; 
 And gin she please, a good fat cheese, 
 
 And lumps o' yellow butter. 
 
 When Jamie first did woo me, 
 
 I spier'd what was his calling: 
 Fair maid, says he, O come and see, 
 
 Ye're welcome to my dwelling. 
 Though I was shy, yet I could spy 
 
 The truth of what he told me. 
 And that his house was warm and 
 couth, 
 
 And room in it to hold me.
 
 CELEBRATED SONOS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Behind the door a bag o' meal, 
 
 And in the kist was plenty 
 O' good hard cakes his mither bakes, 
 
 And bannocks were na scanty; 
 A good fat sow, a sleeky cow 
 
 Was standin' in the byre; 
 Whilst lazy puss with mealy mou's 
 
 Was playing at the fire. 
 
 Good signs are these, my mither says, 
 
 And bids me tak' the miller; 
 For foul day and fair day 
 
 He's aye bringing till her; 
 For meal and maut he does na want. 
 
 Nor ony thing that's dainty; 
 And now and then a keckling hen 
 
 To lay her eggs in plenty. 
 
 In winter when the wind and rain 
 
 Blaws o'er the house and byre, 
 He sits beside a clean hearthstane 
 
 Before arousing fire; 
 With nut-brown ale he tells his tale, 
 
 Which rows him o'er fu nappy: 
 Who'd be a king— a petty thing, 
 
 When a miller lives so happy? 
 
 WERE NA MY HEART LIGHT. 
 
 LADY GRIZZEL BAILLIE. 
 
 This is one of the finest of the old Scot- 
 tish Songs. It was written about the year 
 1693. Lady Grizzel Home was a daughter 
 of Sir Patrick Home, afterwards Earl of 
 Marchmont. She was born at Redbraes 
 Castle, in 1665, and was married in 1692 
 to George Baillie, of Jerviswood, Lanark- 
 shire. Their union proved a long and 
 happy one, as we may judge from the fol- 
 lowing note which Lady Baillie, towards 
 the close of her life, inserted in her mem- 
 orandum book: "The best of husbands, 
 and delight of my life for forty-eight 
 years, without one jar betwixt us." " Were 
 na my heart licht," was printed in the 
 " Orpheus Caledonius " in 1725, and later 
 on in the " Tea Table Miscellany." Since 
 that time it has, with few exceptions, been 
 given a prominent place in all of the 
 various collections which have been pub- 
 lished. It was a favorite song with Burns, 
 and many will recollect the following in- 
 cident which Lockhart relates in his in- 
 
 teresting biography of the poet, in con- 
 nection with the la'tter portion of it : "A 
 gentleman has often told me that he was 
 seldom more grieved than when, riding 
 into Dumfries one fine summer evening 
 about this time to attend a country ball, 
 he saw Burns alone on the shady side of 
 the principal street of the town, while the 
 opposite side was gay with successive 
 groups of gentlemen and ladies, all drawn 
 together for the festivities of the night, not 
 one of whom appeared willing to recognize 
 him. The horseman dismounted and 
 joined Burns, who, on his proposing to 
 cross the street, said : " Nay, nay, my 
 young friend, that's all over now ; and 
 quoted, after a pause, some verses of Lady 
 Grizzel Baillie's pathetic ballad : 
 " His bonnet stood ance fu' fair on his brow," &c. 
 
 Lady Baillie spent the greater portion of 
 her married life in London, and died there 
 in 1746, aged 81 years. 
 
 There was ance a maid, and she lo'ed 
 
 na men; 
 She biggit her bonnie bower down i' 
 
 yon glen. 
 But now she cries dool, and well-a-day : 
 Come down the green gate, and come 
 
 here away. 
 
 When bonnie young Johnnie cam' 
 
 ower the sea, 
 He said he saw naething sae lovely 
 
 as me; 
 He hecht me baith rings an' monie 
 
 braw things; 
 And were na my heart licht I wad dee. 
 He had a wee titty that lo'ed na me, 
 Because I was twice as bonnie as she; 
 She rais'd such a pother 'twixt him and 
 
 his mother. 
 That were na my heart licht I wad dee. 
 
 The day it was set, and the bridal to 
 
 be; 
 The wife took a dwam, and lay down 
 
 to dee. 
 She main'd and she graned, out o' 
 
 dolour and pain, 
 Till he vow'd he never wad see me 
 
 again.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 His kin was for ane of a higher degree, 
 'Said, what had he to do wi' the like of 
 
 me ? 
 Albeit I was bonnie, I was na for 
 
 Johnnie; 
 And were na my heart licht I wad dee. 
 
 They said I had neither cow nor calf, 
 Nor dribbles o' drink rins through 
 
 the draff, 
 Nor pickles o' meal rins through the 
 
 mill-e'e; 
 And were na my heart licht 1 wad dee. 
 
 His titty she was baith wylie and slee, 
 She spied me as I cam' ower the lea; 
 And then she ran in and made a loud 
 
 din; 
 Believe your ain een an ye trow na me. 
 
 His bonnet stood aye fu' round on 
 
 his brow; 
 His auld ane look'd aye as weel as 
 
 some's new; 
 But now he let's 't wear ony gait it 
 
 will hing, 
 And casts himself dowie upon the 
 
 corn-bing. 
 
 And now he gaes daundrin' about the 
 
 dykes; 
 And a' he dow do is to hund the tykes. 
 The live-lang nicht he ne'er steeks 
 
 his e'e; 
 And were na my heart licht I wad dee. 
 
 Were I young for thee as I ha'e been 
 We should ha'e been gallopin' down 
 
 on yon green, 
 And linicin' it on yon lillie-white lea; 
 And vow ! gin I were but young for 
 
 thee ! 
 
 LOCHABER NO MORE. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 Allan Ramsay, frequently called " The 
 Restorer of Scottish Poetry," was born at 
 Leadhills in Lanarkshire on the 15th of 
 October, 1686. He was educated at the 
 village district school until he had reached 
 
 his fifteenth year, at which age his father 
 took him to Edinburgh, and apprenticed 
 him to a wigmaker in that city. Here he 
 worked diligently until he had saved 
 sufficient money to enable him to start in 
 a similar business on his own account. 
 In 1712 he married Christian Ross, the 
 daughter of a legal practitioner in Edin- 
 burgh, and an excellent women in every 
 respect. 
 
 Hitherto he had not shown any special 
 liking for poetical literature, and it was 
 not until he had reached his thirty-si.xth 
 year that he first began to exercise his 
 talent in this way. He had become a 
 member of a social or debating society, 
 composed of a number of young gentle- 
 men, and he undertook one day, for their 
 amusement, to write a few verses of a 
 comical nature, which pleased the mem- 
 bers so highly on being read to them, that 
 they unanimously proclaimed him Poet 
 Laureate of the society during the remain- 
 der of his life. Shortly after this he great- 
 ly extended his reputation by writing a 
 continuation to King James' " Christ's 
 Kirk on the Green," and from that time 
 until he was forty-five years of age his 
 muse was never idle. He composed a 
 great number of songs and ballads, which 
 he issued almost daily in little penny 
 sheets, and it became a common thing, we 
 are informed, for mothers in Edinburgh to 
 give their children a penny, and tell them 
 to "run and bring in Allan Ramsay's last 
 piece." 
 
 About 1718 his literar}^ fame had in- 
 creased so much that he concluded to give 
 up the business of a wig-maker, and enter 
 upon that of a bookseller and publisher. 
 He established himself — as the imprints of 
 his early publications show us — " at the 
 Sign of the Mercurj', opposite the head 
 of Niddry's Wind." From this place he 
 issued, in 1724, his famous Tea Table 
 Miscella7iy, a collection of Scottish Sonjs, 
 dedicated to 
 
 " Ilka lovely British lass 
 
 Frae ladies Charlotte, Ann, and Jean, 
 Down to ilk bonnie singing lass 
 Wha dances barefoot on the green," 
 
 and from which he is said to have realized 
 the magnificent sum of nearly six hundred 
 pounds profit. For the part which he took 
 in this really important Scottish work^ 
 Ramsay has been very much praised and 
 censured. Many eminent critics boldly 
 accuse him of taking too much liberty in 
 cliangincr verse after verse of those old
 
 8 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 songs to suit his own fancy, while other 
 critics as loudly extol and uphold him for 
 the very able manner in which he both 
 purified and beautified nearly all of those 
 grand memorials of a by-gone age in 
 Scotland. 
 
 "Allan Ramsay's fame as a song writer 
 has faded since the time of Burns ;" says 
 a modern critic, "but we must not forget 
 that no small share of Burns's inspiration, 
 and love of Scottish song, was fostered by 
 admiration for Ramsay and his works, and 
 that the Tea Table Miscellany, gathered by 
 him, has been the means of preserving 
 many an earl)'^ gem, Avhich, but for his 
 care, might have been lost. As an editor 
 he has been blamed for tampering with 
 the original versions, but this was general- 
 ly done to cover some loose and immoral 
 language ; and no one who is at all ac- 
 quainted with the originals of some of our 
 most popular songs, will be inclined to 
 concur in this censure when they recollect 
 that the Tea Table Miscellany was dedic- 
 ated to the ladies of Great Britain." 
 
 In 1724 Ram=ay published another work 
 of great value at the time, but of no real 
 importance now. namely The Evergreen, a 
 collection of old Scottish Poetry. But the 
 greatest of all Ramsay's publications was 
 The Gentle Shepherd, a Scottish drama 
 written by himself, the first volume of 
 which was issued in 1724. " His Gentle 
 Shepherd," says Doctor Robert Chambers, 
 " is the work which has given him a per- 
 manent place in the list of Scottish poets. 
 The story of this drama is interesting, 
 without being in the least extravagant ; 
 the characters are genuine representatives 
 of the Scottish peasantry of the time. It 
 contains beautiful poetical descriptions, 
 fine sense, and elevated sentiment; and a 
 healthy, natural checrfulne.ss pervades the 
 whole'composition. Taken in parts, or as 
 a whole, it is alike excellent, and it 
 perhaps makes as near an approach to a 
 perfect work as any composition of equal 
 length in any form of our language." 
 
 In 1726 Ramsay removed his business 
 from the head of Niddrj''s Wind to another 
 part of the High Street, and also ex- 
 changed his sign of the Mercury for one 
 composed of the heads of Ben Jonson and 
 William Drummond. By this "time he had 
 become a very popular person, not only in 
 Scotland, but also throughout England 
 and Ireland. He enjoyed the friendship 
 of many of the nobility, and was in regular 
 
 correspondence with Alexander Pope, 
 and other celebrated literary men of the 
 period. In 1736 we find him writing to a 
 friend in this homely and contented style. — 
 " Half a century has now rowed o'er my 
 pow, that begins to be lyart ; yet, thanks 
 to my Author, I eat, drink, and sleep as 
 sound as I did twenty years syne. Yes, I 
 laugh heartily too, and find as many sub- 
 jects to employ that faculty on as ever. 
 My good auld wife is still my bed-fellow. 
 I have three daughters, one of seventeen, 
 one of sixteen, and one of twelve years 
 old, and no wally-draigle among them ; 
 all fine girls. These six or seven years 
 past I have not written a line of poetry. I 
 e'en gave over in good time, before the 
 coolness of fancy, that attends advanced 
 years, should make me risk the reputation 
 I had acquired. 
 
 " Frae twenty-five to five and forty 
 My muse was neither sweir nor dorty ; 
 My Pegasus would break his tether, 
 E'en at the shaking o' a feather, 
 And though ideas scour like drift, 
 Streaking his wings up to the lift. 
 Then, then my soul was in a low, 
 That gart my numbers eithly row ! 
 But eild and judgment 'gin to say, 
 Lay by your sangs and learn to pray. 
 
 " Tho' born to no ae inch of ground, 
 I keep my conscience white and sound ; 
 And though I ne'er was a rich keeper, 
 To make that up I live the cheaper ; 
 By this ae knack I 've made a shift 
 To drive ambitious care adrift ; 
 And now in years and sense grown auld, 
 In ease I like my limbs to fauld. 
 
 " Debts I abhor, and plan to be 
 
 From shackling trade and dangers free : 
 
 That I may, loosed frae care and strife, 
 
 With calmness view the edge of life : 
 
 And when a full ripe age shall crave, 
 
 Slide easily into my grave." ' 
 
 In 1745 he retired from his book busi- 
 ness, and settled down in a neat little villa 
 which he had built for himself on the Cas- 
 tle Hill, to enjoy the remaining )'ears of 
 his life in peace and quietness. Here, 
 surrounded by his children and grand- 
 children, he died on the 7th of January, 
 1758, at the age of seventy-two. He was 
 buried in the old Gray Friars church3'ard, 
 Edinburgh, and a monument was erected 
 to his memory on the inside wall of the 
 church. A life-size statue of him has also 
 been placed in Princes Street opposite the 
 house in which he died. His son Allan 
 became portrait-painter to George the III 
 and his Queen. Ramsay was undoubtedly 
 possessed of great genius and had Burns
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 9 
 
 not been born he would certainly have 
 ranked to-day as the last great poet which 
 Scotland had produced. 
 
 Farewell to Lochaber, farewell to 
 
 my Jean, 
 Where heartsome wi' thee I ha'e mony 
 
 a day been; 
 To Lochaber no more, to Lochaber 
 
 no more. 
 We'll maybe return to Lochaber no 
 
 more. 
 These tears that I shed, they're a' for 
 
 my dear, 
 And no for the dangers attending on 
 
 weir, 
 Though borne on rough seas to a far 
 
 bloody shore. 
 Maybe to return to Lochaber no 
 
 more. 
 
 Though hurricanes rise, though rise 
 
 every wind, 
 No tempest can equal the storm in 
 
 my mind; 
 Though loudest of thunders on louder 
 
 waves roar, 
 There's naething like leavin' my love 
 
 on the shore. 
 To leave thee behind me my heart is 
 
 sair pain'd; 
 But by ease that's inglorious no fame 
 
 can be gain'd: 
 And beauty and love's the reward of 
 
 the brave; 
 And I maun deserve it before I can 
 
 crave. 
 
 Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead 
 
 my excuse; 
 Since honor comrpands me, how can 
 
 I refuse? 
 Without it, I ne'er can have merit for 
 
 thee; 
 And losing thy favor I'd better not be. 
 I gae then, my lass, to win honor and 
 
 fame ; 
 And if I should chance to come 
 
 glorious hame, 
 
 I'll bring a heart to thee with love 
 
 running o'er. 
 And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber 
 
 no more. 
 
 BESSIE BELL, AND MARY 
 GRAY. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 " Bessie Bell and Mary Gray were the 
 daughters of two neighboring country 
 gentlemen, in the vicinity of Perth. They 
 are reported to have been both very hand- 
 some, and were united in terms of the 
 closest friendship. Bessie Bell, daughter 
 of the laird of Kinnaird, or Kinvaid, was 
 on a visit to Mary Gra}', at her father's 
 house of Lyndoch, in the year 1666, when 
 the plague broke out. In the hope of 
 avoiding the contagion, they built a small 
 cottage or bower in a retired spot called 
 the 'Burn-braes,' a short distance from 
 Lyndoch House, receiving occasional visits 
 from a young gentleman, a mutual admir- 
 er, from whom it is said they caught the 
 infection, and here they both died. Their 
 remains were interred in a place called 
 Dronach Haugh, upon the banks of the 
 Almond." — Lyric Gems of Scotland. 
 
 O, Bessie Bell, and Mary Gray, 
 
 They were twa bonnie lasses; 
 They biggit a bower on yon burn- 
 brae, 
 
 And theekit it ower wi' rashes. 
 Fair Bessie Bell I lo'ed yestreen. 
 
 And thocht I ne'er could alter; 
 But Mary Gray's twa pawky een 
 
 Gar'd a' my fancy falter. 
 
 Bessie's hair's like a lint-tap, 
 
 She smiles like a May mornin', 
 When Phoebus starts frae Thetis' lap. 
 
 The hills with rays adornin'; 
 White is her neck, saft is her hand, 
 
 Her waist and feet fu' genty. 
 With ilka grace she can command: 
 
 Her lips, O, wow! they're denty. 
 
 An' Mary's locks are like the craw, 
 Her een like diamonds glances; 
 She's aye sae clean, redd-up, and 
 braw;
 
 10 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 She kills whene'er she dances. 
 Blythe as a kid, wi' wit at will, 
 
 She blooming, tight, and tall is, 
 And guides her airs sae gracefu' still; 
 
 O, Jove, she's like thy Pallas! 
 
 Dear Bessie Bell, and Mary Gray, 
 
 Ye unco sair oppress us; 
 Our fancies jee between ye twa, 
 
 Ye are sic bonnie lasses. 
 Wae's me! for baith I canna get; 
 
 To ane by law we're stentit; 
 Then I'll draw cuts, and tak' my fate, 
 
 And be wi' ane contentit. 
 
 OLD LONGSYNE. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 The following is Ramsay's version of 
 this grand old song. An older version is 
 to be found in Watson's collection of 
 Scots Poems, Part III published in 1716. 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 
 Though they return with scars? 
 These are the noble hero's lot, 
 
 Obtain'd in glorious wars: 
 Welcome, my Varo, to my breast. 
 
 Thy arms about me twine. 
 And make me once again as blest, 
 
 As I was lang syne. 
 
 Methinks around us on each bough, 
 
 A thousand Cupids play. 
 Whilst through the groves I walk with 
 you, 
 
 Each object makes me gay. 
 Since your return the sun and moon 
 
 With brighter beams do shine. 
 Streams murmur soft notes while they 
 run, 
 
 As they did lang syne. 
 
 Despise the court and din of state; 
 
 Let that to their share fall. 
 Who can esteem such slavery great, 
 
 While bounded like a ball: 
 But sunk in love, upon my arms 
 
 Let your brave head recline; 
 We'll please ourselves with mutual 
 charms, 
 
 As we did lang syne. 
 
 O'er moor and dale, with your gay 
 friend. 
 
 You may pursue the chace. 
 And, after a blyihe bottle, end 
 
 All cares in my embrace: 
 And in a vacant rainy day 
 
 You shall be wholly mine; 
 We'll make the hours run smooth 
 away, 
 
 And laugh at lang syne. 
 
 The hero, pleased with the sweet air, 
 
 And signs of generous love. 
 Which had been utter'd by the fair, 
 
 Bow'd to the powers above. 
 Next day, with consent and glad haste. 
 
 They approach'd the sacred shrine. 
 Where the good priest the couple 
 blest, 
 
 And put them out of pine. 
 
 GI'E ME A LASS WI' A LUMP 
 O" LAND. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 Composed by Ramsay to the air of " The 
 Lass wi' the Lump o' Land." It appeared 
 in the second volume of the Tea Table 
 Miscellany. 
 
 Gi'e me a lass with a lump o' land. 
 
 And we for life shall gang thegither; 
 Tho' daft or wise, I'll ne'er demand. 
 
 Or black or fair, it maksna whether. 
 I'm aff wi' wit, and beauty will fade, 
 
 And blood alane 's nae worth a 
 shilling; 
 But she that's rich, her market's made. 
 
 For ilka charm about her's killing. 
 
 Gi'e me a lass with a lump o' land. 
 And in my bosom I'll hug my 
 treasure; 
 Gin I had ance her gear in my hand, 
 Should love turn dowf, it will find 
 pleasure. 
 Laugh on wha likes: but there's my 
 hand. 
 I hate with poortith, though bonnie, 
 to meddle:
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 U 
 
 Unless they bring cash, or a himp o' 
 land, 
 They'se ne'er get me to dance to 
 their fiddle. 
 
 There's meikle gude love in bands 
 and bags; 
 And siller and gowd's a sweet com- 
 plexion; 
 But beauty and wit and virtue, in rags. 
 Have tint the art of gaining affec- 
 tion. 
 Love tips his arrows with woods and 
 parks, 
 And castles, and riggs, and muirs, 
 and meadows; 
 And naething can catch our modern 
 sparks, 
 But weel-tocher'd lasses, or join- 
 tur'd widows. 
 
 THERE'S MY THUMB, I'LL 
 NE'ER BEGUILE THEE. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 "The name of the Scotch air called, 
 ' There's my thumb, I'll ne'er beguile 
 thee,' has relation to the old rude ceremony 
 of pressing thumbs, but the original words 
 to the tuiTe are supposed to be lost."— 
 Whitelaw. 
 
 My sweetest May, let love incline 
 
 thee 
 T' accept a heart which he designs 
 
 thee; 
 And as your constant slave regard it, 
 Syne for its faithfulness reward it. 
 'Tis proof a-shot to birth or money, 
 But yields to what is sweet and bonnie, 
 Receive it, then, with a kiss and smily; 
 There's my thumb, it will ne'er be- 
 guile ye. 
 
 How tempting sweet these lips of 
 
 thine are ! 
 Thy bosom white, and legs sae fine 
 
 are, 
 That, when in pools I see thee clean 
 
 'em, 
 
 They carry away my heart between 
 
 'em. 
 I wish, and I wish, while it gaes 
 
 duntin', 
 O gin I had thee on a mountain ! 
 Though kith and kin and a' should 
 
 revile thee. 
 There's my thumb, I'll ne'er beguile 
 
 thee. 
 
 Alane through flow'ry howes I daunder. 
 Tenting my flocks, lest they should 
 
 wander; 
 Gin thou'll gae alang, I'll daute thee 
 
 gaylie. 
 And gi'e my thumb, I'll ne'er beguile 
 
 thee. 
 O my dear lassie, it is but daffln', 
 To hand thy wooer up niff-naffin'; 
 That Na, na, na, I hate it most vilely; 
 O say. Yes, and I'll ne'er beguile thee. 
 
 THE YOUNG LAIRD AND 
 EDINBURGH KATIE. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 "The old town of Edinburgh now so 
 degraded but formerly a place of highest 
 fashion is the locality of this fine song, of 
 which the first verse contains a picture of 
 certain customs which obtained a century 
 ago in the capital of Scotland but are now 
 totally forgotten by all except the antiqu- 
 ary. A young country gentleman, walking 
 up the High Street in the evening en- 
 counters his mistress, no doubt a young 
 lady of good birth as well as breeding and 
 recognizes her even under the tartan gar- 
 ment, then used by all sorts of women as 
 a veil and against which, as affording 
 peculiar facilities for intrigue the whole 
 vengence of the town-council and the 
 kirk-session had been directed in vain. 
 He solicits her to walk with him up to the 
 hill, — the abbreviated popular phrase for 
 the esplanade in front of the Edinburgh 
 castle, which was then the only prom- 
 enade — at the command of the citizens, and 
 a favorite place among lovers for nocturnal 
 assignations. In their walk along the 
 Castle Hill he takes advantage of the situ- 
 ation to depict the delights of a summer 
 residence in the country, which, in all its
 
 12 
 
 CELEBRATED S0NO8 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 poetical and sunshine beauty, may be 
 supposed to have contrasted strongly with 
 the darksomeness and din of the city 
 beneath and therefore to have disposed 
 the young lady very favorably to his suit." 
 — Chambers. 
 
 Now wat ye wha I met yestreen, 
 
 Coming down the street, my joe? 
 My mistress, in her tartan screen,^ 
 
 Fu' bonnie, braw, and sweet, my joe! 
 My dear, quoth I, thanks to the nicth 
 
 That never wish'd a lover ill, 
 Sin' ye're out o' your mither's sicht. 
 
 Let's tak' a walk up to the hill. 
 
 Oh, Katie, wilt thou gang wi' me. 
 
 And leave the dinsome toun a while? 
 The blossom's sprouting frae the tree. 
 
 And a' the simmer's gaun to smile. 
 The mavis, nichtingale, and lark, 
 
 The bleeting lambs and whistling 
 hynd, 
 In ilka dale, green shaw and park. 
 
 Will nourish health, and glad your 
 mind. 
 
 Sune as the clear gudeman o' day 
 
 Does bend his morning draught o' 
 dew, 
 We'll gae to some burn-side and play, 
 
 And gather flouirs to busk your brow. 
 We'll pou the daisies on the green. 
 
 The lucken-gowans frae the bog; 
 Between hands, now and then, we'll 
 lean 
 
 And sport upon the velvet fog. 
 
 There's, up into a pleasant glen, 
 
 A wee piece frae my father's tower, 
 A canny, saft, and flowery den, 
 
 Which circling birks have form'd a 
 bower. 
 Whene'er the sun grows high and 
 warm, 
 
 We'll to the caller shade remove; 
 There will I lock thee in my arm, 
 
 And love and kiss, and kiss and love. 
 
 KATIE'S ANSWER. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 My mither's aye glowrin' ower me, 
 Though she did the same before me; 
 
 I canna get leave 
 
 To look at my love, 
 Or else she'd be like to devour me. 
 
 Right fain wad I tak' your offer, 
 Sweet sir — but I'll tyne my tocher; 
 
 Then, Sandy, ye'll fret. 
 
 And wyte your puir Kate, 
 Whene'er ye keek in your toom coffer. 
 
 For though my father has plenty 
 Of silver, and plenishing dainty, 
 
 Yet he's unco sweir 
 
 To twine wi' his gear; 
 And sae we had need to be tenty. 
 
 Tutor my parents wi' caution, 
 
 Be wylie in ilka motion; 
 Brag weel o' your land, 
 And there's my leal hand, 
 
 Win them, I'll be at your devotion. 
 
 TIBBY HAS A STORE O' 
 CHARMS. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 TiBBY has a store o' charms 
 Hergenty shape our fancy warms; 
 How strangely can her sma' white arms 
 
 Fetter the lad who looks but at her; 
 Fra'er ancle to her slender waste, 
 
 These sweets conceal'd invite to 
 dawt her; 
 Her rosy cheek, and rising breast, 
 
 Gar ane's mouth gush bowt fu' o' 
 water. 
 
 Nelly's gawsy, saft and gay, 
 
 Fresh as the lucken flowers in May; 
 
 Ilk ane that sees her, cries, Ah hey. 
 
 She's bonny! O I wonder at her. 
 The dimples of her chin and cheek, 
 
 And limbs sae plump invite to 
 dawt her;
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 18 
 
 Her lips sae sweet, and skin sae sleek, 
 Gar mony mouths beside mine 
 water. 
 
 Now strike my finger in a bore. 
 My wyson with the maiden shore, 
 Gin I can tell whilk I am for, 
 
 When these twa stars appear the- 
 gither. 
 
 love! why does thou gi'e thy fires 
 Sae large, while we're oblig'd to 
 
 neither? 
 Our spacious sauls immense desires, 
 And aye be in a hankerin' swither. 
 
 Tibby's shape and airs are fine. 
 And Nelly's beauties are divine : 
 But since they canna baith be mine, 
 
 Ye gods, give ear to my petition: 
 Provide a good lad for the tane. 
 
 But let it be with this provision, 
 
 1 get the other to my lane, 
 
 In prospect J>/a no and fruition. 
 
 THE LAST TIME I CAM' OWRE 
 THE MUIR. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 One of our oldest melodies is attached 
 to this song. Burns thought the words un- 
 worthy of the air but declined to change 
 them. In a letter to Mr. Thomson, he 
 says, " Ramsay, as every other poet, has 
 not been always equally happy in his 
 pieces; still, I cannot approve of taking 
 such liberties with an author, as Mr. W. 
 proposes doing with ' The last time I came 
 o'er the muir.' Let a poet, if he chooses, 
 take up the idea of another and work it 
 into a piece of his own; but to mangle the 
 works of a poor bard, whose tuneful 
 tongue is now mute for ever in the dark 
 and narrow house — by Heaven! 'twould be 
 sacrilege. I grant that Mr. W.'s version 
 is an improvement ; but let him mend the 
 song as the Highlander mended his gun, — 
 he gave it a new stock, a new lock, and 
 a new barrel!" 
 
 The last time I cam' owre the muir, 
 
 I left my love behind me: 
 Ye powers, what pains do I endure 
 
 When soft ideas mind me! 
 
 Soon as the ruddy morn display'd 
 The beaming day ensuing, 
 
 I met betimes my lovely maid, 
 In fit retreats for wooing. 
 
 We stray'd beside yon wand'ring 
 stream, 
 
 And talk'd with hearts o'erflowing; 
 Until the sun's last setting beam 
 
 Was in the ocean glowing. 
 I pitied all beneath the skies, 
 
 Even kings, when she was nigh me, 
 In raptures I beheld her eyes, 
 
 Which could but ill deny me. 
 
 Should I be call'd where cannons 
 roar. 
 
 Where mortal steel may wound me, 
 Or cast upon some foreign shore, 
 
 Where dangers may surround me; 
 Yet hopes again to see my love. 
 
 To feast on glowing kisses, 
 Shall make my cares at distance move, 
 
 In prospect of such blisses. 
 
 In all my soul there's not one place 
 
 To let a rival enter; 
 Since she excels in ev'ry grace, 
 
 In her my love shall centre. 
 Sooner the seas shall cease to flow, 
 
 Their waves the Alps shall cover, 
 On Greenland ice shall roses grow, 
 
 Before I cease to love her. 
 
 The neist time I gang ower the muir. 
 
 She shall a lover find me; 
 And that my faith is firm and pure, 
 
 Though I left her behind me; 
 Then Hyman's sacred bonds shall 
 chain 
 
 My heart to her fair bosom; 
 There, while my being does remain, 
 
 My love more fresh shall blossom. 
 
 MARY SCOTT THE FLOWER 
 OF YARROW. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 The Mary Scott, here celebrated is said 
 to have been a daughter of Philip Scott,
 
 14 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 of Dryhope, in Selkirkshire. She was 
 married to Walter Scott, of Harden, one of 
 the most notorious and daring Border free 
 hooters in the reign of Queen Mary. 
 
 Happy's the love which meets return, 
 When in soft flames souls equal burn; 
 But words are wanting to discover 
 The torments of a hopeless lover. 
 Ye registers of heaven, relate, 
 If looking o'er the rolls of fate. 
 Did you there see memark'd to marrow 
 Mary Scott the flower of Yarrow ? 
 
 Ah no! her form's to heavenly fair, 
 Her love the gods above must share; 
 While mortals with despair explore 
 
 her, 
 And at distance due adore her. 
 O lovely maid! my doubts beguile, 
 Revive and bless me with a smile; 
 Alas! if not, you'll soon debar a 
 Sighing swain the banks of Yarrow. 
 
 Be hush'd, ye fears, I'll not despair, 
 My Mary's tender as she's fair; 
 Then I'll go tell her all mine anguish. 
 She is too good to let me languish. 
 With success crown'd I'll not envy 
 The folks who dwell above the sky: 
 When Mary Scott's become my mar- 
 row, 
 We'll make a paradise on Yarrow. 
 
 OWER BOGIE 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 The first four lines of this song are old. 
 " Ower Bogie " was a term applied to run- 
 away marriages. 
 
 I WILL awa' wi' my love, 
 
 I will awa' wi' her, 
 Though a' my kin had sworn and said, 
 
 I'll ower Bogie wi' her. 
 If I can get but her consent, 
 
 I dinna care a strae; 
 Though ilka ane be discontent, 
 
 Awa' wi' her I'll gae. 
 
 For now she's mistress o' my heart, 
 
 And worthy o' my hand; 
 And, weel I wat, we shanna part 
 
 For siller or for land. 
 Let rakes delight to swear and drink. 
 
 And beaux admire fine lace; 
 But my chief pleasure is to blink 
 
 On Betty's bonnie face. 
 
 There a' the beauties do combine, 
 
 Of color, treats, and air; 
 The saul that sparkles in her een 
 
 Makes her a jewel rare; 
 Her flowin' wit gives shining life 
 
 To a' her other charms; 
 How blest I'll be when she's my wife, 
 
 And lock'd up in my arms! 
 
 There blythely will I rant and sing. 
 
 While o'er her sweets I'll range; 
 I'll cry, Your humble servant, king, 
 
 Shame fa' them that wad change. 
 A kiss of Betty, and a smile 
 
 A belt ye wad lay down. 
 The right ye hae to Britain's Isle, 
 
 And offer me yer crown. 
 
 THE LASS OF BRANKSOME. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 " Near Branksholm Castle, the ancient 
 seat of the Buccleugh family, on the banks 
 of the Teviot, and about two miles from 
 Hawick, is a small collection of cottages, 
 one of which, like Branksholm itself, has 
 a poetical history. It was the residence, 
 upwards of a century ago, of a woman 
 named Jean the Ranter, who sold ale, and 
 had, among other children, one daughter 
 of especial beauty. One day, while this 
 bonny lass of Branksholm, as she was 
 called, was spreading clothes upon the 
 banks of the Teviot, she was seen by a 
 young military officer named Maitland, 
 who immediately fell so deeply in love 
 with her, that he was induced to make 
 her his wife. By this alliance, which was 
 considered so extraordinary in those days 
 as to be partly attributed to witchcraft on 
 the part of her mother, the bonny lass
 
 CULEBEATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 15 
 
 became the progenitrix of a family of 
 geniry in Mid-Lothian. The story was 
 put into verse by Allan Ramsay, who 
 states, that, when first seen by her lover, 
 
 ' Ae little coat, and bpdice white, 
 Was sum o' a' her claithing.' " 
 
 Ratnsay's Poetical IVorks, 
 Edinburgh y 1880. 
 
 As I came in by Teviot side, 
 
 And by the braes of Branksome, 
 There first I saw my bonnie bride, 
 
 Young, smiling, sweet, and hand- 
 some; 
 Her skin was safter than the down, 
 
 And white as alabaster; 
 Her hair a shining wavy brown; 
 
 In straightness nane surpast her. 
 
 Life glow'd upon her lip and cheek, 
 
 Her clear een were surprising, 
 And beautifully turn'd her neck. 
 
 Her little breasts just rising; 
 Nae silken hose with gushets fine. 
 
 Or shoon with glancing laces, 
 On her fair leg forbad to shine, 
 
 Well shapen native graces. 
 
 Ae little coat, and bodice white. 
 
 Was sum o' a' her claithing; — 
 Even these o'er mickle — mair delyte 
 
 She'd given cled wi' naething. 
 She lean'd upon a flow'ry brae. 
 
 By which a burnie trotted; 
 On her I glowr'd my saul away. 
 
 While on her sweets I doated. 
 
 A thousand beauties of desert 
 
 Before had scarce alarm'd me, 
 Till this dear artless struck my heart, 
 
 And but designing, charm'd me. 
 Hurried by love, close to my breast 
 
 I grasp'd this fund of blisses; 
 Wha smil'd, and said, "Without a 
 priest. 
 
 Sir, hope for nought but kisses." 
 
 I had nae heart to do her harm, 
 
 And yet I couldna want her; 
 What she demanded, ilka charm 
 
 Of hers pled, I should grant her. 
 Since heaven had dealt tome a routh, 
 
 Straight to the kirk I led her, 
 There plighted her my faith and troth, 
 
 And a young lady made her. 
 
 HIGHLAND LADDIE. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 The Lawland lads think they are fine, 
 But O! they're vain and idly gaudy; 
 
 How much unlike the gracefu' mien 
 And manly looks of my Highland 
 laddie. 
 
 O my bonnie Highland laddie. 
 
 My handsome, charming. High- 
 land laddie; 
 
 May heaven still guard, and love 
 reward, 
 
 The Lawland lass and her High- 
 land laddie. 
 
 If I were free at will to choose. 
 
 To be the wealthiest Lawland lady, 
 
 I'd tak' young Donald without trews, 
 With bonnet blue and belted plaidie. 
 O my bonnie, &c. 
 
 The brawest beau in burrows town, 
 In a' his airs, wi' art made ready, 
 
 Compared to him, he's but a clown, 
 He's finer far in 's tartan plaidie. 
 O my bonnie, &c. 
 
 O'er benty hill wi' him I'll run, , 
 And leave my Lawland kin and 
 daddie; 
 Frae winter's cauld and summer's sun, 
 He'll screen me wi' his Highland 
 plaidie. 
 
 O my bonnie, &c.
 
 16 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 A painted room, and silken bed, 
 May please a Lawland laird and 
 lady; 
 But I can kiss and be as glad 
 
 Behind a bush in 's Highland 
 plaidie. 
 
 O my bonnie, &c. 
 
 Few compliments between us pass; 
 
 I ca' him my dear Highland laddie, 
 And he ca's me his Lawland lass. 
 
 Syne rows me in beneath his plaidie. 
 O my bonnie, &c. 
 
 Nae greater joy I'll e'er pretend. 
 Than that his love prove true and 
 steady, 
 Like mine to him, which ne'er shall 
 end, 
 While heaven preserves my High- 
 land laddie. 
 
 O my bonnie, &c. 
 
 My bonnie Maggy love can turn, 
 Me to what shape she pleases. 
 
 If in her breast that flame shall burn, 
 Which in my bosom bleezes. 
 
 I'LL OWRE THE MUIR TO 
 MAGGY. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 And I'll owre the muir to Maggy, 
 
 Her wit and sweetness call me; 
 There to my fair I'll show my mind, 
 
 Whatever may befall me: 
 If she loves mirth, I'll learn to sing 
 
 Or likes the Nine to follow, 
 I'll lay my lugs in Pindus' spring, 
 
 And invocate Apollo. 
 
 If she admire a martial mind, 
 
 I'll sheathe my limbs in armour; 
 If to the softer dance inclined, 
 
 With gayest airs I'll charm her; 
 If she love grandeur, day and night 
 
 I'll plot my nation's glory, 
 Find favor in my prince's sight, 
 
 And shine in future story. 
 
 Beauty can wonders work with ease, 
 Where wit is corresponding, 
 
 And bravest men know best to please, 
 With complaisance abounding. 
 
 O WHA'S THAT AT MY CHAM- 
 BER-DOOR? 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 Ramsay called this song "The Auld 
 Man's Best Argument." 
 
 O wha's that at my chamber-door? 
 
 " Fair widow, are ye waking?" 
 Auld carle, your suit give o'er, 
 
 Your love lyes a' in tawking. 
 Gi'e me the lad that's young and tight, 
 
 Sweet like an April meadow; 
 'Tis sic as he can bless the sight. 
 
 And bosom of a widow. 
 
 " O widow, wilt thou let me in ? 
 
 I'm pawky, wise and thrifty. 
 And come of a right gentle kin; 
 
 I'm little more than fifty." 
 Daft carle, dit your mouth, 
 
 What signifies how pawky. 
 Or gentle born ye be, — bot youth, 
 
 In love you're but a gawky. 
 
 "Then, widow, let these guineas speak. 
 
 That powerfully plead clinkan, 
 And if they fail my mouth I'll steek. 
 
 And nae mair love will think on." 
 These court indeed, I maun confess, 
 
 I think they make you young, sir. 
 And ten times better can express 
 
 Aff.ection, than your tongue, sir. 
 
 THE WIDOW CAN BAKE. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 An old song re-modelled by Ramsay. 
 
 The widow can bake, an' the widow 
 
 can brew. 
 The widow can shape, an' the widow 
 
 can sew,
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 17 
 
 An' mony braw things the widow can 
 
 do; 
 Then have at the widow, my laddie. 
 With courage attack her, baith early 
 
 and late. 
 To kiss ■ her an' clap her ye maunna 
 
 be blate: 
 Speak well, an' do better; for that's 
 
 the best gate 
 To win a young widow, my laddie. 
 
 The widow she's youthfu', and never 
 
 ae hair 
 The waur of the wearing, and has a 
 
 good shair 
 Of everything lovely; she's witty and 
 
 fair. 
 An' has a rich jointure, my laddie. 
 What could ye wish better, your 
 
 pleasure to crown, 
 Than a widow, the bonniest toast in 
 
 the town. 
 With, naething but — draw in your 
 
 stool and sit down. 
 And sport with the widow my 
 
 laddie! 
 
 Then till her, and kill her with 
 
 courtesie dead, 
 Though stark love and kindness be 
 
 all you can plead; 
 Be heartsome and airy, and hope to 
 
 succeed 
 With the bonnie gay widow, my 
 
 laddie. 
 Strike iron while 'ts het, if ye'd have 
 
 it to wald; 
 For fortune aye favors the active and 
 
 bauld. 
 But ruins the wooer that's thowless 
 
 and cauld, 
 Unfit for the widow, my laddie. 
 
 THE LASS O' PATIE'S MILL. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 Earl of Loudoun. The then Earl of Lou- 
 doun, father to Earl John before men- 
 tioned, had Ramsay at Loudoun, and one 
 day walking together by the banks of 
 Irvine water, near New Mills, at a place 
 called Patie's Mill, they were struck by 
 the appearance of a beautiful country 
 girl. His Lordship observed that she 
 would be a fine theme for a song. Allan 
 lagged behind in returning to Loudoun 
 Castle, and at dinner produced this iden- 
 tical song." — Burns. 
 
 The lass o' Patie's Mill, 
 
 Sae bonnie, blythe, and gay, 
 In spite of a' my skill, 
 
 She stole my heart away. 
 When teddin' out the hay. 
 
 Bareheaded on the green, 
 Love mid her locks did play. 
 
 And wanton'd in her een. 
 
 Without the help of art. 
 
 Like flowers that grace the wild, 
 She did her sweets impart, 
 
 Whene'er she spak' or smiled: 
 Her looks they were so mild. 
 
 Free from affected pride. 
 She me to love beguiled; 
 
 I wish'd her for my bride. 
 
 Oh ! had I a' the wealth 
 
 Hopetoun's high mountains fill, 
 Insured lang life and health, 
 
 And pleasure at my will, 
 I'd promise, and fulfil, 
 
 That nane but bonnie she, 
 The lass of Patie's Mill, 
 
 Should share the same wi' me. 
 
 "The following anecdote I had from 
 the present Sir William Cunningham, of 
 Robertland, who had it from the last John 
 
 BONNIE CHIRSTY. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 This was one of Ramsa3^'s favorite 
 songs. He placed it first in the Tea 
 Table Miscellany. 
 
 How sweetly smells the simmer green; 
 
 Sweet taste the peach and cherry; 
 Painting and order please our een. 
 
 And claret makes us merry:
 
 18 
 
 CELEBliATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 But finest colors, fruits and flowers, 
 And wine, though I be thirsty, 
 
 Lose a' their charms, and weaker 
 powers, 
 Compar'd wi' those of Chirsty. 
 
 When wandring o'er the flow'ry park, 
 
 No natural beauty wanting; 
 How lightsome is't to hear the lark 
 
 And birds in concert chanting ! 
 But if my Chirsty tunes her voice, 
 
 I'm rapt in admiration; 
 My thoughts wi' ecstasies rejoice, 
 
 And drap the haill creation. 
 
 Whene'er she smiles a kindly glance, 
 
 I take the happy omen. 
 And aften mint to make advance. 
 
 Hoping she'll prove a woman: 
 But, dubious o' my ain desert, 
 
 My sentiments I smother; 
 Wi' secret sighs I vex my heart, 
 
 For fear she love another. 
 
 Thus sang blate Edie by a burn, 
 
 His Chirsty did o'er-hear him; 
 She doughtna let her lover mourn, 
 
 But, ere he wist, drew near him. 
 She spak' her favor wi' a look, 
 
 Which left nae room to doubt her: 
 He wisely this white minute took, 
 
 And flang his arms about her. 
 
 My Chirsty ! witness, bonny stream. 
 
 Sic joys frae tears arising ! 
 I wish this may na be a dream 
 
 O love the maist surprising! 
 Time was too precious now for tauk, 
 
 This point of a' his wishes 
 He wadna wi' set speeches bauk, 
 
 But wair'd it a' on kisses. 
 
 ' The collier has a dochter, and O ! she's wonder 
 
 bonnie ! 
 A laird he was that sought her, rich b.-iith in lands 
 
 and money. 
 She wad na hae a laird, nor wad she be a lady, 
 But she wad hae a collier, the color o' her daddie.' " 
 
 — Burns. 
 
 The collier has a daughter. 
 
 And, O! she's wonderous bonnie. 
 A laird he was that sought her, 
 
 Rich baith in lands and money. 
 The tutors watched the motion 
 
 Of this young honest lover : 
 But love is like the ocean; 
 
 Wha can its depths discover ! 
 
 He had the art to please ye. 
 
 And was by a' respected; 
 His airs sat round him easy, 
 
 Genteel but unaffected. 
 The collier's bonnie lassie, 
 
 Fair as the new-blown lilie, 
 Aye sweet, and never saucy. 
 
 Secured the heart o' Willie. 
 
 He loved, beyond expression, 
 
 The charms that were about her, 
 And panted for possession; 
 
 His life was dull without her. 
 After mature resolving. 
 
 Close to his breast he held her; 
 In saftest flames dissolving, 
 
 He tenderly thus telled her: 
 
 My bonnie collier's daughter. 
 
 Let naething discompose ye; 
 It's no your scanty tocher. 
 
 Shall ever gar me lose ye: 
 For I have gear in plenty ; 
 
 And love says, it's my duty 
 To ware what heaven has lent me 
 
 Upon your wit and beauty. 
 
 THE COLLIER'S BONNIE 
 LASSIE. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 " The first half stanza is much older than 
 the days of Ramsay. The old words be- 
 gan thus : 
 
 AN THOU WERE MY AIN 
 THING. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 An thou were my ain thing, 
 
 I would lo'e thee, I would lo'e thee, 
 An thou were my ain thing, 
 
 How dearly would I lo'e thee!
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 19 
 
 I would clasp thee in my arms, 
 I'd secure thee from all harms; 
 For above mortal thou hast charms: 
 How dearly do I lo'e thee! 
 An thou were, &c. 
 
 Of race divine thou needs must be. 
 Since nothing earthly equals thee, 
 So I must still presumptuous be, 
 To show how much I lo'e thee, 
 An thou were, &c. 
 
 The gods one thing peculiar have, 
 To ruin none whom they can save; 
 O, for their sake, support a slave, 
 Who only lives to lo'e thee. 
 An thou were, &c. 
 
 To merit I no claim can make, 
 But that I lo'e, and, for your sake. 
 What man can more, I'll undertake. 
 So dearly do I lo'e thee. 
 An thou were, &c. 
 
 My passion, constant as the sun. 
 Flames stronger still, will ne'er have 
 
 done, 
 Till fates my thread of life have spun. 
 Which breathing out, I'll lo'e thee. 
 
 An thou were, &c. 
 
 AN THOU WERE MY AIN 
 THING. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 (A continuation of the preceding song.) 
 
 Like bees that suck the morning dew, 
 Frae flowers of sweetest scent and hue, 
 Sae wad I dwell upo' thy mou', 
 And gar the gods envy me. 
 And thou were, &c. 
 
 Sae lang's I had the use of light, 
 I'd on thy beauties feast my sight, 
 Syne in saf t whispers through the night, 
 I'd tell how much I loo'd thee. 
 An thou were, &c. 
 
 How fair and ruddy is my Jean, 
 She moves a goddess o'er the green; 
 Were I a king, thou should be queen, 
 Nane but mysel' aboon thee. 
 An thou were, &c. 
 
 I'd grasp thee to this breast of mine, 
 Whilst thou, like ivy, or the vine, 
 Around my stronger limbs should 
 twine, 
 Form'd hardy to defend thee. 
 An thou were, &c. 
 
 Time's on the wing, and will not stay, 
 In shining youth let's make our hay, 
 Since love admits of nae delay, 
 O let nae scorn undo thee. 
 An thou were, &c. 
 
 While love does at his altar stand, 
 Ha'e there's my heart, gi'e me thy hand, 
 And with ilk smile thou shalt command 
 The will of him wha loves thee. 
 An thou were, &c. 
 
 GIN YE MEET A BONNIE. 
 LASSIE. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 " It is self-evident that the first four lines 
 
 of this song are part of a song more an- 
 cient than Ramsay's beautiful verses, 
 which are annexed to them. As music is 
 the language of nature ; and poetry, par- 
 ticularly songs, are always less or more 
 localized (if I may be allowed the verb) 
 by some of the modifications of time and 
 place, this is the reason why so many of 
 our Scots airs have outlived their origi- 
 nal, and perhaps man}^ subsequent sets of 
 verses ; except a single name or phrase, or 
 sometimes one or two lines, simply to dis- 
 tinguish the tunes by. 
 
 To this day among people who know 
 nothing of Ramsay's verses, the following 
 is the song, and all the song that ever I 
 heard : 
 
 ' Gin ye meet a bonnie lassie, 
 Gie her a kiss and let her gae ; 
 But gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, 
 Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae. 
 
 Fye, gae rub her, rub her, rub her, 
 Fye, gae rub her o'erwi' strae. 
 
 An' gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, 
 Fye, gae rub her o'erwi' strae.' " 
 
 — Burns,
 
 20 
 
 CELEBRATED 80N0S OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Gin ye meet a bonnie lassie, 
 
 Gi'e her a kiss and let her gae ; 
 But if ye meet a dirty hizzie, 
 
 Fye, gar rub her ower wi' strae. 
 Be sure ye dinna quit the grip 
 
 Of ilka joy when ye are young, 
 Before auld age your vitals nip, 
 
 And lay ye twa-fauld ower a rung. 
 
 Sweet youth's a blythe and heartsome 
 time : 
 
 Then, lads and lasses, while it's May, 
 Gae pou the gowan in its prime. 
 
 Before it wither and decay. 
 Watch the saft minutes o' delight, 
 
 When Jenny speaks beneath her 
 breath, 
 And kisses, layin' a' the wyte 
 
 On you if she kep ony skaith. 
 
 Haith, ye're ill-bred, she'll smilin' say, 
 
 Ye'll worry me, ye greedy rook; 
 Syne frae your arms she'll rin away. 
 
 And hide hersel' in some dark neuk. 
 Her lauch will lead ye to the place. 
 
 Where lies the happiness ye want; 
 And plainly tell ye to your face. 
 
 Nineteen nay-says are hauf a grant. 
 
 Now to her heavin' bosom cling. 
 
 And sweitly tuilyie for a kiss; 
 Frae her fair finger whup a ring. 
 
 As taiken o' a future bliss. 
 These benisons, I'm very sure. 
 
 Are of kind heaven's indulgent 
 grant; 
 Then, surly carles, wheesht, forbear 
 
 To plague us wi'yourwhinin' cant! 
 
 HAP ME WI' THY PETTICOAT. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 O Bell, thy looks ha'e kill'dmy heart, 
 I pass the day in pain; 
 
 When night returns, I feel the smart. 
 And wish for thee in vain. 
 
 I'm starving cold, while thou art warm; 
 Have pity and incline. 
 
 And grant me for a hap that charm- 
 ing petticoat of thine. 
 
 My ravish 'd fancy in amaze 
 
 Still wanders o'er thy charms. 
 Delusive dreams ten thousand ways 
 
 Present thee to my arms. 
 But waking, think what I endure, 
 
 While cruel thou decline 
 Those pleasures, which alone can cure 
 
 This panting breast of mine. 
 
 I faint, I fall, and wildly rove, 
 
 Because you still deny 
 The just reward that's due to love, 
 
 And let true passion die. 
 Oh! turn, and let compassion seize 
 
 That lovely breast of thine; 
 Thy petticoat could give me ease, 
 
 If thou and it were mine. 
 
 Sure heaven has fitted for delight 
 
 That beauteous form of thine, 
 And thou'rt too good its law to slight, 
 
 By hind'ring the design. 
 May all the powers of love agree, 
 
 At length to make thee mine; 
 Or loose my chains and set me free 
 
 From every charm of thine. 
 
 POLWART ON THE GREEN. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 " Polwort is a small, primitive-looking 
 parish-village in the centre of Berwick- 
 shire, with a green, in the centre of which 
 three thorns grow within a little enclosure. 
 These trees are the successors of one aged 
 thorn, which, after keeping its place there 
 for centuries, was blown down some years 
 ago. It was formerly the custom of the 
 villagers, who are a simple race, and were 
 formerly vassals to the Earl of Marchmont, 
 whose seat is in the neighborhood, to 
 dance round this venerable tree at wed- 
 dings, which they are said to have done in 
 consequence of a romantic incident in the 
 history of the noble family just mention- 
 ed." — Chambers. 
 
 At Polwart on the green, 
 If you'll meet me the morn, 
 
 Where lasses do conveen 
 To dance about the thorn,
 
 CELEBRATED S0NQ8 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 21 
 
 A kindly welcome ye shall meet 
 Frae her wha likes to view 
 
 A lover and a lad complete, 
 The lad and lover you. 
 
 Let dorty dames say na, 
 As long as e'er they please, 
 
 Seem caulder than the snaw 
 While inwardly they bleeze ; 
 
 But I will frankly shaw my mind, 
 And yield my heart to thee ; 
 
 Be ever to the captive kind, 
 That langs na to be free. 
 
 At Polwart on the green, 
 Among the new mawn hay, 
 
 Wi' sangs and dancing keen 
 We'll pass the heartsome day. 
 
 THIS IS NO MINE AIN HOUSE. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 The air and the first two lines of this 
 song are very old. 
 
 This is no mine ain house, 
 
 I ken by the rigging o't ; 
 Since with my love I've changed vows, 
 
 I dinna like the bigging o't. 
 For now that I'm young Robbie's bride 
 And mistress of his fire-side, 
 Mine ain house I'll like to guide, 
 
 And please me with the trigging o't. 
 
 Then fareweel to my father's house, 
 
 I gang whare love invites me ; 
 The stricttest duty this allows, 
 
 When love with honour meets me. 
 When Hymen moulds us into ane, 
 My Robbie's nearer than my kin, 
 And to refuse him were a sin, 
 Sae lang's he kindly treats me. 
 
 When I'm in my ain house, 
 
 True love shall be at hand aye, 
 To make me still a prudent spouse, 
 And let my man command aye ; 
 Avoiding ilka cause of strife, 
 The common pest of married life, 
 That mak's ane wearied of his wife. 
 And breaks the kindly band aye. 
 
 THEWAUKINGO'THEFAULD, 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 " ' The wauking o' the fauld ' alludes to 
 the old pastoral practice of watching the 
 sheep folds at night, during the weaning 
 of the lambs, on which occasion the shep- 
 herd was generally favored with the com- 
 pany of his sweetheart." — Blackie's Book 
 of Scottish Song. 
 
 My Peggie is a young thing; 
 
 Just enter'd in her teens, 
 Fair as the day, and sweet as May, 
 Fair as the day. and always gay; 
 My Peggy is a young thing, 
 
 And I'm nae very auld. 
 Yet weel I like to meet her at 
 The wauking o' the fauld. 
 
 My Peggy speaks sae sweetly 
 
 Whene'er we meet alane, 
 I wish nae mair to lay my care, 
 I wish nae mair o' a' that's rare : 
 My Peggy speaks sae sweetly. 
 
 To a' the lave I'm cauld ; 
 But she gars a' my spirits glow 
 At wauking o' the fauld. 
 
 My Peggy smiles sae kindly 
 Whene'er I whisper love. 
 That I look down on a' the town, 
 That I look down upon a crown ; 
 My Peggy smiles sae kindly, 
 
 It makes me blythe and bauld. 
 And naething gi'es me sic delight. 
 As wauking o' the fauld. 
 
 My Peggy sings sae saftly. 
 
 When on my pipe I play ; 
 By a' the rest it is confest, 
 By a' the rest that she sings best ; 
 My Peggy sings sae saftly, 
 
 And in her sangs are tauld, 
 Wi' innocence the wale o' sense, 
 At wauking o' the fauld. 
 
 CORN-RIGGS ARE BONNIE. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. FROM " THE 
 GENTLE SHEPHERD." 
 
 " Corn-Riggs " is the name of a very 
 old air. It was adopted by Gay for one of 
 his songs in his opera entitled " Poll}'."
 
 22 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 My Patie is a lover gay ; 
 
 His mind is never muddy ; 
 His breath is sweeter than new hay; 
 
 His face is fair and ruddy. 
 His shape is handsome middle size; 
 
 He's stately in his walking ; 
 The shining of his een surprise ; 
 
 'Tis heaven to hear him talking. 
 
 Last night I met him on a bank, 
 
 Where yellow corn was growing ; 
 There mony a kindly word he spake, 
 
 That set my heart a-glowing. 
 He kiss'd and vow'd he wad be mine, 
 
 And lo'ed me best of ony; 
 That gars me like to sing sinsyne, 
 
 O corn-riggs are bonny. 
 
 Let maidens of a silly mind 
 
 Refuse what maist they're wanting 
 Since we for yielding are design'd, 
 
 We chastely should be granting. 
 Then I'll comply and marry Pate ; 
 
 And syne my cockernony 
 He's free to touzle air or late, 
 
 When corn-riggs are bonny. 
 
 proved to the satisfaction of Helen that 
 he had always been faithful, and in due 
 time led her to the altar, where she wil- 
 lingly became his bride. 
 
 CROMLET'S LILT. 
 
 TEA TABLE MISCELLANY. 
 
 This old song is founded on the follow- 
 ing tradition. About the year 1580 Miss 
 Helen Murray, a daughter of William 
 Stirling, and known as " Fair Helen of 
 Ardoch," was beloved by Sir James Chis- 
 holm of Cromlet, and he being obliged to 
 repair to France for a time entrusted a 
 friend to convey his letters, etc., to his 
 young and beautiful mistress. This man, 
 however, proved false to his trust, and in- 
 stead of delivering the letters, destroyed 
 them, and in other ways so misrepresented 
 Chisholm to Helen that she soon lost all 
 confidence in her lover and at length be- 
 came engaged to his rival. It was on 
 learning of her engagement that Chisholm 
 is said to have composed the following 
 song, after which he immediately set sail 
 for Scotland. He arrived home on the 
 night of the marriage, killed his rival. 
 
 Since all thy vows, false maid, 
 
 Are blown to air, 
 And my poor heart betray'd 
 
 To sad despair ; 
 Into some wilderness 
 My grief I will express, 
 And thy hard-heartedness, 
 
 Oh, cruel fair ! 
 
 Have I not graven our loves 
 
 On every tree 
 In yonder spreading grove, 
 
 Though false thou be ? 
 Was not a solemn oath 
 Plighted betwixt us both. 
 Thou thy faith, I my troth, 
 
 Constant to be ? 
 
 Some gloomy place I'll find, 
 
 Some doleful shade. 
 Where neither sun nor wind 
 
 E'er entrance had. 
 Into that hollow cave 
 There will I sigh and rave. 
 Because thou dost behave 
 
 So faithlessly. 
 
 Wild fruit shall be my meat, 
 I'll drink the spring ; 
 
 Cold earth shall be my seat ; 
 For covering, 
 
 I'll have the starry sky 
 
 My head to canopy, 
 
 Until my soul on high 
 Shall spread its wing. 
 
 I'll have no funeral fire. 
 
 No tears nor sighs ; 
 No grave do I require. 
 
 Nor obsequies ; 
 The courteous red-breast, he, 
 With leaves will cover me, 
 And sing my elegy 
 
 With doleful voice.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 23 
 
 And when a ghost I am, 
 
 I'll visit thee, 
 Oh, thou deceitful dame. 
 
 Whose cruelty 
 Has kill'd the kindest heart 
 That e'er felt Cupid's dart. 
 And never can desert 
 
 From loving thee! 
 
 TAK' YOUR AULD CLOAK 
 ABOUT YE. 
 
 TEA TABLE MISCELLANY. 
 
 No one can doubt the antiquity of this 
 famous song, as the fourth stanza, slight 
 ly altered, is quoted by Shakespeare in his 
 tragedy of " Othello," published in 1611. 
 The name Robert is there changed to that 
 of the English king Stephen. It was one 
 of the principal songs called for at every 
 " merry gathering " that occurred through- 
 out the Lowlands of Scotland in ancient 
 times, and yet it is as fresh and enjoyable 
 a song as we could possibly wish to hear 
 at the present day. Nothing can be said 
 of its author, as there is not a scrap of in- 
 formation in existence about him, and it 
 is probable that it was the composition of 
 one of the many strolling minstrels who 
 used to wander about from town to town 
 singing their own songs and ballads, and 
 thereby gaining a living, sometimes good 
 and sometimes bad. There is an English 
 version of the song given by Dr. Percy in 
 his " Reliques of Ancient English Poetry," 
 but he admits that the song originally be- 
 longed to Scotland. 
 
 In winter, when the rain rain'd cauld. 
 
 And frost and snaw on ilka hill, 
 And Boreas, wi' his blasts sae bauld, 
 
 Was threat'nin' a' our kye to kill; 
 Then Bell, my wife, wha lo'es nae 
 strife. 
 
 She said to me richt hastilie, 
 Get up, gudeman, save Crummie'slife, 
 
 And tak' your auld cloak about ye. 
 
 My Crummie is a usfu' cow, 
 And she is come of a good kin'; 
 
 Aft has she wet the bairn's mou'. 
 And I am laith that she should tyne; 
 
 Get up, gudeman, it is fu' time. 
 The sun shines i' the lift sae hie ; 
 
 Sloth never made a gracious end ; 
 Gae tak' your auld cloak about ye. 
 
 My cloak was ance a gude gray cloak, 
 
 When it was fitting for my wear: 
 But now it's scantly worth a groat, 
 
 For I have worn't this thretty year; 
 Let's spend the gear that we ha'e won, 
 
 We little ken the day we'll dee; 
 Then I'll be proud, since I have sworn 
 
 To ha'e a new cloak about me. 
 
 In days when our King Robert rang, 
 
 His trews they cost but half a croun; 
 He said they were a groat ower dear. 
 
 And ca'd the tailor thief and loon ; 
 He was the king that wore a croun, 
 
 And thou'rt a man of laigh degree. 
 It's pride puts a' the country doun; 
 
 Sae tak' your auld cloak about ye. 
 
 Ilka land has its ain lauch, 
 
 Ilk kind o' corn has its ain hool; 
 I think the world is a' gane wrang, 
 
 When ilka wife her man wad rule ; 
 Do ye no see Rob, Jock, and Hab, 
 
 As they are girded gallantlie. 
 While I sit hurklin' i' the ase? — 
 
 I'll ha'e a new cloak about me. 
 
 Gudeman, I wat 'tis thretty year 
 
 Sin' we did ane anither ken; 
 And we ha'e had atween us twa 
 
 Of lads and bonnie lasses ten; 
 Now they are women grown and men, 
 
 I wish and pray weei may they be ; 
 If you would prove a gude husband, 
 
 E'en tak' your auld cloak about ye. 
 
 Bell, my wife, she lo'es nae strife. 
 
 But she would guide me if she can ; 
 And to maintain an easy life, 
 
 I aft maun yield, though I'm gude- 
 man: 
 Nought's to be gain'd at woman's hand 
 
 Unless ye gie her a' the plea; 
 Then I'll leave afif where I began. 
 
 And tak' my auld cloak about me.
 
 24 
 
 CELEBRATED S0N08 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 BARBARA ALLAN. 
 
 TEA TABLE MISCELLANY. 
 
 "I remember," says Mr. C. Kirkpatrick 
 Sharpe, " that the peasantry of Annandale 
 sang many more verses of this ballad than 
 have appeared in print, but they were of 
 no merit — containing various magnificent 
 offers from the lover to his mistress — and, 
 amongst others some ships, in sight, which 
 may strengthen the belief that this song was 
 composed near the shores of the Sol way." 
 — Additional Illustrations to Stenhouse. 
 
 It was in and about the Martinmas 
 time, 
 When the green leaves were a-fall- 
 ing, 
 That Sir John Graham, in the west 
 countrie, 
 Fell in love wi' Barbara Allan. 
 
 He sent his man down through the 
 town, 
 To the place where she was dwell- 
 in'. 
 Oh, haste and come to my master 
 dear, 
 Gin ye be Barbara Allan. 
 
 Oh, hooly, hooly, rase she up 
 To the place where he was lyin', 
 
 And when she drew the curtain by. 
 Young man, I think ye're dyin'. 
 
 It's oh, I'm sick, I'm very very sick, 
 And its a' for Barbara Allan. 
 
 Oh, the better for me ye'se never be, 
 Though your heart's bluid were a- 
 spillin'. 
 
 Oh, dinna ye mind, young man, she 
 said. 
 When ye was in the tavern a- 
 drinkin'. 
 That ye made the healths gae round 
 and round. 
 And slichtit Barbara Allan } 
 
 He turned his face unto the wa', 
 And death was with him dealin': 
 
 Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a'. 
 And be kind to Barbara Allan. 
 
 And slowly, slowly raise she up, 
 And slowly, slowly left him, 
 
 And sighin', said, she could not stay, 
 Since death of life had reft him. 
 
 She hadna gane a mile but twa. 
 When she heard the deid-bell 
 ringin'. 
 
 And every jow that the diad-bell gied. 
 It cried, Woe to Barbara Allan. 
 
 Oh, mother, mother, mak' my bed, 
 And mak' it saft and narrow, 
 
 Since my love died for me to-day, 
 I'll die for him to-morrow. 
 
 GENERAL LESLIE'S MARCH. 
 
 TEA TABLE MISCELLANY. 
 
 " It seems to have been written by some 
 sneering cavalier as a quiz upon the Scot- 
 tish army, which marched to join the En- 
 glish parliamentary forces, 1644, in terms 
 of the Solemn League and Covenant, and 
 which was so instrumental in winning for 
 that party the decisive battle of Long- 
 marston Moor." — Chambers. 
 
 March, march, why the diel do ye 
 
 na march ? 
 Stand to your arms, my lads. 
 Fight in good order ; 
 Front about, ye musketeers all. 
 Till ye come to the English border. 
 Stand till't, and fight like men. 
 True gospel to maintain ; 
 The Parliament['s] blyth to see us a 
 
 coming. 
 
 When to the kirk we come, 
 We'll purge it ilka room, 
 Frae Popish relicks, and a' sic inno- 
 vations, 
 That all the warld may see, 
 There's nane i' the right, but we 
 Of the auld Scottish nation. 
 Jenny shall wear the hood, 
 Jocky the sark of God ;
 
 CELEBRATED SONOS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 25 
 
 And the kist fou of whistles, 
 That make sic a cleiro, 
 Our pipers braw 
 Shall hae them a' 
 Whatte'er come on it. 
 Busk up your plaids, my lads, 
 Cock up your bonnets. 
 March, march, &c. 
 
 THE AULD WIFE AYONT THE 
 FIRE. 
 
 TEA TABLE MISCELLANY. 
 
 There was a wife wonn'd in a glen, 
 And she had dochters nine or ten, 
 That sought the house baith butt and 
 ben 
 To find their mam a snishing. 
 The auld wife ayont the fire, 
 The auld wife aniest the fire. 
 The auld wife aboon the fire, 
 She died for lack of snishing. 
 
 Her mill into some hole had fawn, 
 What recks, quoth she, let it be gawn. 
 For I maun ha'e a young gudeman, 
 Shall furnish me wi' snishing. 
 The auld wife, &c. 
 
 Her eldest dochter said right bauld, 
 Fy, mother, mind that now ye're auld, 
 And if you wi' a younker wald. 
 He'll waste away your snishing. 
 The auld wife, &c. 
 
 The youngest dochter ga'e a shout, 
 O mother dear ! your teeth's a' out, 
 Besides half blind, ye ha'e the gout, 
 Your mill can baud nae snishing. 
 The auld wife, &c. 
 
 Ye lie, ye limmers, cries auld mump, 
 For I hae baith a tooth and stump. 
 And will nae langer live in dump. 
 By wanting of my snishing. 
 The auld wife, &c. 
 
 Thole ye, says Peg, that pauky slut. 
 Mother, if ye can crack a nut. 
 Then we will a' consent to it, 
 
 That ye shall have a snishing. 
 The auld wife, &c. 
 
 The auld ane did agree to that, 
 And they a pistol-bullet gat : 
 She powerfully began to crack, 
 To win hersel' a snishing. 
 The auld wife, &c. 
 
 Braw sport it was to see her chow't, 
 And 'tween her gums sae squeeze and 
 
 row't, 
 While frae her jaws the slaver flow'd, 
 And aye she cursed poor stumpy. 
 The auld wife, &c. 
 
 At last she ga'e a desperate squeeze, 
 Which brak the lang tooth by the 
 
 neeze, 
 And syne poor stumpy was at ease, 
 But she tint hopes of snishing. 
 The auld wife, &c. 
 
 She of the task began to tire,_ 
 And frae her dochters did retire. 
 Syne lean'd her down ayont the fire. 
 And died for lack o' snishing. 
 The auld wife, &c. 
 
 Ye auld wives, notice weel this truth, 
 
 As soon as ye're past mark o' mouth. 
 
 Ne'er do what's only fit for youth. 
 
 And leave aff thoughts o' snishing. 
 
 Else, like this wife ayont the fire, 
 
 Your bairns against you will 
 
 conspire ; 
 Nor will you get, unless you hire, 
 A young man with your 
 snishing. 
 
 THE BROOM OF THE 
 COWDENKNOWS. 
 
 TEA TABLE MISCELLANY. 
 
 The air of this song can be traced back 
 as far as the year 1548, but the set of words 
 which then belonged to it have been lost, 
 with the exception of the chorus, which 
 ran thus :
 
 26 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 "O, the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom, 
 The broom of the Cowdenknows, 
 I wish I were at hame again, 
 Milking my daddy's ewes." 
 
 Gay, in his " Beggars' Opera," which 
 was produced in 1728, adopted the same 
 air for his song beginning, "The miser 
 thus a shilling sees." One of the songs 
 mentioned in the " Complaynt of Scot- 
 land," published in 154S, is the " Brume, 
 Brume on Hil," of which Mr. Ritson 
 quotes the following lines, taken from a 
 very old authority : 
 
 "Brome, brome on hil, 
 The gentil brome on hil, hil, 
 Brome, brome on hiue hil, 
 The gentil brome on hiue hil. 
 The brome stands on hiue hil." 
 
 The present set of words to the air, how- 
 ever, are very beautiful, and are certainly 
 destined to hold a permanent place among 
 the finest of our old Scottish songs. Many of 
 the verses breathe the true spirit of poetry, 
 while all of them are overflowing with 
 love and aflfection. The Cowdenknows 
 are two small hills situated in Lauderdale, 
 Berwickshire. They are now under cul- 
 tivation. 
 
 How blythe ilk morn was I to see 
 The swain come o'er the hill ! 
 
 He skipt the burn, and flew to me, 
 I met him wi' good will. 
 
 O, the broom, the bonnie, bonnie 
 broom, 
 The broom of the Cowden- 
 knows ! 
 I wish I were wi' my dear 
 swain, 
 Wi' his pipe, and my ewes. 
 
 I neither wanted ewe nor lamb, 
 While his flocks near me lay; 
 
 He gather'd in my sheep at night. 
 And cheer'd me a' the day. 
 
 O, the broom, &c. 
 
 He tuned his pipe and reed sae sweet, 
 The birds stood list'ning by; 
 
 Ev'n the dull cattle stood and gazed, 
 Charm'd wi' his melody. 
 
 O, the broom, &c. 
 
 While thus we spent our time by turns, 
 Betwixt our flocks and play, 
 
 I envied not the fairest dame. 
 Though e'er so rich and gay. 
 O, the broom, &c. 
 
 Hard fate ! that I should banish'd be, 
 Gang heavily, and mourn. 
 
 Because I loved the kindest swain 
 That ever yet was born. 
 
 O, the broom, &c. 
 
 He did oblige me every hour ; 
 
 Could I but faithfu' be ? 
 He staw my heart ; could I refuse 
 
 Whate'er he ask'd of me ? 
 O, the broom, &c. 
 
 My doggie, and my little kit. 
 That held my wee soup whey. 
 
 My plaidie, brooch, and crooked stick, 
 Maun now lie useless by. 
 O, the broom, &c. 
 
 Adieu ! ye Cowdenknows, adieu ! 
 
 Farewell a' pleasures there ! 
 Ye gods ! restore me to my swain. 
 
 It's a' I crave or care. 
 O, the broom, &c. 
 
 THE BROOM OF THE 
 COWDENKNOWS. 
 
 SECOND SET. 
 
 The following verses on the same sub- 
 ject also appeared in the Tta Table Mis- 
 cellany. They are by Robert Crawford, 
 the author of " The Bush aboon Traquair " 
 We insert his verses here, as the two sets 
 have generally been given together in all 
 the collections of Scottish songs which 
 have appeared subsequent to the publica- 
 tion of the Tea Table Miscellany. 
 
 When summer comes, the swains on 
 Tweed 
 
 Sing their successful loves, 
 Around the ewes and lambkins feed, 
 
 And music fills the groves.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 27 
 
 But my loved song is then the broom, 
 
 So fair on Cowdenknows; 
 For sure, so sweet, so soft a bloom, 
 
 Elsewhere there never grows. 
 
 There Colin tuned his oaten reed, 
 And won my yielding heart; 
 
 No shepherd e'er that dwelt on Tweed 
 Could play with half such art. 
 
 He sung of Tay, of Forth, and Clyde, 
 The hills and dales all round. 
 
 Of Leader-haughs, and Leader-side, 
 Oh! how I bless'd the sound. 
 
 Yet more delightful is the broom 
 
 So fair on Cowdenknows; 
 For sure, so fresh, so bright a bloom, 
 
 Elsewhere there never grows. 
 
 Not Tiviot braes, so green and gay. 
 May with this broom compare; 
 
 Not Yarrow banks in flowery May, 
 Nor the bush aboon Traquair. 
 
 More pleasing far are Cowdenknows, 
 My peaceful happy home. 
 
 Where I was wont to milk my ewes, 
 At e'en amang the broom. 
 
 Ye powers that haunt the woods and 
 plains 
 
 Where Tweed and Tiviot flows. 
 Convey me to the best of swains. 
 
 And my loved Cowdenknows. 
 
 DUMBARTON'S DRUMS. 
 
 TEA TABLE MISCELLANY. 
 
 " ' Dumbarton's Drums ' were the drums 
 belonging to a British regiment, which 
 took its name from the officer who first 
 commanded it, to wit, the Earl of Dum- 
 barton. This nobleman was a cadet of the 
 family of Douglas, and being commander 
 of the Royal Forces in Scotland, during the 
 reigns of Charles II and James II, he bears 
 a distinguished figure in the dark and 
 blood-stained history of Scotland during 
 that period." — Chambers. 
 
 Dumbarton's drums beat bonnie, O, 
 When they mind me of my dear 
 Johnnie, O; 
 How happie am I 
 When my soldier is by. 
 While he kisses and blesses his Annie, 
 
 O! 
 'Tis a soldier alone can delight me, O, 
 For his graceful looks do invite me, O; 
 While guarded in his arms, 
 I'll fear no war's alarms, 
 Neither danger nor death shall e'er 
 fright me, O. 
 
 My love is a handsome laddie, O, 
 
 Genteel, but ne'er foppish nor gaudy, 
 O. 
 Though commissions are dear, 
 Yet I'll buy him one this year, 
 
 For he'll serve no longer a cadie, O. 
 
 A soldier has honor and bravery, O; 
 
 Unacquainted with rogues and their 
 knavery, O, 
 He minds no other thing 
 But the ladies or the king; 
 
 For every other care is but slavery, O, 
 
 Then I'll be the captain's lady, O, 
 Farewell all my friends and my daddy, 
 O; 
 I'll wait no more at home. 
 But I'll follow with the drum. 
 And whene'er that beats I'll be ready, 
 
 O. 
 Dumbarton's drums sound bonnie, O, 
 They are sprightly like my dear 
 Johnnie, O; 
 How happy shall I be 
 When on my soldier's knee. 
 And he kisses and blesses his Annie, O. 
 
 MY JO JANET. 
 
 TEA TABLE MISCELLANY. 
 
 A very favorite old song, and evidently 
 written by some one who possessed a well 
 educated mind. The language is choice 
 and the versification faultless. Doctor
 
 88 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Chambers sa)'s that as "expressive of Scot- 
 tish economy and moral philosophy — the 
 saving of all avoidable expenses, and the 
 taking down of youthful vanity and_ ex- 
 travagance, the piece is beyond all praise." 
 In the Skene MS. (1630), the air is called 
 " Long, or ony old Man." 
 
 Sweet sir, for your courtesie, 
 
 When ye come by the Bass, then, 
 For the love ye bear to me, 
 
 Buy me a keekin' glass, then. 
 Keek info the draw-well, 
 
 Janet, Janet; 
 There ye'll see your bonnie sell, 
 My jo Janet. 
 
 Keekin' in the draw-well clear, 
 
 What if I fa' in, sir ? 
 Then gi' my kin' will say and swear 
 
 I droun'd mysell for sin, sir. 
 Haud the better by the brae, 
 
 Janet, Janet; 
 Haud the better by the brae, 
 My jo Janet. 
 
 Gude sir, for your courtesie, 
 
 Comin' through Aberdeen, then, 
 For the love ye bear to me, 
 
 Buy me a pair o' sheen, then. 
 Clout the auld — the new are dear, 
 
 Janet, Janet; 
 Ae pair may gain ye hauf a year, 
 My jo Janet. 
 
 But, what if, dancin' on the green, 
 
 And skippin' like a maukin. 
 They should see my clouted sheen. 
 
 Of me they will be taukin. 
 Dance aye laigh, and late at e'en, 
 
 Janet, Janet; 
 Syne a' their fauts will no be seen, 
 My jo Janet, 
 
 Kind sir, for your courtesie, 
 When ye gae to the cross, then, 
 
 For the love ye bear to me, 
 Buy me a pacin' horse, then. 
 
 Pace upon your spinnin' wheel, 
 Janet, Janet; 
 
 Pace upon your spinnin' wheel. 
 My jo Janet. 
 
 My spinnin' wheel is auld and stiff, 
 
 The rock o't winna stand, sir; 
 To keep the temper-pin in tiff 
 
 Employs richt aft my hand, sir. 
 Mak' the best o't that ye can, 
 
 Janet, Janet; 
 But like it never wale a man, 
 My jo Janet. 
 
 ANDRO AND HIS CUTTY GUN. 
 
 TEA TABLE MISCELLANY. 
 
 " Thisbljnhsome song, so full of Scottish 
 humour and convivial merriment, is an in- 
 timate favorite at bridal trystes and house 
 heatings. It contains a spirited picture of 
 a country alehouse, touched off with all 
 the lightsome gayety so peculiar to the 
 rural muse of Scotland. . . 'Andro 
 and his Cutty Gun ' is the work of a mas- 
 ter." — Burns. 
 
 Blythe, blythe, and merry was she, 
 Blythe was she butt and ben; 
 
 And weel she loo'd a Hawick gill. 
 And leugh to see a tappit hen. 
 
 She took me in, and set me down. 
 And hecht to keep me lawing-free; 
 
 But, cunning carline that she was, 
 She gart me birl my bawbee. 
 
 We loo'd the liquor well enough; 
 
 But waes my heart my cash was 
 done. 
 Before that I had quench'dmy drouth. 
 
 And laith I was to pawn my shoon. 
 
 When we had three times toom'd our 
 stoup. 
 
 And the neist chappin new begun, 
 Wha started in, to heeze our hope. 
 
 But Andro wi' his cutty gun. 
 
 The carline brought her kebbuck ben. 
 With girdle-cakes weel toasted 
 brown.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 29 
 
 Weel does the canny kimmer ken 
 They gar the swats gae glibber down 
 
 We ca'd the bicker aft about; 
 
 Till dawning we ne'er jeed our bum, 
 And aye the cleanest drinker out, 
 
 Was Andro wi' his cutty gun. 
 
 He did like ony mavis sing, 
 
 And as I in his oxter sat, 
 He ca'd me aye his bonny thing. 
 
 And mony a sappy kiss I gat. 
 
 I ha'e been east, I ha'e been west, 
 I ha'e been far ayont the sun; 
 
 But the blythest lad that e'er I saw. 
 Was Andro wi' his cutty gun. 
 
 AULD ROB MORRIS. 
 
 TEA TABLE MISCELLANY. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 AuLD Rob Morris that wons in yon 
 
 glen, 
 He's the king o' guid fallows, and wale 
 
 o' auld men; 
 He has fourscore o' black sheep, and 
 
 fourscore too; 
 Auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun 
 
 lo'e. 
 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 Haud your tongue, mother, and let 
 
 that abee; 
 For his eild and my eild can never 
 
 agree: 
 They'll never agree, and that will be 
 
 seen; 
 For he is fourscore, and I'm but 
 
 fifteen. 
 
 MOTHER, 
 
 Haud your tongue, dochter, and lay 
 
 by your pride, 
 For he is the bridegroom, and ye'se be 
 
 the bride; 
 
 He shall lie by your side, and kiss you 
 
 too; 
 Auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun 
 
 lo'e. 
 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 Auld Rob Morris, I ken him fu' weel, 
 His back sticks out like ony peat-creel ; 
 He's out-shinn'd, in-kneed, and ringle- 
 
 eyed too; 
 Auld Rob Morris is the man I'll ne'er 
 
 lo'e. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Though auld Rob Morris be an elder- 
 ly man, 
 
 Yet his auld brass will buy you a new 
 pan; 
 
 Then, dochter, ye should na be sae 
 ill to shoe, 
 
 For auld Rob Morris is the man ye 
 maun lo'e. 
 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 But auld Rob Morris I ne'er will ha'e, 
 His back is so stiff, and his beard is 
 
 grown gray; 
 I had rather die than live wi' him a 
 
 year; 
 Sae mair o' Rob Morris I never will 
 
 hear. 
 
 JOHN HAY'S BONNIE LASSIE. 
 
 TEA TABLE MISCELLANY. 
 
 Attributed to Allan Ramsay, and said to 
 have been written in lienor of one of the 
 daughters of the first Marquis of Tweedale. 
 
 By smooth-winding Tay a swain was 
 reclining, 
 
 Aft cried he. Oh, hey! maun I still 
 live pining 
 
 Mysel' thus away, and daurna dis- 
 cover 
 
 To my bonnie Hay, that I am her 
 lover ?
 
 80 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Nae mair it will hide; the flame waxes 
 
 stranger; 
 If she's not my bride, my days are nae 
 
 langer: 
 Then I'll take a heart, and try at a 
 
 venture; 
 May be, ere we part, my vows may 
 
 content her. 
 
 She's fresh as the spring, and sweet 
 
 as Aurora, 
 When birds mount and sing, bidding 
 
 day a good morrow: 
 The sward of the mead, enamell'd 
 
 with daisies, 
 Looks wither'd and dead, when 
 
 twined of her graces. 
 
 But if she appear where verdure in- 
 vite her, 
 
 The fountains run clear, and the 
 flowers smell the sweeter. 
 
 'Tis heaven to be by, when her wit is 
 a-flowing; 
 
 Her smiles and bright eyes set my 
 spirits a-glowing. 
 
 The mair that I gaze, the deeper I'm 
 
 wounded; 
 Struck dumb with amaze my mind is 
 
 confounded: 
 I'm all in a fire, dear maid, to caress 
 
 ye; 
 For a' my desires is John Hay's 
 
 bonnie lassie. 
 
 KATH'RINE OGIE. 
 
 TEA TABLE MISCELLANY. 
 
 Can be traced as far back as the time of 
 Charles II, before whom it is said to have 
 been frequently sung by one John Abell 
 of the Chapel Royal. Burns thought the 
 words unworthy of the air and composed 
 his " Highland Mary" to it. 
 
 As walking forth to view the plain, 
 Upon a morning early, 
 
 While May's sweet scent did cheer 
 my brain, 
 
 From flowers which grew so rarely, 
 I chanc'd to meet a pretty maid, 
 
 She shin'd tho' it was foggie: 
 I ask'd her name: Kind sir, she said^ 
 
 My name is Kath'rine Ogie. 
 
 I stood a while and did admire, 
 
 To see a nymph so stately: 
 So brisk an air there did appear 
 
 In a co'antry maid so neatly: 
 Such nat'ral sweetness she display'd, 
 
 Like a lily in a bogie; 
 Diana's self was ne'er array'd 
 
 Like this same Kath'rine Ogie. 
 
 Thou flow'r of females, beauty's queen, 
 
 Who sees thee sure must prize thee; 
 Though thou art drest in robes but 
 mean, 
 
 Yet these cannot disguise thee; 
 Thy mind sure, as thine eyes do look, 
 
 Above each clownish rogie; 
 Thou'rt match for laird, or lord, or 
 duke. 
 
 My bonnie Kath'rine Ogie. 
 
 O! if I were some shepherd swain, 
 
 To feed my flock beside thee ; 
 And gang with thee alang the plain; 
 
 At buchtin to abide thee. 
 More rich and happy I could be 
 
 Wi' Kate, and crook, and dogie. 
 Than he that does his thousands see, 
 
 My winsome Kath'rine Ogie. 
 
 Then I'd despise th' imperial throne, 
 
 And statesmen's dang'rous stations, 
 I'd be no king, I'd wear no crown, 
 
 I'd smile at conqu'ring nations. 
 Might I caress, and still possess 
 
 This lass of whom I'm vogie, 
 For they're but toys, and still look less, 
 
 Compar'd with Kath'rine Ogie. 
 
 I fear for me is not decreed 
 So fair, so fine a creature, 
 Whose beauty rare makes her exceed
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 31 
 
 All other works of nature. 
 Clouds of despair surround my love, 
 
 That are both dark, and foggie; 
 Pity my case, ye Powers above! 
 
 I die for Kath'rine Ogie. 
 
 THE AULD GOODMAN. 
 
 TEA TABLE MISCELLANY, 
 
 Ramsay marks this song as an old one 
 in his day. The " Auld Goodman" means 
 the " first husband." 
 
 L-ATE in an evening forth I went, 
 
 A little before the sun gade down, 
 -And there I chanc'd by accident 
 
 To light on a battle new begun. 
 A man and his wife was fa'in' in a 
 strife, 
 
 I canna well tell ye how it began; 
 But aye she wail'd her wretched life, 
 
 And cry'd ever, Alake my auld 
 goodman ! 
 
 HE. 
 
 Thy auld goodman that thou tells of, 
 
 The country kens where he was 
 born, 
 Was but a silly poor vagabond, 
 
 And ilka ane leugh him to scorn; 
 For he did spend, and make an end 
 
 Of gear that his fore-fathers wan. 
 He gart the poor stand frae the door, 
 
 Sae tell nae mair of thy auld good- 
 man. 
 
 SHE. 
 
 My heart, alake, is liken to break, 
 
 When I think on my winsome John: 
 His blinkan eye, and gate sae free. 
 
 Was naething like thee, thou dosend 
 drone; 
 His rosie face, and flaxen hair, 
 
 And a skin as white as ony swan, 
 Was large and tall, and comely withall. 
 
 And thou'lt never be like my auld 
 goodman. 
 
 HE, 
 
 Why dost thou pleen? I thee main- 
 tain. 
 For meal and mawt thou disna want; 
 But thy wild bees I canna please, 
 Now when our gear 'gins to grow 
 scant. 
 Of household stuff thou hast enough, 
 Thou wants for neither pot nor pan; 
 Of siclike ware he left thee bare, 
 Sae tell nae mair of thy auld good- 
 man. 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Yes, I may tell, and fret mysell, 
 
 To think on these blythe days I had. 
 When he and I together lay 
 
 In arms into a well-made bed. 
 But now I sigh, and may be sad, 
 
 Thy courage is cauld, thy color wan, 
 Thou falds thy feet, and fa's asleep. 
 
 And thou'lt ne'er be like my auld 
 goodman. 
 
 Then coming was the night sae dark, 
 
 And gane was a' the light of day; 
 The carle was fear'd to miss his mark. 
 
 And therefore wad nae langer stay: 
 Then up he gat, and he ran his way, 
 
 I trowe the wife the day she wan. 
 And ay the o'erword of the fray 
 
 Was ever, Alake my auld goodman! 
 
 THE EWE-BUCHTS, MARION. 
 
 TEA TABLE MISCELLANY, 
 
 A very old song, with additions and 
 corrections by Ramsay. " I am not sure," 
 says Burns, "if this old and charming 
 air be of the South, as is commonly said, 
 or of the North of Scotland. There is a 
 song apparently as ancient as ' Ewe- 
 Bughts, Marion,' which sings to the same 
 tune, and is evidently of the North. It 
 begins thus : 
 
 'The Lord o' Gordon had three dochters, 
 
 Mary, Marget and Jean, 
 They wad na stay at bonnie Castle Gordon, 
 
 But awa to Aberdeen.' "
 
 83 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Will ye gae to the ewe-buchts, 
 Marion, 
 
 And wear in the sheep wi' me? 
 The sun shines sweet, my Marion, 
 
 But nae half so sweet as thee. 
 
 O, Marion's a bonnie lass; 
 
 And the blythe blink 's in her e'e; 
 And fain wad 1 marry Marion, 
 
 Gin Marion wad marry me. 
 
 There's gowd in your garters, Marion, 
 And silk on your white hause-bane; 
 
 Fu' fain wad I kiss my Marion, 
 At e'en, when I come hame. 
 
 There's braw lads in Earnslaw, 
 Marion, 
 
 Wha gape, and glower wi' their e'e; 
 At kirk when they see my Marion, 
 
 But nane o' them lo'es like me. 
 
 I've nine milk-ewes, my Marion, 
 A cow and a brawny quey; 
 
 I'll gi'e them a' to my Marion, 
 Just on her bridal-day. 
 
 And ye'se get a green sey apron. 
 And waistcoat o' London broun; 
 
 And wow but ye'se be vap'rin' 
 Whene'er ye gang to the toun, 
 
 I'm young and stout, my Marion; 
 
 Nane dances like me on the green: 
 And, gin ye forsake me, Marion, 
 
 I'll e'en gae draw up wi' Jean. 
 
 Sae put on your pearlins, Marion, 
 
 And kirtle o' cramasie; 
 And, as sune as my chin has nae hair 
 on, 
 
 I will come west, and see ye. 
 
 if he were going to be hanged, nothing 
 could sooth his mind so much by the way 
 as to hear ' Clout the Caldron.' " 
 
 Have ye any pots or pans, 
 
 Or any broken chandlers? 
 I am a tinker to my trade, 
 
 And newly come frae Flanders, 
 As scant of siller as of grace; 
 
 Disbanded, we've a bad run; 
 Gar tell the lady of the place, 
 
 I'm come to clout her caldron, 
 Fa, adrie, diddle, diddle, &c. 
 
 Madam, if you have wark for me, 
 
 I'll do't to your contentment; 
 And dinna care a single flie 
 
 For any man's resentment; 
 For, lady fair, though I appear 
 
 To every ane a tinker. 
 Yet to yoursell I'm bauld to tell, 
 
 I am a gentle jinker. 
 
 Love Jupiter into a swan 
 
 Turn'd for his loved Leda; 
 He like a bull ower meadows ran. 
 
 To carry off Europa. 
 Then may not I, as well as he, 
 
 To cheat your Argus blinker. 
 And win your love like mighty Jove, 
 
 Thus hide me in a tinker? 
 
 Sir, ye appear a cunning man;_ 
 
 But this fine plot you'll fail in; 
 For there is neither pot nor pan, 
 
 Of mine, you'll drive a nail in. 
 Then bind your budget on your back, 
 
 And nails up in your apron; 
 For I've a tinker under tack, 
 
 That's used to clout my ca'dron. 
 
 CLOUT THE CALDRON. 
 
 TEA TABLE MISCELLANY. 
 
 " A tradition is mentioned in the Bee," 
 says Burns, "that the second Bishop 
 Chisholm, of Dunblane, used to say that 
 
 O WALY, WALY UP THE BANK. 
 
 TEA TABLE MISCELLANY. 
 
 Supposed to refer to Lady Barbara Ers- 
 kine, who was married in 1670 to John, 
 second Marquis of Douglas, but "owing, 
 there can be little doubt, to his lordship's
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 33 
 
 unworthy conduct, the alliance was pro- 
 ductive of misery to the lady. She had 
 even to bewail that her own honor was 
 brought into question, chiefly, it would 
 appear, through the influence of a cham- 
 berlain over her husband's mind. At 
 length, a separation, with a suitable pro- 
 vision, left her in the worst kind of widow- 
 hood, after she had brought the Marquis 
 one son (subsequently first commander 
 of the Cameronian regiment, and who fell 
 at the battle of Steenkirk)." — Songs of Scot- 
 land prior to Burns. 
 
 WALY, waly up the bank, 
 And waly, waly down the brae. 
 
 And waly, waly yon burnside, 
 
 Where I and my love wont to gae. 
 
 1 lean'd my back unto an aik, 
 
 I thought it was a trusty tree, 
 But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, 
 Sae my true love did lightly me. 
 
 O waly, waly, but love be bonny 
 
 A little time, while it is new; 
 But when 'tis auld it waxeth cauld, 
 
 And fades away like the morning 
 dew. 
 O wherefore shou'd I busk my head ? 
 
 Or wherefore shou'd I kame my 
 hair ? 
 For my true love has me forsook, 
 
 And says he'll never love me mair. 
 
 Now Arthur Seat shall be my bed, 
 
 The sheets shall ne'er be fyl'd by 
 me: 
 Saint Anton's well shall be my drink. 
 
 Since my true love's forsaken me. 
 Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, 
 
 And shake the green leaves off the 
 tree? 
 O gentle death, when wilt thou come? 
 
 For of my life I am weary. 
 
 'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, 
 Nor blawing snaw's inclemency; 
 
 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, 
 But my love's heart grown cauld to 
 me. 
 
 When we came in by Glasgow town. 
 We were a comely sight to see; 
 
 My love was clad in the black velvet, 
 And I mysel' in cramasie. 
 
 But had I wist, before I kiss'd 
 
 That love had been sae ill to win, 
 I'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold, 
 
 And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin. 
 Oh, oh, if my young babe were born, 
 
 And set upon the nurse's knee, 
 And I mysel' were dead and gane. 
 
 For a maid again I never shall be. 
 
 TODLIN' HAME. 
 
 TEA TABLE MISCELLANY. 
 
 Another very old song, " perhaps," says 
 Burns, " the first bottle song that ever was 
 composed." 
 
 When I ha'e a saxpence under my 
 
 thoom, 
 I Then I get credit in ilka toun; 
 But aye when I'm puir they bid me 
 1 gang by: 
 
 Oh, poverty parts gude company! 
 Todlin' hame, todlin' hame, 
 Cauldna my loove come todlin' 
 hame. 
 
 Fair fa' the gudewife, and send her 
 
 gude sale! 
 She gi'es us white bannocks to relish 
 
 her ale; 
 Syne, if that her tippeny chance to 
 
 be sma', 
 We tak' a gude scour o't, and ca't 
 
 awa'. 
 Todlin' hame, Todlin' hame. 
 As round as a neep come todlin' 
 
 hame. 
 
 My kimmer and I lay down to sleep, 
 Wi' twa pint stoups at our bed's feet; 
 And aye when we waken'd we drank 
 them dry : —
 
 84 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 What think ye o' my wee kimmer and 
 
 I? 
 Todlin' butt, and todlin' ben, 
 Sae round as my loove comes tod- 
 
 hn' hame. 
 
 Leeze me on liquor, my todlin' dow, 
 Ye're aye sae gude-humour'd when 
 
 weetin' your mou'! 
 When sober sae sour, ye'll fecht wi' a 
 
 flee. 
 That 'tis a blythe nicht to the bairns 
 
 and me. 
 When todlin' hame, todlin' hame. 
 When, round as a neep, ye come 
 
 todlin' hame. 
 
 HAUD AWA FRAE ME, 
 DONALD. 
 
 TEA TABLE MISCELLANY. 
 
 Ramsay calls this simply "an old song." 
 The air, which is very popular in Scotland 
 even to the present day, was published in 
 Flay ford's Danchig Master, 1657. 
 
 O, COME awa, come awa, 
 
 Come awa wi' me, Jenny ! 
 Sic frowns I canna bear frae ane, 
 
 Whase smiles ance ravish'd me, 
 Jenny. 
 If you'll be kind, you'll never find 
 
 That ought shall alter me, Jenny; 
 For you're the mistress of my mind, 
 
 What'er you think of me, Jenny! 
 
 First when your sweets enslaved my 
 heart, 
 
 You seem'd to favor me, Jenny; 
 But now, alas ! you act a part 
 
 That speaks inconstancie, Jenny. 
 Inconstancie is sic of vice, 
 
 It's not befitting thee, Jenny; 
 It suits not with your virtue nxe, 
 
 To carry sae to me, Jenny. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 O, haud awa, bide awa. 
 
 Hand awa frae me, Donald! 
 Your heart is made ower large for ane- 
 
 It is not meet for me, Donald. 
 Some fickle mistress you may find 
 
 Will jilt as fast as thee, Donald ; 
 To ilka swain she will prove kind, 
 
 And nae less kind to thee, Donald. 
 
 But I've a heart that's naething such; 
 
 'Tis fiU'd wi' honestie, Donald. 
 I'll ne'er love mony; I'll love much; 
 
 I hate all levitie, Donald. 
 Therefore nae mair, wi' art, pretend 
 
 Your heart is chain'd to mine, 
 Donald; 
 For words of falsehood ill defend 
 
 A roving love like thine, Donald. 
 
 First when you courted, I must own, 
 
 I frankly favor'd you, Donald; 
 Apparent worth and fair renown 
 
 Made me believe you true, Donald: 
 Ilk virtue then seem'd to adorn 
 
 The man esteem'd by me,_Donald; 
 But now the mask's faun aff, I scorn 
 
 To ware a thocht on thee, Donald, 
 
 And now for ever haud awa, 
 
 Haud awa frae me, Donald! 
 Sae, seek a heart that's like your ain. 
 
 And come nae mair to me, Donald: 
 For I'll reserve mysell for ane, 
 
 For ane that's liker me, Donald. 
 If sic a ane I canna find, 
 
 I'll ne'er lo'e man, nor thee, Donald. 
 
 DONALD. 
 
 Then I'm the man, and fausc report 
 Has only tauld a lie, Jenny; 
 
 To try thy truth, and make us sport, 
 The tale was raised by me, Jenny. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 When this ye prove, and still can love, 
 Then come awa to me, Donald! 
 
 I'm weel content ne'er to repent 
 That I hae smiled on thee, Donald!
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 35 
 
 TARRY WOO. 
 
 TEA TABLE MISCELLANY. 
 
 This was one of Sir Walter Scott's fav- 
 orite songs. " A very pretty song," says 
 Burns, " but I fancy that the first half 
 stanza, as well as the tune itself, are much 
 older than the rest of the words." 
 
 Tarry woo, tarry woo, 
 
 Tarry woo is ill to spin; 
 Card it weil, card it weil, 
 
 Card it weil, ere ye begin. 
 When it's cardit, row'd, and spun, 
 Then the work is haflins done; 
 But, when woven, dress'd, and clean, 
 It may be cleadin' for a queen. 
 
 Sing my bonnie harmless sheep. 
 That feed upon the mountains steep, 
 Bleating sweetly, as ye go 
 Through the winter's frost and snow. 
 Hart, and hynd, and fallow-deer. 
 No by half sae useful are: 
 Frae kings, to him that bauds the plou', 
 All are obliged to tarry woo. 
 
 Up, ye shepherds, dance and skip; 
 Ower the hills and valleys trip; 
 Sing up the praise of tarry woo; 
 Sing the flocks that bear it too; 
 Harmless creatures, without blame, 
 That dead the back, and cram the 
 
 wame; 
 Keep us warm and hearty fou — 
 Leeze me on the tarry woo. 
 
 How happy is a shepherd's life, 
 Far frae courts and free of strife! 
 While the gimmers bleat and bae. 
 And the lambkins answer mae; 
 No such music to his ear! 
 Of thief or fox he has no fear: 
 Sturdy kent, and collie true, 
 Weil defend the tarry avoo. 
 
 He lives content, and envies none: 
 Not even a monarch on his throne. 
 Though he the royal sceptre sways. 
 
 Has such pleasant holidays. 
 Who'd be king, can only tell, 
 When a shepherd sings sae well? 
 Sings sae well, and pays his due 
 With honest heart and tarry woo. 
 
 THE BUSH ABOON TRA- 
 QUAIR. 
 
 ROBERT CRAWFORD. 
 
 " The 'Bush aboon Traquair,' " says Doc- 
 tor Robert Chambers, "was a small grove 
 of birches that formerly adorned the west 
 bank of the Quair water, in Peeblesshire, 
 about a mile from Traquair House, the 
 seat of the Earl of Traquair. But only a 
 few spectral-lookine: remains now (1838) 
 denote the spot so long celebrated in the 
 popular poetry of Scotland. Leafless even 
 in summer, and scarcely to be observed 
 upon the bleak hill-side, they form a truly 
 melancholy memorial of what must have 
 once been an object of great pastoral 
 beauty, as well as the scene of many such 
 fond attachments as that delineated in the 
 following verses." Robert Crawford was 
 born in 1695, and as he spent the greater 
 portion of his life abroad verj' little is 
 known of his personal histor}^ He was 
 on friendly terms with Allan Ramsay and 
 contributed a number of pieces to the Tt^a 
 Table Miscellany. Many of his songs still 
 retain their popularity, " Down the burn, 
 Davie, love," "My dearie if thou dee," 
 " Tweedside," and the " Bush aboon Tra- 
 quair" being especially familiar to lovers 
 of Scottish song. His compositions are 
 all marked by a tone of tenderness, and 
 containmany pleasing passages of a homely 
 and pastoral description. He is said to 
 have died while on a voyage from France 
 to his native country, in the thirty-eighth 
 year of his age. 
 
 Hear me, ye nymphs, and ev'ry swain, 
 
 I'll tell how Peggy grieves me; 
 Though thus I languish and complain, 
 
 Alas! she ne'er believes me. 
 My vows and sighs, like silent air, 
 
 Unheeded, never move her; 
 At the bonnie bush aboon Traquair, 
 
 'Twas there I first did love her.
 
 C6 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 That day she smil'd and mad e me glad, 
 
 No maid seem'd ever kinder; 
 I thought myself the luckiest lad 
 
 So sweetly there to find her; 
 I tried to soothe my am'rous flame 
 
 In words that I thought tender; 
 If more there pass'd I'm not to blame — 
 
 I meant not to offend her. 
 
 Yet now she scornful flies the plain, 
 
 The fields we then frequented ; 
 If e'er we meet she shows disdain — 
 
 She looks as ne'er acquainted. 
 The bonnie bush bloom'd fair in May; 
 
 Its sweets I'll e'er remember; 
 But now her frowns make it decay ; 
 
 It fades as in December. 
 
 Ye rural pow'rs who hear my strains. 
 
 Why thus should Peggy grieve me? 
 Oh! make her partner in my pains; 
 
 Then let her smiles relieve me. 
 If not, my love will turn despair; 
 
 My passion no more tender; 
 I'll leave the bush abooii Traquair; 
 
 To lonely wilds I'll wander. 
 
 DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE. 
 
 ROBERT CRAWFORD. 
 
 Was first printed in the Tea Table Mis- 
 cellany. The third stanza is given as 
 altered by Burns. 
 
 And Mary was the bonniest lass, 
 
 Just meet to be a bride. 
 Her cheeks were rosie, red and white; 
 
 Her een were bonnie blue ; 
 Her looks were like Aurora bright, 
 
 Her lips like dropping dew. 
 
 As down the burn they took their way, 
 
 And through the flow'ry dale ; 
 His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 
 
 And love was aye the tale. 
 With, Mary, when shall we return, 
 
 Sic pleasure to renew? 
 Quoth Mary, Love, I like the burn. 
 
 And aye will follow you. 
 
 When trees did bud, and fields were 
 green, 
 
 And broom bloom'd fair to see; 
 When Mary was complete fifteen. 
 
 And love laugh'd in her e'e; 
 Blythe Davie's blinks her heart did 
 move 
 
 To speak her mind thus free; 
 Gang down the burn, Davie, love, 
 
 And I will follow thee. 
 
 Now Davie did each lad surpass 
 That dwelt on this burnside; 
 
 MY DEARIE, IF THOU DEE. 
 
 ROBERT CRAWFORD. 
 
 ' ' My dearie an' thou dee " is the title of 
 an old song, the words of which have 
 been lost. The present song was con- 
 tributed by Crawford to the Tea Table 
 Miscellany. 
 
 Love never more shall give me pain, 
 
 My fancy's fix'd on thee; 
 Nor ever maid my heart shall gain. 
 
 My Peggie, if thou dee. 
 Thy beauties did such pleasure give, 
 
 Thy love's so true to me; 
 Without thee I shall never live, 
 
 My dearie, if thou dee. 
 
 If faith shall tear thee from my breast, 
 
 How shall I lonely stray! 
 In dreary dreams the night I'll waste, 
 
 In sighs the silent day, 
 I ne'er can so much virtue find, 
 
 Nor such perfection see: 
 Then I'll renounce all womankind, 
 
 My Peggie, after thee. 
 
 No new-blown beauty fires my heart, 
 With Cupid's raving rage; 
 
 But thine, which can such sweets 
 impart, 
 Must all the world engage.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 87 
 
 'Twas this that like the morning sun, 
 
 Gave joy and life to me; 
 And, when its destin'd day is done, 
 
 With Peggie let me dee. 
 
 Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 
 
 And in such pleasures share, 
 Ye who its faithful flames approve, 
 
 With pity view the fair: 
 Restore my Peggie's wonted charms, 
 
 Those charms so dear to me; 
 Oh, never rob them from those arms — 
 
 I'm lost if Peggie dee. 
 
 TWEEDSIDE. 
 
 ROBERT CRAWFORD. 
 
 First appeared in the 7>a Ta^le Miscel- 
 lany and afterwards with the music in the 
 Orpheus Caledonius. The air is said to 
 have been composed by David Rizzio, but 
 we can find no authority for this assertion. 
 
 What beauties does Flora disclose ! 
 
 How sweet are her smiles upon 
 Tweed ! 
 Yet Mary's still sweeter than those, 
 
 Both nature and fancy exceed. 
 No daisy, nor sweet blushing rose, 
 
 Not all the gay flowers of the field, 
 Not Tweed, gliding gently through 
 those. 
 
 Such beauty and pleasure does yield. 
 
 The warblers are heard in the grove, 
 
 The linnet, the lark, and the thrush; 
 The blackbird, and sweet cooing dove, 
 
 With music enchant ev'ry bush. 
 Come, let us go forth to the mead; 
 
 Let us see how the primroses spring; 
 We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, 
 
 And love while the feather'd folk 
 sing. 
 
 How does my love pass the long day? 
 
 Does Mary not tend a few sheep? 
 Do they never carelessly stray 
 
 While happily she lies asleep? 
 
 Should Tweed's murmurs lull her to 
 rest. 
 
 Kind nature indulgin' my bliss, 
 To ease the soft pains of my breast, 
 
 I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. 
 
 'Tis she does the virgins excel; 
 
 No beauty with her may compare; 
 Love's graces around her do dwell; 
 She's fairest where thousands are 
 fair. 
 Say, charmer, where do thy flocks 
 stray? 
 Oh, tell me at morn where they 
 feed? 
 Shall I seek them on sweet-winding 
 Tay? 
 Or the pleasanter banks of the 
 Tweed? 
 
 AYE WAUKIN', O! 
 
 "This song," says Allan Cunningham, 
 "is the work of several hands, and though 
 some of it is very ancient, it has been so 
 often touched and re-touched, that it is 
 not easy to show where the old ends or the 
 new commences. Most of the chorus is 
 certainly old, and part of the second 
 verse." We have selected the following 
 verses for this work, as in our opinion 
 they form the best version of the song. 
 
 O I'm wet, wet, 
 
 O I'm wet and weary! 
 Yet fain wad I rise and rin. 
 
 If I thought I would meet my deary. 
 Ay wanking^ O! 
 
 IVauking aye, and weary, 
 Sleep I can get ?iane 
 
 For thinking o' ?}iy deary. 
 
 Simmer's a pleasant time, 
 
 Flowers of every color. 
 The water rins ower the heugh — 
 
 And I lang for my true lover 
 Ay wauking, d^c. 
 
 When I sleep I dream, 
 When I wauk I'm eerie; 
 
 788
 
 38 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Sleep I can get nane 
 
 For thinking o' my deary. 
 
 Ay wauking, &'c. 
 
 Lanely night comes on; 
 
 A' the lave are sleeping; 
 I think on my love, 
 
 And blear my een wi' greeting. 
 Ay wauking, d^c. 
 
 Feather-beds are soft, 
 
 Painted rooms are bonnie; 
 
 But a kiss o' my dear lover 
 Is better far than ony. 
 
 Ay wauking, &^c. 
 
 THE SPININ' O'T. 
 
 ALEXANDER ROSS. 
 
 Alexander Ross was parish schoolmas- 
 ter for nearly fifty years of Lochee in 
 Angus. He was born at Torphins in Ab- 
 erdeenshire in 1699, and was educated at 
 the Marischael College in Aberdeen, from 
 whence he graduated in 1718. Although 
 the author of many respectable poetical 
 pieces in early life, it was not until he at- 
 tained his seventieth year that he ventured 
 to publish his great pastoral poem, " Hel- 
 enore, or the Fortunate Shepherdess." 
 This work is well known to all readers of 
 Scottish literature. It has frequently been 
 printed, both at home and abroad, and can 
 readily be obtained in a variety of forms. 
 Ross died in 1784. 
 
 There was an auld wife had a wee 
 pickle tow, 
 And she wad gae try the spinnin' o't ; 
 She loutcd her doun, and her rock 
 took a-low. 
 And that was a bad beginnin' o't. 
 She sat and she grat, and she flat and 
 she flang, 
 And she threw and she blew, and 
 she wriggled and wrang, 
 And she chokit and boakit, and cried 
 like to mang, 
 Alas, for the dreary beginnin' o't. 
 
 I'v wanted a sark for these aught 
 years and ten, 
 And this was to be the beginnin' o't; 
 But I vow I shall want it for as lang 
 again. 
 Or ever I try the spinnin* o't. 
 For never since ever they ca'd as they 
 ca' me 
 Did sic a mishap and mischanter 
 befa' me; 
 But ye shall hae leave baith tae hang 
 and tae draw me. 
 The neist time I try the spinnin' o't. 
 
 I hae keepit my house now these 
 
 threescore years, 
 And aye I kept frae the spinnin' o't; 
 But how I was sarkit, foul fa' them 
 
 that speirs, 
 For it minds me upo' the beginnin' 
 
 o't. 
 But our women are now-a-days a' 
 
 grown sae braw. 
 That ilk ane maun hae a sark, and 
 
 some hae twa — 
 The warlds were better where ne'er 
 
 ane ava 
 Had a rag, but ane at the beginnin' o't. 
 
 In the days they ca' yore, gin auld 
 
 fouks had but won 
 To a surcoat, hough-syde, for the 
 
 winnin' o't. 
 Of coat-raips weel cut by the cast o' 
 
 their bum. 
 They never socht mair o' the 
 
 spinnin' o't. 
 A pair o* grey hoggers weel cluikit 
 
 benew. 
 Of nae ither lit but the hue of the ewe, 
 With a pair o' rough mullions to scuff 
 
 through the dew. 
 Was the fee they socht at the 
 
 beginnin' o't. 
 
 But we maun hae linen, and that maun 
 hae we, 
 And how get we that but by spinnin' 
 o't?
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 How can we hae face for to seek a 
 
 great fee, 
 Except we can help at the winnin' 
 
 o't? 
 And we maun hae pearlins, and 
 
 mabbies, and cocks, 
 And some other things that the ladies 
 
 ca' smocks; 
 And how get wc that, gin we tak' na 
 
 our rocks. 
 And pow what we can at the 
 
 spinnin' o't? 
 
 'Tis needless for us to mak' our re- 
 marks, 
 Frae our mither's miscookin' the 
 
 spinnin' o't, 
 She never kenn'd ocht o* the guid o' 
 
 the sarks, 
 Frae this aback to the beginnin* o't. 
 Twa-three ell o' plaiden was a' that 
 
 was socht 
 By our auld-warld bodies, and that 
 
 bude be bought; 
 For in ilka town siccan things wasna 
 
 wrocht — 
 Sae little they kenn'd o' the spinnin' 
 
 o't! 
 
 THE BRIDAL O'T. 
 
 ALEXANDER ROSS. 
 
 They say that Jockey'U speed weel 
 o't. 
 
 They say that Jockey'U speed weel 
 o't, 
 For he grows brawer ilka day; 
 
 I hope we'll ha'e a bridal o't: 
 For yesternight, nae farther gane. 
 
 The back-house at the side-wa' o't, 
 He there wi' Meg was mirdin' seen; 
 
 I hope we'll ha'e a bridal o't. 
 
 An we had but a bridal o't, 
 An we had but a bridal o't, 
 
 We'd leave the rest unto good luck. 
 Although there might betide ill o't, 
 
 For bridal days are merry times, 
 And young folk like the coming o't, 
 
 And scribblers they bang up their 
 rhymes. 
 And pipers play the bumming o't. 
 
 The lasses like a bridal o't. 
 
 The lasses like a bridal o't, 
 Their braws maun be in rank and file, 
 
 Although that they should guide ill 
 o't. 
 The boddom o' the kist is then 
 
 Turn'd up into the inmost o't; 
 The end that held the keeks sae clean, 
 
 Is now become the teemest o't. 
 
 The bangster at the threshing o't, 
 
 The bangster at the threshing o't. 
 Afore it comes is fidgin fain, 
 
 And ilka day's a clashing o't: 
 He'll sell his jerkin for a groat, 
 
 His Under for another o't. 
 And ere he want to clear his shot, 
 
 His sark'll pay the tother o't. 
 
 The pipers and the fiddlers o't, 
 
 The pipers and the fiddlers o't, 
 Can smell a bridal unco far, 
 
 And like to be the middlers o't: 
 Fan thick and three-fauld they con- 
 vene 
 
 Ilka ane envies the tother o't. 
 And wishes nane but him alane 
 
 May ever see another o't. 
 
 Fan they ha'e done wi' eating o't, 
 
 Fan they ha'e done wi' eating o't, 
 For dancing they gae to the green, 
 
 And aiblins to the beatin o't: 
 He dances best that dances fast. 
 
 And loups at ilka reesing o't. 
 And claps his hands frae hough to 
 hough, 
 
 And furls about the feezings o't.
 
 40 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 PINKIE HOUSE. 
 
 JOHN MITCHELL. 
 
 John Mitchell published two volumes 
 of poems in 1729. He was also the author 
 of a tragedy called " Fatal Extravagance " 
 and an opera called the " Highland Fair." 
 He was born in 1684 and died in 1738. 
 
 By Pinkie House oft let me walk, 
 
 And muse o'er Nelly's charms! 
 Her placid air, her winning talk, 
 
 Even envy's self disarms. 
 O let me, ever fond, behold 
 
 Those graces void of art — 
 Those cheerful smiles that sweetly 
 hold, 
 
 In willing chains, my heart! 
 
 O come, my love ! and bring anew 
 
 That gentle turn of mind; 
 That gracefulness of air in you 
 
 By nature's hand designed. 
 These, lovely as the blushing rose, 
 
 First lighted up this flame, 
 Which, like the sun, for ever glows 
 
 Within my breast the same. 
 
 Ye light coquettes! ye airy things! 
 
 How vain is all your art! 
 How seldom it a lover brings! 
 
 How rarely keeps a heart! 
 O gather from my Nelly's charms 
 
 That sweet, that graceful ease, 
 That blushing modesty that warms, 
 
 That native art to please! 
 
 Come then, my love! O, come along! 
 
 And feed me with thy charms; 
 Come, fair inspirer of my song ! 
 
 Oh, fill my longing arms ! 
 A flame like mine can never die, 
 
 While charms so bright as thine. 
 So heavenly fair, both please the eye. 
 
 And fill the soul divine! 
 
 THE FOUR MARIES. 
 
 Founded on the old ballad of " Mary 
 Hamilton." 
 
 Last nicht there were four Maries, 
 This nicht there'll be but three, 
 
 There was Mary Beaton, an' Mary 
 Seaton, 
 An' Mary Carmichael an' me. 
 
 Oh little did my mither think 
 When first she cradled me. 
 
 That I would dee sae far frae hame, 
 Or hang on a gallows-tree. 
 
 They'll tie a napkin round my e'en, 
 An' they'll no let me see to dee. 
 
 An' they'll ne'er let on to my father 
 an' mither. 
 But I'm awa' o'er the sea. 
 
 I wish I could lie in our ain kirkyard 
 Aneath the auld yew tree. 
 
 Where we pu'd the gowans, an' thread, 
 the rowans, 
 My brothers, my sisters, an' me. 
 
 But little care I for a nameless grave, 
 
 If I've hope for eternity. 
 So I'll pray that the faith o' the 
 deein' thief 
 May be granted thro' grace unto 
 me. 
 
 HEY BONNIE LASSIE, BLINK 
 OVER THE BURN. 
 
 "This popular song has hitherto ap- 
 peared in all the collections as an anony- 
 mous production, but wc have the author- 
 ity of a highly esteemed correspondent 
 for saying that it was written by the Rev. 
 James Honeyman, minister of Kinnefi, in 
 Kincardinshire, who died at an advanced 
 age, in or about the year 1779. Mr. Hon- 
 eyman wrote other poetical pieces, but 
 none of them came before the public ex- 
 cept this song." — Blackie's Book of Scottish 
 Song.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 41 
 
 Hie, bonnie lassie, blink over the 
 
 burn, 
 And if your sheep wander I'll gi'e 
 
 them a turn; 
 Sae happy as we'll be on yonder 
 
 green shade, 
 If ye'Il be my dawtie, and sit in my 
 
 plaid. 
 
 A yowe and twa lammies are a' my 
 
 haill stock, 
 But I'll sell a lammie out of my wee 
 
 flock, 
 To buy thee ahead-piece, sae bonnie 
 
 and braid, 
 If ye'll be my dawtie, and sit in my 
 
 plaid. 
 
 I ha'e a wee whittle made me a trout 
 
 creel, 
 And, oh, that wee whittle I likit it 
 
 weel; 
 But I'll gi'e't to my lassie, and mair 
 
 if I had, 
 If she'll be my dawtie, and sit in my 
 
 plaid. 
 
 I ha'e little silver, but ae hauf-year's 
 
 fee. 
 But if ye will tak' it, I'll gi'e't a' to 
 
 thee; 
 And then we'll be married, and lie in 
 
 ae bed, 
 If ye'll be my dawtie, and sit in my 
 
 plaid. 
 
 was first published in the Tea Table MiS' 
 cellany, and professes to have been written 
 " in imitation of the ancient manner." 
 
 THE BRAES OF YARROW. 
 
 WILLIAM HAMILTON, OF BANGOR. 
 
 The first four lines of this song belong 
 to an old ballad. William Hamilton, of 
 Bangor, is supposed to have been born in 
 1704. He became a warm supporter of 
 Prince Charles Edward Stuart, and after 
 the battle of Culloden, made his escape 
 to France. He returned to Scotland in 
 i749 and died in 1754. The present song 
 
 A. "BusK ye, busk ye, my bonnie, 
 
 bonnie bride ! 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome 
 
 marrow! 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie 
 
 bride, 
 And think nae mair of the braes 
 
 of Yarrow." 
 
 B. " Where get ye that bonnie, bonnie 
 
 bride? 
 Where get ye that winsome 
 marrow?" 
 
 A. " I gat her whare I daurna weel be 
 
 seen, 
 Puins; the birks on the braes of 
 Yarrow. 
 
 Weip not, weip not, my bonnie, 
 bonnie bride, 
 Weip not, weip not, my winsome 
 marrow! 
 Nor let thy heart lament to leive 
 Puing the birks on the braes of 
 Yarrow." 
 
 B. " Why does she weip, thy bonnie, 
 
 bonnie bride? • 
 
 Why does she weip thy winsome 
 marrow ? 
 And why daur ye nae mair weel be 
 seen, 
 Puing the birks on the braes of 
 Yarrow?" 
 
 A. " Lang maun she weip, lang maun 
 she weip, 
 Lang maun she weip wi' dule and 
 sorrow, 
 And lang maun I nae mair weel be 
 seen, 
 Puing the birks on the braes of 
 Yarrow.
 
 42 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 For she has tint her luver, luver 
 deir, 
 Her luver deir, the cause of 
 sorrow; 
 And I ha'e slain the comeliest 
 swain 
 That e'er pu'd birks on the braes 
 of Yarrow. 
 
 Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, 
 Yarrow, red? 
 Why on thy braes heard the voice 
 of sorrow? 
 And why yon melancholious weids. 
 Hung on the bonnie birks of 
 Yarrow? 
 
 What's yonder floats on the rueful, 
 rueful flude? 
 What's yonder floats? — Oh, dule 
 and sorrow? 
 ■'Tis he the comely swain I slew 
 Upon the dulef u' braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Wash, oh wash his wounds, his 
 wounds in tears, 
 His wounds in tears o' dule and 
 sorrow; 
 And wrap his limbs in mourning 
 weids. 
 And lay him on the banks of 
 Yarrow! 
 
 Then build, then build, ye sisters, 
 sisters, sad, 
 Ye sisters sad, his tomb wi' sorrow; 
 And weip around in waeful wise. 
 His hapless fate on the braes of 
 Yarrow ! 
 
 Curse ye, curse ye, his useless use- 
 less shield. 
 The arm that wrocht the deed of 
 sorrow, 
 The fatal speir that pierced his 
 briest, 
 His comely briest on the braes 
 of Yarrow! 
 
 Did I not warn thee not to, not to 
 love. 
 And warn from fight? But, to 
 my sorrow. 
 Too rashly bold, a stronger arm 
 thou met'st. 
 Thou met'st, and fell on the 
 braes of Yarrow! 
 
 Sweit smells the birk; green grows, 
 
 green grows the grass; 
 
 Yellow on Yarrow's braes the 
 
 gowan; 
 
 Fair hangs the apple frae the rock; 
 
 Sweit the wave of Yarrow flowen! 
 
 Flows Yarrow sweit? as sweit, as 
 sweit flows Tweed; 
 As green its grass ; its gowan as 
 yellow ; 
 As sweit smells on its braes the 
 birk; 
 The apple from its rocks as 
 mellow! 
 
 Fair was thy love, fair, fair, indeed, 
 thy love! 
 In flowery bands thou didst him 
 fetter; 
 Though he was fair, and well be- 
 loved again. 
 Than me he never loved thee 
 better. 
 
 Busk ye, then, busk, my bonnie, 
 bonnie bride! 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome 
 marrow! 
 Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks 
 of Tweed, 
 And think nae mair on the braes 
 of Yarrow." 
 
 C. " How can I busk a bonnie, bonnie 
 bride? 
 How can I busk a winsome 
 marrow?
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 43 
 
 How can I lo'e him on the banks o' 
 Tweed, 
 That slew my love on the braes 
 of Yarrow? 
 
 Oh, Yarrow fields, may never, 
 never rain. 
 Nor dew thy tender blossoms 
 cover! 
 For there was basely slain my love, 
 My love, as he had not been a 
 lover. 
 
 The boy put on his robes, his robes 
 of green, 
 His purple vest — 'twas my ain 
 sewing; 
 Ah, wretched me! I little, little 
 kenned, 
 He was, in these, to meet his 
 ruin. 
 
 The boy took out his milk-white, 
 milk-white steed, 
 Unmindful of my dule and 
 sorrow: 
 But, ere the too-fa' of the nicht. 
 He lay a corpse on the banks of 
 Yarrow. 
 
 Much I rejoiced, thatwaefu',waefu' 
 day; 
 I sang, my voice the words re- 
 turning ; 
 But, lang ere nicht, the spear was 
 flown, 
 That slew my love, and left me 
 mourning. 
 
 What can my barbarous, barbarous 
 father do. 
 But with his cruel rage pursue 
 me; 
 My luver's blude is on thy spear — 
 How canst thou, barbarous man, 
 then, woo me? 
 
 My happy sisters may be, may be 
 proud. 
 
 With cruel and ungentle scoff- 
 ing— 
 May bid me seek, on Yarrow braes. 
 My luver nailed in his coffin. 
 
 My brother Douglas may upbraid. 
 And strive, with threat'ning 
 words, to muve me; 
 My luver's blude is on thy spear — 
 How canst thou ever bid me luve 
 thee? 
 
 Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed 
 of luve! 
 With bridal-sheets my body 
 cover! 
 Unbar, ye bridal-maids, the door! 
 Let in th' expected husband- 
 lover! 
 
 But who the expected husband, 
 husband is ? 
 His hands, methinks, are bathed 
 in slaughter! 
 Ah, me! what ghastly spectre's yon, 
 Comes, in his pale shroud, bleed- 
 ing, after ? 
 
 Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him 
 
 down ; 
 
 O lay his cold head on my pillow! 
 
 Take off, take off these bridal weids. 
 
 And crown my careful head 
 
 with willow. 
 
 Pale though thou art, yet best, yet 
 best beloved. 
 Oh, could my warmth to life re- 
 store thee! 
 Yet lie all night between my 
 briests, — 
 No youth lay ever there before 
 thee! 
 
 Pale, pale, indeed, oh lovely, lovely 
 youth, 
 Forgive, forgive so foul a 
 slaughter.
 
 44 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 And lie all night between my 
 briests, 
 No youth shall ever lie there 
 after! " 
 
 A. " Return, return, O mournful, 
 mournful bride! 
 Return and dry thy useless 
 sorrow! 
 Thy luver heids nocht of thy sighs; 
 He lies a corpse on the braes of 
 Yarrow " 
 
 And thou, proud Gallia, faithless 
 friend, 
 
 Whose ruin is not far, 
 Just Heaven, on thy devoted head, 
 
 Pour all the woes of war. 
 
 When thou thy slaughter'd little ones. 
 And ravish'd dames shall see, 
 
 Such help, such pity, may'st thou have, 
 As Scotland had from thee. 
 
 ON GALLIA'S SHORE. 
 
 WILLIAM HAMILTON OF BANGOR. 
 
 On Gallia's shore we sat and wept. 
 When Scotland we thought on, 
 
 Robbed of her bravest sons, and all 
 Her ancient spirit gone. 
 
 Revenge! the sons of Gallia said, 
 Revenge your native land; 
 
 Already your insulting foes 
 Crowd the Batavian strand. 
 
 How shall the sons of freedom e'er 
 For foreign conquest fight; 
 
 For power, how wield the sword un- 
 sheath 'd, 
 For liberty and right? 
 
 If thee, oh Scotland, I forget. 
 Even with my latest breath. 
 
 May foul dishonor stain my name, 
 And bring a coward's death. 
 
 May sad remorse of fancied guilt 
 
 My future days employ, 
 If all thy sacred rights are not 
 
 Above my chiefest joy. 
 
 Remember England's children. Lord, 
 Who on Drummossie day, 
 
 Deaf to the voice of kindred love, 
 Raze, raze it quite, did say. 
 
 ALLOA HOUSE. 
 
 REV. DR. A. WEBSTER. 
 
 The Reverend Doctor A.Webster was a 
 celebrated Edinburgh minister. He was 
 born nt Edinburgh in 1707 and died there 
 in 1784. 
 
 The spring time returns, and clothes 
 the green plains. 
 And Alloa shines more cheerful 
 and gay; 
 The lark tunes his throat, and the 
 neighboring swains, 
 Smg merrily around me wherever 
 I stray: 
 But Sandy nae mair returns to my 
 view; 
 Nae ^pring-time me cheers, nae 
 music can charm; 
 He's gane! and, I fear me, for ever: 
 adieu! 
 Adieu every pleasure this bosom 
 can warm! 
 
 O Alloa house! how much art thou 
 chang'd! 
 How silent, how dull to me is each 
 
 grove 
 
 Alane I here wander where ance we 
 both rang'd, 
 Alas! where to please me my Sandy 
 ance strove! 
 Here, Sandy, I heard the tales that 
 you tauld. 
 Here list'ned too fond whenever 
 you sung;
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 45 
 
 Am I grown less fair then, that you 
 are turn'd cauld? 
 Or, foolish, believ'd a false flatter- 
 ing tongue? 
 
 So spoke the fair maid, when sorrow's 
 keen pain, 
 And shame, her last fault'ring 
 accents supprest; 
 For fate, at that moment, brought 
 back her dear swain, 
 Who heard, and with rapture his 
 Nelly addrest: 
 My Nelly! my fair, I come, O my love! 
 Nae power shall thee tear again 
 from my arms, 
 And, Nelly! nae mair thy fond 
 shepherd reprove, 
 Who knows thy fair worth, and 
 adores a' thy charms. 
 
 She heard; and new joy shot thro' 
 
 her saft frame; 
 s And will you, my love! be true? she 
 
 replied: 
 And live I to meet my fond shepherd 
 
 the same? 
 Or dream I that Sandy will make 
 
 me his bride? 
 O Nelly! I live to find thee still kind: 
 Still true to thy swain, and lovely 
 
 as true: 
 Then adieu to a' sorrow; what soul is 
 
 so blind, 
 As not to live happy for ever with 
 
 you? 
 
 Alva, and to whom Doctor Webster was 
 eventually married. 
 
 OH, HOW COULD I VENTURE. 
 
 REV. DR. A. WEBSTER. 
 
 " There is a tradition that Doctor Webster 
 wrote this song in early life in consequence 
 of a lady of superior rank, whom he was 
 engaged to woo for another, condescending 
 to betray a passion for him." — Chambers. 
 
 The lady in question is said to have 
 been the daughter of Colonel Erskine, of 
 
 Oh, how could I venture to love one 
 
 like thee. 
 And you not despise a poor conquest 
 
 like me. 
 On lords, thy admirers, could look 
 
 wi' disdain, 
 And knew I was naething, yet pitied 
 
 my pain? 
 You said, while they teased you with 
 
 nonsense and dress, 
 When real the passion, the vanity's 
 
 less; 
 You saw through that silence which 
 
 others despise. 
 And, while beaux were a-talking, read 
 
 love in my eyes 
 
 Oh, how shall I fauld thee, and kiss 
 
 a' thy charms. 
 Till, fainting wi' pleasure, I die in 
 
 your arms; 
 Through all the wild transports of 
 
 ecstasy tost, 
 Till, sinking together, together we'er 
 
 lost! 
 Oh, where is the maid that like thee 
 
 ne'er can cloy. 
 Whose wit can enliven each dull 
 
 pause of joy; 
 And when the short raptures are all 
 
 at an end. 
 From beautiful mistress turn sensible 
 
 friend? 
 
 In vain do I praise thee, or strive to 
 
 reveal, 
 (Too nice for expression,) what only 
 
 we feel: 
 In a' that ye do, in each look and 
 
 each mien, 
 The graces in waiting adorn you 
 
 unseen. 
 When I see you, I love you; when 
 
 hearing, adore; 
 I wonder and think you a woman no 
 
 more:
 
 46 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Till, mad wi' admiring, I canna con- 
 tain, 
 
 And, kissing your lips, you turn woman 
 again. 
 
 With thee in my bosom how can I 
 
 despair? 
 I'll gaze on thy beauties, and look 
 
 awa' care; 
 I'll ask thy advice, when with troubles 
 
 opprest, 
 Which never displeases, but always is 
 
 best. 
 In all that I write I'll thy judgment 
 
 require; 
 Thy wit shall correct what thy charms 
 
 did inspire : 
 I'll kiss thee and press thee till youth 
 
 is all o'er, 
 And then live in friendship, when 
 
 passion's no more. 
 
 O LOGIE O' BUCHAN. 
 
 GEORGE HALKET. 
 
 This favorite song was first published 
 In Johnson's Museum and for many years 
 was ascribed to Lady Ann Barnard, author- 
 ess of " Auld Robin Gray." It has now, 
 however, been proven beyond any doubt 
 that it was the work of George Halket, a 
 schoolmaster at Rathen, in Aberdeen- 
 shire. Doctor Patrick Buchan said that 
 Halket composed the song in 1736, and 
 Alexander Whitelaw not only corroborates 
 this opinion, but also states, that " The 
 Logic mentioned is situated in Crimond, 
 a parish adjoining the one where Halket 
 resided, and the hero of the piece was a 
 James Robertson, gardener at the place of 
 Logic." Nothing is known now of 
 Halket's early life. He was a loyal 
 Jacobite, and on account of a pasquil which 
 he wrote on George the H, the Duke of 
 Cumberland offered a reward of one 
 hundred pounds for his apprehension. 
 The reward, however, tempting as it must 
 have been to many people at the time, 
 was never claimed. Halket is also known 
 to have written a number of Jacobite songs. 
 He died in 1756. 
 
 O LoGiE o' Buchan, O Logic the 
 
 laird, 
 They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, that 
 
 delved in the yard, 
 Wha play'd on the pipe, and the viol 
 
 sae sma'; 
 They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, the 
 flower o' them a'. 
 He said, Think na lang lassie, 
 
 tho' I gang awa'; 
 He said. Think na lang lassie, 
 
 tho' I gang awa'; 
 The simmer is come, and the 
 
 winter's awa'. 
 And I'll come and see thee in 
 spite o' them a'. 
 
 Tho' Sandy has owsen and siller, and 
 
 kye; 
 A house and a hadden, and a' thmgs 
 
 f orbye : 
 Yet I'd tak' mine ain lad, wi' his 
 
 staff in his hand, 
 Before I'd ha'e him, wi' the houses 
 
 and land. 
 He said. Think nae lang, &c. 
 
 My daddie looks sulky, my minnie 
 
 looks sour. 
 They frown upon Jamie because he 
 
 is poor: 
 But daddie and minnie altho' that 
 
 they be. 
 There's nane o' them a' like my 
 
 Jamie to me. 
 He said, Think nae lang, &c, 
 
 I sit on my creepie, I spin at my 
 
 wheel, 
 And think on my Jamie that lo'es me 
 
 sae weel; 
 He had but ae saxpence, hebrakit in 
 
 twa, 
 And gi'ed me the hauf o't when he 
 
 gade awa'. 
 Then haste ye back, Jamie, and 
 
 bide na awa',
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 47 
 
 Then haste ye back, Jamie, and 
 
 bide na awa', 
 The simmer is come, and the 
 
 winter's awa'. 
 And ye'll come and see me in 
 
 spite o' them a'. 
 
 JOHNNIE COPE. 
 
 ADAM SKERVING. 
 
 On the rising of the clans throughout 
 Scotland in 1745, in support of the cause 
 of Prince Charles, Sir John Cope, Com- 
 mander-in-Chief of the Royal forces there, 
 was directed to immediately assemble his 
 troops and march with all possible speed 
 against the rebels. He left Stirling for 
 Fort Augustus on August 24, but finding 
 that his march through the Highlands was 
 beset by dangers and delays, he decided 
 on making Inverness his headquarters, 
 and arrived there on the 29th of the same 
 month. From Inverness his troops em- 
 barked for Dunbar, and thence proceeded 
 to march on Edinburgh. Meanwhile 
 Prince Charles had entered Perth on the 
 3d September, and had been proclaimed 
 Regent. Pushing forward, he entered 
 Edinburgh on the i8th, and at the old 
 Cross was proclaimed King. The rival 
 forces met at Prestonpans on the morning 
 of the 2ist, and the easy victory which the 
 Highlanders gained over the Royal forces 
 placed Prince Charles for the time being 
 in full possession of Scotland. The dis- 
 graceful flight of Sir John Cope and his 
 dragoons is well known to every reader of 
 history. He was met at Berwick by Lord 
 M. Ker, who is reported to have remarked 
 that "he was the first General in Europe 
 who had brought the first tidings of his 
 own defeat." There are a number of 
 versions of this popular song in existence, 
 but the one here given is the original 
 version, and is certainly superior in every 
 respect to any of the others. It was 
 written by Adam Skirving, a farmer, at 
 Garleton in Haddingtonshire. He was 
 born in 1719, and is said to have been a 
 very athletic man, and distinguished for 
 his skill in all manly sports and exercises. 
 He died in 1803, and was interred in the 
 Athelstaneford church)'ard. 
 
 Cope sent a challenge frae Dunbar, 
 ** Come, Charlie, meet me an ye dare, 
 
 An' I'll teach you the art o' war. 
 If ye'll meet wi' me i' the mornin'." 
 Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye wauk- 
 
 in' yet? 
 Or are your drums a-beatin' yet? 
 If ye were waukin' I would wait 
 To gang to the coals i' the 
 mornin'. 
 
 When Charlie look'd the letter upon, 
 He drew his sword the scabbard from, 
 " Come, follow me, my merry, merry 
 
 men, 
 And we'll meet Johnnie Cope i' the 
 
 mornin'." 
 Hey, Johnnie Cope, &c. 
 
 Now, Johnnie, be as gude's your word, 
 Come, let us try baith fire an' sword, 
 An' dinna rin awa' like a frighted bird, 
 That's chased frae its nest i' the 
 mornin'. 
 Hey, Johnnie Cope, &c. 
 
 When Johnnie Cope he heard o' this, 
 He thought it wadna be amiss 
 To hae a horse in readiness 
 To flee awa' i' the mornin'. 
 Hey, Johnnie Cope, &c. 
 
 Fly now, Johnnie, get up an' rin; 
 The Highland bagpipes make a din; 
 It's best to sleep m a hale skin. 
 For 'twill be a bluidie mornin'. 
 Hey, Johnnie Cope, &c. 
 
 When Johnnie Cope to Dunbar came, 
 They speer'd at him, " Where's a' 
 
 your men?" 
 " The deil confound me gin I ken. 
 For I left them a' i' the mornin'." 
 Hey, Johnnie Cope, &c. 
 
 Now, Johnnie, troth, ye were na blate. 
 To come wi' the news o' your ain defeat 
 And leave your men in sic a strait. 
 So early in the mornin'. 
 
 Hey, Johnnie Cope, &c.
 
 48 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 " I' faith," quo' Johnnie, " I got a fleg, 
 Wi' their claymores and philabegs; 
 If I face them again deil break my legs ! 
 So I wish you a very gude mornin'." 
 Hey, Johnnie Cope, &c. 
 
 IN THE GARB OF OLD GAUL. 
 
 SIR H. ERSKINE, BART., M.P. 
 
 This famous song first appeared in T/ie 
 Lark (1765.) Sir H. Erskine, Bart, was 
 born about 1720. He was appointed com- 
 mander of tlie " Royal Scots " Regiment 
 in 1762 and died at York in 1765. The 
 air was composed by General JohnReid, 
 the founder of the chair of music in the 
 University of Edinburgh. 
 
 In the garb of old Gaul, with the fire 
 
 of old Rome, 
 From the heath-cover'd mountains of 
 
 Scotia we come; 
 Where the Romans endeavor'd our 
 
 country to gain, 
 But our ancestors fought, and they 
 
 fought not in vain. 
 
 We're tall as the oak on the mount of 
 the vale. 
 
 And swift as the roe which the hound 
 doth assail; 
 
 As the full moon in autumn our 
 shields do appear; 
 
 Ev'n Minerva would dread to en- 
 counter our spear. 
 
 Such is our love, &c. 
 
 As a storm in the ocean, when Boreas 
 
 blows, 
 So are we enrag'd when we rush on 
 
 our foes; 
 We sons of the mountains tremendous 
 
 as rocks, 
 Dash the force of foes with our 
 
 thundering strokes. 
 Such is our love,. &c. 
 
 Quebec and Cape Breton, the pride 
 
 of old France, 
 In their numbers fondly boasted, till 
 
 we did advance; 
 But when our claymores they saw us 
 
 produce, 
 Their courage did fail, and they sued 
 
 for a truce. 
 
 Such is our love, &c. 
 
 Such is our love of liberty, our 
 
 country, and our laws, 
 That, like our ancestors of old, 
 
 we'll stand in freedom's cause: 
 We'll bravely fight, like heroes bold, 
 
 for honor and applause, 
 And defy the French, with all their 
 
 art, to alter our laws. 
 
 No effeminate customs our sinews un- 
 brace; 
 
 No luxurious tables enervate our race; 
 
 Our loud sounding pipe breathes the 
 true martial strain, 
 
 And our hearts still the old Scottish 
 valor retain. 
 
 Such is our love, &:c. 
 
 In our realm may the fury of faction 
 
 long cease, 
 May our councils be wise, and our 
 
 commerce increase. 
 And in Scotia's cold climate may 
 
 each of us find, 
 That our friends still prove true, and 
 
 our beauties prove kind. 
 
 Then we'll defend our liberty, our 
 
 country, and our laws, 
 And teach our late posterity to fight 
 
 in freedom's cause; 
 That they, like their ancestors bold, 
 
 for honor and applause, 
 May defy the French, with all their 
 
 arts, to alter our laws.
 
 CELEBRATED SONOS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 49 
 
 THE BRAES OF BALLENDINE. 
 
 DR. BLACKLOCK. 
 
 Dr. Blacklock was born at Annan in 
 1721. He lost his sight when very young, 
 but studied for the Ministry and was duly 
 licensed to preach. He was the author 
 of the Letter to Burns which caused the 
 Poet to give up his idea of going to 
 Jamaica. He died at Edinburgh in 1791. 
 
 Beneath a green shade, a lovely 
 
 young swain 
 Ae evening reclined to discover his 
 
 pain ; 
 So sad, yet so sweetly, he warbled his 
 
 woe, 
 The winds ceased to breathe, and the 
 
 fountain to flow; 
 Rude winds wi' compassion could 
 
 hear him complain, 
 Yet Chloe, less gentle, was deaf to 
 
 his strain. 
 
 How happy, he cried, my moments 
 
 once flew, 
 Ere Chloe's bright charms first flash'd 
 
 in my view! 
 Those eyes then wi' pleasure the dawn 
 
 could survey; 
 Nor smiled the fair morning mair 
 
 cheerful than they. 
 Now scenes of distress please only my 
 
 sight; 
 I'm tortured in pleasure, and languish 
 
 in light. 
 
 Through changes in vain relief I 
 pursue, 
 
 All, all but conspire my griefs to 
 renew; 
 
 From sunshine to zephyrs and shades 
 we repair — 
 
 To sunshine we fly from too piercing 
 an air; 
 
 But love's ardent fire burns always 
 the same. 
 
 No winter can cool it, no summer in- 
 flame. 
 
 But see the pale moon, all clouded, 
 
 retires; 
 The breezes grow cool, not Strephon's 
 
 desires: 
 I fly from the dangers of tempest and 
 
 wind, 
 Yet nourish the madness that preys 
 
 on my mind. 
 Ah, wretch! how can life be worthy 
 
 thy care? 
 To lengthen its moments, but 
 
 lengthens despair. 
 
 THE WEDDING DAY. 
 
 DR. BLACKLOCK. 
 
 One night as young Colin lay musing 
 
 in bed, 
 With a heart full of love and a 
 
 vaporish head; 
 To wing the dull hours, and his 
 
 sorrows allay, 
 Thus sweetly he sang of his wedding 
 day: 
 " What would I give for a wedding 
 
 day! 
 Who would not wish for a wedding 
 
 day! 
 Wealth and ambition, Fd toss ye 
 
 away. 
 With all ye can boast, for a wedding 
 day. 
 
 Should heaven bid my wishes with 
 
 freedom implore 
 One bliss for the anguish I suffered 
 
 before. 
 For Jessy, dear Jessy, alone I would 
 
 pray, 
 And grasp my whole wish on my 
 wedding day! 
 Blessed be the approach of my 
 
 wedding day! 
 Hail, my dear nymph and my 
 
 wedding day! 
 Earth smiles more verdant, and 
 
 heaven shine more gay! 
 For happiness dawns with my 
 wedding day."
 
 50 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 But Luna, who equally sovereign pre- 
 sides 
 O'er the hearts of the ladies and flow 
 
 of the tides, 
 Unhappily changing, soon changed 
 
 his wife's mind: 
 O fate, could a wife prove so con- 
 stant and kind! 
 " Why was I born to a wedding day! 
 Cursed, ever cursed be my wedding 
 
 day." 
 Colin, poor Colin thus changes his 
 
 And dates all his plagues from his 
 wedding day. 
 
 Ye bachelors, warned by the 
 
 shepherd's distress, 
 Be tought from your freedom to 
 
 measure your bliss, 
 Nor fall to the witchcraft of beauty a 
 
 prey, 
 And blast all your joys on your 
 wedding day. 
 Horns are the gift of a wedding day; 
 Want and a scold crown a wedding 
 
 day; 
 Happy and gallant, who, wise when 
 
 he may 
 Prefers a stout rope to a wedding 
 day! 
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 DR. BLACKLOCK. 
 
 Ye rivers so limpid and clear, 
 
 Who reflect, as in cadence you flow. 
 All the beauties that vary the year, 
 All the flow'rs on your margins that 
 grow! 
 How blest on your banks could I 
 dwell, 
 Were Marg'ret the pleasures to 
 share, 
 And teach your sweet echoes to tell 
 With what fondness I doat on the 
 fair! 
 
 Ye harvests, that wave in the breeze 
 As far as the view can extend! 
 
 Ye mountains, umbrageous v/ith trees,, 
 Whose tops so majestic ascend! 
 
 Your landscape what joy to survey. 
 Were Marg'ret with me to admire ! 
 
 Then the harvest would glitter, how 
 
 How majestic the mountams aspire. 
 
 In pensive regret whilst I rove. 
 
 The fragrance of flow'rs to inhale; 
 Or catch as it swells from the grove, 
 
 The music that floats on the gale: 
 Alas! the delusion how vain ! 
 
 Nor odors nor harmony please 
 A heart agonizing with pain, 
 
 Which tries ev'i-y posture for ease. 
 
 If anxious to flatter my woes, 
 
 Or the languor of absence to cheer, 
 Her breath I would catch in the rose, 
 
 Or her voice in the nightingale hear. 
 To cheat my despair of its prey, 
 
 Wh?it objects her charms can as- 
 sume! 
 How harsh is the nightingale's lay 
 
 How insipid the rose's perfume! 
 
 Ye zephyrs that visit my fair. 
 
 Ye sunbeams around her that pla}^, 
 Does her sympathy dwell on my care? 
 Does she number the hour of my 
 stay? 
 First perish ambition and wealth, 
 
 First perish all else that is dear, 
 Ere one sigh should escape her by 
 stealth. 
 Ere my absence should cost her one 
 tear. 
 
 When, when shall her beauties once 
 more 
 
 This desolate bosom surprise? 
 Ye fates! the blest moments restore 
 
 When I bask'd in the beams of her 
 eyes; 
 When with sweet emulation of heart, 
 
 Our kindness we struggled to show; 
 But the more that we strove to impart 
 
 We felt it more ardently glow.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 51 
 
 TULLOCHGORUM. 
 
 REV. JOHN SKiNNER. 
 
 Tullochgorum, pronounced byBurnsto 
 be " the best Scotch song ever Scoihind 
 saw," was written by the Rev. John 
 Skinner, at the house of Mrs. Montgomery 
 in Elion. With a number of friends he had 
 been paying a visit one day to this lady, 
 when a political dispute arose among the 
 guests as to the different merits of the 
 Whigs and Tories. To end the discussion, 
 which had become more personal than 
 polite, the hostess called upon Mr. Skinner 
 to change the subject, by suggesting some 
 appropriate words to the famous tune — 
 "The Reel of Tullochgorum." Mr. 
 Skinner at once proceeded to comply with 
 her request, and in a short time produced 
 the song which has since become so 
 popular everywhere, and which received 
 from Burns the highest praise ever be- 
 stowed by him on any song. Tulloch- 
 gorum was first printed in the Scots Week- 
 ly Magazine, for April, 1776. The name 
 of the composer of the tune is unknown. 
 Mr. Stenhouse says " it is derived from an 
 old Scottish song tune, printed in Craig's 
 Collection in 1730," and nothing further 
 has been learned concerning it. It makes 
 very little difference, however, who com- 
 posed the tune, as it is the words of the 
 song which has made it so great a favorite 
 with the people, and it will undoubtedly 
 continue to be a favorite for centuries to 
 come. The name of the Rev. John 
 Skinner is held in high esteem in many 
 lands beyond Scotland wherein hiscountry- 
 men have settled. He was born at Balfour, 
 near Aberdeen, on October 3, 1721, and 
 officiated as pastor of the Episcopal Chapel 
 atLongsidefor upwards of sixty-five years. 
 He kept up a regular correspondence with 
 Burns for some years, and in one of his 
 letters to the poet, when he had reached 
 the age of sixty-six, we find him writing 
 on the subject of Scottish song: " While I 
 was young I dabbled a good deal in these 
 things; but on getting the black gown I 
 gave it pretty much over, till my daughters 
 grew up, who, being all tolerably good 
 singers, plagued me for words to some of 
 their favorite tunes, and so extorted these 
 effusions which have made a public ap- 
 pearance, beyond my expectations, and 
 contrary to my intents; at the same time, I 
 hope there is nothing to be found in them 
 uncharacteristic or unbecoming the cloth, 
 
 which I always wish to see respected." 
 Shortly after the suppression of the Rebel- 
 lion of 1745-6, Mr. Skinner, not having 
 subscribed to the oath of allegiance, was 
 imprisoned for six months in Aberdeen 
 for preaching to more than four persons at 
 a time. Besides his songs and poems, 
 Mr. Skinner was the author of an 
 "Ecclesiastical History of Scotland," in 
 two large volumes, and a number of 
 theological tracts and essays. These were 
 all published in a complete form a short 
 time after his death, which took place at 
 Aberdeen, on June 16, 1807. He had 
 reached the venerable age of eighty-six, 
 and had realized his wish of " once more 
 seeing his children's grandchildren and 
 peace upon Israel." His remains were 
 interred at Longside, where a handsome 
 monument has since been erected to his 
 memory. 
 
 Come, gie 's a sang, Montgomery 
 
 cried, 
 And lay your disputes all aside; 
 What signifies 't for folks to chide 
 
 For what was done before them? 
 Let Whig and Tory all agree, 
 Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory, 
 Whig and Tory all agree, 
 
 To drop their Whig-mig-morum; 
 Let Whig and Tory all agree 
 To spend the night wi' mirth and glee. 
 And cheerful sing alang wi' me 
 The Reel o' Tullochgorum. 
 
 O Tullochgorum 's my delight, 
 
 It gars us a' in ane unite, 
 
 And ony sumph that keeps a spite. 
 
 In conscience I abhor him: 
 For blythe and cheerie we'll be a', 
 Blythe and cheerie, blythe and 
 
 cheerie, 
 Blythe and cheerie we'll be a'. 
 And mak' a happy quorum; 
 For blythe and cheerie we'll be a' 
 As lang as we hae breath tae draw. 
 And dance, till we be like to fa', 
 The Reel o' Tullochgorum. 
 
 What needs there be sae great a fraise 
 Wi' dringing dull Italian lays ?
 
 52 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys 
 
 For half a hunder score o' them; 
 They 're dowf and dowie at the best, 
 Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie, 
 Dowf and dowie at the best, 
 Wi' a' their variorum; 
 They're dowf and dowie at the best, 
 Their allegros and a' the rest, 
 They canna please a Scottish taste, 
 Compared wi' Tullochgorum. 
 
 Let warldly worms their minds oppress 
 Wi' fears o' want and double cess, 
 And sullen sots themsells distress 
 
 Wi' keeping up decorum: 
 Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, 
 Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, 
 Sour and sulky shall we sit. 
 
 Like old philosophorum? 
 Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, 
 Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit, 
 Nor ever try to shake a fit 
 
 To th' Reel o' Tullochgorum? 
 
 May choicest blessing aye attend 
 Each honest, open-hearted friend. 
 And calm and quiet be his end. 
 
 And a' that's good watch o'er him ; 
 May peace and plenty be his lot. 
 Peace and plenty, peace and plenty. 
 Peace and plenty be his lot. 
 
 And dainties a great store o' them: 
 May peace and plenty be his lot, 
 Unstain'd by any vicious spot. 
 And may he never want a groat, 
 
 That's fond of Tullochgorum! 
 
 But for the sullen, frumpish fool, 
 That loves to be oppression's tool, 
 May envy gnaw his rotten soul. 
 
 And discontent devour him; 
 May dool and sorrow be his chance, 
 Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, 
 Dool and sorrow be his chance. 
 
 And nane sae, Wae's me for him! 
 May dool and sorrow be his chance, 
 Wi' a' the ills that come frae France, 
 Wha e'er he be that winna dance 
 
 The Reel o' Tullochgorum! 
 
 THE EWIE Wr THE CROOKIT 
 HORN. 
 
 REV. JOHN SKINNER. 
 
 "These verses," sa3-s Mr. Stenhouse, 
 " are adapted to a lively Highland reel of 
 considerable antiquity, which received its 
 name from a evvie of a very different breed 
 — namely, the whisky-still, with its crook- 
 ed or rather spiral apparatus." 
 
 O, WERE I able to rehearse, 
 My ewie's praise in proper verse, 
 rd sound it out as loud and fierce 
 As ever piper's drone could blaw. 
 My ewie wi' the crookit horn! 
 A' that kenn'd her would hae 
 
 sworn. 
 Sic a ewie ne'er was born, 
 Hereabouts nor far awa'. 
 
 She neither needed tar nor keel, 
 To mark her upon hip or heel; 
 Her crookit hornie did as weel 
 To ken her by amang them a'. 
 
 She never threaten'd scab nor rot, 
 But keepit aye her ain jog-trot; 
 Baith to the fauld and to the cot. 
 Was never sweir to lead nor ca'. 
 
 A better nor a thriftier beast, 
 Nae honest man need e'er ha'e wish'd; 
 For, silly thing, she never miss'd 
 To ha'e ilk year a lamb or twa. 
 
 The first she had I ga'e to Jock, 
 To be to him a kind o' stock; 
 And now the laddie has a flock 
 Of mair than thretty head and twa. 
 
 The neist I ga'e to Jean; and now 
 The bairn's sae braw, has faulds sae 
 
 fu', 
 That lads sae thick come her to woo, 
 They're fain to sleep on hay or 
 
 straw. 
 
 Cauld nor hunger never dang her, 
 Wind or rain could never wrang her; 
 Ance she lay an ouk and langer 
 Forth aneath a wreath o' snaw.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 53 
 
 When other ewies lap the dyke, 
 And ate the kale for a' the tyke, 
 My ewie never play'd the like, 
 But teezed about the barn wa', 
 
 I lookit aye at even for her. 
 Lest mishanter should come ower her, 
 Or the foumart micht devour her, 
 Gin the beastie bide awa'. 
 
 Yet, last ouk, for a' my keeping, 
 (Wha can tell o't without greeting?) 
 A villain cam', when I was sleeping. 
 Staw my ewie, horn and a'. 
 
 I socht her sair upon the morn, 
 And down aneath a bush o' thorn. 
 There I fand her crookit horn, 
 But my ewie was awa'. 
 
 But gin I had the loon that did it, 
 I ha'e sworn as weel as said it, 
 Although the laird himsell forbid it, 
 I sail gi'e his neck a thraw. 
 
 I never met wi' sic a turn : 
 At e'en I had baith ewe and horn, 
 Safe steekit up; but, 'gain the morn,^ 
 Baith ewe and horn were stown awa'. 
 
 A' the claes that we ha'e worn, 
 Frae her and hers sae aft was shorn; 
 The loss o' her we could ha'e borne, 
 Had fair-strae death ta'en her awa'. 
 
 O, had she died o' croup or cauld. 
 As ewies die when they grow auld, 
 It hadna been, by mony fauld, 
 Sae sair a heart to ane o' us a'. 
 
 But thus, puir thing, to loose her life. 
 Beneath a bluidy villain's knife; 
 In troth, I fear that our gudewife 
 Will never get abune 't ava. 
 
 .0, all ye bards benorth Kinghorn, 
 Call up your muses, let them mourn 
 Our ewie wi' the crookit horn, 
 Frae us stown, and fell'd and a'! 
 
 A SONG ON THE TIMES. 
 
 REV. JOHN SKINNER. 
 
 When I began the world first, 
 
 It was not as 'tis now. 
 For all was plain and simple then, 
 
 And friends were kind and true. 
 
 O! the times, the weary, weary 
 times, 
 
 The times that I now see, 
 I think the world's all gone wrong, 
 
 From what it used to be. 
 
 There were not then high capering 
 heads, 
 
 Prick'd up from ear to ear. 
 And cloak, and caps were rarities 
 
 For gentle folks to wear. 
 
 O! the times, &c. 
 
 There's not an upstart mushroom now, 
 But what sets up for taste. 
 
 And not a lass in all the land 
 But must be lady-drest. 
 
 O! the times, &c. 
 
 Our young men married then for love, 
 
 So did our lasses too, 
 And children loved their parents dear 
 
 As children ought to do. 
 
 O! the times, &c. 
 
 For O! the times are sadly chang'd, 
 
 A heavy change indeed! 
 For truth and friendship are no more, 
 
 And honesty is fled. 
 
 O! the times, &c. 
 
 There's nothing now prevails but pride 
 Among both high and low, 
 
 And strife, and greed, and vanity, 
 Is all that's minded now. 
 
 O! the times, i\'c.
 
 54 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 AVhen I look through the world wide, 
 How times and fashions go, 
 
 It draws the tears from both my eyes, 
 And fills my heart with woe. 
 
 O! the times, the weary, weary 
 times. 
 
 The times that I now see, 
 I wish the world were at an end. 
 
 For it will not mend for me. 
 
 TUNE YOUR FIDDLES. 
 
 REV. JOHN SKINNER. 
 
 Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly. 
 Play the marquis' reel discreetly, 
 Here we are a band completely 
 
 Fitted to be jolly. 
 Come, my boys, blythe and gawcie. 
 Every youngster choose his lassie. 
 Dance wi' life and be not saucy, 
 Shy nor melancholy. 
 Come, my boys, &c. 
 
 Lay aside your sour grimaces. 
 Clouded brows and drumlie faces. 
 Look about and see their Graces, 
 
 How they smile delighted: 
 Now's the season to be merry, 
 Hang the thoughts of Charon's ferry. 
 Time enough to come camsterry. 
 
 When we're auld and doited. 
 Now's the season, &c. 
 
 Butler, put about the claret, 
 Through us a' divide and share it, 
 Gordon Castle weel can spare it. 
 
 It has claret plenty: 
 Wine's the true inspiring liquor, 
 Draffy drink may please the vicar, 
 When he grasps the foaming bicker. 
 Vicars are not dainty. 
 Wine's the true inspiring liquor, &c. 
 
 We'll extol our noble master, 
 Sprung from many a brave ancestor, — 
 Heaven preserve him from disaster. 
 So we pray in duty. 
 
 Prosper, too, our pretty duchess, 
 Safe from all distressful touches. 
 Keep her out of Pluto's clutches, 
 Long in health and beauty. 
 Prosper, too, our pretty duchess, &c. 
 
 Angels guard their gallant boy. 
 Make him long his father's joy, 
 Sturdy, like the heir of Troy, 
 
 Stout and brisk and healthy. 
 Pallas grant him every blessing, 
 Wit and strength, and size increasing, 
 Plutus, what's in thy possessing, 
 Make him rich and wealthy. 
 Pallas grant him every blessing, &c. 
 
 Youth, solace him with thy pleasure. 
 In refined and worthy measure: 
 Merit gain him choicest treasure, 
 
 From the Royal donor: 
 Famous may he be in story. 
 Full of days and full of glory; 
 To the grave, when old and hoary, 
 
 May he go with honor ! 
 Famous may he be in story, &c. 
 
 Gordons, join our hearty praises. 
 Honest, though in homely phrases, 
 Love our cheerful spirit raises. 
 
 Lofty as the lark is: 
 Echo, waft our wishes daily. 
 Through the grove and through the 
 
 alley 
 Sound o'er every hill and valley, ' 
 
 Blessings on our Marquis. 
 Echo, waft our wishes, &c. 
 
 THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY. 
 
 DAVID MALLET, 
 
 " Invermay is a small woody glen, 
 watered by the rivulet May, which there 
 joins the river Earn. It isabout five miles 
 above the bridge of Earn, and nearly nine 
 from Perth. The seat of Mr. Belsches, 
 the proprietor of this poetical region, and 
 who takes from it his territorial designa- 
 tion, stands at the bottom of the glen. 
 Both sides of the little vale are completely
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 55 
 
 wooded, chiefl}- with birches; and it is 
 altogether, in point of natural loveliness, 
 a scene worthy of tlie attention of the 
 an::atory muse. The cotirse of the May is 
 so sunk among rocks, that it cannot be 
 seen, but it can easily be traced in its pro- 
 gress by another sense. The peculiar 
 sound which it uiakes in rushing through 
 one particular part of its narrow, rugged, 
 and tortuous channel, has occasioned the 
 descriptive appellation of the Humble- 
 Bumble to be attached to that quarter of 
 the vale. Invermay may be at once and 
 correctly described as the fairest possible 
 little miniature specimen of cascade 
 scenery. " — Chatn hers. 
 
 The 
 
 smiling morn, the breathing 
 . spring, 
 Invite the tunefu' birds to sing; 
 And, while they warble from the spray, 
 Love melts the universal lay. 
 Let us, Amanda, timely wise. 
 Like them, improve the hour that flies; 
 And in soft raptures waste the day, 
 Among the birks of Invermay. 
 
 For soon the winter of the year. 
 And age, life's winter will appear; 
 At this thy living bloom will fade. 
 As that will strip the verdant shade. 
 Our taste of pleasure then is o'er. 
 The feathered songsters are no more; 
 And when they drop, and we decay, 
 Adieu the birks of Invermay! 
 
 THE LAWLANDS OF HOLLAND 
 
 ANNONVMOUS. 
 
 Said to have been composed by a young 
 widow in Galloway whose husband was 
 drowned while on a voyage to Holland 
 about the year 1700. 
 
 The luve that I had chosen, 
 I'll therewith be content. 
 
 The saut sea will be frozen 
 Before that I repent; 
 
 Repent it will I never 
 Until the day I dee, 
 
 Tho' the lawlands o' Holland 
 Ha'e twined my luve and me. 
 
 My luve lies in the salt sea, 
 
 And I am on tlie side. 
 Enough to break a young thing's 
 heart 
 
 Wha lately was a bride; 
 Wha lately was a bonnie bride, 
 
 And pleasure in her e'e; 
 But the lawlands o' Holland 
 
 Ha'e twined my luve and me. 
 
 My luve he built a bonnie ship, 
 
 And sent her to the sea, 
 Wi' seven score brave mariners 
 
 To bear her companie; 
 Threescore gaed to the bottom, 
 
 And threescore died at sea, 
 And the lawlands o' Holland 
 
 Ha'e twined my luve and me. 
 
 My luve has built anither ship. 
 
 And sent her to the main, 
 He had but twenty mariners, 
 
 And a' to bring her hame; 
 The stormy clouds did roar again. 
 
 The raging waves did rout. 
 And my luve, and his bonnie ship, 
 
 Turn'd widdershins about! 
 
 There shall nae mantle cross my back, 
 
 Nae comb come in my hair. 
 Neither shall coal or candle light 
 
 Shine in my bowit mair; 
 Nor shall I ha'e anither luve. 
 
 Until the day I dee, 
 I never lo'ed a luve but ane, 
 
 And he's drown'd in the sea. 
 
 O, baud your tongue, my daughter 
 dear. 
 
 Be still and be content, 
 There are mair lads in Galloway, 
 
 Ye need nae sair lament. 
 O! there is nane in Galloway, 
 
 There 's nane at a' for me, 
 For I never lov'd a lad but ane, 
 
 And he's drown'd in the sea.
 
 56 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 ETTRICK BANKS. 
 
 From Thomson's Orpheus Caledonius, 
 published in 1725. 
 
 On Ettrick banks, ae simmer's night, 
 
 At gloamin', when the sheep drave 
 hame, 
 I met my lassie, braw and tight, 
 
 Come wading barefoot a' her lane. 
 My heart grew light; — I ran, I flang 
 
 My arms about her lily neck. 
 And kiss'd and clapp'd her there fu' 
 lang, 
 
 My words they were na monie feck. 
 
 I said, My lassie, will ye gang 
 
 To the Highland hills, the Erse to 
 learn? 
 1*11 gi'e thee baith a cow and ewe. 
 
 When ye come to the brig o' Earn: 
 At Leith auld meal comes in, ne'er 
 fash, 
 
 And herrings at the Broomielaw; 
 Cheer up your heart, my bonnie lass. 
 
 There's gear to win ye never saw. 
 
 A' day when we ha'e wrought eneugh, 
 
 When winter frosts and snaw begin, 
 Soon as the sun gaes west the loch, 
 
 At night when ye sit down to spin, 
 I'll screw my pipes, and play a spring: 
 
 And thus the weary night will end. 
 Till the tender kid and lamb-time 
 bring 
 
 Our pleasant simmer back again. 
 
 Syne, when the trees are in their 
 bloom, 
 And gowans glent o'er ilka fiel', 
 I'll meet my lass amang the broom. 
 And lead you to my simmer shiel. 
 Then, far frae a' their scornfu' din, 
 That mak' the kindly heart their 
 sport, 
 We'll laugh, and kiss, and dance, and 
 sing, 
 And gar the langest day seem short. 
 
 WHEN I UPON THY BOSOM 
 LEAN. 
 
 JOHN LAPRAIK. 
 
 "This song," writes Burns, "was the 
 work of a very worthy, facetious old 
 fellow, John Lapraik, late of Dalfram, 
 near Muirkirk; which little property he 
 was obliged to sell, in consequence of 
 some connection as security for some 
 persons concerned in that villainous 
 bubble. The Ayr Bank." Lapraik was 
 born in 1727, and was well known for 
 man)' years throughout Ayrshire as a poet 
 of no inconsiderable abilit)'. His fame 
 in this respect, however, became suddenly 
 eclipsed when the poems of Burns began 
 to make their appearance. He composed 
 his one celebrated song "When I upon 
 thy bosom lean," while he was confined in 
 the debtor's prison at A}rr. It was ad- 
 dressed to his wife, and is certainly a very 
 affectionate little piece of lyrical poetry. It 
 happened to be sung at a country "gather- 
 ing" or " rocking" one day while Burns 
 was present, and he was so enraptured 
 with the sweetness of it, and so anxious 
 to become personally acquainted with its 
 author, that he immediately' addressed an 
 epistle to Lapraik, in which he says: 
 
 " On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin' 
 To ca' the crack and weave our stockin'; 
 And there was muckle fun and jokin'. 
 
 Ye need nae doubt; 
 At length we had a hearty yokin' 
 At sang about. 
 
 There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
 Aboon them a' it pleased me best, 
 That some kind husband had addrest 
 
 To some sweet wife: 
 It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 
 
 A' to the life." 
 
 The two poets met soon afterwards and 
 continued the best of friends until the 
 death of Burns in 1796. Lapraik publish- 
 ed at Kilmarnock, in 17S8, a small volume 
 of his poems and songs, and this volume 
 has now become very scarce. He was ap- 
 pointed post-master for the village of 
 Muirkirk when he was well up in years, 
 and died while still holding that position 
 in the eightieth year of his age. 
 
 When I upon thy bosom lean. 
 And fondly clasp thee a' my ain, 
 
 I glory in the sacred ties 
 
 That made us ane, wha ance were 
 twain.
 
 CELEBRATED SONOS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 57 
 
 A mutual flame inspires us baith, 
 The tender look, the meltin' kiss; 
 
 Even years shall ne'er destroy our love, 
 But only gi'e us change o' bliss. 
 
 Ha'e I a wish? it's a' for thee! 
 
 I ken thy wish is me to please. 
 Our moments pass sae smooth away. 
 
 That numbers on us look and gaze; 
 Weel pleased they see our happy days, 
 
 Nor envy's sel' finds aught to blame; 
 And aye, when weary cares arise, 
 
 Thy bosom still shall be my hame. 
 
 I'll lay me there and tak' my rest; 
 
 And, if that aught disturb my dear, 
 I'll bid her laugh her cares away, 
 
 And beg her not to drop a tear. 
 Ha'e I a joy? it's a' her ain! 
 
 United still her heart and mine; 
 They're like the woodbine round the 
 tree. 
 
 That's twined till death shall them 
 disjoin. 
 
 FOR LACK OF GOLD. 
 
 DR. AUSTIN. 
 
 " These words were composed by the late 
 Dr. Austin, physician at Edinburgh. He 
 had courted a lad)' to whom he was shortly 
 to be married; but the Duke of Athole 
 having seen her, became so much in love 
 with her, that he made proposals of 
 marriage which were accepted of, and she 
 jilted the docior."— Burns. 
 
 For lack of gold she has left me, O, 
 And of all that's dear she's bereft me, 
 
 O; 
 
 She me forsook for Athole's duke. 
 And to endless woe she has left me, 
 O. 
 A star and garter have more art 
 Than youth, a true and faithful heart; 
 For empty titles we must part — 
 For glittering show she has left me, 
 O. 
 
 No cruel fair shall ever move 
 My injured heart again to love; 
 Through distant climates I must rove,. 
 
 Since Jeany she has left me, O. 
 Ye powers above, I to your care 
 Resign my faithless, lovely fair; 
 Your choicest blessing be her share, 
 
 Though she has ever left me, O. 
 
 THE FLOWERS OF THE 
 FOREST. 
 
 MISS JANE ELLIOT. 
 
 "The Forest" alluded to in the song 
 was a large tract of land situated on the 
 borders of Selkirkshire, Peeblesshire and 
 Lanarkshire, and was for many years the 
 favorite resort of a body of young and 
 skillful archers, the majority of whom 
 bravely met their death with James IV, at 
 the battle of Flodden, A.D. 1513. Hence 
 the name "The Flowers of the Forest." 
 Miss Elliot as authoress of this truely 
 pathetic and pure old Scottish song has 
 earned for herself a name which will be 
 revered as long as the language in which 
 it is written is understood. When it first 
 appeared in the public prints it was look- 
 ed upon by many people as a ballad of 
 very ancient date, and Sir Walter Scott in 
 introducing it to the readers of his 
 " Minstrelsy" says, "The manner of the 
 ancient minstrels is so happily imitated, 
 that it required the most positive evidence 
 to convince the editor that the song was 
 of modern date." 
 
 Miss Elliot was a daughter of Sir 
 Gilbert Elliot of Minto. She was born in 
 1727 and died in 1805. 
 
 I've heard the lilting at our yowe- 
 milking, 
 Lasses a-lilting, before the dawn o' 
 day; 
 But now they are moaning, on ilka 
 green loaning; 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a*^ 
 wede away. 
 
 At buchts, in the morning, nae blythe 
 lads are scorning, 
 The lasses are lonely, and dowie, 
 and wae;
 
 S8 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing 
 and sabbin', 
 Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her 
 away. 
 
 In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths 
 now are jeering, 
 The bandsters are rinkled and lyart 
 and grey; 
 At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, 
 nae fleeching — 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' 
 wede away. 
 
 At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies 
 are roaming, 
 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle 
 to play; 
 But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her 
 dearie — 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' 
 wede away. 
 
 Dule and wae to the order, sent our 
 lads to the border! 
 The English, for ance, by guile won 
 the day; 
 The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht 
 aye the foremost. 
 The prime o' our land, are cauld in 
 the clay. 
 
 We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe- 
 milking. 
 Women and bairns are heartless and 
 wae; 
 Sighing and moaning on ilka green 
 loaning — 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' 
 wede away. 
 
 THE FLOWERS OF THE 
 FOREST. 
 
 MRS. COCKBURN. 
 
 This is a more popular version of this 
 ■celebrated song and is better known by 
 
 the title of " I've Seen The Smiling." 
 Mrs. Cockburn was the wife of a well 
 known Edinburgh advocate. She was 
 born in 1712 and figured conspicuously for 
 many years as one of the brightest orna- 
 ments in Edinburgh society. Her song, 
 although similar in many respects to Miss 
 Elliot's, does not, however, refer to the 
 heroes who fell at Flodden, but to a finan- 
 cial difficulty in which a number of Selkirk 
 gentlemen at one time became involved. 
 Mrs. Cockburn died in 1794, having sur- 
 vived her husband for over forty years. 
 
 I've seen the smiling 
 
 Of Fortune beguiling; 
 I've felt all its pleasures and found its 
 decay; 
 
 Sweet was its blessing. 
 
 Kind its caressing; 
 But now 'tis fled — fled far away. 
 
 I've seen the forest 
 Adorn the foremost 
 With flowers of the fairest, most 
 pleasant and gay; 
 Sae bonnie was their blooming! 
 Their scent the air perfuming! 
 But now they are wither'd and weeded 
 away. 
 
 I've seen the morning. 
 With gold the hills adorning. 
 And loud tempests storming before 
 the mid-day. 
 I've seen Tweed's silver streams, 
 Shining in the sunny beams. 
 Grow drumly and dark as he row'd 
 on his way. 
 
 Oh, fickle Fortune, 
 Why this cruel sporting ? 
 Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of 
 a day ? 
 Nae mair your smiles can cheer me 
 Nae mair your frowns can fear me ; 
 For the Flowers of the Forest are a' 
 wede away.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 59 
 
 MY SHEEP I NEGLECTED. 
 
 SIR GILBERT ELLIOT, BART. 
 
 Sir Gilbert Elliot was M. P. at onetime 
 for Roxburghshire. He was born in 1729 
 and died in 1777. He was a brother of 
 Miss Jane Elliot, the authoress of "The 
 Flowers of the Forest." 
 
 My sheep I neglected — I lost my 
 
 sheep-hook, 
 And all the gay haunts of my youth I 
 
 forsook; 
 No more for Amynta fresh garlands 
 
 I wove; 
 For ambition, I said, would soon cure 
 
 me of love. 
 
 Oh, what had my youth with 
 
 ambition to do? 
 Why left I Amynta? Why broke 
 
 I my vow? 
 Oh, give me my sheep, and my 
 
 sheep-hook restore. 
 And I'll wander from love and 
 
 Amynta no more. 
 
 Through regions remote in vain do I 
 
 rove, 
 And bid the wide ocean secure me 
 
 from love! 
 Oh, fool! to imagine that aught could 
 
 subdue 
 A love so well founded, a passion so 
 
 true! 
 
 Oh, what, &c. 
 
 Alas! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine; 
 Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be 
 
 thine: 
 Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes 
 
 are vain. 
 The moments neglected return not 
 
 again. 
 
 Oh, what, &c. 
 
 THERE CAM' A YOUNG MAN. 
 
 herd's COLLECTION. 
 
 David Herd was born in 1732, at Cyrus, 
 in Kincardineshire. From his earliest 
 years he was an enthusiastic admirer of old 
 Scottish songs, and was careful to note 
 down any which he heard sung, but could 
 not obtain in a printed form. The 7\-a 
 Table Miscellany, originally published in 
 1724, became to his mind one of the most 
 valuable books which had ever been com- 
 piled, and he pored over it at all hours. In 
 1769 he published his own collection of 
 "Ancient and Modern Scottish Songs, 
 Heroic Ballads, etc." in one volume. This 
 was afterwards enlarged and published in 
 1776. "The rough, the polished, the rude, 
 the courtly, the pure, the gross, the im- 
 perfect and the complete," says Allan Cun- 
 ningham, "were all welcome to honest 
 and undiscriminating David — he loved 
 them all and he published them all. He 
 seemed to have an art of his own in find- 
 ing curious old songs ; he was not a poet, 
 and could not create them ; he was no wiz- 
 ard, and could not evoke them from the 
 dust ; yet he had the good fortune to find 
 them and courage to publish them without 
 mitigation or abatement. Whatever con- 
 tained a vivid picture of old manners, 
 whatever presented a lively image of other 
 days, and whatever atoned for its freedom 
 by its humor, or for its indelicacy by its 
 well-fiavored wit, was dear to the good old 
 Scotchman." Herd was for many years a 
 clerk in an accountant's office in Edin- 
 burgh. Sir Walter Scott says "he was 
 generally esteemed for his shrewd, manly 
 common-sense and antiquarian science." 
 He died in June, 1810, at the age of seven- 
 ty-eight years. From a notice of his death 
 which appeared in the Scots' Magazive for 
 the succeeding month we quote the follow- 
 ing sketch : "He was a most active inves- 
 tigator of Scottish literature and antiqui- 
 ties, and enjoyed the friendship of nearly 
 all the eminent artists and men of letters 
 who have flourished in Edinburgh these 
 fifty years. Runciman, the painter, was 
 rne of his most intimate friends, and with 
 Ruddiman, Gilbert Stuart, Fergusson and 
 Robert Burns he was well acquainted. 
 His information regarding the history of 
 Scotland was extensive. Many of his re- 
 marks have appeared in periodical publi- 
 cations, and the notes appended to several 
 popular works are enriched by materials of
 
 60 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 his own collecting. He was a man truly 
 of the old school, inoffensive, modest and 
 unambitious, and in an extraordinary de- 
 gree forming in all these respects a striking 
 contrast to the forward, puffing and osten- 
 tatious disposition of the present age." 
 
 There cam' a young man to my 
 
 daddie's door, 
 My daddie's door, my daddie's door; 
 There cam' a young man to my 
 daddie's door, 
 Cam' seeking me to woe. 
 
 And wow"! but he was a braw 
 
 young lad, 
 A brisk young lad, and a braw 
 
 young lad, 
 And wow! but he was a braw 
 young lad, 
 Cam' seeking me to woo. 
 
 But I was baking when he came, 
 When he came, when he came; 
 I took him in and gied him a scone, 
 To thowe his frozen mou'. 
 
 I set him in aside the bink; 
 I ga'e him bread and ale to drink; 
 But ne'er a blythe styme wad he blink, 
 Until his wame was fu'. 
 
 Gae, get you gone, you cauldrife wooer, 
 Ye sour-looking, cauldrife wooer! 
 I straightway show'd him to the door, 
 Saying, Come nae mair to woo. 
 
 There lay adeuk-dub before the door, 
 Before the door, before the door; 
 There lay a deuk-dub before the door, 
 And there fell he, I trow! 
 
 Out cam' the gudeman, and high he 
 
 shouted; 
 Out cam' the guidwife, and laigh she 
 
 louted; 
 And a' the toun-neebors were gather'd 
 
 about it; 
 And there lay he I trow! 
 
 Then out came I, and sneer'd and 
 
 smil'd; 
 Ye cam' to woo, but ye're a' befyled; 
 Ye've fa'en i' the dirt, and ye're a* 
 
 beguiled; 
 We'll ha'e nae mair o' you! 
 
 HERE AWA' THERE AWA', 
 WANDERING WILLIE. 
 
 herd's collection. 
 A fragment of an old song. 
 
 Here awa', there awa', wandering 
 Willie, 
 Here awa', there awa', here awa' 
 hame! 
 Lang have I sought thee, dear have 
 I bought thee, 
 Now I have gotten my Willie again ! 
 
 Through the lang muir I have follow- 
 ed my Willie ; 
 Through the lang muir I have 
 followed him hame: 
 Whatever betide us, nought shall 
 divide us ; 
 Love now rewards all my sorrow 
 and pain. 
 
 Here awa', there awa', wandering 
 Willie, 
 Here awa', there awa', here awa' 
 hame! 
 Come, love, believe me, nothing can 
 grieve me, 
 Ilka thing pleases while Willie's at 
 hame.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 61 
 
 MY WIFE HAD TA'EN THE 
 GEE. 
 
 herd's collection. 
 
 A FRIEND of mine came here yestreen, 
 
 And he would ha'e me down 
 To drink a bottle of ale wi' him 
 
 In the neist burrows town. 
 But, O! indeed it was, Sir, 
 
 Sae far the waur for me; 
 For lang or e'er that I came hame 
 
 My wife had ta'en the gee. 
 
 We sat sae late, and drank sae stout, 
 
 The truth I'll tell to you, 
 That ere the middle o' the night, 
 
 We were a' roaring fou. 
 My wife sits at the fire-side. 
 
 And the tears blind aye her e'e, 
 The ne'er a bed will she gae to, 
 
 But sit and tak' the gee. 
 
 In the morning soon, when I came 
 down, 
 
 The ne'er a word she spake, 
 But monie a sad and sour look. 
 
 And aye her head she'd shake. 
 My dear, quoth I, what aileth thee. 
 
 To look sae sour on me? 
 I'll never do the like again, 
 
 If ye'U ne'er tak' the gee. 
 
 When that she heard, she ran, she 
 flang 
 
 Her arms about my neck; 
 And twenty kisses in a crack, 
 
 And, poor wee thing, she grat. 
 If ye'U ne'er do the like again, 
 
 But bide at hame wi' me, 
 I'll lay my life I'se be the wife 
 
 That's never tak' the gee. 
 
 GET UP AND BAR THE DOOR. 
 
 herd's collection. 
 
 Founded on a much older song, called 
 "Johnny Blunt," which appears in the 
 iouiihvolume of J^o/inso?i's Museum. "It 
 
 is a curious circumstance," says Mr. G. F. 
 Graham, "that this song furnished Prince 
 Hoare with the Incident of his principal 
 scene in his musical entertainment of 'No 
 Song, No Supper,' acted at Drury Lane. 
 London, lygo (the music by Storace), and 
 since at all the theaters of the United 
 Kingdom, with great success. It still con- 
 tinues (1854) a favorite on the acting list " 
 The word "huss'fskap," which appears in 
 the third verse, is a contraction for "huss- 
 wifskep," a very ancient and now obsolete 
 term. A "husswif" was a small bag car- 
 ried at the side of each woman, containing 
 her needles, thread, thimble and other ar- 
 ticles of a similar nature, all ready to be 
 used at a moment's notice; but a "huss- 
 wifskip" was a small kind of basket used 
 for the purpose of holding oatmeal, and 
 frequently for kneading the same into 
 cakes, etc. We can, therefore, see how 
 the gudewife became so very indignant 
 and emphaiic in her refusal to "Get up and 
 bar the door" when she was busy mixing 
 the ingredients in her "husswifskip" for 
 the puddings she was making. 
 
 It fell about the Martinmas time, 
 And a gay time it was than, O! 
 
 When our gudewife got puddings to 
 mak', 
 And she boil'd them in the pan, O! 
 
 The wind blew cauld frae north to 
 
 south. 
 And blew in to the floor, O! 
 Quoth our gudeman to our gudewife, 
 
 " Get up and bar the door, O! " 
 
 " My hand is in my husswyfskip, 
 Gudeman, as ye may see, O! 
 
 An' it should nabebarr'd this hundred 
 year, 
 It's no be barr'd for me, O! " 
 
 They made a paction 'tween them twa. 
 They made it firm and sure, O! 
 
 Whaever spak' the foremost word, 
 Should rise and bar the door, O! 
 
 Then by there came twa gentlemen, 
 At twelve o' clock at night, O!
 
 C2 
 
 CELEBRATED SONOS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 And they could neither see house nor 
 ha', 
 Nor coal nor candle lis^^t, O! 
 
 Now, whether is this a rich man's 
 
 house, 
 * Or whether is it a poor, O? 
 But never a word wad ane o' them 
 
 speak. 
 For barring o' the door, O! 
 
 And first they ate the white puddings, 
 And then they ate the black, O! 
 
 Tho' muckle thought the gudewife to 
 hersel'. 
 Yet ne'er a word she spak', O! 
 
 Then said the ane unto the other — 
 " Here, man, tak' ye my knife, O ! 
 
 Do ye tak' aff the auld man's beard, 
 And I'll kiss the gudewife, O! 
 
 "But there's nae water in the house, 
 And what shall we do then, O?" 
 
 " What ails you at the puddin' broo 
 That boils into the pan, O? " 
 
 O up then started our gudeman. 
 And an angry man was he, O! 
 
 "Will ye kiss my wife before my e'en. 
 And scaud me wi' puddin' bree, O ! " 
 
 Then up and started our gudewife, 
 Gied three skips on the floor, O! 
 
 " Gudeman, ye've spoken the foremost 
 word, 
 Get up and bar the door, O! " 
 
 THE WEE, WEE MAN. 
 
 herd's collection. 
 
 There are four versions of this old song, 
 or ballad, in existence, each differing very 
 slightly from the other. The following 
 version is probably the oldest and the best 
 known. 
 
 As I was a walking all alone, 
 Between a water and a wa', 
 
 O there I spied a wee, wee man, 
 
 And he was the least that e'er I saw. 
 His legs were scarce a stathmont's 
 length. 
 And thick and thimber were his 
 thighs; 
 Between his brows there was a span, 
 And between his shoulders there 
 was three. 
 
 He took up a muckle stane, 
 
 And he flang't as far as I could see; 
 Though I had been a Wallace wight, 
 
 I could na lift it to my knee. 
 O wee, wee man, but thou be strong, 
 
 O tell me where thy dwelling be; 
 My dwelling's down at yon bonnie 
 bower, 
 
 O will ye go with me and see? 
 
 On we lap, and awa' we rade, 
 
 Till we cam' to yon bonnie green; 
 We lighted down for to bait our horse, 
 
 And out there came a lady fine. 
 Four-and-twenty at her back, 
 
 And they were a' clad out in green; 
 Though the king of Scotland had 
 been there. 
 
 The warst o' them might ha'e been 
 his queen. 
 
 On we lap, and awa' we rade, 
 
 Till we cam' to yon bonnie ha'; 
 AV^here the roof was o' the beaten gowd, 
 
 And the floor was o' the crystal a'. 
 When we cam' to the stairfoot. 
 
 Ladies were dancing, jimp and sma'; 
 But in the twinkling of an e'e, 
 
 My wee, wee man was clean awa'. 
 
 O SAW YE MY FAITHER. 
 herd's collection. 
 
 Both the air and the words of this song 
 are very old. 
 
 O SAW ye my faither, or saw ye my 
 mither, 
 Or saw ye my true love John ?
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 6$ 
 
 I saw nae your faither, I saw nae your 
 mither, 
 But I saw your true love John. 
 
 It's now ten at night, and the stars 
 gi'e nae light, 
 And the bells they ring ding dang, 
 He's met wi' some delay that causes 
 him to stay. 
 But he will be here ere lang. 
 
 The surly auld carle did naething but 
 snarl, 
 And Johnny's face it grew red, 
 Yet tho' he often sigh'd he ne'er a 
 word replied, 
 Till a' were asleep in bed. 
 
 Then up Johnny rose, and to the 
 
 door he goes, 
 And gently tirled at the pin, 
 The lassie taking tent unto the door 
 she went. 
 And she open'd and lat him in. 
 
 And are ye come at last! and do I 
 hold you fast! 
 And is my Johnny true? 
 I have nae time to tell, but sae lang's 
 I like mysel', 
 Sae lang sail I like you. 
 
 Flee up, flee up, my bonnie grey cock, 
 
 And craw when it is day ; 
 And your neck shall be like the bonnie 
 beaten gold, 
 
 And your wings of the silver grey. 
 
 The cock proved false, and untrue he 
 was, 
 For he crew an hour owre soon: 
 The lassie thought it day when she 
 sent her love away. 
 And it was but a blink of the moon. 
 
 ROBIN IS MY ONLY JO. 
 
 herd's collection. 
 
 Robin is my only jo, 
 Robin has the art to lo'e. 
 So to his suit I mean to bow, 
 
 Because I ken he lo'es me. 
 Happy, happy was the shower, 
 That led me to his birken bower, 
 Whare first of love I fand the power,. 
 
 And kend that Robin lo'ed me. 
 
 They spake of napkins, spake of rings, 
 Spake of gloves and kissing strings, 
 And name a thousand bonnie things, 
 
 And ca' them signs he lo'es me. 
 But I prefer a smack of Rob, 
 Sporting on the velvet fog, 
 To gifts as lang's a plaiden wob, 
 
 Because I ken he lo'es me. 
 
 He's tall and sonsy, frank and free, 
 Lo'ed by a', and dear to me, 
 Wi' him I'd live, wi' him I'd die. 
 
 Because my Robin lo'es me. 
 My titty, Mary, said to me, 
 Our courtship but a joke wad be, 
 And I or lang be made to see, 
 
 That Robin did na lo'e me. 
 
 But little kens she what has been, 
 Me and my honest Rob between. 
 And in his wooing, O sae keen 
 
 Kind Robin is that lo'es me. 
 Then fly, ye lazy hours away. 
 And hasten on the happy day, 
 When "join your hands," Mess John 
 shall say. 
 
 And mak' him mine that lo'es me. 
 
 Till then, let every chance unite, 
 To weigh our love, and fix delight. 
 And I'll look down on such wi' spite, 
 
 Who doubt that Robin lo'es me. 
 O hey, Robin, quo' she, 
 O hey, Robin, quo' she, 
 O hey, Robin, quo' she. 
 
 Kind Robin lo'es me.
 
 -64 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 SAE MERRY AS WE TWA HA'E 
 BEEN. 
 
 herd's collection. 
 
 The chorus, which Burns characterizes 
 as "truly pathetic," belongs to an old 
 song. 
 
 A LASS that was laden'd with care, 
 
 Sat heavily under yon thorn; 
 I listen'd a while for to hear, 
 
 When thus she began for to mourn. 
 Whene'er my dear shepherd was there, 
 
 The birds did melodiously sing, 
 And cold nipping winter did wear 
 A face that resembled the spring. 
 Sae merry as we twa ha'e been, 
 
 Sae merry as we twa ha'e been, 
 My heart it is like for to break 
 When I think on the day's we 
 ha'e seen. 
 
 Our flocks feeding close by his side. 
 
 He gently pressing my hand, 
 I view'd the wide world in its pride, 
 
 And laugh'd at the pomp of com- 
 mand! 
 My dear, he would oft to me say. 
 
 What makes you hard-hearted to me? 
 Oh ! why do you thus turn away 
 
 From him who is dying for thee ? 
 
 But now he is far from my sight, 
 
 Perhaps a deceiver may prove. 
 Which makes me lament day and night, 
 
 That ever I granted my love. 
 At eve, when the rest of the folk 
 
 Are merrily seated to spin, 
 I set myself under an oak. 
 
 And heavily sighed for him. 
 
 AS I WAS A-WALKING. 
 
 herd's collection. 
 
 As I was a walking ae May morning. 
 The fiddlers an' youngsters were 
 making their game, 
 
 And their I saw my faithless lover, 
 
 And a' my sorrows returned again. 
 Well since he is gane, joy gang wi' him, 
 It's ne'er be he shall gar me com- 
 plain; 
 I'll cheer up my heart, and I will get 
 anither; 
 I'll never lay a' my love upon ane. 
 
 I could na get sleeping yestreen for 
 weeping, 
 The tears ran down like showers o' 
 rain; 
 An' had na I got greiting my heart 
 wad a broken; 
 And O ! but love's a tormenting pain. 
 But since he is gane, may joy gae wi' 
 him; 
 It's never be he that shall gar me 
 complain; 
 I'll cheer up my heart, and I will get 
 anither; 
 I'll never lay a' my love upon ane. 
 
 When I gade into my mither's new 
 house, 
 I took my wheel and sat down to 
 spin, 
 'Twas there I first began my thrift; 
 
 And a' the wooers came linking in. 
 It was gear he was seeking, but gear 
 he'll na get; 
 And its never be he that shall gar 
 me complain: 
 For I'll cheer up my heart, and I'll 
 soon get anither; 
 I'll never lay a' my love upon ane. 
 
 THE HUMBLE BEGGAR. 
 herd's collection. 
 
 A very old song. 
 
 In Scotland there lived a humble 
 beggar. 
 He had neither house, nor hald, 
 nor hame,
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 65 
 
 But he was weel liked by ilka bodie, 
 And they ga'e him sunkets to rax 
 his wame. 
 
 A nivefu' of meal, a handfu' of groats, 
 A daad of bannock, or herring brie, 
 
 Cauld parridge, or the lickings of plates 
 Wad mak' him as blythe as a beggar 
 could be. 
 
 This beggar he was a humble beggar. 
 The feint a bit of pride had he. 
 
 He wad a ta'en his a'ms in a bikker, 
 Frae gentleman, or poor bodie. 
 
 His wallets ahint and afore did hang, 
 
 In as good order as wallets could be, 
 
 And a lang kail-gooly hang down by 
 
 his side, 
 
 And a meikle nowt-horn to rout on 
 
 had he. 
 
 It happen'd ill, it happen'd warse. 
 It happen'd sae that he did die; 
 
 And wha do you think was at h's 
 late-wake, 
 But lads and lasses of a high degree. 
 
 Some were blythe and some were sad, 
 And some they play'd at Blind 
 Harrie; 
 But suddenly up-started the auld 
 carle, 
 I redd ye, good folks, tak' tent o' 
 me. 
 
 Up gat Kate that sat i' the nook. 
 Vow kimmer, and how do ye } 
 
 Up he gat, and ca't her limmer, 
 And ruggit and tuggit her cocker- 
 nonie. 
 
 They houkit his grave in Duket's 
 kirk-yard. 
 E'en far frae the companie: 
 But when they were gaun to lay him 
 i' the yird, 
 The feint a dead nor dead was he. 
 
 And when they brought him to 
 Duket's kirk-yard. 
 He dunted on the kist the boards 
 did flee: 
 And when they were gaun to put him 
 i' the yird, 
 In fell the kist, and out lap he. 
 
 He cried, I'm cauld I'm unco cauld ; 
 Fu' fast ran the fock, and fu' fast 
 ran he: 
 But he was first hame at his ain ingle 
 side. 
 And he helped to drink his ain 
 dirgie 
 
 THE LOVE O' SILLER. 
 herd's collection. 
 
 'Tis na very lang sirlsyne. 
 
 That I had a lad o' my ain; 
 But now he's awa' to anither. 
 
 And left me a' my lane. 
 The lass he is courting has siller, 
 
 And I ha'e nane at a', 
 And 'tis nought but the love o' the 
 tocher 
 
 That's tane my lad awa' 
 
 But I'm blythe that my heart's my ain. 
 
 And I'll keep it a' my life, 
 Until that I meet wi' a lad, 
 
 Wha has sense to wale a good wife. 
 For though I say't mysel', 
 
 That should nae say't, 'tis true, 
 The lad that gets me for a wife 
 
 He'll ne'er ha'e occasion to rue. 
 
 I gang aye fu' clean and fu' tosh, 
 
 As a' the neighbors can tell. 
 Though I've seldom a gown on my 
 back, 
 
 But sic as I spin mysel'; 
 And when I'm clad in my curtsey, 
 
 I think mysel' as braw 
 As Susie, wi' her pearling, 
 
 That's tane my lad awa'.
 
 66 
 
 CELEBRATED S0N08 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 But I wish they were buckl'd the- 
 gither, 
 
 And may they live happy for life; 
 Though Willie now slights me, an's 
 left me, 
 
 The chiel he deserves a gude wife. 
 But, O! I am blythe that I miss'd him, 
 
 As blythe as I weel can be; 
 For ane that's sae keen o' the siller, 
 
 Would never agree wi' me. 
 
 But the truth is, I am aye hearty, 
 
 I hate to be scrimpit or scrant; 
 The wee thing I ha'e I'll mak' useo't. 
 
 And there's nane about me shall 
 want: 
 For I'm a gude guide o' the warld, 
 
 I ken when to haud and to gi'e; 
 But whinging and cringing for siller 
 
 Would never agree wi' me. 
 
 Contentment is better than riches, 
 
 And he wha has that has enough; 
 The master is seldom sae happy 
 
 As Robin that drives the plough. 
 But if a young lad wad cast up, 
 
 To mak' me his partner for life. 
 If the chiel has the sense to be happy, 
 
 He'll fa' on his feet for a wife. 
 
 PATIE'S WEDDIN'. 
 
 herd's collection. 
 
 Nothing is known about the author of 
 this once popular song. It is undoubted- 
 ly of an earlier date than Herd's Collection. 
 The air used to be sung to some silly 
 verses beginning : 
 
 "We'll put the sheep's head in the pat, 
 Horns and a' thegether" etc. 
 
 Maggie, lass, dinna ye ken 
 
 That you and I's gaun to be 
 married ? 
 
 1 had rather had broken my leg, 
 Before sic a bargain miscarried. 
 
 O Patie, lad, wha tell'd ye that ? 
 
 I think o' news they've been scanty. 
 I'm nae to be married the year. 
 
 Though I should be courted by 
 twenty! 
 Now, Maggie, what gars ye to taunt? 
 
 Is 't 'cause that I ha'ena a mailen? 
 The lad that has gear needna want 
 
 For neither a half nor a haill ane. 
 
 My dad has a gude grey meare, 
 
 And yours has twa cows and a filly; 
 And that will be plenty o'gear: 
 
 Sae, Maggie, be na sae ill-willy. 
 Weel, Patie, lad, I dinna ken; 
 
 But first ye maun speir at my daddie; 
 You're quite as weel born as Ben, 
 
 And I canna say but I'm ready. 
 
 We ha'e walth o' yarn in clews. 
 
 To mak' me a coat and a jimpey, 
 And plaidin' eneuch to be trews — 
 
 Gif I get ye, I shanna scrimp ye! 
 Now fair fa' ye, my bonnie Meg! 
 
 I'se e'en let a smackie fa' on ye: 
 May my neck be as lang as my leg. 
 
 If I be an ill husband unto ye! 
 
 As Patie cam' up frae the glen, 
 Drivin' his wedders before him, 
 
 He met bonnie Meg ganging hame — 
 Her beauty was like for to smoore 
 him. 
 
 Sae gang your ways hame e'en now; 
 
 Mak' ready gin this day fifteen days, 
 And tell your father fra me, 
 
 I'll be his gude-son in great kind- 
 ness. 
 Maggie's as blythe as a wran, 
 
 Bndin' the blast o' ill weather. 
 And a' the gaite singin' she ran. 
 
 To tell the news to her father. 
 
 But aye the auld man cried out. 
 He'll no be of that mind on Sunday. 
 
 There's nae fear o' that quo' Meg; 
 For I gat a kiss on the bounty.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 G7 
 
 And what was the matter o' that? 
 
 It was naething out o' his pocket, 
 I wish the news were true, 
 
 And we had him fairly bookit. 
 
 A very wee while after that, 
 
 Wha cam' to our biggin but Patie 
 Dress'd up in a braw new coat. 
 
 And wow but he thocht himsel' 
 pretty! 
 His bonnet was little frae new, 
 
 And in it a loop and a slittie, 
 To draw in a ribbon sae blue, 
 
 To bab at the neck o' his coatie. 
 
 Then Patie cam' in wi' a stend; 
 
 Cried, Peace be under the biggin! 
 You're welcome, quo' William, Come 
 ben, 
 
 Or I wish it may rive frae the riggin' ! 
 Now draw in your seat, and sit doun. 
 
 And tell's a' your news in a hurry: 
 And haste ye, Meg, and be dune. 
 
 And hing on the pan wi' the berry. 
 
 Quoth Patie, My news is nae thrang; 
 
 Yestreen I was wi' his honor; 
 I've ta'en three rigs o' braw land. 
 
 And bound myself under a honor; 
 And, now, my errand to you. 
 
 Is for Maggie to help me to labor ; 
 But I'm fear'd we'll need your best 
 cow. 
 
 Because that our haddin's but sober. 
 
 Quoth William, To harl ye through, 
 
 I'll be at the cost o' the bridal, 
 I'se cut the craig o' the ewe. 
 
 That had amaist dee'd o' the side- 
 ill: 
 And that'll be plenty o' bree, 
 
 Sae lang as our well is na reested, 
 To a' the neebors and you; 
 
 Sae I think we'll be nae that ill 
 feasted. 
 
 Quoth Patie, O that'll do well, 
 
 And I'll gie you your brose i' the 
 mornin', 
 
 O' kail that was made yestreen, 
 
 For I like them best i' the forenoon. 
 Sae Tarn, the piper, did play ; 
 
 And ilka ane danced that was 
 willin'; 
 And a' the lave they rankit through; 
 And they held the wee stoupie aye 
 fiUin'. 
 
 The auld wives sat and they chew'd; 
 And when that the carles grew 
 nappy. 
 They danced as well as they dow d 
 Wi' a crack o' their thooms and a 
 happie. 
 The lad that wore the white band, 
 
 I think they ca'd him Jamie Mather, 
 He took the bride by the hand, 
 And cried to play up Maggie 
 Lauder. 
 
 OUR GOODMAN CAME HAME 
 
 AT E'EN. 
 
 herd's collection. 
 
 There are various versions of this old 
 and very humorous song in existence. Mr. 
 Stenhouse says : "Johnson, the publisher 
 of the Museum, after several unavailing 
 researches, was at length informed that an 
 old man of the name of Geikie, a hair- 
 dresser in the Candlemaker's Row, Edin- 
 burgh, sang the verses charmingly and 
 that the tune was uncommonly fine. Ac- 
 cordingly, he and his friend Mr. Clarke 
 took a step to Geikie's lodgings, and in- 
 vited him to an inn to crack a bottle with 
 them. They soon made him very merry, 
 and on being requested to favor them with 
 the song, he readily complied and sang it 
 with great glee. Mr. Clarke took down 
 the notes, and arranged the song for the 
 Museum, in whieh work the words and 
 music first appeared together in print." It 
 still remains one of the most popular 
 songs in our national collection. 
 
 Our goodman came hame at e'en, 
 
 And hame came he; 
 And there he saw a saddle horse, 
 
 Where nae horse should be.
 
 68 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 How came this horse here ? 
 
 How can this be ? 
 How came this horse here 
 
 Without the leave o' me? 
 
 A horse ! quo' she: 
 Ay, a horse, quo' he. 
 Ye auld blind dotard carle, 
 
 Blind mat ye be, 
 'Tis naething but a bonny milk cow, 
 My minnie sent to me. 
 
 A milk cow! quo' he: 
 Ay, a milk cow, quo' she. 
 Far hae I ridden, 
 
 And meikle hae I seen. 
 But a saddle on a cow's back 
 Saw I never nane. 
 
 Our goodman came hame at e'en, 
 
 And hame came he; 
 He spy'd a pair of jackboots, 
 
 Where nae boots should be. 
 
 What's this now, goodwife ? 
 
 What's this I see ? 
 How came these boots there 
 
 Without the leave o' me ? 
 
 Boots! quo' she: 
 Ay, boots, quo' he. 
 Shame fa' your cuckold face, 
 
 And ill mat ye see. 
 It's but a pair of water stoups 
 The cooper sent to me. 
 
 Water stoups! quo' he: 
 Ay, water stoups, quo' she. 
 Far hae I ridden, 
 
 And farer hae I gane. 
 But siller spurs on water stoups 
 Saw I never nane. 
 
 Our goodman came hame at e'en, 
 
 And hame came he; 
 And then he saw a siller sword. 
 
 Where a sword should nae be: 
 
 What's this now, goodwife ? 
 
 What's this I see ? 
 O how came this sword here 
 
 Without the leave o' me ? 
 
 A sword! quo' she: 
 Ay, a sword, quo' he. 
 Shame fa' your cuckold face. 
 
 And ill mat ye see, 
 It's but a parridge spurtle 
 My minnie sent to me. 
 
 A parridge spurtle! quo' he: 
 Ay, a parridge, spurtle, quo' she. 
 Weil, far hae I ridden. 
 
 And muckle hae I seen; 
 But siller-handed spurtles 
 Saw I never nane. 
 
 Our goodman came hame at e'en, 
 
 And hame came he; 
 There he spy'd a powder'd wig. 
 
 Where nae wig should be. 
 
 What's this now, goodwife ? 
 
 What's this I see ? 
 How came this wig here 
 
 Without the leave o' me ? 
 
 A wig! quo' she: 
 Ay, a wig quo' he. 
 Shame fa' your cuckold face, 
 
 And ill mat you see, 
 'Tis naething but a clocken hen 
 My minnie sent to me. 
 
 A clocken hen! quo' he: 
 Ay, a clocken hen, quo' she. 
 Far hae I ridden, 
 
 And muckle hae I seen. 
 But powder on a clocken-hen 
 Saw I never nane. 
 
 Our goodman came hame at e'en. 
 
 And hame came he; 
 And there he saw a muckle coat, 
 
 Where nae coat shou'd be.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 69 
 
 O how came this coat here? 
 
 How can this be ? 
 How came this coat here 
 
 Without the leave o' me ? 
 
 A coat! quo' she: 
 Ay, a coat, quo' he. 
 Ye auld blind dotard carle. 
 
 Blind mat ye be, 
 It's but a pair of blankets 
 My minnie sent to me. 
 
 Blankets! quo' he: 
 Ay, blankets, quo' she. 
 Far hae I ridden, 
 
 And muckle hae I seen. 
 But buttons upon blankets 
 Saw I never nane. 
 
 Ben went our goodman, 
 
 And ben went he; 
 And there he spy'd a sturdy man, 
 
 Where nae man should be. 
 
 How came this man here? 
 
 How can this be ? 
 How came this man here 
 
 Without the leave o' me ? 
 
 A man ! quo' she: 
 Ay, a man, quo' he. 
 Poor blind body, 
 
 And blinder mat ye be. 
 It's a new milking maid. 
 My mither sent to me. 
 
 A maid! quo' he: 
 Ay, a maid, quo' she. 
 Far hae I ridden, 
 
 And muckle hae I seen. 
 But lang-bearded maidens 
 I saw never nane. 
 
 THE DECEIVER. 
 
 herd's collection. 
 
 With tuneful pipe and hearty glee, 
 Young Watty wan my heart; 
 
 A blyther lad ye couldna see, 
 All beauty without art. 
 His winning tale 
 Did soon prevail 
 To gain my fond belief; 
 But soon the swain 
 Gangs o'er the plain. 
 And leaves me full, and leaves me full, 
 And leaves me full of grief. 
 
 Though Colin courts with tuneful sang. 
 
 Yet few regard his name; 
 The lasses a' round Watty thrang, 
 While Colin 's left alane: 
 ■ In Aberdeen 
 
 Was never seen 
 A lad that gave sic pain; 
 He daily wooes, 
 And still pursues. 
 Till he does all, till he does all, 
 Till he does all obtain. 
 
 But soon as he has gain'd the bliss, 
 
 Away then does he run. 
 And hardly will afford a kiss. 
 To silly me undone: 
 Bonnie Katy, 
 Maggy, Beaty, 
 Avoid the roving swain, 
 His wyly tongue 
 Be sure to shun. 
 Or you like me, or you like me, 
 Like me will be undone. 
 
 WOO'D, AND MARRIED, AND 
 A'. 
 
 herd's collection. 
 
 Although this song first appeared in 
 Herd's Collection (1776), it is of much older 
 date, as it was known and sung in differ- 
 ent parts of Scotland long before the time 
 of Allan Ramsay. Many authorities as- 
 cribe it to Alexander Ross, the author of 
 " Helenore, or the Fortunate Shepherd- 
 ess," but we can find no proof tending in 
 an}' way to confirm the report that he was 
 the author of it. We think therefore, that 
 the name of the author is yet to be discov-
 
 70 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 ered. As a song it is equal lo any of our 
 old favorites, especially our humorous 
 ones. The air is also v-ery popular, and 
 different songs have been written for it, the 
 best of these being" Donald Macdonald," 
 by James Hogg. 
 
 The bride cam' out o' the byre, 
 
 And, O, as she dighted her cheeks! 
 Sirs, I'm to be married the night. 
 And have neither blankets nor 
 sheets; 
 Have neither blankets nor sheets, 
 
 Nor scarce a coverlet too; 
 The bride that has a' to borrow, 
 Has e'en right muckle ado. 
 Woo'd, and married, and a', 
 
 Married, and woo'd, and a'! 
 And v/as she nae very weel off, 
 That was woo'd, and married, 
 and a'? 
 
 Out spake the bride's father, 
 
 As he cam' in frae the pleugh, 
 O, haud your tongue, my dochter, 
 
 And ye'se get gear eneugh; 
 The stirk stands i' th' tether, 
 
 And our bra' bawsint yade, 
 Will carry ye hame your corn — 
 
 What wad ye be at, ye jade ? 
 
 Out spake the bride's mither, 
 
 What deil needs a' this pride ? 
 I had nae a plack in my pouch 
 
 That night I was a bride; 
 My gown was linsy-woolsy, 
 
 And ne'er a sark ava; 
 And ye ha'e ribbons and buskins, 
 
 Mae than ane or twa. 
 
 What's the matter, quo' Willie; 
 
 Though we be scant o' claes, 
 We'll creep the closer thegither, 
 
 And we'll smoor a' the fleas; 
 Simmer is coming on, 
 
 And we'll get taits o' woo; 
 And we'll get a lass o' our ain. 
 
 And she'll spin claiths anew. 
 
 Out spake the bride's brither, 
 
 As he came in wi' the kie; 
 Poor Willie had ne'er a' ta'en ye, 
 
 Had he kent ye as weel as I; 
 For you're baith proud and saucy, 
 
 And no for a poor man's wife; 
 Gin I canna get a better, 
 
 Ise never tak ane i' my life. 
 
 Out spake the bride's sister. 
 As she came in frae the byre; 
 
 gin I were but married. 
 It's a' that I desire: 
 
 But we poor fo'k maun live single, 
 And do the best we can; 
 
 1 dinna care what I shou'd want, 
 If I could get but a man. 
 
 FEE HIM, FATHER, FEE HIM, 
 
 QUO' SHE. 
 
 herd's collection. 
 
 The fine air of " Fee him, father," was 
 a favorite of Burns. In a letter to Mr. 
 Thomson, dated September, 1793, he sa}-s, 
 " I inclose you Eraser's set of this tune; 
 when he plays it slow, in fact, he makes it 
 the language of despair. Were it possible 
 in singing to give it half the pathos which 
 Fraser gives it in playing, it would make 
 an admirable pathetic song." 
 
 Saw ye Johnny comin', quo' she, 
 
 Saw ye Johnny comin'; 
 Saw ye Johnny comin', quo' she, 
 
 Saw ye Johnny comin'; 
 Saw ye Johnny comin', quo' she. 
 
 Saw ye Johnny comin'; 
 Wi' his blue bonnet on his head. 
 
 And his doggie rinnin', quo' she. 
 
 And his doggie rinnin'? 
 
 Fee him, father, fee him, quo' she, 
 Fee him, father, fee him; 
 
 Fee him, father, fee him, quo' she, 
 Fee him, father, fee him;
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 71 
 
 For he is gallant lad, 
 
 And a weel-doin'; 
 And a' the work about the house, 
 
 Gaes wi' me when I see him, quo* she 
 
 Wi' me when I see him. 
 
 What will I do wi' him, quo' he, 
 
 What will I do wi' him ? 
 He's ne'er a sark upon his back, 
 
 And I ha'e nane to gi'e him. 
 I ha'e twa sarks into my kist. 
 
 And ane o' them I'll gi'e him; 
 And for a merk o' mair fee, 
 
 Dinna stand wi' him, quo' she, 
 
 Dinna stand wi' him. 
 
 For weel do I lo'e him, quo' she, 
 
 Weel do I lo'e him; 
 For weel do I lo'e him, quo' she, 
 
 Weel do I lo'e him. 
 O, fee him, father, fee him, quo' she, 
 
 Fee him, father, fee him; 
 He'll haud the pleugh, thrash in the 
 barn, 
 
 And crack wi' me at e'en, quo' she, 
 
 And crack wi' me at e'en. 
 
 SAW YE NAE MY PEGGY. 
 
 herd's collection. 
 
 " This charming song is much older, and, 
 indeed superior, to Ramsa)''s verses, 'The 
 Toast,' as he calls them. The original 
 words, for they can scarcely be called 
 verses, seem to be as follows — a song fa- 
 miliar from the cradle to every Scottish 
 ear: 
 
 ' Saw ye my Maggie, 
 Saw ye my Maggie, 
 Saw ye my Maggie, 
 Linkin o'er the lea? 
 
 High kilted was she. 
 High kilted was she, 
 High kilted was she, 
 Her coat aboon her knee. 
 
 What mark has your Maggie, 
 What mark has your Maggie, 
 What mark has your Maggie, 
 That ane may ken her be ? {by)' 
 
 Though it by no means follows that the 
 silliest verses to an air must, for that reas- 
 
 on, be the original song, yet I take this 
 ballad, of which I have quoted part, to be 
 the old verses. The two songs in Ramsay, 
 one of them evidently his own, are never 
 to be met with in the fireside circle of our 
 peasantry, while that which I take to be 
 the old song, is in every shepherd's mouth. 
 Ramsay, I suppose, had thought the old 
 verses unworthy of a place in his collect- 
 ion." — Burns. 
 
 Saw ye nae my Peggy, 
 Saw ye nae my Peggy, 
 Saw ye nae my Peggy, 
 Coming ower the lea ? 
 
 Sure a finer creature 
 Ne'er was formed by Nature, 
 So complete each feature, 
 So divine is she! 
 
 O! how Peggy charms me; 
 Every look still warms me; 
 Every thought alarms me; 
 Lest she lo'e nae me. 
 
 Peggy doth discover 
 Nought but charms all over: 
 Nature bids me love her; 
 That's a law to me. 
 
 Who would leave a lover, 
 To become a rover ? 
 No, I'll ne'er give over. 
 Till I happy be. 
 
 For since love inspires me. 
 As her beauty fires me, 
 And her absence tires me. 
 Nought can please but she. 
 
 When I hope to gain her, 
 Fate seems to detain her; 
 Could I but obtain he, 
 Happy would I be! 
 
 I'll lie down before her, 
 Bless, sigh, and adore her. 
 With faint looks implore her, 
 Till she pity me.
 
 72 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 ROSLIN CASTLE. 
 herd's collection. 
 
 Roslin Castle is situated a few miles 
 southwest from Edinburgh. It stands on 
 an isolated, precipitous rock overlooking 
 the River Esk, and is supposed to have 
 been built about the end of the nth Cen- 
 tu^)^ It is now a mouldering mass of 
 ruins about two hundred feet long and 
 ninet)' feet broad. The air of the song is 
 undoubtedly very old. It is to be found 
 in M'Gibbon's Collection of Scotch Tunes, 
 where it is called "The House of Glamas." 
 The words of the original song have been 
 lost. The present set were probably writ- 
 ten after Ramsa3''s time. 
 
 From Roslin castle's echoing walls 
 Resound my shepherd's ardent calls, 
 My Colin bids me come away, 
 And love demands I should obey. 
 His melting strain and tuneful lay, 
 So much the charms of love display, 
 I yield — nor longer can refrain 
 To own my love, and bless my swain. 
 
 No longer can my heart conceal 
 The painful pleasing flame I feel, 
 My soul retorts the am'rous strain, 
 And echoes back in love again; 
 Where lurks my songster ? from what 
 
 grove 
 Does Colin pour his notes of love ? 
 O bring me to the happy bow'r, 
 Where mutual love may bliss secure. 
 
 Ye vocal hills that catch the song, 
 Repeating, as it flies along. 
 To Colin's ear my strain convey. 
 And say, I haste to come away. 
 Ye zephyrs soft that fan the gale, 
 Waft to my love the soothing tale; 
 In whispers all my soul express. 
 And tell, I haste his arms to bless. 
 
 And a bonnie wee wifie to praise and 
 
 admire, 
 Wi' a bonnie wee yairdie aside a wee 
 
 burn — 
 Farewell to the bodies that yaumer 
 
 and mourn. 
 
 Sae bide ye yet, and bide ye yet, 
 Ye little ken what's to betide ye 
 
 yet; 
 Some bonnie wee body may fa' to 
 
 my lot. 
 An' I'll aye be canty wi' thinkin*^ 
 
 o't. 
 
 When I gang afield an' come hame at 
 
 e'en, 
 I'll get my wee wifie fu' neat and fu^ 
 
 clean, 
 Wi' a bonnie wee bairnie upon her 
 
 knee. 
 That '11 cry papa or daddy to me. 
 
 Sae bide ye yet, &c. 
 
 An' if there should ever happen to be 
 A difference atween my wee wifie 
 
 and me, 
 In hearty good humor, altho' she be 
 
 teased, 
 I'll kiss her and clap her until she 
 
 be pleased. 
 Sae bide ye yet, «Sz:c. 
 
 BIDE YE YET. 
 herd's collection. 
 
 Gin I had a wee hoose an' a canty 
 wee fire, 
 
 MY WIFE'S A WANTON WEE 
 
 THING. 
 
 The first two verses appeared in Herd's 
 Collection, the rest appears in Johnson's 
 Museum. 
 
 My wife's a wanton wee thing, 
 My wife's a wanton wee thing, 
 My wife's a wanton wee thing. 
 She winna be guided by me. 
 
 She play'd the loon ere she wa? 
 
 married, 
 She play'd the loon ere she was 
 
 married,
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 73 
 
 She play'd the loon ere she was 
 married; 
 She'll do't again ere she die! 
 
 She sell'd her coat, and she drank it, 
 She sell'd her coat, and she drank it, 
 She row'd hersel in a blanket; 
 She winna be guided by me. 
 
 She mind't na when I forbade her, 
 She mind't na when I forbade her; 
 I took a rung and I claw'd her. 
 And a braw guid bairn was she! 
 
 THE PLOUGHMAN. 
 herd's collection. 
 
 The ploughman he's a bonnie lad, 
 And a' his wark's at leisure, 
 
 And when that he comes hame at e'en, 
 He kisses me wi' pleasure. 
 
 Then up wi't now, my ploughman 
 lad, 
 And hey, my merry ploughman; 
 Of a' the lads that I do fee. 
 Commend me to the plough- 
 man. 
 
 Now the blooming Spring comes on. 
 He takes his yoking early, 
 
 And whistling o'er the furrowed land, 
 He goes to fallow clearly. 
 
 Then up wi't now, &c. 
 
 When my ploughman comes hame at 
 e'en, 
 
 He's aften wat and weary; 
 Cast aflf the wat, put on the dry, 
 
 And gae to bed, my dearie. 
 
 Then up wi't now, &c. 
 
 I will wash my ploughman's hose. 
 And I will wash his o'erlay: 
 
 I will mak' my ploughman's bed, 
 And cheer him late and early. 
 
 Merry butt, and merry ben. 
 Merry is my ploughman, 
 
 Of a' the trades that I do ken, 
 Commend me to the plough- 
 
 man. 
 
 Plough yon hill, and plough yon dale, 
 
 Plough your faugh and fallow, 
 Wha winna drink the ploughman's 
 health, 
 Is but a dirty fellow. 
 Merry butt, and &c. 
 
 O GIN MY LOVE WERE YON 
 RED ROSE. 
 
 From Herd's MS. It was also printed 
 
 by Sir Walter Scott in the Minstrelsy of 
 the Scottish Border. 
 
 O GIN my love were yon red rose, 
 That grows upon the castle wa'. 
 
 And I mysel' a drap of dew, 
 
 Down on that red rose I would fa'. 
 
 O my love's bonnie, bonnie, 
 bonnie; 
 My love's bonnie and fair to 
 see: 
 Whene'er I look on her well-far'd 
 face, 
 She looks and smiles again to 
 me. 
 
 O gin my love were a pickle of wheat. 
 And growing upon yon lily lee. 
 
 And I mysel' a bonnie wee bird, 
 Awa' wi' that pickle o* wheat I wad 
 flee. 
 
 O my love's bonnie, &c. 
 
 gin my love were a coffer o' gowd. 
 And I the keeper of the key, 
 
 1 wad open the kist whene'er I list, 
 
 And in that coffer I wad be. 
 O my love's bonnie, &c.
 
 74 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 GALA WATER. 
 
 herd's collection. 
 
 The earliest known version of this very 
 beautiful song. 
 
 Braw, braw lads of Gala Water, 
 O! braw lads of Gala Water; 
 
 I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, 
 And follow my love through the 
 water. 
 
 Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow, 
 Sae bonnie blue her een, and cheerie, 
 
 Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou', 
 I aften kiss her till I'm wearie. 
 
 Ower yon bank, and ower yon brae, 
 Ower yon moss amang the heather, 
 
 I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, 
 And follow my love through the 
 water. 
 
 Down amang the broom, the broom, 
 
 Down amang the broom sae drearie. 
 The lassie lost her silken snood 
 That garther greet till she was wearie. 
 
 FARE YE WELL MY AULD 
 WIFE. 
 
 ,)-, 
 
 HERD S COLLECTION. 
 A fragment of an old song. 
 
 And fare ye weel, my auld wife; 
 
 Sing bum, bee, berry, bum; 
 Fare ye weel, my auld wife; 
 
 Sing bum, bum, bum. 
 Fare ye weel, my auld wife, 
 The steerer up o' sturt and strife, 
 The maut 's abune the meal the nicht, 
 
 Wi' some, some, some. 
 
 And fare ye weel, my pike-staff; 
 
 Sing bum, bee, berry, bum; 
 Fare ye weel, my pike-staff; 
 
 Sing bum, bum, bum. 
 
 Fare ye weel, my pike-staff, 
 Wi' you nae mair my wife I'll baff; 
 The maut 's abune the meal the nicht, 
 Wi' some, some, some. 
 
 OLD KING COUL. 
 
 herd's collection. 
 
 Old King Coul, according to tradition, 
 flourished in the 5th Century. He was 
 ruler over Coila (Ayrshire). 
 
 Old King Coul was a jolly old soul, 
 
 And a jolly old soul was he; 
 And old King Coul he had a brown 
 bowl, 
 And they brought him in fiddlers 
 three; 
 And every fiddler was a very good 
 fiddler. 
 And a very good fiddler was he: 
 Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the 
 fiddlers three: 
 And there's no a lass in a' Scotland, 
 Compared to our sweet Marjorie. 
 
 Old King Coul was a jolly old soul, 
 
 And a jolly old soul was he; 
 Old King Coul, he had a brown 
 bowl. 
 And they brought him in pipers 
 three: 
 Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, 
 how-diddle went the pipers 
 three: 
 Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the 
 fiddlers three: 
 And there's no a lass in a' the land, 
 Compared to our sweet Marjorie. 
 
 Old King Coul was a jolly old soul, 
 
 And a jolly old soul was he; 
 Old King Coul, he had a brown 
 bowl. 
 And they brought him in harpers 
 three:
 
 CELEBRATED SONOS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 75 
 
 Twingle - tvvangle, twingle - twangle, 
 
 went the harpers; 
 
 Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, 
 
 how-diddle, went the pipers; 
 
 Fiddle -diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the 
 
 fiddlers three: 
 
 And there's no a lass in a' the land. 
 
 Compared to our sweet Marjorie. 
 
 Old King Coul was a jolly old soul. 
 And a jolly old soul was he; 
 Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl, 
 And they brought him in trum- 
 peters three: 
 Twarra-rang, twarra-rang, went the 
 
 trumpeters; 
 Twingle - twangle, twingle - twangle, 
 
 went the harpers; 
 Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, 
 how-diddle, went the pipers; 
 Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the 
 fiddlers three: 
 And there's no a lass in a' Scotland, 
 Compared to sweet Marjorie. 
 
 Old King Coul was a jolly old soul. 
 
 And a jolly old soul was he; 
 Old King Coul, he had a brown 
 bowl. 
 And they brought him in 
 drummers three: 
 Rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub, went the 
 
 drummers; 
 Twarra-rang, twarra-rang, went the 
 
 trumpeters; 
 Twingle - twangle, twingle - twangle, 
 
 went the harpers; 
 Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, 
 how-diddle, went the pipers; 
 Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the 
 fiddlers three; 
 And there's no a lass in a' the land, 
 Compared to sweet Marjorie. 
 
 CAULD KAH. IN ABERDEEN. 
 herd's collection. 
 The Bogie is a stream running through 
 
 the Valley of Strathbogie, in Aberdeen- 
 shire. 
 
 According to Doctor Robert Chambers, 
 "Cauld Kail in Aberdeen" does not refer 
 to any "mess connected with the ancient 
 city, but a metaphorical allusion to the 
 faded love-fervors of an aged nobleman 
 who, in spite of years, was presuming to 
 pay his addresses to a young lady." 
 
 Cauld kail in Aberdeen, 
 
 And custocks in Strathbogie, 
 
 But yet I fear they'll cook o'er soon, 
 And never warm the cogie. 
 
 The lasses about Bogie gicht, 
 
 Their limbs they are sae clean and 
 tight. 
 
 That if they were but girded right, 
 They'll dance the reel o' Bogie. 
 
 Wow, Aberdeen, what did you mean, 
 
 Sae young a maid to woo, sir? 
 I'm sure it was nae joke to her, 
 
 Whate'er it was to you, sir. 
 For lasses now are no sae blate 
 But they ken auld folk's out o' date, 
 And better playfare can they get 
 Than custocks in Strathbogie. 
 
 CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN. 
 
 The following convivial version of this 
 popular song is alluded to by Burns as an 
 "old song." The name of the author is 
 unknown. 
 
 There's cauld kail in Aberdeen, 
 And custocks in Stra'bogie, 
 
 Where ilka lad maun ha'e his lass, 
 But I maun ha'e my cogie. 
 
 For I maun ha'e my cogie, sirs, 
 I canna want my cogie; 
 
 I widna gi'e my three-gir'd cog 
 For a' the wives in Bogie. 
 
 Johnny Smith has got a wife 
 Wha scrimps him o' his cogie: 
 
 But were she mine, upon my life, 
 I'd dook her in a bogie.
 
 76 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 For I maun ha'e my cogie, sirs, 
 I canna want my cogie; 
 
 I wadna gi'e my three-gir'd cog 
 For a' the wives in Bogie. 
 
 Twa three todlin' weans they ha'e, 
 
 The pride o' a' Stra'bogie; 
 Whene'er the totums cry for meat, 
 She curses aye his cogie ; 
 
 Crying, Wae betide the three- 
 gir'd cog ! 
 Oh! wae betide the cogie! 
 It does mair skaith than a' the ills 
 That happen in Stra'bogie. 
 
 She fand him ance at Willie Sharp's; 
 
 And, what the maist did laugh at, 
 She brak the bicker, spilt the drink. 
 And tightly gouff'd his hafifet. 
 Crying, Wae betide the three- 
 gir'd cog! 
 Oh, wae betide the cogie, 
 It does mair skaith than a' the ills 
 That happen in Stra'bogie. 
 
 Yet here's to ilka honest soul 
 
 Wha'll drink wi' me a cogie, 
 And for ilk silly whinging fool, 
 We'll dook him in a bogie. 
 
 For I maun ha'e my cogie, sirs, 
 
 I canna want my cogie; 
 I wadna gi'e my three-gir'd cog 
 For a' the queans in Bogie. 
 
 CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN. 
 
 ALEXANDER, FOURTH DUKE OF 
 GORDON. 
 
 There's cauld kail in Aberdeen, 
 
 And custocks in Stra'bogie, 
 Gin I ha'e but a bonnie lass, 
 
 Ye're welcome to your cogie. 
 And ye may sit up a' the night. 
 And drink till it be braid day-light: 
 Gi'e me a lass baith clean and tight. 
 To dance the reel o' Bogie. 
 
 In cotillions the French excel, 
 John Bull loves country dances; 
 
 The Spaniards dance fandangoes well ; 
 Mynheer an allemande prances: 
 
 In foursome reels the Scots delight ; 
 
 At threesome's they dance wondrous 
 light, ^ _ 
 
 But twasome's ding a' out o' sight, 
 Danc'd to the reel o' Bogie. 
 
 Come, lads, and view your partners 
 weel. 
 
 Wale each a blythesome rogie: 
 I'll tak' this lassie to mysel', 
 
 She looks sae clean and vogie : 
 Now, piper lad, bang up the spring; 
 The country fashion is the thing. 
 To prie their mou's ere we begin 
 
 To dance the reel o' Bogie. 
 
 Now ilka lad has got a lass. 
 
 Save yon auld doited fogie. 
 And ta'en a fling upon the grass, 
 
 As they do in Stra'bogie ; 
 But a' the lasses look sae fain. 
 We canna think oursel's to hain, 
 For they maun ha'e their come-again 
 To dance the reel o' Bogie. 
 
 Now a' the lads ha'e done their best, 
 Like true men o' Stra'bogie ; 
 
 We'll stop a-while and tak' a rest. 
 And tipple out a cogie. 
 
 Come now, my lads, and tak' your 
 glass, 
 
 And try ilk other to surpass. 
 
 In wishing health to ev'ry lass, 
 To dance the reel o' Bogie. 
 
 THE WEE WIFUKIE. 
 
 DR. A. GEDDES. 
 
 The present sonij h.is always been a 
 special favorite in Scotland on account of 
 the excellent humor which it displays. Dr. 
 A. Geddes was a clergyman of the Roman 
 Catholic Church. He was born at Banff- 
 in 1737 and died at London in 1S02. He
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 77 
 
 was the author of numerous Theological 
 works, besides a translation of the Sacred 
 Scriptures. 
 
 There was a wee bit wifukie, was 
 
 comin' frae the fair, 
 Had got a wee bit drappukie, that 
 
 bred her meikle care, 
 It gaed about the wifie's heart, and 
 
 she began to spew, 
 O! quo' the wee wifukie, I wish I 
 
 binna fou. 
 I wish I binna fou, quo' she, I wish 
 
 I binna fou. 
 Oh! quo' the wee wifukie, I wish 
 
 I binna fou. 
 
 If Johnnie find me barley-sick, I'm 
 sure he'll claw my skin; 
 
 But I'll lie down and tak' a nap be- 
 fore that I gae in. 
 
 Sitting at the dyke-side, and taking 
 o' her nap, 
 
 By came a packman laddie wi' a little 
 pack. 
 
 Wi' a little pack quo' she, wi' a little 
 pack. 
 
 By came a packman laddie wi' a little 
 pack. 
 
 He's clippit a' her gowden locks sae 
 
 bonnie and sae lang; 
 He's ta'en her purse and a' her placks, 
 
 and fast awa' he ran: 
 And when the wifie waken'd, her head 
 
 was like a bee; 
 Oh! quo' the wee wifukie, this is nae 
 
 me. 
 This is nae me, quo' she, this is 
 
 nae me, 
 Somebody has been felling me, and 
 
 this is nae me. 
 
 I met with kindly company, and birl'd 
 
 my bawbee! 
 And still, if this be Bessukie, three 
 
 placks remain wi' me: 
 But I will look the pursie nooks, see 
 
 gin the cunyie be: — 
 
 There's neither purse nor plack about 
 me! — this is nae me. 
 
 This is nae me, &c. 
 
 I have a little housukie, but and a 
 
 kinkly man; 
 A dog, they ca' him Doussiekie; if 
 
 this be me he'll fawn; 
 And Johnnie, he'll come to the door, 
 
 and kindly welcome gi'e. 
 And a' the bairns on the flour-head 
 
 will dance if this be me. 
 This is nae me, &c. 
 
 The night was late, and dang out 
 
 weet, and oh but it was dark. 
 The doggie heard a body's foot, and 
 
 he began to bark, 
 Oh when she heard the doggie bark, 
 
 and keenin' it was he, 
 Oh weel ken ye, Doussie, quo' she, 
 
 this is nae me 
 This is nae me, &c. 
 
 When Johnnie heard his Bessie's 
 
 word, fast to the door he ran; 
 Is that you Bessukie? — Wow na, 
 
 man! 
 Be kind to the bairns a', and weel 
 
 mat ye be; 
 And fareweel, Johnnie, quo' she, this 
 
 is nae me! 
 This is nae me, &c. 
 
 John ran to the minister, his hair 
 
 stood a' on end, 
 I've gotten sic a fright. Sir, I fear I'll 
 
 never mend. 
 My wife's come hame without a head, 
 
 crying out most piteously. 
 Oh fareweel, Johnnie, quo' she, this 
 
 is nae me! 
 This is nae me, &c. 
 
 The tale you tell, the parson said, is 
 
 wonderful to me, 
 How that a wife without a head could 
 
 speak, or hear, or see!
 
 78 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 But things that happen hereabout, so 
 
 strangely alter'd be, 
 That I could maist wi' Bessie say, 'tis 
 neither you nor she. 
 Neither you nor she, quo' he, 
 
 neither you nor she, 
 Wow na, Johnnie man, 'tis neither 
 you nor she. 
 
 Now Johnnie he cam' hame again, 
 and oh! but he was fain, 
 
 To see his little Bessukie come to 
 hersel' again. 
 
 He got her sittin on a stool, wi' Tib- 
 buck on her knee: 
 
 Oh, come awa', Johnnie, quo' she, 
 come awa' to me. 
 
 For I've got a nap wi' Tibbuckie, and 
 this is now me. 
 This is now me, quo' she, this is 
 
 now me, 
 I've got a nap wi' Tibbuckie and 
 this is now me. 
 
 LEWIS GORDON. 
 
 DR. A. GEDDES. 
 
 Lewis Gordon was the third son of the 
 Duke of Gordon. He declared for Prince 
 Charles in 1745, and afterwards escaped 
 to France, where he died in 1754. 
 
 The princely youth of whom I sing, 
 Is fitted for to be a king; 
 On his breast he wears a star; 
 You'd tak' him for the god of war. 
 Och hon! etc. 
 
 Oh to see this princely one 
 Seated on a royal throne! 
 Disasters a' would disappear. 
 Then begins the jub'lee year! 
 Och hon! etc. 
 
 Oh! send Lewie Gordon hame. 
 And the lad I daurna name; 
 Though his back be at the wa', 
 Here's to him that's far awa! 
 
 Och hon! my Highland man, 
 Och, my bonny Highland man; 
 Weel would I my true-love ken, 
 Amang ten thousand Highland 
 men. 
 
 Oh! to see his tartan-trews. 
 Bonnet blue, and laigh-heel'd shoes; 
 Philabeg aboon his knee; 
 That's the lad that I'll gang wi'! 
 Och hon! etc. 
 
 THE BOATIE ROWS. 
 
 JOHN EWEN. 
 
 John Ewen was born at Montrose in the 
 year 1741. He began business at an early 
 age as a hardware merchant in Aberdeen, 
 and by living in a very moderate style, and 
 marrying a rich woman, he was soon in 
 possession of a large fortune. He died 
 on October 21, 1821, and left a will by 
 which he bequeathed the sum of fifteen 
 thousand pounds towards the building of 
 a hospital or home at Montrose for desti- 
 tute or poor boys. This will, however, 
 was challenged by his only child, a daugh- 
 ter for whom he had made no provision ; 
 and the House of Lords, on various 
 grounds, set it aside in her favor. It is 
 not known at what date or under what cir- 
 cumstances Ewen composed his widely 
 popular and beautiful song "The Boatie 
 Rows." Joanna Baillie wrote some verses 
 of a similar nature for Thomson's collect- 
 ion, but they do not equal the verses by 
 Ewen. They begin : 
 
 " O swiftly glides the bonnie boat 
 Just parted from the shore ; 
 And to the fisher's chorus note 
 Soft moves the dripping oar." 
 
 Burns says in reference to " The Boatie 
 Rows :" " It is a charming display of wom- 
 anly affection mingling with the concerns 
 and occupations of life. It is nearly equal 
 to "There's nae Luck about the House.'" 
 
 O WEEL may the boatie row, 
 And better may she speed! 
 
 And weel may the boatie row, 
 That wins the bairns' bread!
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 79 
 
 The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 
 
 The boatie rows indeed ; 
 And happy be the lot of a' 
 
 That wishes her to speed! 
 
 I cuist my line in Largo Bay, 
 
 And fishes I caught nine ; 
 There's three to boil, and three to fry, 
 
 And three to bait the line. 
 The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 
 
 The boatie rows indeed ; 
 And happy be the lot of a' 
 
 That wishes her to speed! 
 
 O weel may the boatie row. 
 
 That fills a heavy creel, 
 And deeds us a' frae head to feet, 
 
 And buys our parritch meal. 
 The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 
 
 The boatie rows indeed ; 
 And happy be the lot of a' 
 
 That wish the boatie speed. 
 
 When Jamie vow'd he would be mine. 
 And wan frae me my heart, 
 
 muckle lighter grew my creel! 
 He swore we'd never part. 
 
 The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 
 
 The boatie rows fu' weel ; 
 And muckle lighter is the lade, 
 
 Wlien love bears up the creel. 
 
 My kurtch I put upon my head, 
 And dress'd mysel' fu' braw; 
 
 1 trow my heart was dowf and wae, 
 When Jamie gaed awa'; 
 
 But weel may the boatie row, 
 
 And lucky be her part ; 
 And lightsome be the lassie's care 
 
 That yields an honest heart! 
 
 When Sawnie, Jock, and Janetie, 
 
 Are up, and gotten lear. 
 They'll help to gar the boatie row, 
 
 And lighten a' our care. 
 The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 
 
 The boatie rows fu' weel ; 
 And lightsome be her heart that bears 
 
 The murlain and the creel! 
 
 And when wi' age we are worn down, 
 
 And hirpling round the door. 
 They'll row to keep us hale and warm 
 
 As we did them before: 
 Then, weel may the boatie row, 
 
 That wins the bairns' bread ; 
 And happy be the lot of a' 
 
 That wish the boat to speed! 
 
 BESS THE GAWKIE. 
 
 REV. DR. MUIRHEAD. 
 
 This was an exceedingly popular song 
 many years ago throughout Scotland. It 
 first appeared anonj-mously in Herd's Col- 
 lection in 1776. Burns characterized it as 
 "a beautiful song, and in the genuine 
 Scot's taste ;" and Allan Cunningham pro- 
 nounced it "a song of original merit, live- 
 ly without extravagance, and gay without 
 grossness — the simplicit)' elegant, and the 
 naivette scarcely rivalled." It is certainly 
 a very humorous picture of pastoral life 
 courtship in former days, and in many re- 
 spects equals and even surpasses a num- 
 ber of Ramsay's best songs on the same 
 subject. The Rev. Dr. Muirhead was min- 
 ister of the parish of Urr, in Galloway, for 
 over thirty-six years. He was born in 1742 
 and died in 1806. 
 
 Blvthe young Bess to Jean did say, 
 Will ye gang to yon sunny brae, 
 Whare flocks do feed, and herds do 
 stray. 
 
 And sport awhile wi' Jamie ? 
 Ah, na, lass! I'll no gang there. 
 Nor about Jamie tak' a care. 
 Nor about Jamie tak' a care, 
 
 For he's ta'en up wi' Maggie. 
 
 For hark, and I will tell you, lass, 
 Did I not see young Jamie pass, 
 Wi' meikle blytheness in his face 
 
 Out owre the muir to Maggie? 
 I wat he ga'e her monie a kiss. 
 And Maggie took them nae amiss: 
 'Tween ilka smack pleas'd her wi' this, 
 
 " That Bess was but a gawkie.
 
 €0 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 '' For when a civil kiss I seek, 
 
 She turns her head and thraws her 
 
 cheek, 
 And for an hour she'll hardly speak: 
 
 Wha'd no ca' her a gawkie ? 
 But sure my Maggie has mair sense. 
 She'll gi'e a score without offence; 
 Now gi'e me ane into the mense, 
 
 And ye shall be my dawtie." 
 
 ' O Jamie, ye ha'e monie ta'en, 
 But I will never stand for ane 
 Or twa when we do meet again, 
 
 So ne'er think me a gawkie.' 
 " Ah, na, lass, that canna be; 
 Sic thoughts as thae are far frae me, 
 Or onie thy sweet face that see, 
 
 E'er to think thee a gawkie." 
 
 But, whisht, nae mair o' this we'll 
 
 speak. 
 For yonder Jamie does us meet: 
 Instead o' Meg he kiss'd sae sweet, 
 
 I trow he likes the gawkie. 
 " O dear Bess, I hardly knew, 
 When I cam' by your gown sae new, 
 I think you've got it wat wi' dew." 
 
 Quoth she, ' that's like a gawkie; 
 
 ' It's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain, 
 And I'll get gowns when it is gane; 
 Sae ye may gang the gate ye came 
 
 And tell it to your dawtie.' 
 The guilt appear'd in Jamie's cheek: 
 He cried, " O cruel maid, but sweet, 
 If I should gang anither gate, 
 
 I ne'er could meet my dawtie." 
 
 The lasses fast frae him they flew, 
 And left poor Jamie sair to rue, 
 That ever Maggie's face he knew, 
 
 Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie. 
 As they gade owre the muir they sang, 
 The hills and dales wi' echo rang, 
 The hills and dales wi' echo rang, 
 
 " Gang o'er the muir to Maggie." 
 
 CA' THE YOWES TO THE 
 KNOWES. 
 
 ISABEL PAGAN. 
 
 This once popular song was written by 
 Isabel Pagan, about the )^ear 1773, and 
 is the only composition of this peculiar wo- 
 man that ever gained any celebrity. She 
 was born in New Cumnock, Ayrshire, in 
 1743, and received only the most meagre 
 rudiments of education. She supported 
 herself partly by singing and partly by beg- 
 ging. Most of her time, however, she de- 
 voted to writing verses, which, strange to 
 say, with the exception of "Ca the Yowes 
 to the Knowes," possess neither talent nor 
 beauty. In 1805 she published a small 
 volume of Rhymes, which proved a com- 
 plete failure in every respect. She died 
 in 1821, aged 80 years, and was buried 
 in the little parish church yard of Muir- 
 kirk, where a simple tombstone now 
 marks her resting-place. Burns admired 
 the air of this song so much that he com- 
 posed a new set of words to it, iretaining, 
 however, the original chorus. His version 
 commences. 
 
 " Hark ! the mavis' evening sang." 
 
 Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
 Ca' them where the heather grows, 
 Ca' them where the burnie rows. 
 My bonnie dearie. 
 
 As I gaed down the water side. 
 There I met my shepherd lad; 
 He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, 
 An' he ca'd me his dearie. 
 
 "Will ye gang down the water side, 
 An' see the waves sae sweetly glide 
 Beneath the hazels spreading wide ? 
 The moon it shines fa' clearly. 
 
 "Ye shall get gowns and ribbons 
 
 meet, 
 Cauf-leather shoon to thy white feet. 
 And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep, 
 And ye shall be my dearie."
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 81 
 
 " If ye'll but stand to what ye've said, 
 I'se gang wi' you my shepherd lad, 
 And ye may row me in your plaid, 
 And I shall be your dearie." 
 
 " While water wimples to the sea, 
 While day blinks in the lift sa-hie, 
 Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e, 
 Ye shall be my dearie." 
 
 ROSLIN CASTLE. 
 
 RICHARD HEWITT. 
 
 This beautiful and popular song was 
 first published in Johnson's Afuseutn. A 
 song with a similiar title beginning 
 "From Roslin castles' echoing walls," ap- 
 pears in Herd's collection. Richard Hewitt 
 was a native of Cumberland. When very 
 younghe was engaged b3''the blind poet Dr. 
 Blacklock to act as his guide and aman- 
 uensis. He died in 1794. 
 
 'Twas in that season of the year. 
 When all things gay and sweet appear. 
 That Colin with the morning ray, 
 Arose and sung his rural lay, 
 Of Nanny's charms the shepherd 
 
 sung, 
 The hills and dales with Nanny rung, 
 While Roslin Castle heard the swain. 
 And echoed back the cheerful strain. 
 
 Awake sweet muse! the breathing 
 
 spring 
 With rapture warms; awake and sing! 
 Awake and join the vocal throng. 
 Who hail the morning with a song, 
 To Nanny raise the cheerful lay, 
 O! bid her haste and come away, 
 In sweetest smiles herself adorn, 
 And add new graces to the morn. 
 
 O hark, my love, on ev'ry spray 
 Each feather'd warbler tunes his lay: 
 'Tis beauty fires the ravish'd throng, 
 And love inspires the melting song. 
 Then let my raptur'd notes arise. 
 For beauty darts from Nanny's eyes. 
 
 And love my rising bosom warms, 
 And fills my soul with sweet alarms. 
 
 O come, my love! thy Colin's lay, 
 With rapture calls, O come away, 
 Come while the muse this wreath 
 
 shall twine, 
 Around that modest brow of thine, 
 O hither haste, and with thee bring, 
 That beauty blooming like the spring, 
 Those graces that divinely shine 
 And charm this ravish'd breast of 
 
 mine! 
 
 THE SILLER CROWN. 
 
 MISS SUSANNA BLAMIRE. 
 
 Susanna Blamire was born at Garden 
 Hall about six miles from Carlisle on the 
 I2th of January, 1747. Mr. Maxwell, her 
 biographer, says: "She had a graceful 
 form, somewhat above the middle size, 
 and a countenance, though slightly mark- 
 ed with the small-pox, beaming with 
 good nature ; her dark eyes sparkled with 
 animation, and won every heart at the 
 first introduction. She was called by her 
 affectionate countrymen, ' A bonnie and 
 varra lish )'oung lass,' which may be inter- 
 perted as meaning ' A beautiful and very 
 lively 3-oung girl.'" She died at Carlisle 
 on the 5th of April, 1794, aged fort)'-seven. 
 
 And ye sail walk in silk attire, 
 
 And siller hae to spare. 
 Gin ye'll consent to be his bride 
 
 Nor think o' Donald mair. 
 Oh! wha wad buy a silken goun 
 
 Wi' a puir broken heart; 
 Or what's to me a siller croun, 
 
 Gin frae my love I part? 
 
 The mind wha's every wish is pure 
 
 Far dearer is to me, 
 And ere I'm forced to break my faith, 
 
 I'll lay me down and dee; 
 For I hae pledged my virgin troth 
 
 Brave Donald's fate to share. 
 And he has gi'en to me his heart, 
 
 Wi' a' its virtues rare.
 
 83 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 His gentle manners wan my heart, 
 
 He gratefu' took the gift, 
 Could I but think to seek it back 
 
 It wad be waur than theft; 
 For langest life can ne'er repay 
 
 The love he bears to me. 
 And ere I'm forced to break my troth, 
 
 I'll lay me down and dee. 
 
 WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' 
 MINE. 
 
 MISS SUSANNA BLAMIRE. 
 
 "This song," says Mr. Maxwell, 
 ■" seems to have been a favorite with 
 the authoress for I have met with it in 
 various forms among her papers ; and the 
 labor bestowed upon it has been well re 
 paid by the popularity it has all along 
 enjoyed. The edition given, the best that 
 has yet been in type, is printed from a 
 copy of several of her poems and songs, 
 fairly and carefully written out, apparently 
 either for publication or for the perusal of 
 a friend, all which appear to have got her 
 final corrections." 
 
 And where wi' mony a blushin' bud 
 
 I strove mysel' to hide. 
 I'll dote on ilka spot 
 
 Where I hae been wi' thee, 
 And ca' to mind some kindly word 
 
 By ilka burn and tree, 
 
 Wi' sic thoughts i' my mind, 
 
 Time through the world may gae^ 
 And find my heart in twenty years 
 
 The same as 'tis to-day. 
 'Tis thoughts that bind the soul 
 
 And keep friends i' the e'e; 
 And gin I think I see thee aye, 
 
 What can part thee and me. 
 
 What ails this heart o' mine? 
 
 What ails this watery e'e 1 
 What gars me turn as cauld as death 
 
 When I take leave o' thee ? 
 When thou art far awa' 
 
 Thou'lt dearer grow to me; 
 But change o' place and change o' folk 
 
 May gar thy fancy gee. 
 
 When I gae oot at een, 
 
 Or walk at morning air. 
 Ilk rustling bush will seem to say 
 
 I used to meet thee there. 
 Then I'll sit down and cry, 
 
 And live aneath the tree, 
 And when a leaf fa's i' my lap 
 
 I'll ca't a word frae thee. 
 
 I'll hie me to the bower 
 That thou wi' roses tied, 
 
 THE WAEFU' HEART. 
 
 MISS SUSANNA BLAMIRE. 
 
 Gin living worth could win my heart. 
 
 You would not speak in vain; 
 But in the darksome grave it's laid, 
 
 Never to rise again. 
 My waefu' heart lies low wi' his, 
 
 Whose heart was only mine; 
 And oh! what a heart was that to lose; 
 
 But I maun no repine. 
 
 Yet, oh! gin Heaven in mercy soon 
 
 Would grant the boon I crave. 
 And tak' this life, nownaething worth, 
 
 Sin' Jamie's in his grave: 
 And see, his gentle spirit comes, 
 
 To show me on my way; 
 Surprised, nae doubt, I still am here, 
 
 Sair wondering at my stay. 
 
 I come, I come, my Jarnie dear, 
 
 And, oh, wi' what guid-will, 
 I follow wheresoe'er ye lead; 
 
 Ye canna lead to ill. 
 She said, and soon a deadly pale, 
 
 Her faded cheek possess'd ; 
 Her waefu' heart forgot to beat; 
 
 Her sorrows sunk to rest.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 S3 
 
 ROY'S WIFE OF ALDIVAL- 
 LOCH. 
 
 MRS. GRANT, OF CARROX. 
 
 Mrs. Grant of Carron (so called to dis- 
 tinguish her from Mrs. Grant, of Laggan, 
 the authoress of " O! Where tell me 
 Where," etc.,) was born in 1745. She died 
 about 1814. The present song was her 
 only popular contribution to the min- 
 strelsy of Scotland and it undoubtedly 
 owed its existence to a much older song 
 which contained the following chorus : 
 
 Silly body, Aldivalloch, 
 
 Puir body, Aldivalloch ; 
 
 H« lost his hose and baith his shoon, 
 
 Coining through the braes of Balloch. 
 
 The two songs, however, are entirely dif- 
 ferent in the events which they chronicle. 
 The original one refers to a John Roy, 
 who resided in Aldivalloch about the year 
 1720, and who married Isabella Stewart, 
 also a resident in the neighborhood of 
 Aldivalloch. The story goes that John 
 was an old man, while Isabella was young 
 and beautiful, and sometime after her 
 marriage she became tired of the " silly 
 body" and eloped with David Gordon, a 
 gay and handsome youth of twenty sum- 
 mers, who lived in Kirkton. Roy it is 
 said at once pursued the couple, and after 
 pleading for sometime with his wife, at 
 length persuaded her to return home with 
 him. 
 
 Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, 
 
 Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, 
 
 Wat ye how she cheated me, 
 
 As I cam' o'er the braes o' Balloch. 
 
 She vow'd, she swore, she wad be 
 mine. 
 She said she lo'ed me best of ony; 
 But oh! the fickle, faithless quean, 
 She's ta'en the carle, and left her 
 Johnnie. 
 
 Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, &c. 
 
 O, she was a canty quean, 
 
 Weel could she dance the Highland 
 walloch ; 
 How happy I had she been mine, 
 
 Or I been Roy of Aldivalloch! 
 
 Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, &c. 
 
 Her face sae fair, her een sae clear. 
 Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and 
 bonnie; 
 To me she ever will be dear, 
 
 Though she's forever left her 
 Johnnie. 
 
 Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, &c. 
 
 AWA, WHIGS, AWA. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 " Awa, Wigs, awa," was evidently 
 written shortl}' after the accession of 
 William the Third to the British throne. 
 The air to which it is sung is much older 
 than the present set of words, and is still 
 verj' popular in Scotland. Hogg gives 
 the following note in relation to it in his 
 Jacobite Relics: "There is a tradition 
 that at the battle of Bothwell Bridge, 
 the piper to Clavers' own troop of horse 
 stood on the brink of the Clyde playing 
 with great glee; but being struck with a 
 bullet, either by chance or in consequence 
 of an aim taken, as is generally reported, 
 he rolled down the bank in the agonies of 
 death ; and always, as he rolled over the 
 bag, so intent was he on this old party 
 tune, that, with determined firmness of 
 fingering, he made the pipes to j-ell out 
 two or three notes of it, till at last he 
 plunged into the river and was carried 
 peaceably down the stream among a great 
 number of floating whigs." 
 
 Awa, Whigs, awa, 
 
 Awa, Whigs, awa, 
 Ye're but a pack o' traitor loons, 
 
 Ye'U ne'er do good at a'. 
 Our thristles flourish'd fresh and fair. 
 
 And bonny bloom'd our roses; 
 But Whigs came like a frost in June, 
 
 And wither'd a' our posies. 
 Awa, Whigs, &c. 
 
 Our sad decay in kirk and state 
 
 Surpasses my descriving; 
 The Whigs cam' o'er us for a curse, 
 
 And we ha'e done wi' thriving. 
 
 Awa, Whigs, &c.
 
 84 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 A foreign Whiggish loon brought 
 seeds 
 In Scottish yird to cover, 
 But we'll pu' a' his dibbled leeks, 
 And pack him to Hanover. 
 Awa, Whigs, &c. 
 
 Our ancient crown's fa'n i' the dust, 
 Deil blind them wi' the stoure o't; 
 And write their names i' his black beuk, 
 
 Wha ga'e the Wigs the power o't. 
 
 Awa, Whigs, &c. 
 
 Grim vengeance lang has ta'en a nap, 
 But we may see him wauken; 
 
 Gude help the day when royal heads 
 Are hunted like a maukin! 
 Awa, Whigs, &c. 
 
 The deil he heard the stoure o' tongues, 
 And ramping cam' amang us; 
 
 But he pittied us sae curs'd wi' Whigs, 
 He turn'd and wadna wrang us. 
 Awa, Whigs, &c. 
 
 The deil sat grim amang the reck, 
 Thrang buddlingbrunstane matches 
 
 And croon'd 'mang the beuk-taking 
 Whigs, 
 iScraps of auld Calvin's catches. 
 
 Awa, Whigs, awa, 
 
 Awa, Whigs, awa, 
 Ye'U run me out o' wun spunks, 
 
 Awa, Whigs, awa. 
 
 LADY KEITH'S LAMENT. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Supposed to refer to Lady Mary Drum- 
 mond, wife of Lord Keith. " She was so 
 strongly attached to the exiled family," 
 says Hogg, " that, on the return of her 
 two sons to Scotland, she would never 
 suffer them to enjoy any rest till they en- 
 gaged actively in the cause of the Stuarts." 
 
 I MAY sit in my wee croo house, 
 
 At the rock and the reel to toil fu' 
 dreary; 
 I may think on the day that's gane, 
 
 And sigh and sab till I grow weary. 
 I ne'er could brook, I ne'er could brook 
 
 A foreign loon to own or flatter; 
 But I will sing a ranting sang. 
 
 That day our king comes ower the 
 water. 
 
 gin I live to see the day. 
 
 That I ha'e begg'd, and begg'd 
 frae Heaven, 
 I'll fling my rock and reel away. 
 And dance and sing frae morn till 
 even: 
 For there is ane I winna name, 
 That comes the reigning bike to 
 scatter; 
 And I'll put on my bridal gown, 
 That day our king comes ower the 
 water. 
 
 1 ha'e seen the gude auld day. 
 
 The day o' pride and chieftain glory, 
 When royal Stuarts bare the sway, 
 And ne'er heard tell o' Whig nor 
 Tory. 
 Though lyart be my locks and grey, 
 And eild has crook'd me down — 
 what matter ? 
 I'll dance and sing ae ither day, 
 That day our king comes ower 
 the water. 
 
 A curse on dull and drawling Whig, 
 
 The whining, ranting, low deceiver, 
 Wi' heart sae black, and look sae big, 
 
 And canting tongue o' clishmac- 
 laver. 
 My father was a good lord's son. 
 
 My mother was an earl's daughter, 
 And I'll be Lady Keith again, 
 
 That day our king comes ower the 
 water.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 85 
 
 WELCOME TO SKYE. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 It was in South Uist that Prince Charles 
 first met Flora Macdonald, the woman to 
 whom he was afterwards indebted for the 
 preservation of his life. She was related 
 to the great Clanronald family and was 
 then on a visit to the chief's house at 
 Ormaclade. To this heroic woman Prince 
 Charles entrusted his safety, and disguised 
 as her maid servant, was enabled to pass 
 unrecognized among his foes, until on 
 Sept. 10, 1746, he embarked on board L' 
 Hereux for France. 
 
 There are twa bonny maidens, 
 And three bonny maidens, 
 Come over the Minch, 
 And come over the main, 
 Wi' the wind for their way. 
 And the corrie for their hame; 
 Let us welcome them bravely 
 Unto Skye again. 
 
 Come along, come along, 
 Wi' your boatie and your song, 
 You twa bonny maidens, 
 And three bonny maidens; 
 For the night it is dark, 
 And the red-coat is gone. 
 And you're bravely welcome 
 To Skye again. 
 
 There is Flora, my honey, 
 So dear and so bonny. 
 And the one that is tall, 
 And comely withal; 
 Put the one as my king, 
 And the other as my queen, 
 They're welcome unto 
 The Isle of Skye again. 
 
 Come along, come along, 
 AVi' your boatie and your song, 
 You twa bonny maidens, 
 And three bonny maidens; 
 For the lady of Macoulain 
 She lieth her lane. 
 And you're bravely welcome 
 To Skye again. 
 
 Her arm it is strong. 
 And her petticoat is long. 
 My one bonny maiden. 
 And twa bonny maidens: 
 But their bed shall be clean. 
 On the heather mast crain; 
 And they're welcome unto 
 The Isle of Skye again. 
 
 Come along, come along, 
 Wi' your boatie and your song. 
 You one bonny maiden. 
 And twa bonny maidens; 
 By the sea-moullit's nest 
 I will watch o'er the main, 
 And you're dearly welcome 
 To Skye again. 
 
 There's a wind on the tree. 
 And a ship on the sea. 
 My twa bonny maidens. 
 My three bonny maidens; 
 On the lee of the rock 
 Your cradle I shall rock; 
 And you're welcome unto 
 The Isle of Skye again. 
 
 Come along, come along, 
 Wi' your boatie and your song. 
 My twa bonny maidens. 
 And three bonny maidens; 
 More sound shall you sleep. 
 When you rock on the deep; 
 And you'll aye be welcome 
 To Skye again. 
 
 O'ER THE WATER TO 
 CHARLIE. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Another very popular Jacobite song, 
 the words of which were evidently written 
 about 1745. The air, however, is much 
 older than the present set of words, which 
 are taken from the ''Jncohite Relics." 
 
 Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er. 
 Come boat me o'er to Charlie;
 
 86 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 I'll gie John Ross anither bawbee 
 To ferry me o'er to Charlie. 
 
 We'll o'er the water, we'll o'er the sea, 
 We'll o'er the water to Charlie; 
 
 Come weel come wo, we'll gather 
 and go, 
 And live or die wi' Charlie. 
 
 Its' weel I lo'e my Charlie's name, 
 Though some there be abhor him; 
 
 But O to see Auld Nick gaun hame, 
 And Charlie's faes before him! 
 We'll o'er the water, &c, 
 
 I swear by moon and stars sae bright, 
 And sun that glances early, 
 
 If I had twenty thousand lives, 
 I'd gie them a' for Charlie. 
 We'll o'er the water, &c. 
 
 I ance had sons, but now hae nane; 
 
 I bore them toiling sairly; 
 And I wad bear them a' again, 
 
 And lose them a' for Charlie; 
 
 We'll o'er the water, we'll o'er the sea, 
 We'll o'er the water, to Charlie; 
 
 Come weel, come wo, we'll gather 
 and go. 
 And live or die wi' Charlie. 
 
 THE FRASERS IN THE 
 CORREI. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 " Where is your daddy gane, my 
 
 little May ? 
 Where has our lady been a' the lang 
 
 day ? 
 Saw you the red-coats rank on the 
 
 hall green ? 
 Or heard ye the horn on the mountain 
 
 yestreen ?" 
 " Ye auld carle greybeard, spier na at 
 
 me; 
 Gae spier at the maiden that sits by 
 
 the sea. 
 
 The red-coats were here, and it wasna 
 
 for good. 
 And the raven's turn'd hoarse wi' the 
 
 waughting o' blood. 
 
 " O listen, auld carle, how roopit his 
 
 note! 
 The blood of the Eraser's too hot for 
 
 his throat, 
 I trow the black traitor's of Sassenach 
 
 breed; 
 They prey on the living, and he on 
 
 the dead. 
 When I was a baby, we ca'd him in 
 
 joke, 
 The harper of Errick, the priest of 
 
 the rock; 
 But now he's our mountain companion 
 
 no more, 
 The slave of the Saxon, the quaffer 
 
 of gore." 
 
 " Sweet little maiden, why talk you 
 of death ? 
 
 The raven's our friend, and he's croak- 
 ing ni wrath: 
 
 He will not pick up from a bonnetted 
 head, 
 
 Nor mar the brave form by the tartan 
 that's clad. 
 
 But point me the cliff where the Eraser 
 abides. 
 
 Where Foyers, Culduthill, and Gortha- 
 ly hides. 
 
 There's danger at hand, I must speak 
 
 with them soon, 
 And seek them alone by the light of 
 the moon." 
 
 "Auld carle graybeard, a friend you 
 
 should be. 
 For the truth's on your lip, and the 
 
 tear i' your e'e; 
 Then seek in the correi that sounds 
 
 on the brae. 
 And sings to the rock when the breeze 
 
 is away.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 87 
 
 I sought them last night with the 
 
 haunch of the deer, 
 And far in yon cave they were hiding 
 
 in fear: 
 There, at the last crow of the brown 
 
 heather-cock. 
 They pray'd for their prince, kneel'd, 
 
 and slept on the rock. 
 
 " O tell me, auld carle, what will be 
 
 the fate 
 Of those who are killing the gallant 
 
 and great ? 
 Who force our brave chiefs to the 
 
 correi to go. 
 And hunt their own prince like the 
 
 deer or the roe ?" 
 *' My sweet little maiden, beyond yon 
 
 red sun 
 Dwells one who beholds all the deeds 
 
 that are done: 
 Their crimes on the tyrants one day 
 
 he'll repay, 
 And the names of the brave shall not 
 
 perish for aye." 
 
 UP AN' WARN A", WILLIE. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 "The expression, ' 0'^ and warn a' 
 Willie,' alludes to the Crantara, or warn- 
 ins: of a Highland Clan to arms. Not 
 understanding this the Lowlanders in the 
 west and south say, ' Up and waur them 
 a\ &c.' This edition of the song I got 
 from Tom Niel, of facetious fame, in 
 Edinburgh. 
 
 ' Up and warn a' Willie, 
 
 Warn, warn a' 
 To hear my canty Highland sang, 
 Relate the thing I saw, Willie.' " — Burns. 
 
 The song is a satire on the battle of 
 Sheriff-Muir, fought Nov. 13, 1715, be- 
 tween the forces of the Royal army under 
 John, Duke of Argyle, and those of the 
 Chevalier under John, Earl of Mar. The 
 right wings of both armies were vic- 
 torious, and the left wings were com- 
 pletely routed. The air is of unknown 
 antiquity. 
 
 When we gaed to the braes o' Mar, 
 And to the weapon-shaw, Willie, 
 
 Wi' true design to serve our king, 
 And banish Whigs awa', Willie. 
 
 Up and warn a', Willie, 
 Warn, warn a'; 
 For lords and lairds came there 
 bedeen, 
 And vow but they were braw, 
 
 Willie. 
 Up and warn a', Willie, 
 
 Warn, warn a'; 
 Then second sighted Sandy said, 
 We'd do nae gude at a', Willie. 
 
 But when the army join'd at Perth, 
 The bravest e'er ye saw, Willie, 
 
 We didna doubt the rogues to rout. 
 Restore our king an' a', Willie. 
 
 Up and warn a', Willie, 
 Warn, warn, a'; 
 The pipers play'd frae right to left, 
 O whirry Whigs awa', ^V'illie. 
 
 But when the standard was set up, 
 Right fierce the wind did blaw, 
 Willie; 
 
 The royal nit upon the tap 
 
 Down to the ground did fa, Willie, 
 
 Up and warn a', Willie, 
 Warn, warn a'; 
 To hear my canty Highland sang 
 Relate the thing I saw, Willie. 
 
 But when we march'd to Sherramuir, 
 And there the rebels saw, AVillie, 
 
 Brave Argyle attacked our right, 
 Our flank and front, and a', Willie, 
 
 Up and warn a' Willie, 
 Warn, warn a'; 
 Traitor Huntly soon gave way, 
 Seaforth, St. Clair, and a', Willie. 
 
 But brave Glengarry on our right. 
 The rebels' left did claw, Willie,
 
 88 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 He there the greatest slaughter made 
 That ever Donald saw, Willie. 
 Up and warn a', Willie, 
 Warn, warn a'; 
 And Whittam fyl'd his breeks for fear, 
 And fast did rin awa, Willie. 
 
 For he ca'd us a Highland mob, 
 
 And swore he'd slay us a', Willie; 
 But we chas'd him back to Stirling 
 brig. 
 Dragoons and foot and a', Willie. 
 Up and warn a', Willie, 
 Warn, warn a'; 
 At length we rallied on a hill. 
 And briskly up did draw, Willie. 
 
 But when Argyle did view our line, 
 
 And them in order saw, Willie, 
 He straight gaed to Dumblane again, 
 And back his left did draw, Willie, 
 Up and warn a', Willie, 
 Warn, warn a'; 
 Then we to Auchterarder march'd 
 To wait a better fa', WilHe. 
 
 Now if ye speir wha wan the day, 
 
 I've tell'd you what I saw, Willie, 
 We baith did fight, and baith were beat, 
 And baith did rin awa', Willie. 
 Up and warn a', Willie, 
 Warn, warn a'; 
 For second sighted Sandy said 
 We'd do nae good at a', Willie. 
 
 WHAT'S A' THE STEER, 
 KIMMER? 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 What's a' the steer, Kimmer ? 
 
 What's a' the steer ? 
 Charlie he is landed. 
 
 An', haith, he'll soon be here. 
 The win' was at his back. Carle, 
 
 The win' was at his back; 
 I carena, sin' he's come, Carle, 
 
 We were na worth a plack. 
 
 I'm right glad to hear't, Kimmer, 
 
 I'm right glad to hear't; 
 I ha'e a gude braid claymore, 
 
 Sin' Charlie he is landed, 
 We ha'e nae mair to fear; 
 
 Sin' Charlie he is come, Kimmer, 
 We'll ha'e a Jub'lee year. 
 
 HERE'S TO THE KING, SIR! 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 At no time did the Jacobites lose 
 sight of, or turn from the exiled Stuart 
 family. The following song, written about 
 the year 1710, shows the manner in which 
 they used to assemble and openly drink 
 the health of him who was " Owerthe Hills 
 and Far Awa'," without making them- 
 selves liable to be arrested on a charge of 
 treason. 
 
 Here's to the king, sir, 
 Ye ken wha I mean, sir, 
 And to every honest man, 
 That will do't again! 
 
 Fill, fill your bumpers high, 
 Drain, drain your glasses dry, 
 Out upon him, fye! oh, fye! 
 That winna do't again! 
 
 Here's to the chieftains 
 Of the Scots Highland clans! 
 They hae done it mair than ance, 
 And will do't again. 
 
 When you hear the trumpet sound 
 Tuttie taittie to the drum. 
 Up your swords, and down your guns^ 
 And to the rogues again! 
 
 Here's to the King of Swede, 
 Fresh laurels crown his head! 
 Fye on every sneaking blade. 
 That winna do't again! 
 
 But to mak things right now, 
 He that drinks maun fight too. 
 To shew his heart's upright too^ 
 And that he'll do't again !
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 89 
 
 Sometimes the following verse was 
 added: 
 
 Weel may we a' be, 
 111 may we never see, 
 Here's to the king 
 
 And the guid companie! 
 
 WELCOME, ROYAL CHARLIE. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 "This is one of the numerous editions 
 of ' Welcome, royal Charlie,' which were 
 so popular about the time of the Prince's 
 landing. It alludes to the reception which 
 Charles met with from Lochiel and others 
 immediately after that event. — Note to 
 Jacobite Minstrelsy. 
 
 When France had her assistance lent, 
 A royal prince to Scotland sent; 
 Then to the north his course he bent, 
 His name was royal Charlie. 
 
 But, O! he was lang o' coming, 
 Lang, lang, lang o' coming; 
 O! he was lang o' coming; 
 Welcome, royal Charlie. 
 
 When he upon the shore did stand, 
 The friends he had within the land 
 Came down and shook him by the 
 hand. 
 And welcomed royal Charlie. 
 
 O! ye've been lang o' coming, 
 Lang, lang, lang o' coming; 
 O! he was lang o' coming, 
 Welcome royal Charlie. 
 
 The dress that our Prince Charlie had. 
 Was bonnet blue and tartan plaid; 
 And O he was a handsome lad, 
 Few could compare wi' Charlie. 
 But O! he was lang o' coming, 
 Lang, lang, lang o' coming; 
 O! he was lang o' coming. 
 Welcome, royal Charlie. 
 
 WHA'S FOR SCOTLAND AND 
 CHARLIE. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 O wha's for Scotland and Charlie? 
 O wha's for Scotland and Charlie? 
 
 He's come o'er the sea 
 
 To his ain countrie; 
 Now wha's for Scotland and Charlie? 
 
 Awa', awa', auld carlie, 
 
 Awa', awa', auld carlie, 
 
 Gi'e Charlie his crown, 
 
 And let him sit down, 
 Whare ye've been sae lang, auld 
 
 carlie. 
 
 It's up in the morning early. 
 It's up in the morning early, 
 
 The bonnie white rose; 
 
 The plaid and the hose. 
 Are on for Scotland and Charlie. 
 The swords are drawn now fairly, 
 The swords are drawn now fairly. 
 
 The swords they are drawn, 
 
 And the pipes they ha'e blawn 
 A pibroch for Scotland and Charlie. 
 
 The flags are fleein' fu' rarely, 
 The flags are fleein' fu' rarely, 
 
 And Charlie's awa' 
 
 To see his ain ha'. 
 And to bang his faes right sairly. 
 Then wha's for Scotland and Charlie.'* 
 O wha's for Scotland and Charlie? 
 
 He's come o'er the sea 
 
 To his ain countrie; 
 Then wha's for Scotland and Charlie? 
 
 WHA WADNA FIGHT FOR 
 CHARLIE. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 Front Hosg^s ''^ yacobite Relics." 
 
 Mr. D. F. Graham in his edition of the 
 "Songs of Scotland" (Edinburgh, 1S54), 
 has the following note on this song. "Hogg 
 does not say whether this lyric was sent to 
 him as a real Jacobite war-song, written
 
 «0 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SC01(^LAND. 
 
 to rouse the clans to follow their Prince 
 into the field, or whether it is merely 
 a modern imitation. Internal evidence 
 would lead us to the belief that its com- 
 position dates much nearer to I845 than to 
 1745. To be an old song it is too correct 
 in rhymes, too refined in language, and 
 it wants that characteristic of the Jacobite 
 muse — unsparing abuse of the House of 
 Hanover." 
 
 Wha wadna fight for Charlie? 
 
 Wha wadna draw the sword? 
 Wha wadna up and rally, 
 
 At their royal prince's word? 
 
 Think on Scotia's ancient heroes, 
 Think on foreign foes repell'd 
 
 Think on glorious Bruce and Wallace, 
 Wha the proud usurpers quell'd. 
 Wha wadna, &c. 
 
 Rouse, rouse, ye kilted warriors! 
 Rouse, ye heroes of the north! 
 Rouse, and join your chieftain's 
 banners, 
 'Tis your prince that leads you 
 forth! 
 Wha wadna, &c. 
 
 Shall we basely crouch to tyrants? 
 
 Shall we own a foreign sway? 
 Shall a royal Stuart be banish'd 
 
 While a stranger rules the day? 
 
 Wha wadna, &c. 
 
 See the nothern clans advancing! 
 
 See Glengarry and Lochiel! 
 See the brandish'd broad-swords 
 glancing, 
 
 Highland hearts are true as steel. 
 
 Who wadna, &c. 
 
 Now our prince has rear'd his ban- 
 ner; 
 
 Now triumphant is our cause; 
 Now the Scottish lion rallies; 
 
 Let us strike for prince and laws. 
 
 Wha wadna, &c. 
 
 FALKIRK MUIR. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Up and rin awa, Hawley, 
 
 Up and rin awa, Hawley; 
 
 The philabegs are coming down 
 
 To gie your lugs a claw, Hawley; 
 Young Charlie's face at Dunipace, 
 
 Has gien your mou' a thraw, 
 Hawley; 
 A blasting sight for bastard wight. 
 
 The warst that e'er he saw, Hawley. 
 Up and rin awa, &c. 
 
 Gae dight your face, and turn the 
 chase. 
 For fierce the wind does blaw, 
 Hawley; 
 And Highland Geordie's at your tail, 
 Wi' Drummond, Perth, and a', 
 Hawley. 
 Had ye but staid wi' lady's maid 
 
 An hour, or maybe twa, Hawley, 
 Your bacon bouk and bastard snout, 
 Ye might hae sav'd them a', Hawley. 
 Up and rin awa, &c. 
 
 Whene'er you saw the bonnets blue . 
 Down frae the Torwood draw, 
 Hawley, 
 A wisp in need did you bestead, 
 
 Perhaps you needed twa, Hawley. 
 And General Husk, that battle-busk, 
 The prince o' warriors a', Hawley, 
 With whip and spur he cross'd the 
 furr, 
 As fast as he could ca', Hawley. 
 Up and rin awa, &c. 
 
 I hae but just ae word to say, 
 
 And ye maun hear it a', Hawley; 
 We came to charge wi' sword and 
 . targe, 
 
 And nae to Hunt ava, Hawley. 
 When we came down aboon the town, 
 
 And saw nae faes at a', Hawley, 
 We couldna, sooth! believe the truth, 
 
 That ye had left us a', Hawlay. 
 Up and rin awa, Szc.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 91 
 
 Nae man bedeen believ'd his een, 
 
 Till your brave back he saw, Hawley, 
 That bastard brat o' foreign cat 
 
 Had neither pluck nor paw, Hawley, 
 We didna ken but ye were men 
 
 Wha fight for foreign law, Hawley, 
 Gae fill your wame wi' brose at hame, 
 
 It fits you best of a', Hawley. 
 Up and rin awa, &c. 
 
 The very frown o' Highland loon, 
 
 It gart you drap the jaw, Hawley, 
 It happ'd the face of a' disgrace. 
 
 And sicken'd Southron maw, 
 Hawley. 
 The very gleam o' Highland flame, 
 
 It pat ye in a thaw, Hawley, 
 Gae back and kiss your daddie's miss; 
 
 Ye're nought but coward's a', 
 Hawley. 
 
 Up and scour awa, Hawley, 
 Up and scour awa, Hawley; 
 The Highland dirk is at your 
 
 doup. 
 And that's the Highland law, 
 
 Hawley. 
 
 YOU'RE WELCOME WHIGS. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 Composed about i6S8. 
 
 You're welcome, Whigs, from Both- 
 well Brigs, 
 
 Your malice is but zeal, boys; 
 Most holy sprites the hypocrites, 
 
 'Tis sack ye drink, not ale, boys 
 I must aver, ye cannot err, 
 
 In breaking God's commands, boys 
 If ye infringe bishops' or kings', 
 
 You've heaven in your hands, boys. 
 
 Suppose ye cheat, disturb the state, 
 And steep the land wi' blood, boys; 
 
 If secretly your treachery 
 Be acted, it is good, boys. 
 
 The fiend himsel', in midst o' hell, 
 The pope, with his intrigues, boys, 
 
 You'll equalize in forgeries; 
 
 Fair fa' you, pious Whigs, boys. 
 
 You'll God beseech, in homely speech, 
 
 To his coat-tail you'll claim, boys; 
 Seek lippies of grace frae his gawcie 
 face, 
 
 And bless and not blaspheme, boys. 
 Your teachers they can kiss and pray, 
 
 In zealous ladies' closets; 
 Your wits convert by Venus' art; 
 
 Your kirk has holy roset. 
 
 Which death will tie promiscuously, 
 
 Her members on the vale, boys. 
 For horned beasts the truth attest; 
 
 That live in Annadale, boys. 
 But if one drink, or shrewdly think 
 
 A bishop ere was saved, 
 No charity from presbytrye. 
 
 For that need once be craved. 
 
 You lie, you lust, you break your 
 trust, 
 
 And act all kinds of evil. 
 Your covenant makes you a saint, 
 
 Although you live a devil. 
 From murders, too, as soldiers true, 
 
 You are advanced well, boys; 
 You fought like devils, your only 
 rivals, 
 
 When you were at Dunkeld, boys. 
 
 Your wondrous things great slaughter 
 brings, 
 
 You kill'd more than you saw, boys; 
 At Pentland hills ye got your fills. 
 
 And now you seem to craw, boys. 
 Let wabsters preach, and ladies teach 
 
 The art of cuckoldry, boys, 
 When cruel zeal comes in their tail. 
 
 Then welcome presbytrye, boys. 
 
 King William's, hands, with lovely 
 bands. 
 You're decking with good speed, 
 boys;
 
 93 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 If you get leave, you'll reach his sleeve, 
 And then have at his head, boys. 
 
 You're welcome, Jack, we'll join 
 a plack, 
 To drink your last confusion, 
 
 That grace and truth we may possess 
 Once more without delusion. 
 
 CARLE AN' THE KING COME. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 " Carle an' tlie King come " is supposed 
 to have been written about the time of 
 the Commonwealth, when the restoration 
 of King Charles II was being advocated 
 by nearly all classes of people. The 
 second stanza was added to the song by 
 Burns, The air is very old and still 
 popular. Sir Walter Scott wrote a con- 
 gratulatory poem commencing "Carle 
 now the King's Come" on the occasion 
 of the visit of George IV to Scotland, in 
 1822, and Alexander Rodger rather hurt 
 the sensitive feelings of Sir Walter by 
 writing a bitter satire on this, entitled 
 " Sawney, now the King's Come." 
 
 Carle, an' the king come, 
 
 Carle, an' the king come, 
 
 Thou shalt dance, and I will sing, 
 
 Carle, an' the king come. 
 An' somebody were come again, 
 Then somebody maun cross the main. 
 And ev'ry man shall ha'e his ain, 
 
 Carle, an' the king come. 
 
 I trow we swapped for the worse. 
 We ga'e the boot and better horse. 
 And that we'll tell them at the cross. 
 
 Carle, an' the king come. 
 When yellow corn grows on the rigs, 
 And a gibbet's built to hang the Whigs, 
 O then we will dance Scottish jigs. 
 
 Carle, an' the king come. 
 
 Nae mair wi' pinch and drouth we'll 
 
 dine. 
 As we ha'e done — a dog's propine. 
 
 But quaff our waughts o' bouzy wine, 
 
 Carle, an' the king come. 
 Cogie, an' the king come, 
 Cogie, an' the king come, 
 I'se be fou, and thou'se be toom, 
 
 Cogie, an' the king come. 
 
 I HA'E NAE KITH; I HA'E 
 NAE KIN. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 " This is a very sweet and curious little 
 old song, but not very easily understood. 
 The air is exceedingly simple, and the 
 verses highly characteristic of the lyri- 
 cal songs of Scotland." — Hogg's Jacobite 
 Relics. 
 
 I ha'e nae kith, I ha'e nae kin, 
 
 Nor ane that's dear to me. 
 For the bonny lad that I lo'e best, 
 
 He's far ayont the sea. 
 He's gane wi' ane that was our ain. 
 
 And we may rue the day. 
 When our king's ae daughter came 
 here, 
 
 To play sic foul play. 
 
 O gin I were a bonny bird, 
 
 Wi' wings that I might flee, 
 Then I wad travel o'er the main, 
 
 My ae true love to see; 
 Then I wad tell a joyfu' tale 
 
 To ane that's dear to me. 
 And sit upon a king's window, 
 
 And sing my melody. 
 
 The adder lies i' the corbie's nest, 
 
 Aneath the corbie's wame. 
 And the blast that reaves the corbie's 
 brood 
 
 Shall blaw our good king hame 
 Then blaw ye east, or blaw ye west. 
 
 Or blaw ye o'er the faem, 
 O bring the lad that I lo'e best, 
 
 And ane I darena name!
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 93 
 
 BATTLE OF KILLICRANKIE. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 The battle of Killicrankie was fought 
 on July 17, 1689, in a small, rough vale in 
 the North Highlands, between nearly three 
 thousand Highlanders, under Graham, of 
 Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee (Bonnie 
 Dundee) and the English army of King 
 William the Third, five thousand strong, 
 under the command of General Hugh 
 Mackay. The battle was of short dura- 
 tion, and resulted in the total defeat of 
 King William's army; but the death of 
 Claverhouse, who was mortally wounded 
 early in the fight, rather confused the 
 Highlanders and prevented them from 
 taking advantage of the great victory 
 which they had obtained. " The battle of 
 Killicrankie," says Burns, "was the last 
 stand made by the Clans for James after 
 his abdication. Here Dundee fell in the 
 moment of victory, and with him fell the 
 hopes of the party. General Mackay, 
 when he found the Highlanders did not 
 pursue his liying army, said: ' Dundee 
 must be killed, or he never would have 
 overlooked this advantage.' A great stone 
 marks the spot where Dundee fell." The 
 remains of Claverhouse were interred in 
 the burial vault of Blair-Athole church. 
 
 Clavers and his Highland men, 
 
 Came down upon the raw, man, 
 Who, being stout, gave many a clout. 
 
 The lads began to claw then, 
 With sword and targe into their hand, 
 
 Wi' which they were na slaw, man, 
 Wi' mony a fearful heavy sigh, 
 
 The lads began to claw, then. 
 
 O'er bush, o'er bank, o'er ditch, o'er 
 stank, 
 She flang amang them a', man; 
 The Butter-box got mony knocks, 
 
 Their riggings paid for a' then. 
 They got their paiks, wi' sudden 
 straiks, 
 Which to their grief they saw, man; 
 Wi' clinkum clankum o'er their 
 crowns. 
 The lads began to fa' then. 
 
 Her skipt about, her leapt about. 
 And flung amang them a', man; 
 The English blades got broken heads, 
 Their crowns were cleav'd in twa 
 then. 
 The durk and door made their last 
 hour. 
 And prov'd their final fa', man; 
 They thought the devil had been 
 there. 
 That play'd them sic a paw then. 
 
 The solemn league and covenant. 
 
 Cam whigging up the hills, man, 
 Thought Highland trews durst not 
 refuse 
 
 For to subscribe their bills then: 
 In Willie's name they thought nae ane 
 
 Durst stop their course at a', man, 
 But her nain-sell, wi' mony a knock, 
 
 Cried, " Furich, whigs awa', man." 
 
 Sir Even-Dhu, and his men true, 
 
 Came linking up the brink, man; 
 The Hogan Dutch they feared such, 
 
 They bred a horrid stink then. 
 The true Maclean, and his fierce men, 
 
 Came in amang them a', man; 
 Nane durst withstand his heavy hand, 
 
 All fled and ran awa' then. 
 
 Oc/i on a ri, och on a ri, 
 
 Why should she lose King Shames, 
 man? 
 Och rig in di, och rig in di, 
 
 She shall break a' her banes then; 
 With furichifiish, and stay a-while. 
 
 And speak a word or twa, man. 
 She's gi' a straik out o'er the neck, 
 
 Before ye win awa, then. 
 
 O fy for shame, ye'er three for ane, 
 Her nane-sell's won the day, man; 
 
 King Shames' red coats should be 
 hung up, 
 Because they ran awa' then:
 
 94 
 
 CELEBRATED S0N08 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Had bent their brows, like Highland 
 trues, 
 And made as lang a stay, man, 
 They'd sav'd their king, that sacred 
 thing, 
 And Willie'd run away then. 
 
 WILL YE NO COME BACK 
 AGAIN? 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 "This song belongs to the times which 
 compose the subject of it, and it is written 
 with considerable spirit. The imputation 
 on the men of the isles is, however, too 
 general, for even those gentlemen who 
 refused, upon principle, to join the stand- 
 ard of Charles, had no wish that he should 
 be captured; but on the contrary, many of 
 them afterwards secretly lent themselves 
 to his escape. If suspicion rested upon 
 anyone it was only on the Laird of 
 McLeod, who wrote to Macdonald of 
 Kingsborough, desiring him, if the Prince 
 fell in his way to deliver him up, and 
 saying that he would thereby do a service 
 to his countr}'. But Kingsborough acted 
 a very different part; for he lodged the 
 Prince hospitably in his house, and did 
 not leave him till he saw him safely out 
 of the reach of his enemies. For this he 
 was afterwards taken up and imprisoned 
 in a dungeon at Fort Augustus, where, 
 being examined by Sir Everard Falkner, 
 he was put in mind how noble an oppor- 
 tunity he had lost of making the fortune 
 of himself and his family forever. To 
 which Kingsborough indignantly replied, 
 ' No, Sir Everard, death would have been 
 preferable to such dishonor. But at any 
 rate, had I gold and silver, piled heaps on 
 heaps, to the bulk of yon huge mountain, 
 the vast mass could not afford me half the 
 satisfaction I find in my own breast, from 
 doing what I have done.' This gentleman 
 was afterwards removed to Edinburgh 
 Castle, where he was kept close prisoner 
 for a year, nobody being permitted to see 
 him but the officer upon guard, the ser- 
 geant and the keeper, which last was ap- 
 pointed to attend him as a servant. When 
 the act of grace was passed he was dis- 
 charged." — Lyric Gems of Scotland. 
 
 Royal Charlie's now awa, 
 
 Safely owre the friendly main; 
 Mony a heart will break in twa, 
 Should he ne'er come back again. 
 Will you no come back again.? 
 Will you no come back again? 
 Better lo'ed you'll never be. 
 And will ye no come back again? 
 
 Mony a traitor 'mang the isles 
 Brak' the band o' nature's law; 
 
 Mony a traitor, wi' his wiles. 
 Sought to wear his life awa. 
 
 Will he no come back again? &c. 
 
 The hills he trode were a' his ain, 
 
 And bed beneath the birken tree; 
 The bush that hid him on the plain, 
 There's none on earth can claim 
 but he. 
 Will he no come back again? &c. 
 
 Whene'er I hear the blackbird sing, 
 
 Unto the e'ening sinking down, 
 Or merle that makes the woods to 
 ring, 
 To me they hae nae ither soun' 
 Than, Will he ne'er come back 
 again, &c. 
 
 Mony a gallant soder fought, 
 Mony a gallant chief did fa' ; 
 
 Death itself were dearly bought, 
 A' for Scotland's king and law. 
 Will he no come back again? &c. 
 
 Sweet the lav'rock's note and lang. 
 Lifting wildly up the glen ; 
 
 And aye the o'ercome o' the sang 
 Is, " Will he no come back again?" 
 Will he no come back again? &c. 
 
 CHARLIE IS MY DARLING. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 This is one of the most popular of the 
 Jacobite songs. The following anecdote 
 is related of Sir Walter Scott in connec-
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 95 
 
 tion with it. When in Italy for his health, 
 and clambering up a rugged pathway in 
 the neighborhood of Mount Vesuvius, he 
 was observed by Sir William Gell, his 
 medical attendant, to be speaking to him- 
 self. Anxious to find what the dying 
 minstrel was saying, the physican listened 
 and in place of being regaled with some- 
 thing connected with the classic land in 
 which they were journeying, he was sur- 
 prised to hear the last stanza of this song 
 come gushing fresh from the fountain of 
 Sir Walter's heart. 
 
 " It's up yon heathery mountain, 
 
 And down you scraggy glen, 
 We daurna gang a-milking, 
 * For Charlie and his men. ' 
 
 'TwAS on a Monday morning, 
 
 Right early in the year, 
 That Charlie came to our town. 
 
 The young Chevalier. 
 
 And Charlie he's my darling, 
 My darling, my darling, 
 
 And Charlie he's my darling, 
 The young Chevalier. 
 
 As he was walking up the street, 
 
 The city for to view, 
 O there he spied a bonnie lass, 
 
 The window looking through. 
 
 And Charlie he's my darling, &c. 
 
 Sae light's he jumped up the stair, 
 
 And tirl'd at the pin; 
 And wha sae ready as hersel, 
 
 To let the laddie in! 
 
 And Charlie he's my darling, &c. 
 
 He sat his Jenny on his knee, 
 All in his Highland dress; 
 
 For brawley weel he kenn'd the way 
 To please a bonnie lass. 
 
 And Charlie he's my darling, &c. 
 
 It's up yon heathery mountain, 
 And down yon scraggy glen, 
 
 We daurna gang a-milking 
 For Charlie and his men. 
 
 And Charlie he's my darling, &c. 
 
 THE SOW'S TAH. TO GEORDIE. 
 
 ANONyMOUS. 
 
 It's Geordie's now come hereabout, 
 O wae light on his sulky snout ! 
 A pawky sow has found him out, 
 And turn'd her tail to Geordie. 
 
 The sow's tail is till him yet, 
 A sow's birse will kill him yet, 
 The sow's tail is till him yet, 
 The sow's tail to Geordie. 
 
 It's Geordie he came up the town, 
 Wi' a bunch o' turnips on his crown; 
 "Aha! " quo' she, I'll pull them down, 
 And turn my tail to Geordie." 
 The sow's tail is till him yet, &c. 
 
 It's Geordie he gat up to dance. 
 And wi' the sow to take a prance. 
 And aye she gart her hurdles flaunce, 
 And turn'd her tail to Geordie. 
 The sow's tail is till him yet, &c. 
 
 It's Geordie be gaed out to hang. 
 The sow came round him wi' a bang: 
 "Aha!" quo' she, "there's something 
 
 wrang; 
 I'll turn my tail to Geordie." 
 
 The sow's tail is till him yet, &c. 
 
 The sow and Geordie ran a race, 
 But Geordie fell and brake his face: 
 " Aha!" quo' she, " I've won the race. 
 And turn'd my tail to Geordie." 
 
 The sow's tail is till him yet, &c. 
 
 It's Geordie he sat down to dine, 
 And wha came in but Madam Swine ? 
 " Grumph! Grumph!" quo' she, " I'm 
 come in time, 
 I'll sit and dine wi' Geordie." 
 
 The sow's tail is till him yet, &c. 
 
 It's Geordie he lay down to die; 
 The sow was there as weel as he!
 
 m 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 " Umph! Umph! " quo' she, " he's no Gordon and M'Gregor's coming, 
 for me " Ilka dunywastle's coming, 
 
 And turn'd her tail to Geordie. 
 The sow's tail is till him yet, &c. 
 
 It's Geordie he gat up to pray. 
 She mumpit round and ran away: 
 " Umph! Umph!" quo' she, "he's done 
 for aye," 
 And turn'd her tail to Geordie. 
 The sow's tail is till him yet, &c. 
 
 THE 
 
 CHEVALIER'S 
 ROLL. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 MUSTER 
 
 Little wat ye wha's coming, 
 M'Gillivray and a's coming, 
 
 " There can be little doubt but this 
 song, denominated TAe Chevalier's Muster 
 Roll, has been made and sung about the 
 time when the Earl of Mar raised the 
 standard for King James in the North; but 
 it is so far from be'ing a complete list, that 
 many of the principal chiefs are left out, 
 as Athol, Broadalbine, Ogilvie, Keith, 
 Stuart, &c., &c. It therefore appears 
 evident to me, that it has been adapted for 
 some festive meeting where all the names 
 of those present were introduced, without 
 regard to the others; and I have not the 
 least doubt that every name mentioned 
 in the song applied to some particular per- 
 son, though it is impossible at this dis- 
 tance of time, to trace each one with 
 certainty." — Hogg. 
 
 Little wat ye wha's coming, 
 Little wat ye wha's coming, 
 Little wat ye wha's coming, 
 Jock an' Tam an' a's coming. 
 
 Duncan's coming, Donald's coming, 
 Colin's coming, Ronald's coming,_ 
 Dougal's coming, Lauchlan's coming, 
 Alaster and a's coming. 
 
 Little wat ye wha's coming, 
 Jock an' Tam an' a's coming. 
 
 Borland and his men's coming, 
 Cameron and M'Lean's coming, 
 
 Wigton's coming, Nithsdale's coming, 
 Carnwarth's coming, Kenmure's com- 
 ing. 
 Derwentwater and Forster's commg, 
 
 Widdrington and Nairn's coming, 
 Little wat ye wha's coming, 
 Blithe Cowhill and a's coming. 
 
 The Laird of M'Intosh is coming, 
 M'Crabie an' M'Donald's coming, 
 M'Kenzie and M'Pherson's coming. 
 And the wild M'Craw's coming. 
 Little wat ye wha's coming, 
 Donald Gun and a's coming. 
 
 They gloom, they glour, they look sae 
 
 big, 
 At ilka stroke they 11 fell a Whig: 
 
 They'll fright the fuds o' the Pockpuds 
 For mony a buttock hare's coming. 
 Little wat ye wha's coming, 
 Jock and Tam an' a's coming. 
 
 THE PIPER CAME TO OUR 
 TOWN. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 "The hero of this song is supposed to 
 have been Carnegie of Phinhaven, cele- 
 brated as the best flier from the field of 
 Sherriffmuir, namely — 
 
 ' The laird of Phinhaven, who swore to be^even 
 Wi' ony general orpeero' them a', man.' 
 
 He was a very active partizan of the Stuart 
 party for a while, but afterwards became 
 notorious for deserting the cause, and of 
 course incurred all the odium usually at- 
 tached to the character of a turncoat. The 
 song evidently refers to some meeting held 
 at Amulrie, a village in Perthshire, no 
 doubt with a view to ascertain the feelings 
 of individuals towards the cause, and fix 
 their intentions." — Note, Jacobite Min- 
 strelsy.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 97 
 
 The piper came to our town, 
 To our town, to our town, 
 The piper came to our town, 
 
 And he played bonnilie. 
 He played a spring the laird to please, 
 A spring brent new frae yont the seas; 
 And then he ga'e his bags a wheeze. 
 And played anither key. 
 And wasna he a roguey, 
 
 A roguey, a roguey, 
 And wasna he a roguey, 
 The piper o' Dundee ? 
 
 He played "The welcome ower the 
 
 main," 
 And " Ye'es be fou and I'se be fain," 
 And " Auld Stuarts back again," 
 
 Wi' muckle mirth and glee. 
 He played "The Kirk," he played 
 
 " The Quier," 
 " The Mullin Dhu " and "Chevalier," 
 And " Lang awa', but welcome here," 
 
 Sae sweet, sae bonnilie. 
 
 It's some gat swords, and some gat 
 
 nane. 
 And some were dancing mad their 
 
 lane. 
 And mony a vow o' weir was taen 
 
 That night at Amulrie! 
 There was Tullibardine and Burleigh, 
 And Struan, Keith, and Ogilvie, 
 And brave Carnegie, wha but he. 
 
 The piper o' Dundee .'* 
 
 GEORDIE SITS IN CHARLIE'S 
 CHAIR. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Composed shortly after the close of the 
 Rebellion of 1745-6. It contains humor 
 and satire and enmity almost in ever}' 
 verse, and will always be numbered 
 among the finest specimens of the Jaco- 
 bitical muse. It is evidentlj' one of the 
 numerous songs inspired by the barbarities 
 which were inflicted upon the Highlanders 
 by the Duke of Cumberland's army after 
 the battle of Culloden. 
 
 Gk;ordie sits in Charlie's chair, 
 
 Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie; 
 Deil tak' him gin he bide there, 
 
 Mybonnie laddie, Highland laddie; 
 Charlie yet sball mount the throne, 
 
 Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ; 
 Weel ye ken it is his own, 
 
 My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 
 
 Weary fa' the Lawland loon, 
 
 Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, 
 Wha took frae him the British crown, 
 
 My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. 
 But leeze me on the kilted clans, 
 
 Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 
 That fought for him at Preston pans. 
 
 My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 
 
 Ken ye the news I hae to tell, 
 
 Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie? 
 Cumberland's awa to hell. 
 
 My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie; 
 When he came to the Stygian shore, 
 
 Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 
 The deil himsel' wi' fright did roar. 
 
 My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 
 
 When Charon grim came out to him, 
 
 Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie; 
 " Ye're welcome here, ye devil's 
 limb!" 
 
 My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 
 They pat on him a philabeg, 
 
 Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, 
 And into him they ca'd a peg. 
 
 My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 
 
 How he did skip and he did roar, 
 
 Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie: 
 The deils ne're saw sic sport before, 
 
 My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 
 They took him neist to Satan's ha', 
 
 Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. 
 To lilt it wi' his grandpapa, 
 
 My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. 
 
 The deil sat girnin in the neuk, 
 Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie,
 
 98 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Riving sticks to roast the duke, 
 ]My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. 
 
 They put him neist upon a spit, _ 
 Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, 
 
 And roasted him baith head and feet, 
 My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. 
 
 Wi' scalding brunstane and wi' fat, 
 Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, 
 They flamm'd his carcase weel wf 
 that, 
 Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 
 They ate him up baith stoop and 
 roop, 
 Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie; 
 And that's the gate they serv'd the 
 duke. 
 My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. 
 
 OH! HE'S BEEN LANG O' 
 COMING. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 Another famous Jacobite song. 
 
 The youth that should hae been our 
 
 king, 
 Was dress'd in yellow, red and green, 
 A braver lad ye wadna seen, 
 Than our brave royal Charlie. 
 Oh! he's been lang o' coming, 
 Lang, lang, lang o' coming. 
 Oh! he's been lang o' coming, 
 Welcome royal Charlie. 
 
 At Falkirk and at Prestonpans, 
 Supported by the Highland clans. 
 They broke the Hanoverian bands, 
 For our brave royal Charlie. 
 Oh! he's been lang, etc. 
 
 The valient chief, the brave Lochiel, 
 He met Prince Charlie on the dale; 
 Then, Oh! what kindness did prevail. 
 Between the Chief and Charlie. 
 Oh! he's been lang, etc. 
 
 O come and quaff along wi' me. 
 And drink a bumper, three times 
 
 three. 
 To him that's come to set us free, 
 Huzy! rejoice for Charlie. 
 Oh! he's been lang etc. 
 
 We darena brew a peck o' maut, 
 But Geordie says it is a faut; 
 And to our kail cannot get saut, 
 For want of royal Charlie. 
 Oh! he's been lang, etc. 
 
 Now our good king abroad is gone, 
 A German whelp now fills the throne. 
 And whelps it is denied by none. 
 Are brutes compared to Charlie. 
 Oh! he's been lang, etc. 
 
 Now our good king is turned awa', 
 A German whelp now rules us a'. 
 And tho' we're forc'd against our law. 
 The right belongs to Charlie. 
 Oh! he's been lang, etc. 
 
 If we had but our Charlie back, 
 We wadna fear the German's crack; 
 Wi' a' his thieving, hungry pack, 
 The right belongs to Charlie. 
 Oh! he's been lang, etc. 
 
 O, Charlie come and lead the way, 
 No German whelp shall bear the 
 
 sway, 
 Tho' ilka dog maun hae his day; 
 The right belongs to Charlie. 
 Oh! he's been lang, etc. 
 
 BANNOCKS O' BARLEY. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 In Johnson's Museum there is but one 
 verse and a half given of this song. The 
 air is very old and was formerly called 
 "The Kiliogie." Hogg also has a song 
 in his Jacobite Relics, entitled " Cakes of 
 Crowdy " to the same air.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 99 
 
 Bannocks o' bear meal, bannocks o' 
 barley, 
 
 Here's to the Highlandman's ban- 
 nocks o' barley! 
 
 Wha in a brulzie will first cry " a 
 parley ?" 
 
 Never the lads wi' the bannocks o' 
 barley! 
 Bannocks o' bear meal, bannocks o' 
 
 barley. 
 Here's to the Highlandman's ban- 
 nocks o' barley- 
 
 Wha drew the gude claymore for 
 
 Charlie ? 
 "Wha cow'd the loons o' England 
 
 rarely ? 
 And claw'd their backs at Falkirk 
 
 fairly ?" 
 Wha but the lads wi' the bannocks o' 
 
 barley! 
 Bannocks o' bear meal, &c. 
 
 Wha when hope was blasted fairly, 
 Stood in ruin wi' bonnie Prince 
 
 Charlie ? 
 And 'neath the Duke's bluidy paws 
 
 dreed fu' sairly ? 
 Wha but the lads wi' the bannocks o' 
 
 barley! 
 Bannocks o' bear meal, &c. 
 
 Our kirk's gaen either to ruin again, 
 Our state's in confusion, and bravely 
 
 we ken, 
 Tho' we darena v/cel tell wha's to 
 
 blame for it a'. 
 And we'll never see peace sin' Jamie's 
 
 awa'. 
 
 Our auld honest master, the laird o' 
 
 the Ian', 
 He bauldly set off at the head o' the 
 
 clan, 
 But the knowes o' Carnousie again he 
 
 ne'er saw. 
 An a's gaen to wreck sin' Jamie's awa'. 
 
 THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE 
 SIN' JAMIE'S AWA'. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 By Carnousie's auld wa's, at the close 
 
 of the day, 
 An auld man was singing, wi' locks 
 
 thin and grey. 
 And the burden o' his sang, while the 
 
 tears fast did fa', 
 Was, there'll never be peace sin' 
 
 Jamie's awa'. 
 
 THE AULD STUARTS BACK 
 AGAIN. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Said to have been composed about the 
 time of the outbreak of 1715. 
 
 The auld Stuarts back again. 
 The auld Stuarts back again. 
 Let howlet Whigs do what they can, 
 
 The Stuarts will be back again. 
 Wha cares for a' their creeshy duds. 
 And a' Kilmarnock's sowen suds ? 
 We'll whack their hydes and fyle their 
 fuds. 
 
 And bring the Stuarts back again. 
 
 There's Ayr and Irvine, wi' the rest, 
 And a' the cronies i' the west, 
 Lord! sic a scaw'd and scabbit nest. 
 
 How they'll set up their crack again 
 But wad they come, or dare they come, 
 Afore the bagpipe and the drum, 
 We'll either gar them a' sing dumb, 
 
 Or " Auld Stuarts back again." 
 
 Give ear unto my loyal sang, 
 A' ye that ken the right fraew rang, 
 And a' that look and think it lang 
 For auld Stuarts back again.
 
 100 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Were ye wi' me to chace the rae, 
 Out owre the hills and far away, 
 And saw the Lords were there that day, 
 To bring the Stuarts back again. 
 
 There ye might see the noble Mar, 
 Wi' Athol, Huntly, and Traquair, 
 Seaforth, Kilsyth, and Auldubair, 
 
 And mony mae, whatreck, again. 
 Then what are a' their westland crews? 
 We'll gar the tailors tack again: 
 Can they forestand the tartan trews. 
 
 And auld Stuarts back again. 
 
 CULLODEN. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 As is well known, the heroic struggle 
 of Prince Charles Edward to regain the 
 throne of his ancestors terminated with the 
 defeat of his army on the field of Cul- 
 loden. This celebrated battle "was fought 
 on April i6, 1746. "It lasted," says Dr. 
 Chambers, "little more than forty min- 
 utes, most of which brief space of time 
 was spent in distant firing, and very little 
 in the active struggle. It was as complete 
 a victory as possible on the part of the 
 Royal arm}', and any other result would 
 have been very discreditable to the En- 
 glish army. Its numbers and condi- 
 tion for fighting were so superior, their 
 artillery did so much for them, and the 
 plan of battle was so much in their favor 
 that to have lost the day would have argued 
 3, degree of misbehavior for which even 
 Prestonpansand Falkirk had not prepared 
 us." 
 
 Fair lady, mourn the memory 
 
 Of all our Scottish fame! 
 Fair lady, mourn the memory 
 
 Ev'n of the Scottish name! 
 How proud were we of our young 
 prince, 
 
 And of his native sway! 
 And all our hopes are past and gone. 
 
 Upon Culloden day. 
 
 There was no lack of bravery there. 
 No spare of blood or breath. 
 
 For, one to two, our foes we dar'd. 
 For freedom or for death. 
 
 The bitterness of grief is past, 
 
 Of terror and dismay; 
 The die was risk'd, and foully cast, 
 
 Upon Culloden day. 
 
 And must thou seek a foreign clime, 
 
 In poverty to pine, 
 No friend or clansman by thy side, 
 
 No vassal that is thine .'* 
 Leading thy young son by the hand, 
 
 And trembling for his life. 
 As at the name of Cumberland 
 
 He grasps his father's knife. 
 
 I cannot see thee, lady fair, 
 
 Turn'd out on the world wide; 
 I cannot see thee, lady fair. 
 
 Weep on the bleak hill side. 
 Before such noble stem should bend 
 
 To tyrant's treachery, 
 I'll lay thee with thy gallant sire. 
 
 Beneath the beechen tree. 
 
 I'll hide thee in Clan-Ronald's isles. 
 
 Where honor still bears sway; 
 I'll watch the traitor's hovering sails, 
 
 By islet and by bay; 
 And ere thy honor shall be stain'd, 
 
 This sword avenge shall thee, 
 And lay thee with thy gallant kin. 
 
 Below the beechen tree. 
 
 What is there now in thee, Scotland, 
 
 To us can pleasure give? 
 What is there now in thee, Scotland, 
 
 For which we ought to live? 
 Since we have stood, and stood in 
 vain. 
 
 For all that we held dear, 
 Still have we left a sacrifice 
 
 To offer on our bier. 
 
 A foreign and fanatic sway 
 
 Our Southron foes may gall; 
 The cup is fill'd they yet shall drink. 
 
 And they deserve it all. 
 But there is nought for us or ours. 
 
 In which to hope or trust. 
 But hide us in our fathers' graves, 
 
 Amid our fathers' dust.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 101 
 
 CURSES. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 A specimen of the terrible hatred enter- 
 tained by the Jacobites, towards the mem- 
 bers of the house of Hanover, and the part 
 ies who sanctioned tlie Union of Scotland 
 with England. 
 
 Scotland and England must be now 
 
 United in a nation, 
 And we must all perjure and vow, 
 
 And take the abjuration. 
 The Stuarts' ancient freeborn race. 
 
 Now we must all give over; 
 And we must take into their place 
 
 The bastards of Hanover. 
 
 Curs'd be the Papists who withdrew 
 
 The king to their persuasion; 
 Curs'd be that Covenanting crew, 
 
 Who gave the first occasion. 
 Curs'd be the wretch who seiz'd the 
 throne, 
 
 And marr'd our Constitution; 
 And curs'd be they who helped on 
 
 That wicked revolution. 
 
 Curs'd be those traitorous traitors who 
 
 By their perfidious knavery, 
 Have brought our nation now into 
 
 An everlasting slavery. 
 Curs'd be the Parliament, that day. 
 
 Who gave their confirmation; 
 And curs'd be every whining Whig, 
 
 For they have damn'd the nation. 
 
 COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE. 
 
 HECTOR MACNEILL. 
 
 Hector Macneill was born at Rosebank, 
 near Edinburgh, on the 22d October, 
 1746. He became in early life a devoted 
 admirer of the muses and soon gave evi- 
 dence of his own poetical abilities, by 
 producing a drama of considerable power 
 and interest when he was only eleven 
 years of age. His parents were poor, 
 however, and could not afford the means 
 for securing him an education at one of 
 
 the Universities, as they were urged upon 
 to do, and he was sent in his fourteenth 
 year, to Bristol to engage in the duties of 
 a seafaring life with one of his relatives 
 who traded between that port and the 
 West Indies. The most of his life after 
 this age was spent abroad. He published, 
 in 1795, " Scotland's Skaith, or the Histor}- 
 of Will and Jean," and in 1796 " The Waes 
 o' War," two poems v/hich are still very 
 popular. He also published during his 
 lifetime a number of other works both in 
 prose and verse. But it is chiefl)' as a 
 song-writer that Macneill has gained a 
 reputation. " Come under my Plaidie," 
 " Dinna think, Bonnie Lassie," " My Boy 
 Tammy," "Saw ye my wee thing," 
 and many others are as fine as any of 
 Ramsay's songs and in many respects 
 equal those of Burns and Tannahill. 
 He held positions at various times in 
 Guadaloupe, Grenada and Jamaica. He 
 finally returned to Scotland in iSoo and 
 settled at Edinburgh, where he devoted 
 the rest of his life to literary work. He 
 died on the 15th March, 1818, in the 
 seventy-second year of his age. 
 
 Come under my plaidie; the night's 
 
 gaun to fa'; 
 Come in frae the cauld blast, the 
 
 drift, and the snaw; 
 Come under my plaidie, and sit down 
 
 beside me; 
 There's room in't, dear lassie, believe 
 
 me, for twa. 
 Come under my plaidie, and sit down 
 
 beside me; 
 I'll hap ye frae every cauld blast that 
 
 can blaw: 
 Come under my plaidie, and sit down 
 
 beside me; 
 There's room in't, dear lassie, believe 
 
 me, for twa. 
 
 Gae 'wawi' your plaidie! auld Donald, 
 
 gae 'wa, 
 I fear na the cauld blast, the drift, 
 
 nor the snaw! 
 Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie! I'll no sit 
 
 beside ye; 
 Ye micht be my gutcher! auld Donald, 
 
 gae 'wa.
 
 102 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 I'm gaun to meet Johnnie — he's 
 
 young and he's bonnie; 
 He's been at Meg's bridal, fu' trig 
 
 and fu' braw! 
 Nane dances sae lichtly, sae gracefu', 
 
 or tichtly, 
 His cheek's like the new rose, his 
 
 brow's like the snaw! 
 
 Dear Marion, let that flee stick fast 
 
 to the wa'; 
 Your Jock's but a gowk, and has 
 
 naething ava; 
 The haill o' his pack he has now on 
 
 his back; 
 He's thretty, and I am but threescore 
 
 and tv.'a. 
 Be frank now and kiidly — I'll busk 
 
 ye aye finely; 
 To kirk or to market there'll few gang 
 
 sae braw; 
 A bein house to bide in, a chaise for 
 
 to ride in, 
 And flunkies to 'tend ye as aft as 
 
 ye ca'. 
 
 My father aye tauld me, my mother 
 
 and a', 
 Ye'd mak' a gude husband, and keep 
 
 me aye braw; 
 It's true, I lo'e Johnnie; he's young 
 
 and he's bonnie; 
 But, wae's me! I ken he has naething 
 
 ava! 
 I ha'e little tocher; ye've made a 
 
 gude offer; 
 I'm now mair than twenty; my time 
 
 is but sma'! 
 Sae gi'e me your plaidie; I'll creep in 
 
 beside ye; 
 I thocht ye'd been aulder than three 
 
 score and twa! 
 
 She crap in ayont him, beside the 
 
 stane wa', 
 Wharc Johnnie was listnin', and heard 
 
 her tell a': 
 The day was appointed! — his proud 
 
 heart it dunted, 
 
 And strack 'gainst his side, as if 
 
 burstin' in twa. 
 He wander'd hame wearie, the nicht 
 
 it was drearie, 
 And, thowless, he tint his gate 'mang 
 
 the deep snaw: 
 The howlet was screaming, while 
 
 Johnnie cried, Women 
 Wad marry auld Nick, if he'd keep 
 
 them aye braw. 
 
 O, the deil's in the lasses! they gang 
 
 now sae braw. 
 They'll lie down wi' auld men o' four 
 
 score and twa: 
 The haill o' their marriage is gowd 
 
 and a carriage; 
 Plain love is the cauldest blast now 
 
 that can blaw. 
 Auld dotards, be wary! tak' tent wha 
 
 you marry; 
 Young wives, wi' their coaches, they'll 
 
 whip and they'll ca', 
 Till they meet wi' some Johnnie that's 
 
 youthfu' and bonnie. 
 And they'll gi'e ye horns on ilk haffet 
 
 to claw. 
 
 DINNA THINK, BONNIE 
 LASSIE. 
 
 HECTOR MACNEILL. 
 
 The last verse was added by John Ham- 
 ilton, and on this account the song was 
 not included b}- Macneill in the two 
 volume edition of his poetical works 
 which he published some time before his 
 death. 
 
 O DINNA think, bonnie lassie, I'm 
 
 gaun to leave thee; 
 Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun 
 
 to leave thee; 
 Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun 
 
 to leave thee; 
 I'll tak' a stick into my hand, and 
 
 come again and see thee.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 loa 
 
 Far's the gate ye ha'e to gang; dark's 
 
 the night and eerie; 
 Far's the gate ye ha'e to gang; dark's 
 
 the night and eerie ; 
 Far's the gate ye ha'e to gang; dark's 
 
 the night and eerie; 
 O stay this night wi' your love, and 
 
 dinna gang and leave me. 
 
 It's but a night and hauf a day that 
 
 I'll leave my dearie; 
 But a night and hauf a day that I'll 
 
 leave my dearie ; 
 But a night and hauf a day that I'll 
 
 leave my dearie; 
 Whene'er the sun gaes west the loch, 
 
 I'll come again and see thee. 
 
 Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna 
 
 gang and leave me; 
 Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna 
 
 gang and leave me; 
 When a' the lave are sound asleep, I 
 
 am dull and eerie; 
 And a' the lee-lang night I'm sad, wi' 
 
 thinking on my dearie. 
 
 O dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun 
 
 to leave thee; 
 Dinna think bonnie lassie, I'm gaun 
 
 to leave thee; 
 Dinna think bonnie lassie, I'm gaun 
 
 to leave thee: 
 Whene'er the sun gaes out o' sight, I'll 
 
 come again and see thee. 
 
 Waves are rising o'er the sea; winds 
 
 blaw loud and fear me; 
 Waves are rising o'er the sea; winds 
 
 blaw loud and fear me; 
 While the winds and waves do roar, I 
 
 am wae and drearie, 
 And gin ye lo'e me as ye say, ye winna 
 
 gang and leave me. 
 
 O never mair, bonnie lassie, will I 
 
 gang and leave thee; 
 Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang 
 
 and leave thee; 
 
 Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gi:ng 
 
 and leave thee; 
 E'en let the world gang as it will, I'll 
 
 stay at hame and cheer thee. 
 
 Frae his hand he coost his stick; I 
 
 winna gang and leave thee; 
 Threw his plaid into the neuk; never 
 
 can I grieve thee; 
 Drew his boots, and flang them by ; 
 
 cried, my lass, be cheerie; 
 I'll kiss the tear frae aff thy cheek, 
 
 and never leave my dearie. 
 
 MY BOY, TAMMY. 
 
 HECTOR IVIACNEILL. 
 
 First printed in The Bee, at Edinburgh, 
 in 1791, and founded on some sill)' old 
 verses of which the following lines are a 
 specimen, 
 
 " Is she fit to soop a house, 
 
 My boy Tammy ? 
 She's just as fit to soop a house, 
 As a cat to catch a mouse; 
 Vet she's but a young thing, 
 
 Just come frae her mammy." 
 
 The air is also known to be very old. 
 
 Whar ha'e ye been a' day. 
 
 My boy. Tammy ? 
 I've been by burn and flow'ry brae. 
 Meadow green and mountain grey. 
 Courting o' this young thing. 
 
 Just come frae her mammy. 
 
 And whar gat ye that young thing, 
 
 My boy. Tammy ? 
 I got her down in yonder howe. 
 Smiling on a bonnie knowe. 
 Herding ae wee lamb and ewe. 
 
 For her poor mammy. 
 
 What said ye to the bonnie bairn, 
 
 My boy. Tammy ? 
 I praised her een, sae lovely blue, 
 Her dimpled cheek and cherry mou'; 
 I pree'd it aft, as ye may trow! — 
 
 She said she'd tell her mammy.
 
 104 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 I held her to my beating heart, 
 My young, my smiling lammie! 
 
 I ha'e a house, it cost me dear, 
 
 I've wealth c' plenishen and gear; 
 
 Ye'se get it a', were't ten times mair, 
 Gin ye will leave your mammy. 
 
 The smile gaed aff her bonnie face — 
 
 I maunna leave my mammy. 
 She's gien me meat, she's gien me 
 
 claes, 
 She's been my comfort a' my days: — 
 My father's death brought monie 
 waes — 
 I canna leave my mammy. 
 
 We'll tak' her hame and male' her fain, 
 
 My ain kind-hearted lammie. 
 We'll gi'e her meat, we'll gie her 
 
 claes, 
 We'll be her comfort a' her days, 
 The wee thing gi'es her hand, and 
 says — 
 There! gang and ask my mammy. 
 
 Has she been to the kirk wi' thee, 
 
 My boy. Tammy ? 
 She has been to the kirk wi' me, 
 And the tear was in her e'e; 
 For O! she's but a young thing, 
 
 Just come frae her mammy. 
 
 SAW YE MY WEE THING? 
 
 HECTOR MACNEILL. 
 
 Frequently called " Mary of Castle 
 Gary." It was first printed in the Bee, in 
 
 1791- 
 
 O SAW ye my wee thing ? Saw ye my 
 ain thing ? 
 Saw ye my true love down on yon 
 lea? 
 Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at 
 the gloamin'? 
 Sought she the burnie whar flow'rs 
 the haw tree ? 
 
 Her hair it is lint-white; her skin it is 
 milk-white; 
 Dark is the blue o' her saft rolling 
 e'e; 
 Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter 
 than roses: — 
 Whar could my wee thing wander 
 frae me ? 
 
 I saw na your wee thing, I saw na 
 your ain thing, 
 Nor saw I your true love down on 
 yon lea; 
 But I met my bonnie thing late in the 
 gloamin', 
 Down by the burnie whar flow'rs 
 the haw tree. 
 Her hair it was lint-white; her skin it 
 was milk-white; 
 Dark was the blue o' her saft rolling 
 e'e; 
 Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter 
 than roses: 
 Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e 
 to me. 
 
 It was na my wee thing, it was na my 
 ain thiiig, 
 It was na my true love ye met by 
 the tree: 
 Proud is her leal heart! modest her 
 nature! 
 She never lo'ed onie, till ance she 
 lo'ed me. 
 Her name it is Mary; she's frae Castle- 
 Cary: 
 Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my 
 knee: — 
 Fair as your face is, war't fifty times 
 fairer, 
 Young bragger, she ne'er would 
 gi'e kisses to thee. 
 
 It was then your Mary; she's frae 
 
 Castle-Cary; 
 It was then your true love I met hj 
 
 the tree; 
 Proud as her heart is, and modest her 
 
 nature,
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 105 
 
 Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e 
 to me. 
 Sair gloom'd his dark brow, blood-red 
 his cheek grew, 
 Wild flash'd the fire frae his red- 
 rolling e'e! — 
 Ye's rue sair this morning your boasts 
 an' your scorning: 
 Defend ye, fause traitor! fu' loudly 
 ye lie. 
 
 Awa' wi' beguiling, cried the youth 
 smiling: — 
 Aff went the bonnet; the lint-white 
 locks flee; 
 The belted plaid fa'ing, her white 
 bosom shawing, 
 Fair stood the lov'd maid wi' the 
 dark rolling e'e! 
 Is it my wee thing ? is it my ain thing ? 
 Is it my true love here that I see ? 
 O Jamie forgi'e me; your heart's con- 
 stant to me; 
 I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, 
 frae thee! 
 
 MY LUVE'S IN GERMANIE. 
 
 HECTOR MACNEILL. 
 
 First published at Edinburgh as a sheet 
 soncT in 1794. It was then supposed to 
 have been written by a lad)' whose hus- 
 band had been slain in Germany. 
 
 My luve's in Germanic; 
 
 Send him hame, send him hame; 
 My luve's in Germanie; 
 
 Send him hame. 
 My luve's in Germanie, 
 Fighting brave for royalty; 
 He may ne'er his Jeanie see: 
 
 Send him hame, send him hame; 
 He may ne'er his Jeanie see; 
 
 Send him hame. 
 
 He's as brave as brave can be; 
 Send him hame, send hin hame; 
 
 Our faes are ten to three; 
 
 Send him hame. 
 Our faes are ten to three; 
 He maun either fa' or flee. 
 In the cause of loyalty; 
 
 Send him hame, send him hame; 
 In the cause of loyalty; 
 
 Send him hame. 
 
 Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, 
 
 Bonnie dame, winsome dame; 
 Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, 
 
 Winsome dame. 
 Your luve ne'er learnt to flee. 
 But he fell in Germanie, 
 Fighting brave for loyalty 
 
 Mournfu' dame, mournfu' dame^ 
 Fighting brave for loyalty, 
 
 Mournfu' dame. 
 
 He'll ne'er come ower the sea; 
 
 Willie's slain, Willie's slain; 
 He'll ne'er come ower the sea; 
 
 Willie's gane! 
 He will ne'er come ower the sea, 
 To his luve and ain countrie: 
 This warld's nae mair for me; 
 
 Willie's gane, Willie's gane ; 
 This warld's nae mair for me ; 
 
 Willie's gane! 
 
 I LO'ED NE'ER A LADDIE 
 BUT ANE. 
 
 HECTOR MACNEILL. 
 
 The first stanza belongs to a song writ- 
 ten by the Rev. John Clunie of Borthwick, 
 
 I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane. 
 
 He lo'ed ne'er a lassie but me; 
 He's willing to mak' me his ain, 
 
 And his ain I am willing to be. 
 He has coft me a rokelay o' blue, 
 
 And a pair o' mittens o' green; 
 The price was a kiss o' my mou'. 
 
 And I paid him the debt yestreen.
 
 106 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Let ithers brag weel o' their gear, 
 
 Their land and their lordly degree; 
 I carena for aught but my dear, 
 
 For he's ilka thing lordly to rae: 
 His words are sae sugar'd and sweet! 
 
 His sense drives ilk fear far awa'! 
 I listen, poor fool! and I greet; 
 
 Yet how sweet are the tears as 
 they fa'! 
 
 ^'Dear lassie," he cries, wi' a jeer, 
 " Ne'er heed what the auld anes will 
 say; 
 Though we've little to brag o' ne'er 
 fear — 
 What's gowd to a heart that is wae? 
 Our laird has baith honours and 
 
 wealth. 
 Yet see how he's dwining wi'care; 
 Now we, though we've naething but 
 health. 
 Are cantie and leal evermair. 
 
 " O Marion! the heart that is true, 
 Has something mair costly than 
 gear! 
 Ilk e'en it has naething to rue, 
 
 Ilk morn it has naething to fear. 
 Ye warldlingt! gae hoard up your 
 store. 
 And tremble for fear aught ye tyne; 
 Guard your treasures wi' lock, bar, 
 
 and door. 
 While here in my arms I lock mine!" 
 
 He ends wi' a kiss and a smile — 
 
 Wae's me! can I tak' it amiss? 
 My laddie's unpractised in guile. 
 
 He's free aye to daut and to kiss! 
 Ye lasses wha lo'e to torment 
 
 Your wooers wi' fause scorn and 
 strife. 
 Play your pranks — I hae gi'en my 
 consent. 
 
 And this nicht I'm Jamie's for life! 
 
 I HAE LAID A HERRING IN 
 SAUT. 
 
 JAMES TYTLER. 
 
 Based upon a very old song. James 
 Tytler was the editor of the second and 
 third editions of the "Encyclopaedia 
 Britannica." He was born at Brechin in 
 1747 and died in 1805. " A clever but 
 eccentric character," says Mr. Stenhouse, 
 " commonly called Balloon Tytler, from 
 the circumstance of his being the first per- 
 son who projected and ascended from 
 Edinburgh in one of these aerial ma- 
 chines." 
 
 I HAE laid a herring in saut — 
 
 Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now; 
 I hae brew'd a forpit o' maut. 
 
 And I canna come ilka day to woo; 
 I hae a calf that will soon be a cow — 
 
 Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now; 
 I hae a stook, and I'll soon hae a 
 mowe. 
 
 And I canna come ilka day to woo: 
 
 I hae a house upon yon moor — 
 
 Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now; 
 Three sparrows may dance upon the 
 floor. 
 
 And I canna come ilka day to woo: 
 I hae a but, and I hae a ben — 
 
 Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now; 
 A penny to keep, and a penny to spen', 
 
 And I canna come ilka day to woo: 
 
 I hae a hen wi' a happitie-leg — 
 
 Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now; 
 That ilka day lays me an egg. 
 
 And I canna come ilka day to woo: 
 I hae a Kebbuck upon my shelf — 
 
 Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now; — 
 And soon wi' mites 'twill rin itself. 
 
 And I canna come ilka day to woo. 
 
 LOCH-ERROCH SIDE. 
 
 JAMES TYTLER. 
 
 As I cam' by Loch-Erroch side, 
 The lofty hills surveying,
 
 CELEBRATED SONQS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 107 
 
 The water clear, the heather blooms, 
 Their fragrance sweet conveying; 
 
 I met, unsought, my lovely maid, 
 I found her like May morning ; 
 
 With graces sweet, and charms so 
 rare, 
 Her person all adorning. 
 
 How kind her looks, how blest was I, 
 
 While in my arms I prest her ! 
 And she her wishes scarce conceal'd, 
 
 As fondly I caress'd her : 
 She said, If that your heart be true. 
 
 If constantly you'll love me, 
 I heed not care nor fortune's frowns. 
 
 For nought but death shall move 
 
 me. 
 
 But faithful, loving, true, and kind, 
 
 Forever thou shalt find me ; 
 And of our meeting here so sweet, 
 
 Loch-Erroch sweet shall mind me. 
 Enraptured then. My lovely lass, 
 
 I cried, no more we'll tarry! 
 We'll leave the fair Loch-Erroch side, 
 
 For lovers soon should marry. 
 
 THE BONNIE BRUCKET 
 LASSIE. 
 
 JAMES TYTLER. 
 
 The bonnie brucket lassie 
 
 She's blue beneath the een ; 
 She was the fairest lassie 
 
 That danced on the green, 
 A lad he loo'd her dearly; 
 
 She did his love return: 
 But he his vows has broken, 
 
 And left her for to mourn. 
 
 My shape, he says, was handsome, 
 My face was fair and clean ; 
 
 But noo I'm bonnie brucket. 
 And blue beneath the een ; 
 
 My een were bright and sparkling. 
 Before that they turn'd blue, 
 
 But noo they'er dull with weeping, 
 And a', my love, for you. 
 
 O I could live in darkness. 
 
 Or hide me in the sea, 
 Since my love is unfaithful, 
 
 And has forsaken me; 
 No other love I suffer'd 
 
 Within my breast to dwell, 
 In nought have 1 offended 
 
 But loving him too well. 
 
 Her lover heard her mourning, 
 As by he chanced to pass. 
 
 And press'd unto his bosom, 
 The bonnie brucket lass; 
 
 My dear, he said, cease grieving. 
 
 Since that you lo'ed sae true, 
 My bonnie brucket lassie 
 
 I'll faithful prove to you. 
 
 MY AIN FIRESIDE. 
 
 ELIZABETH HAMILTON. 
 
 Elizabeth Hamilton was the authoress 
 of an excellent and popular story entitled 
 "The Cottagers of Glenburnie." She was 
 born in 174S and died in 1816. 
 
 I ha'e seen great anes, and sat in 
 
 great ha's, 
 'Mang lords and fine ladies a' cover'd 
 
 wi' braws; 
 At feasts made for princes, wi' princes 
 
 I've been, 
 Whare the grand sheen o' splendour 
 
 has dazzled my een: 
 But a sight sae delightfu', I trow, I 
 
 ne'er spied, 
 As the bonnie blythe blink o' mine 
 
 ain fireside; 
 
 My ain fireside, my ain fireside, 
 O cheery's the blink o' mine ain fire- 
 side. 
 My ain fireside, my ain fireside, 
 O there's nought to compare wi' 
 ane's ain fireside.
 
 108 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Ance mair, gude be thanket, round 
 my ain heartsome ingle, 
 
 Wi' the friends o' my youth I cordially 
 mingle; 
 
 Nae forms to compel me to seem wae 
 or glad, 
 
 I may laugh when I'm merry, and sigh 
 when I'm sad. 
 
 Nae falsehood to dread, and nae malice 
 to fear. 
 
 But truth to delight me, and friend- 
 ship to cheer; 
 
 Of a' roads to happiness ever were 
 tried. 
 
 There's nane half so sure as ane's ain 
 fireside. 
 My ain fireside, my ain fireside, 
 O there's nought to compare wi' 
 ane's ain fireside. 
 
 When I draw in my stool on my cosey 
 
 hearthstane, 
 My heart loups sae light I scarce ken't 
 
 for my ain; 
 Care's down on the wind, it is clean 
 
 out o' sight, 
 Past troubles they seem but as dreams 
 
 of the night. 
 I hear but kenn'd voices, kenn'd faces 
 
 I see ; 
 And mark saft aflection glent fond f rae 
 
 ilk e'e; 
 Nae fleetchings o' flattery, nae boast- 
 ings o' pride, 
 'Tis heart speaks to heart at ane's ain 
 
 fireside. 
 My ain fireside, my ain fireside, 
 O there's nought to compare wi' 
 
 ane's ain fireside. 
 
 THE LEA RIG. 
 
 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND WILLIAM 
 REID. 
 
 The first two stanzas of "The Lea Rig" 
 were composed by Robert Fergusson, the 
 gifted but ill-fated Scottish poet whose 
 
 writings and sad histor}^ drew from the 
 tender heart of Burns the compassionate 
 sentiment expressed in the lines: — 
 
 " My elder brother in misfortune, 
 
 By far my elder brother in the Muses." 
 
 Fergusson was born at Edinburgh in 1750, 
 and in early life gave great promise of soon 
 attaining a position worthy of being called 
 the successor of Allan Ramsay. Being 
 designed by his parents for the miaistry 
 he was sent in his thirteenth year, to the 
 University of St. Andrews, where he 
 studied for four years. Returning to 
 Edinburgh, however, after this time, he 
 entered upon a life unworthy of his talents, 
 and died an inmate of an insane asylum 
 before he had reached the twenty-fourth 
 year of his age. He was buried in the 
 old Canongate churchyard of his native 
 city, where a tombstone, erected by Burns 
 in 1789, still marks his resting place. 
 The three last stanzas were added to the 
 song by William Reid, a partner in the 
 once prominent publishing house of Brash 
 & Reid, Glasgow. He was born in 1764 
 and died 1831. He achieved during his 
 lifetime a considerable degree of popular- 
 ity for the many excellent additions which 
 he made to a number of well known songs. 
 
 Will ye gang o'er the lea rig, 
 
 My ain kind dearie, O, 
 And cuddle there fu' kindly, 
 
 Wi' me, my kind dearie, O! 
 At thorny bush, or birken tree. 
 
 We'll daff, and never weary, O ; 
 They'll scud ill een frae you and me. 
 
 My ain kind dearie, O. 
 
 Nae herds wi' kent or colly there, 
 
 Shall ever come to fear ye, O; 
 But laverocks whistling in the air 
 
 Shall woo, like me, their dearie, O. 
 While ithers herd their lambs and 
 ewes. 
 
 And toil for world's gear, my jo, 
 Upon the lea my pleasure grows 
 
 Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O. 
 
 At gloamin', if my lane I be, 
 Oh, but I'm wond'rous eerie, O; 
 
 And mony a heavy sigh I gi'e, 
 When absent frae my dearie, O;
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 109 
 
 But seated 'neath the milk-white thorn, 
 In e'ening fair and dearie, O, 
 
 Enraptur'd, a' my cares I scorn. 
 When wi' my kind dearie, O. 
 
 Where through the birks the burnie 
 rows, 
 
 Aft ha'e I sat fu' cheerie, O, 
 Upon the bonnie greensward howes, 
 
 Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O, 
 I've courted till I've heard the craw 
 
 Of honest chanticleerie, O, 
 Yet never miss'd my sleep ava, 
 
 When wi' my kind dearie, O. 
 
 For though the night was ne'er sae 
 dark. 
 
 And I were ne'er sae weary, O, 
 I'd meet the on the lea rig, 
 
 My ain kind dearie, O. 
 While in this weary warld of wae, 
 
 This wilderness sae dreary, O, 
 What makes me blythe, and keeps me 
 sae ? 
 
 'Tis thee, my kind dearie, O. 
 
 HALLOW FAIR. 
 
 ROBERT FERGUSSON. 
 
 This is the name of a fair which is 
 annually held at Edinburgh. 
 
 There's fouth o' braw Jockies and 
 Jennies 
 
 Comes well-buskit into the fair, 
 With ribbons on their cockernonies, 
 
 And fouth o' fine flour on their hair. 
 Maggie she was sae weel buskit, 
 
 That Willie was tied to his bride; 
 The pownie was ne'er better whisket 
 
 Wi' cudgel that hang frae his side. 
 
 But Maggie was wond'rous jealous, 
 To see Willie buskit sae braw; 
 
 And Sandy he sat in the alehouse, 
 And hard at the liquor did ca'. 
 
 There was Geordie, that weel looed 
 his lassie. 
 He took the pint-stoup in his arms, 
 And hugged it, and said, Trouth 
 they're saucie. 
 That loes na a guid-father's bairn. 
 
 There was Wattie, the muirland laddie 
 
 That rides on the bonnie grey cowt, 
 With sword by his side like a cadie 
 
 To drive in the sheep and the nowt. 
 His doublet sae weel it did fit him, 
 
 It scarcely cam' down to mid-thie. 
 With hair pouthered, hat, and a feather, 
 
 And hausing at curpen and tee. 
 
 But Bruckie played boo to Bessie, 
 And aff scoured the cout like the 
 wind; 
 Puir Wattie he fell on the caussey, 
 
 And birzed a' the banes in his skin. 
 His pistols fell out o' the hulsters, 
 And were a' bedaubed wi' dirt, 
 The folk they cam' round him in 
 clusters; 
 Some leuch, and cried. Lad, was 
 ye hurt ? 
 
 But cout wad let naebody steer him. 
 
 He aye was sae wanton and skeigh; 
 The packmen's stands he overturned 
 them, 
 
 And garred a' the Jocks stand 
 abeigh; 
 Wi' sneerin' behind and before him, 
 
 For sic is the mettle o' brutes, 
 Puir Wattie, and wae's me for him, 
 
 Was fain to gang hame in his boots. 
 
 Now it was late in the e'ening. 
 
 And boughting-time was drawing 
 near; 
 The lasses had stanched their greening 
 Wi' fouth o' braw apples and beer, 
 There was • Lillie, and Tibbie, and 
 Sibbie, 
 And Ceicy on the spindle could 
 spin,
 
 110 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Stood glowrin' at signs and glass 
 winnocks, 
 But deil a ane bade them come in. 
 
 Gude gide us! saw ye e'er the like o't ? 
 
 See, yonder's a bonnie black swan ; 
 It glow'rs as it wad fain be at us ; 
 
 What's yon that it bauds in its hand? 
 Awa', daft gowk, cries Wattie, 
 
 They're a' but ruckle o' sticks ; 
 See, there is Bill- Jock and auld Hawkie 
 
 And yonder's Mess John and auld 
 Nick. 
 
 Quoth Maggie, Come buy us our 
 fairin'; 
 And Wattie richt sleely could tell, 
 I think thou'rt the flower o' the 
 clachan, — 
 In trowth, now, I'se gi'e thee mysell. 
 But wha wad ha' e'er thocht it o' him, 
 
 That e'er he had rippled the lint .' 
 Sae proud v/as he o' his Maggie, 
 Though she was baith scaulie and 
 squint. 
 
 THE ESK. 
 
 REV. JOHN LOGAN. 
 
 While frequent on Tweed and on 
 Tay, 
 
 Their harps all the muses have 
 strung, 
 Should a river more limpid than they. 
 
 The wood-fringed Esk flow unsung? 
 While Nelly and Nancy inspire 
 
 The poet with pastoral strains, 
 Why silent the voice of the lyre 
 
 On Mary, the pride of the plains ? 
 
 O nature's most beautiful bloom 
 May flourish unseen and unknown: 
 
 And the shadows of solitude gloom 
 A form that might shine on a throne. 
 
 Through the wilderness blossoms the 
 rose, 
 In sweetness retired from the sight; 
 
 And Philomel warbles her woes 
 Alone to the ear of the night. 
 
 How often the beauty is hid 
 
 Amid shades that her triumphs deny! 
 How often the hero forbid 
 
 From the path that conducts to the 
 sky! 
 A Helen has pined in the grove; 
 
 A Homer has wanted his name; 
 Unseen in the circle of love, 
 
 Unknown to the temple of fame- 
 Yet let us walk forth to the stream, 
 
 Where poet ne'er wander'd before; 
 Enamour'd of Mary's sweet name. 
 
 How the echoes will spread to the 
 shore! 
 If the voice of the muse be divine. 
 
 Thy beauties shall live in my lay ; 
 While reflecting the forest so fine. 
 
 Sweet Esk o'er the valleys shall 
 stray. 
 
 AULD ROBIN GRAY. 
 
 Part I. 
 
 LADY ANN BARNARD. 
 
 Very few of the old Scottish ballads or 
 songs have ever attained the well-merited 
 popularity of "Auld Robin Gray." Its deep- 
 1}^ pathetic story, told in the simplest of lan- 
 guage, has touched the hearts of millions 
 of people of all nationalities, and has 
 more than once caused the tear to start to 
 the eye of man}"^ a one who, without dread 
 or flinching has witnessed the tragical 
 scenes enacted on some of the bloodiest 
 battle-fields in the world's history. The 
 authorship of " Auld Robin Gray" was for 
 many years a matter of great dispute. 
 Lady Anne Barnard, however, shortly be- 
 fore her death, in a letter to Sir Walter 
 Scott, acknowledged herself the authoress 
 of it, and also gave a short history in con- 
 nection with the writing of it. 
 
 " 'Robin Gray,'" she says, "so called from 
 its being the name of the old herd at Balcar- 
 ras, was born (written) soon after the close 
 of married and accompanied her husband 
 to the year 1771. My sister Margaret had
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Ill 
 
 London; I was melancholy and endeavor- 
 ed to amuse myself by attempting a few 
 poetical trifles. There was an ancient 
 Scotch melody of which I was passionately 
 fond. , who lived before your day, 
 
 used to sing it to us at Balcarras. I 
 longed to sing old Sophy's air to different 
 words, and give to its plaintive tones some 
 little history of virtuous distress in hum- 
 ble life, such as might suit it. While 
 attempting to effect this in my closet, I 
 called to my little sister, now Lady 
 Hardwicke, who was the only person near 
 me, ' I have been writing a ballad, my 
 dear; I am oppressing my heroine with 
 many nusiortunes. 1 have already sent 
 her Jamie to sea, and broken her father's 
 arm, and made her mother fall sick, and 
 given her old Robin Gray for a lover; but 
 I wish to load her with a fifth sorrow with- 
 in the four lines, poor thing! Help me 
 to one.' ' Steal the cow, sister Anne,' 
 said little Elizabeth. The cow was im- 
 mediately 'lifted' by me and the song 
 completed. At our fireside and among 
 our neighbors ' Auld Robin Gray' was 
 always called for. I was pleased in secret 
 with the approbation it met with; but such 
 was my dread of being suspected of writ- 
 ing anything, preceiving the shyness it 
 created in those who could write nothing, 
 that I carefully kept my own secret." 
 
 Before making the above confession to 
 Sir Walter, Lad}' Barnard made a number 
 of corrections and alterations, besides 
 expunging one or two of the original 
 verses from her manuscript. One of these 
 verses in particular is ver)' fine. It des- 
 cribes the feelings of Robin Gray on 
 observing the deep but concealed grief of 
 his young wife, and is very affecting. 
 
 " Nae questions he spier'd her concerning her health, 
 He looked at her often, but aye 'twas by stealth; 
 When his heart it grew grit, and,_sighin' he feign'd 
 To gang to the door to see if it rain'd," 
 
 Lady Anne Lindsay, daughter of the 
 Earl of Balcarras, was born on the first of 
 December, 1750. She was a very intelli- 
 gent and refined lady. "Her face," says 
 Mr. Charles K. Sharpe, " was pretty, and 
 replete with vivacity, her figure light and 
 elegant, her conversation lively, and, like 
 the rest of her family, peculiarly agree- 
 able. Though she had wit, she never said 
 ill-natured things to show it. >he gave 
 herself no airs either as a woman of rank 
 or as the authoress of ' Auld Robin 
 Gray.'" 
 
 Lady Anne was married in 1793 to Sir 
 Andrew Barnard, who died without issue 
 in 1807. Her own death took place at 
 London on the sixth of May, 1825. 
 
 When the sheep are in the fauld, 
 
 and the kye a' at hame, 
 When a' the weary world to sleep are 
 
 gane, 
 The waes o' my heart fa' in showers 
 
 frae my e'e, 
 While my gudeman lies sound by me. 
 
 Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and 
 
 sought me for his bride; 
 But saving a crown he had naething 
 
 else beside. 
 To make the crown a pound, my Jamie 
 
 gaed to sea ; 
 And the crown and the pound, they 
 
 were baith for me! 
 
 He hadna been awa' a week but only 
 
 twa, 
 When my mither she fell sick, and the 
 
 cow was stown awa', 
 My father brak his arm — my Jamie 
 
 at the sea — 
 And auld Robin Gray came a-courting 
 
 me. 
 
 My father couldna work — my mither 
 
 couldna spin ; 
 I toil'd day and night, but their bread 
 
 I couldna win ; 
 Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and, 
 
 wi' tears in his e'e 
 Said, " Jeanie, for their sakes, will you 
 
 marry me ?" 
 
 My heart it said na, and I look'd for 
 
 Jamie back ; 
 But hard blew the winds, and his 
 
 ship was a wrack: 
 His ship it was a wrack! Why didna 
 
 Jeanie dee ? 
 And wherefore was I spar'd to cry, 
 
 Wae is me I
 
 :< 10 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 My father argued sair — my mither 
 
 didna speak, 
 But she look'd in my face till my 
 
 heart was like to break ; 
 They gied him my hand, but my 
 
 heart was in the sea; 
 And so auld Robin Gray, he was 
 
 gudeman to me. 
 
 I hadna been his wife, a week but 
 
 only four. 
 When mournfu' as I sat on the stane 
 
 at the door, 
 I saw my Jamie's ghaist — I couldna 
 
 think it he, 
 Till he said, " I'm come hame, my 
 
 love, to marry thee! " 
 
 sair, sair did we greet, and mi kle 
 
 did we say: 
 Ae kiss we took — nae mair — I bade 
 him gang away, 
 
 1 wish that I were dead, but I'm no 
 
 like to dee; 
 And why do I live to say, Wae is me ! 
 
 I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to 
 
 spin ; 
 I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad 
 
 be a sin. 
 But I will do my best a gude wife to 
 
 be, 
 For auld Robin Gray, he is kind to 
 
 me. 
 
 AULD ROBIN GRAY. 
 
 Part II. 
 
 The second part of " Auld Robin Gray " 
 has not attained the same degree of popu- 
 larity as the first part, although in some 
 respects it is equally as simple and alTect- 
 ing. We are told that it was written by 
 Lady Barnard at the special request of her 
 mother, as she used to assert that she 
 would never rest satisfied until she knew 
 how "The unlucky business of Jeanie 
 and Jamie ended." Robin Gray is here 
 made to die, the heroine and her lover be- 
 come united in marriage, the auld folks 
 
 are taken care of, and peace and happiness 
 reign supreme through the little house- 
 hold. Many people consider that this 
 happy ending detracts too much from the 
 complete and pathetic tale of woe so 
 graphically depicted in the first part, and 
 this accounts for the fact that it has not 
 been given a place in many of our collec- 
 tions of song. 
 
 The spring had pass'd over, 'twas 
 summer nae mair, 
 
 And, trembling, were scatter'd the 
 leaves in the air; 
 
 " Oh, winter," cried Jeanie, " we kind- 
 ly agree. 
 
 For wae looks the sun when he shines 
 upon me." 
 
 Nae langer she wept, her tears were 
 
 a' spent; 
 Despair it was come, and she thought 
 
 it content; 
 She thought it content, but her cheek 
 
 was grown pale. 
 And she dropp'd like a snow-drop 
 
 broke down by the hail. 
 
 Her father was sad, and her mother 
 
 was wae, 
 But silent and thoughtfu' was auld 
 
 Robin Gray; 
 He wander'd his lane, and his face 
 
 was as lean 
 As the side of a brae where the 
 
 torrents have been. 
 
 He gaed to his bed, but nae physic 
 
 would take. 
 And often he said, " It is best, for her 
 
 sake!" 
 While Jeanie supported his head as he 
 
 lay. 
 The tears trickled down upon auld 
 
 Robin Gray. 
 
 " Oh, greet nae mair, Jeanie!" said he, 
 wi' a groan; 
 I'm nae worth your sorrow — the 
 truth maun be known: 
 
 " T>.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 113 
 
 Send round for )'our neighbors — my 
 
 hour it draws near, 
 And I've that to tell that it's fit a' 
 
 should hear. 
 
 " I've wrang'd her," he said, "but I 
 kent it o'er late; 
 
 I've wrang'd her, and sorrow is speed- 
 ing my date; 
 
 But a's for the best, since my death 
 will soon free 
 
 A faithfu' young heart, that was ill 
 match'd wi' me. 
 
 " I lo'ed and I courted her mony a 
 
 day, 
 The auld folks were for me, but still 
 
 she said nay; 
 Ikentnao' Jamie, nor yet o' her vow; — 
 In mercy forgi'e me, 'twas I stole the 
 
 cow! 
 
 " I cared not for crummie, I thought 
 
 but o' thee; 
 I thought it was crummie stood 'twixt 
 
 you and me; 
 While she fed your parents, oh! did 
 
 you not say. 
 You never would marry wi' auld 
 
 Robin Gray ? 
 
 " But sickness at hame, and want at 
 
 the door — 
 You gi'ed me your hand, while your 
 
 heart it was sore; 
 I saw it was sore, why took I her 
 
 hand? 
 Oh, that was a deed to my shame o'er 
 
 the land! 
 
 " How truth, soon or late, comes to 
 
 open daylight ! 
 For Jamie cam' back, and your cheek 
 
 it grew white; 
 White, white grew your cheek, but aye 
 
 true unto me. 
 Oh, Jeanie, I'm thankfu' — I'm thank- 
 
 fu' to dee! 
 
 " Is Jamie come here yet ?" and Jamie 
 he saw; 
 
 " I've injured you sair, lad, so I leave 
 you my a'; 
 
 Be kind to my Jeanie, and soon may 
 it be! 
 
 Waste no time, my dauties, in mourn- 
 in' for me." 
 
 They kiss'd his cauld hands, and a 
 
 smile o'er his face 
 Seem'd hopefu' of being accepted by 
 
 grace; 
 " Oh, doubtna," said Jamie, "forgi'en 
 
 he will be, 
 Wha wadna be tempted, by love, to 
 
 win thee ?" 
 
 The first days were dowie, while time 
 
 slipt awa'; 
 But saddest and sairest to Jeanie of 
 
 a' 
 Was thinking she couldna' be honest 
 
 and right, 
 Wi' tears in her e'e, while her heart 
 
 was sae light. 
 
 But nae guile had she, and her sorrow 
 away. 
 
 The wife of her Jamie, the tear could- 
 na stay ; 
 
 A bonnie wee bairn — the auld folks 
 by the fire — 
 
 Oh, now she has a' that her heart can 
 desire! 
 
 HOOLY AND FAIRLY. 
 FROM "the charmer," 1 75 1. 
 
 Nothing is known of the author. The 
 song was originally called "The Druken 
 Wife o' Gallowa' " The air is very old. 
 
 DouN in yon meadow a couple did 
 
 tarry: 
 The gudewife she drank naething but 
 
 sack and canary;
 
 114 
 
 CELEBRATED 60 NO 8 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 The gudeman complain'd to her 
 
 friends richt sairly — 
 Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and 
 
 fairly! 
 
 Hooly and fairly, hooly and 
 
 fairly, 
 Oh! gin my wife wad drink hooly 
 
 and fairly! 
 
 First she drank Crummie, and syne 
 
 she drank Gairie, 
 And syne she drank my bonnie gray 
 
 marie, 
 That carried me through a' the dubs 
 
 and the glairie — 
 
 Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly 
 and fairly! 
 
 She drank her hose, she drank her 
 
 shoon, 
 And syne she drank her boonie new 
 
 goun; 
 She drank her sark that cover'd her 
 
 rarely — 
 
 Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly 
 and fairly! 
 
 Wad she drink but her ain things, I 
 
 wadna care, 
 But she drinks my claes that I canna 
 
 weel spare; 
 When I'm wi' my gossips it angers me 
 
 sairly — 
 
 Oh! gin my wife wad drink hooly and 
 fairly! 
 
 My Sunday's coat she's laid it in wad, 
 And the best blue bonnet e'er was on 
 
 my head ; 
 At kirk or at market I'm cover'd but 
 
 barely — 
 
 Oh! gin my wife wad drink hooly and 
 fairly! 
 
 My bonnie white mittens I wore on 
 
 my hands, 
 Wi' her neibour's wife she laid them 
 
 in pawns; | 
 
 My bane-headed staff that I looed 
 sae dearly — 
 
 Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and 
 fairly! 
 
 I never was for wranglin' nor strife, 
 Nor did I deny her the comforts o* 
 
 life; 
 For when there's a war, I'm aye for a 
 
 parley — 
 
 Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and 
 fairly! 
 
 When there's ony money she maun 
 
 keep the purse; 
 If I seek but a bawbee she'll scold and 
 
 she'll curse; 
 She lives like a queen — I but scrimpit 
 
 and sparely — 
 
 Oh! gin my wife wad drink hooly and 
 
 fairly! 
 
 A pint wi' her cummers I wad her 
 
 allow; 
 But when she sits down, she gets her- 
 
 sel' fou, 
 And when she is fou she is unco 
 
 camstarie — 
 
 Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and 
 fairly ! 
 
 When she comes to the street she 
 
 roars and she rants. 
 Has nae fear o' her neibours, nor 
 
 minds the house wants; 
 She rants up some fule-sang, like, " Up 
 
 your heart, Charlie" — 
 
 Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and 
 fairly ! 
 
 When she comes hame she lays on the 
 
 lads. 
 The lasses she ca's baith bitches and 
 
 jauds, 
 And ca's mysell an auld cuckle- 
 
 carlie — 
 
 Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and 
 fairly!
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 115 
 
 UP AMANG YON CLIFFY 
 ROCKS. 
 
 WILLIAM DUDGEON, 
 
 Some few years ago this was one of the 
 most popular songs in Scotland. The 
 author of it, William Dudgeon, was born 
 at Tyninghame, Haddingtonshire about the 
 year 1753. Burns after being introduced 
 to him while on his Border tour in 1787 
 entered the following record in his Journal. 
 "Mr. Dudgeon, — a poet at times — a 
 •\s-orthy, remarkable character — natural 
 penetration — a great deal of information 
 — some genius, and extreme modesty." 
 He died on the 28th October, 1813. 
 
 Up amang yon cliffy rocks, 
 
 Sweetly rings the rising echo, 
 To the maid that tends the goats, 
 Lilting o'er her native notes. 
 
 Hark, she sings, "Young Sandy's 
 kind. 
 
 An' he's promis'd aye to lo'e me; 
 Here's a broach I ne'er shall tine. 
 Till he's fairly married to me; 
 Drive away, ye drone, Time, 
 An' bring about our bridal day. 
 
 Sandy herds a flock o' sheep, 
 
 Aften does he blaw the whistle. 
 In a strain sae saftly sweet, 
 Lammies list'ning daurna bleat. 
 He's as fleet's the mountain roe. 
 
 Hardy as the highland heather. 
 Wading through the winter snow. 
 Keeping aye his flock together; 
 But a plaid, wi' bare houghs, 
 He braves the bleakest norlan' blast. 
 
 Brawly can he dance and sing, 
 Canty glee or highland cronach; 
 
 Nane can ever match his fling, 
 
 At a reel, or round a ring; 
 
 Wightly can he wield a rung. 
 
 In a brawl he's aye the bangster; 
 
 A' his praise can ne'er be sung 
 By the langest-winded sangster, 
 
 Sangs that sing o' Sandy 
 
 Seem short, tho' they were e'er sae 
 ang. 
 
 THE BANKS OF THE DEE. 
 
 JOHN TAIT. 
 
 John Tait was for many years one of 
 the judges in the Edinburgh Police Court. 
 He contributed a number of poetical pieces 
 to J\uddi»mn's Magazine, &c. Burns, in a 
 letter to Mr. Thompson, writes: " ' The 
 Banks of the Dee' is, you know, literally 
 'Langolee' to slow time. The song is 
 well enough, but has some false imagery 
 in it; for instance: 
 
 ' And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree.' 
 
 In the first place, the nightingale sings in 
 alow bush, but never from a tree; and, in 
 the second place, there never was a night- 
 ingale seen or heard on the banks of the 
 Dee, or on the banks of any other river in 
 Scotland. Creative rural imagery is always 
 comparatively fiat." Tait died at Edin- 
 burgh on the 29th of August, 1817. 
 
 'Twas summer, and softly the breezes 
 
 were blowing. 
 And sweetly the nightingale sung 
 
 from the tree. 
 At the foot of a rock where the river 
 
 was flowing, 
 I sat myself down on the banks of 
 
 the Dee. 
 Flow on, lovely Dee, flow on, thou 
 
 sweet river. 
 Thy banks' purest stream shall be 
 
 dear to me ever, 
 For there first I gain'd the affection 
 
 and favor 
 Of Jamie, the glory and pride of 
 
 the Dee. 
 
 But now he's gone from me, and left 
 
 me thus mourning. 
 To quell the proud rebels — for 
 
 valiant is he; 
 And, ah! there's no hope of his 
 
 speedy returning. 
 To wander again on the banks of 
 
 the Dee. 
 He's gone, hapless youth! o'er the 
 
 rude, roaring billows, 
 And left me to wander 'mongst these 
 i once loved willows,
 
 116 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 The loneliest maid on the banks of 
 the Dee. 
 
 But time and my prayers may perhaps 
 yet restore him, 
 Blest peace may restore my dear 
 shepherd to me; 
 And when he returns with such care 
 I'll watch o'er him, 
 He never shall leave the sweet 
 banks of the Dee. 
 The Dee then shall flow, all its 
 
 beauties displaying, 
 While I with my Jamie am careless- 
 ly straying, 
 And tasting again all the sweets of 
 the Dee. 
 
 OH! DINNA ASK ME GIN I 
 LO'E THEE. 
 
 JOHN DUNLOP. 
 
 John Dunlop was a native of Carm3'le 
 in Lamarkshire. He was born in 1755, 
 and died at Port Glasgow in 1820. " Oh 
 dinnaask me gin I lo'e thee," and " Here's 
 to the year that's awa'," are two very popu- 
 lar songs in Scotland at the present day. 
 
 Oh! dinna ask me gin I lo'e thee ; 
 
 Troth, I daurna tell; 
 Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye ; 
 
 Ask it o' yoursel'. 
 
 Oh! dinna look sae sair at me, 
 
 For weel ye ken me true; 
 O, gin ye look sae sair at me, 
 
 I daurna look at you. 
 
 When ye gang to yon braw braw town, 
 
 And bonnier lasses see, 
 O, dinna, Jamie, look at them, 
 
 Lest you should mind nae me. 
 
 For I could never bide the lass. 
 That ye'd lo'e mair than me; 
 
 And O, I'm sure, my heart would break 
 Gin ye'd prove false to me. 
 
 THE YEAR THAT'S AWA'. 
 
 JOHN DUNLOP. 
 
 Here's to the year that's awa'! 
 We will drink it in strong and in 
 sma'; 
 And here's to ilk bonnie young lassie 
 we lo'ed 
 While swift flew the year that's awa'. 
 
 And here's to ilk, &c. 
 
 Here's to the sodger who bled, 
 
 And the sailor who bravely did fa' ; 
 
 Their fame is alive, though their 
 spirits are fled 
 On the wings of the year that's awa'. 
 
 Their fame is alive, &c. 
 
 Here's to the friends we can trust. 
 When the storms of adversity blaw ; 
 
 May they live in our song, and be 
 nearest our hearts. 
 Nor depart like the year that's awa'. 
 
 May they live, &c. 
 
 O, WHERE, TELL ME WHERE. 
 
 MRS. GRANT OF LAGGAN. 
 
 This wonderfully popular song was writ- 
 ten in commemoration of the departure for 
 Holland, of the Marquis of Huntley, with 
 his regiment, in 1799. Mrs. Grant was the 
 daughter of a British ofHcer and was born 
 at Glasgow about February 10, 1755 Her 
 father came to America when she was a 
 child, and settled in some part of New 
 York State, but ill health compelled him 
 a few years afterwards to return to Scot- 
 land. She always retained, however, a 
 very vivid and pleasant recollection of the 
 early days of her life which were spent 
 in America. Mrs. Grant began at an early 
 age to exhibit a remarkable inclination for 
 composing poems and songs. In her 
 seventh year she had read Milton's " Para- 
 dise Lost " and " Blind Harry's Wallace," 
 two books which undoubtedly lent their 
 influence towards strengthening the taste 
 for poetry which she was always possess- 
 ed of. In 1779 she was married to the 
 Rev. James Grant, Minister of Laggan
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 117 
 
 in Inverness-shire. He died in 1801, 
 leaving his widow in destitute circum- 
 stances and with eight children to support. 
 In 1803, some of her friends induced her 
 to publish a few of her poetical pieces in 
 book form, and the money derived from 
 this speculation enabled her for the time 
 being, to live comfortably. Several larger 
 works afterwards appeared from her pen, 
 and the warm reception which they re- 
 ceived from the public soon placed her 
 and her family beyond the possible reach 
 of poverty or want. Among these works 
 the following are of special interest to 
 Scotsmen — "Essays on the Superstitions 
 of the Highlanders of Scotland." " Popu- 
 lar Models and Impressive Warnings for 
 Sons and Daughters of Industry," and 
 "Memoirs of an American Lady." In 
 
 1832, Mrs. Grant received a pension of 
 £^0 a year from the Government in con- 
 sideration of her literary labors. In her 
 latter years she enjoyed the friendship of 
 Sir Walter Scott, James Hogg, Francis 
 Jeffrey, and many other illustrious men 
 and women. She died on November 7, 
 
 1833, at the age of eighty, four. 
 
 "O, WHERE, tell me where, is your 
 
 Highland laddie gone? 
 O, where, tell me where, is your 
 
 Highland laddie gone ?" 
 " He's gone, with streaming banners, 
 
 where noble deeds are done. 
 And my sad heart will tremble till he 
 
 comes safely home. 
 He's gone with streaming banners, 
 
 where noble deeds are done, 
 And my sad heart will tremble till he 
 
 comes safely home." 
 
 " O, where, tell me where, did your 
 Highland laddie stay .' 
 
 O, where, tell me where, did your 
 Highland laddie stay ?" 
 
 " He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, 
 beside the rapid Spey. 
 
 And many a blessing follow'd him, 
 the day he went away. 
 
 He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, be- 
 side the rapid Spey, 
 
 And many a blessing follow'd him, 
 the day he went away." 
 
 " O, what, tell me what, does your 
 
 Highland laddie wear 1 
 O, what, tell me what, does your 
 
 Highland laddie wear ?" 
 " A bonnet with a lofty plume, the 
 
 gallant badge of war, 
 And a plaid across the manly breast 
 
 that yet shall wear a star; 
 A bonnet with a lofty plume, the 
 
 gallant badge of war, 
 And a plaid across the manly breast 
 
 that yet shall wear a star." 
 
 " Suppose, ah, suppose, that some 
 
 cruel, cruel wound. 
 Should pierce your Highland laddie, 
 
 and all your hopes confound!" 
 " The pipe would play a cheering 
 
 march, the banners round him fly, 
 The spirit of a Highland chief would 
 
 lighten in his eye; 
 The pipe would play a cheering march 
 
 the banners round him fly, 
 And for his king and country dear, 
 
 with pleasure he would die!" 
 
 " But I will hope to see him yet, in 
 
 Scotland's bonny bounds; 
 But I will hope to see him yet, in 
 
 Scotland's bonny bounds. 
 His native land of liberty shall nurse 
 
 his glorious wounds, 
 While, wide through all our Highland 
 
 hills, his warlike name resounds; 
 His native land of liberty shall nurse 
 
 his glorious wounds, 
 While, wide through all our Highland 
 
 hills, his warlike name resounds." 
 
 O WHERE, AND O WHERE 
 
 DOES YOUR HIGHLAND 
 
 LADDIE DWELL? 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 The following version of this song has 
 also become very popular. The verses, 
 however, are decidedly inferior to those 
 by Mrs. Grant.
 
 118 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 O WHERE, and O where does your 
 
 Highland laddie dwell? 
 O where, and O where does your 
 
 Highland laddie dwell? 
 He dwells in merry Scotland, where 
 
 the blue bells sweetly smell, 
 And oh, in my heart I love my laddie 
 
 well. 
 
 O what, lassie, what does your High- 
 land laddie wear ? 
 
 O what, lassie, what does your High- 
 land laddie wear ? 
 
 A scarlet coat, and bonnet blue, wi' 
 bonnie yellow hair, 
 
 And nane in the world can wi' my 
 love compare. 
 
 O where, and oh where is your High- 
 land laddie gane ? 
 
 O where, and oh where is your High- 
 land laddie gane ? 
 
 He's gane to fight for George our 
 king, and left us all alane. 
 
 For noble and brave's my loyal 
 Highlandman. 
 
 O what, lassie, what if your Highland 
 
 lad be slain ? 
 O what, lassie, what if your Highland 
 
 lad be slain ? 
 O no: true love will be his guard, and 
 
 bring him safe again. 
 For I never could live without my 
 
 Highlandman. 
 
 O when, and O when will your High- 
 land lad come hame ? 
 
 O when, and O when will your High- 
 land lad come hame ? 
 
 Whene'er the war is over, he'll return 
 to me with fame. 
 
 And I'll plait a wreath of flowers for 
 my lovely Highlandman. 
 
 O what will you claim for your con- 
 stancy to him ? 
 
 O what will you claim for your con- 
 stancy to him ? 
 
 I'll claim a priest to marry us, a clerk 
 
 to say, "Amen," 
 And I'll never part again from my 
 
 bonnie Highlandman. 
 
 O'ER THE MUIR AMANG THE 
 HEATHER. 
 
 JEAN GLOVER. 
 
 The following facts in relation to Jean 
 Glover are quoted from "The Ayrshire 
 Contemporaries of Burns." " She was born 
 at the Townhead of Kilmarnock, on the 
 31st of October, 175S, of parents respect- 
 able in their sphere. She was remarkable 
 for beauty — both of face and figure — pro- 
 perties which, joined to a romantic and 
 yet poetic fancy, had no doubt their in- 
 fluence in shaping her future unfortunate 
 career. She was also an excellent singer. 
 Having been witness to some theatrical 
 exhibitions at Kilmarnock, she became 
 enamored of the stage, and in an evil 
 hour eloped with one of the heroes of the 
 sock and buskin." Her subsequent life 
 was one of folly and misfortune. She 
 died at Letterkenny, in Ireland, at the age 
 of 43- 
 
 Comin' through the craigs o' Kyle, 
 
 Amang the bonnie bloomin' heather, 
 There I met a bonnie lassie, 
 Keepin' a' her flocks thegither. 
 O'er the muir amang the heather. 
 O'er the muir amang the heather, 
 There I met a bonnie lassie, 
 Keepin' a' her flocks thegither. 
 
 Says I, " My dear, where is thy hame? 
 In muir or dale, pray tell me 
 whether ?" 
 Says she, " I tent the fleecy flocks, 
 That feed amang the blooming 
 heather." 
 O'er the muir, &c. 
 
 We laid us down upon a bank, 
 
 Sae warm and sunnie was the 
 weather; 
 She left her flocks at large to rove 
 Amang the bonnie bloomin' heather. 
 O'er the muir, Ike.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 119 
 
 She charm'd my heart, and aye sin' 
 syne 
 I could not think on ony ither; 
 By sea and sky! she shall be mine, 
 The bonnie lass amang the heather. 
 O'er the muir, &c. 
 
 O'ER THE MUIR AMANG THE 
 HEATHER. 
 
 STUART LEWIS. 
 
 Stuart Lewis was born at Ecclefechan. 
 in 1756. He carried on business as a 
 tailor for some years in his native village, 
 where he also established a library and a 
 debating society. Business reverses, how- 
 ever, reduced him almost to poverty and he 
 became a peddler, and while traveling 
 through the country with his wares he 
 gave way to habits of dissipation, from 
 the efTects of which he never afterwards 
 recovered. In 1816, he published a 
 volume entitled "The African Slave, 
 with other poems and songs." He died at 
 Ruthwell, in 1S18. 
 
 Ae morn of May, when fields were 
 
 gay, 
 
 Serene and charming was the 
 
 weather, 
 I chanced to roam some miles frae 
 
 hame. 
 Far o'er yon muir amang the 
 
 heather. 
 
 O'er the muir amang the heather. 
 O'er the muir amang the heather, 
 How healthsome 'tis to range the 
 
 muirs. 
 And brush the dew from vernal 
 
 heather. 
 
 I walk'd along, and humm'd a song, 
 My heart was light as ony feather, 
 
 And soon did pass a lovely lass. 
 Was wading barefoot through the 
 heather. 
 
 O'er the muir amang the heather. 
 O'er the muir amang the heather; 
 The bonniest lass that e'er I saw 
 I met ae morn amang the heather. 
 
 Her eyes divine, mair bright did shine 
 Than the most clear unclouded 
 ether; 
 A fairer form did ne'er adorn 
 
 A brighter scene than blooming 
 heather. 
 O'er the muir amang the heather, 
 O'er the muir amang the heather; 
 There's ne'er a lass in Scotia's isle 
 Can vie with her amang tlie 
 heather. 
 
 I said, " Dear maid, be not afraid; 
 Pray sit you down, let's talk to- 
 gether; 
 For oh! my fair, I vow and swear 
 You've stole my heart amang the 
 heather." 
 O'er the muir amang the heather, 
 O'er the muir amang the heather; 
 Ye swains, beware of yonder 
 
 muir, 
 You'll lose your hearts amang 
 the heather. 
 
 She answered me, right modestly, 
 
 " I go, kind sir, to seek my father, 
 
 Whose fleecy charge he tends at large, 
 
 On yon green hills beyond the 
 
 heather." 
 
 O'er the muir amang the heather, 
 
 O'er the muir amang the heather; 
 
 Were I a king thou shouldst be 
 
 mine. 
 Dear blooming maid, amang the 
 heather. 
 
 Away she flew out of my view. 
 
 Her hame or name I ne'er could 
 gather. 
 But aye sin' syne I sigh and pine 
 For that sweet lass amang the 
 heather. 
 O'er the muir amang the heather, 
 O'er the muir amang the heather; 
 While vital heat glows in my 
 
 heart 
 I'll love the lass among the 
 heather.
 
 120 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 BOTHWELL BANK. 
 
 JOHN PINKERTON. 
 
 John Pinkerton was the editor of " Select 
 Scottish Ballads" which appeared in 1773. 
 He was born at Edinburgh, in 1758, and 
 died at Paris, in 1825. 
 
 On the blyth Beltane, as I went 
 Be mysel' attour the green bet, 
 Wharby the crystal waves of Clyde, 
 Throch saughs and hanging hazels 
 
 glyde; 
 There, sadly sitting on a brae, 
 I heard a damsel speak her wae. 
 
 *' Oh, Bothwell Bank, thou blumest 
 
 fair, 
 But, ah, thou mak'st my heart fou' 
 
 sair! 
 For a' beneath thy holts sae grene 
 My luve and I wad sit at ene; 
 While primroses and daisies, mixt 
 Wi' blue bells, in my loks he fixt. 
 
 " But he left me a drearie day. 
 And haplie now sleeps in the clay. 
 Without ae sich his dethe to roun'. 
 Without ae fiouir his grave to croun! 
 Oh, Bothwell Bank, thou blumest fair, 
 But, ah, thou mak'st my heart fou' 
 sair." 
 
 KEEN BLAWS THE WIND O'ER 
 DONOCHT-HEAD. 
 
 GEORGE PICKERING. 
 
 George Pickering was born at Simonburn 
 in Northumberland, in 175S, and died in 
 the neighborhood of Newcastle about 1830. 
 In a letter to Mr. Thompson, dated 19th 
 October, 1794, Burns says, " ' Donocht- 
 head ' is not mine; I would give ten 
 pounds it were. It appeared first in the 
 Edinburgh Herald, and came to the editor 
 of that paper with the Newcastle post- 
 mark on it." The twelve last lines were 
 added by Captain Charles Gray. Picker- 
 ing wrote a few other songs but none 
 equalled the present one. 
 
 Keen blaws the wind o'er the Donocht- 
 Head, 
 
 The snaw drives snelly thro' the 
 dale. 
 The Gaberlunzie tirls my sneck. 
 
 And shivering tells his waefu' tale. 
 " Cauld is the night, O let me in, 
 
 "And dinna let your minstrel fa', 
 " And dinna let his windin-sheet 
 
 " Be naethingbut a wreath o' snaw! 
 
 " Full ninety winters hae I seen, 
 " And pip'd where gor-cocks whir- 
 ring flew, 
 " And mony a day ye've danc'd, I 
 ween, 
 " To lilts which frae my drone I 
 blew." 
 My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cry'd, 
 " Get up, Guidman, and let him in; 
 " For weel ye ken the winter night 
 " Was short when he began his din." 
 
 My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet 
 
 E'en tho' she bans and scaulds 
 awee ; 
 But when it's tun'd to sorrow's tale, 
 
 O haith, it's doubly dear to me! 
 Come in, auld Carl! I'll steer my fire, 
 
 I'll mak it bleeze a bonnie flame; 
 Your blude is thin, ye've tint the gate. 
 
 Ye should na stray sae far frae harae, 
 
 " Nae hame have I," the minstrel said, 
 
 " Sad party strife o'erturn'd my ha' ; 
 " And, weeping at the eve o' life, 
 
 " I wander thro' a wreath o' snaw." 
 Wae's me, auld carle, sad is your tale — 
 
 Your wallet's torn, your claithing 
 thin; 
 Mine's no the hand to steek the door. 
 
 When want and wae wad fain be in. 
 
 We took him ben — we set him doun, 
 And soon the ingle bleezed fu' hie; 
 
 The auld man thought himsel' at 
 hame. 
 And dried the tear-drap frae his e'e.
 
 ROBERT BURNS.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 121 
 
 Ance mair the minstrel waked a strain 
 Nae merry lilt, but sad and slow; 
 
 In fancy's ear it seemed to wail 
 A free-born nation's overthrow. 
 
 FLOW GENTLY SWEET 
 AFTON. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The greatest of all Scottish song writers 
 — Robert Burns — was born in a small 
 roadside cottage near Ayr, on the 25th of 
 Januar}', 1759. His father, a man of hum- 
 ble although not obscure origin, was noted 
 among his neighbors for his strict in- 
 tegrity, and stern religious principles. 
 His whole ambition was for the welfare of 
 his children, — to bring them up in the 
 fear of the Lord, and to give them a better 
 education than it had been his own lot to 
 receive. The poet in after years drew a 
 faithful portrait of him in his Cotter's 
 Saturday Alight; a poem which will live 
 and be read while the world lasts 
 
 His mother was a quiet and industrious 
 woman. Like her husband she was of a 
 ver}' religious nature, although she pos- 
 sessed none of the higher qualities of his 
 mind. Her memory was stored with old 
 songs, ballads, and anecdotes, with which 
 she used to amuse her children, These, 
 and the still more curious stories of an old 
 woman who resided in the famil)'^, had a 
 wonderful effect on the youthful imagina- 
 tion of the poet. He tells us, "In my 
 infant and boyhood days I owed much to 
 an old woman, remarkable for her ignor- 
 ance, credulit}', and superstition. She 
 had, I suppose, the largest collection in 
 the country of tales and songs concerning 
 devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, 
 warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, 
 dead-lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantrips, 
 giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and 
 other trumpery. This cultivated the 
 latent seeds of poetry; but had so strong 
 an efTect on my imagination that, to this 
 hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I some- 
 times keep a sharp lookout in suspicious 
 places; and though nobody can be more 
 skeptical than I am in such matters, yet it 
 often takes an effort of philosophy to 
 shake off these idle terrors." 
 
 At the time of the poet's birth his father 
 acted as gardener to one of the neighbor- 
 
 ing gentry, and having a good deal of 
 spare time to himself, he made use of it 
 by renting some seven acres of land, 
 which he cultivated as a nursery and 
 vegetable garden, the products of which 
 he sold in Ayr, on the market days there- 
 by increasing his slender income by a few 
 pounds each year. 
 
 Burns was sent to school in his fifth 
 year, but so straitened were the means of 
 the famil}' that he could only afford time 
 to acquire the meagrest rudiments of 
 education. Even at that tender age, he 
 wa? frequently called upon to assist in 
 some work in which his father was en- 
 gaged. His education, however, was after- 
 wards completed by William Murdock a 
 young man engaged by his father and a few 
 of the neighbors to act as teacher, at a small 
 salary he boarding and lodging in their 
 houses by turns. With reference to his 
 pupils Murdock tells us " In the month of 
 May, 1765, I was engaged by Mr. Burns, 
 and four of his neighbors, to teach the little 
 school of AUowa)'. My pupil Robert 
 Burns, was between six and seven years 
 of age. Robert and his brother Gilbert 
 had been grounded a little in English be- 
 fore they were put under my care. They 
 both made a rapid progress in reading, and 
 a tolerable progress in writing, and were 
 generally at the head of their class, 
 when ranged with boys far their seniors. 
 Robert's countenance was generally grave, 
 and expressive of a serious contemplative, 
 and thoughtful mind. Gilbert's face said, 
 ' Mirth, with thee I mean to live;' and, 
 certainly, if any person who knew the two 
 boys had been asked which of them was 
 the most likely to court the Muses, he 
 would surely never have guessed Robert 
 had a propensity of that kind." 
 
 With the view of improving their world- 
 ly affairs, the father leased the farm of 
 Mount Oliphant, distant about two miles 
 from the now famous Brig o' Doon, and 
 to which they moved in 1776. From this 
 date began the hard struggle with poverty 
 the family had afterwards to contend with, 
 and which terminated, for the elder Burns, 
 only with his death. Mount Oliphant 
 proved to be the poorest land in the 
 neighborhood, and although everj^ mem- 
 ber of the family exerted his strength to 
 the utmost yet the soil refused to repay 
 their labors with even a decent living. 
 
 At the age of thirteen Burns helped to 
 thrash the corn, and at fifteen was the prin- 
 cipal laborer on the farm, as they could not
 
 122 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 afford to pay for any outside help. But, 
 although the work of the farm demanded 
 all of his attention during the day, Burns 
 did not neglect to improve his mind at 
 night. He generally had a few leisure 
 hours to himself when the duties of the 
 day were over; these he devoted to read- 
 ing, a study he had always been fond of. 
 It is curious to note the books he read at 
 this time, and the effect they had over him. 
 " The two first books I ever read," he 
 writes, " and which gave me more pleasure 
 than any two books I have ever read since, 
 were the Life of Hanibal, and the His- 
 tory of Sir William Wallace. Haniba! 
 gave my young ideas such a turn, that I 
 used to strut in raptures up and down 
 after the recruiting drum and bagpipe, and 
 wished myself tall enough to be a soldier; 
 while the story of Wallace poured a tide 
 of Scottish prejudice into my veins, which 
 will boil along them till the fiood-gates 
 are shut in eternal rest." 
 
 On (he death of the landlord of Mount 
 Oliphant. who had been a kind friend to 
 the family, the estates fell into the hands 
 of a factor. This man seems to have been 
 a miserable and unfeeling wretch. For 
 ihe misfortunes of his fellow man he had 
 no sympathy. " My indignation," writes 
 Burns, to a friend in after years, "yet 
 boils at the recollection of that scoundrel 
 factor's insolent, threatening letters, which 
 used to set us all in tears." Nor did he 
 ever forget him. He gives us his picture 
 in his poem of the Twa Dogs, thus: 
 
 " I've noticed on our Laird's Court-day, 
 An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 
 Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash. 
 How they maun thole a factor's snash; 
 He'll stamp an' threaten, curse and swear. 
 He'll apprehend them, poind their gear. 
 While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, 
 And hear it a', an' fear an' tremble," 
 
 But if Mount Oliphant was full of 
 troubles and vexations, it had its sunny 
 hours for the young poet as well. It was 
 here that the Muses first took possession 
 of his heart. 
 
 "You know," he says, "our country 
 custom of coupling a man and a woman 
 together as partners in the labors of the 
 harvest. In my fifteenth summer my part- 
 ner was a bewitching creature, a year 
 younger than myself. My scarcity of 
 English denies me the power of doing her 
 justice in that language, but you know the 
 Scottish idiom. She was a bonnie, sweet, 
 sonsie lass. In short, she, altogether un- 
 
 wittingly to herself, initiated me in that 
 delicious passion, which, in spite of acid 
 disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and 
 book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the 
 first of human joys here below! How she 
 caught the contagion I cannot tell. In- 
 deed, I did not know myself why I liked 
 so much to loiter behind with her, when 
 returning in the evening from our labors; 
 why the tones of her voice made my heart- 
 strings thrill like an ^olian harp; and, 
 especially, why my pulse beat such a 
 furious ratan when I looked and fingered 
 over her little hand, to pick out the cruel 
 nettle sting and thistles. Amongher love- 
 inspiring qualities, she sang sweetly; and 
 it was her favorite reel to which I attempt- 
 ed giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. 
 I was not so presumptuous as to imagine 
 that I could make verses like printed 
 ones, composed by men who read Greek 
 and Latin; but my girl sung a song which 
 was said to be composed by a country 
 laird's son on one of his father's maids, 
 with whom he was in love; and I saw no 
 reason why I might not rhyme as well as 
 he; for excepting that he could shear 
 sheep, and cast peats, his father living in 
 the moorlands, he had no more scholar- 
 craft than myself. Thus with me began 
 love and poetry." 
 
 The song he then composed is the one 
 entitled Handsome Nell ; and although he 
 afterwards considered it a very silly and 
 inferior production, yet he once said of it, 
 " I composed it in a wild enthusiasm of 
 passion, and to this hour I never recollect 
 it but m}' heart melts, my blood sallies at 
 the remembrance." 
 
 As soon as the lease of the farm of 
 Mount Oliphant had expired, the father 
 endeavored to find a more profitable in- 
 vestment by removing to a larger farm, 
 called Lochlea, ten miles further up the 
 country. It consisted of a hundred and 
 thirty acres, and was situated in the parish 
 of Tarbolton. Here for a time matters 
 seemed to improve; but this is supposed 
 to have been owing to the help given by 
 the other members of the family, who had 
 now grown up, and were able to assist 
 with the work a great deal more than they 
 had hitherto done; still it was far from be- 
 ing a success. Its worst trouble, how- 
 ever, lay in the fact that no writing had 
 been made out of the conditions of the 
 lease; and a misunderstanding having at 
 one time arisen between the landlord and 
 tenant, the matter in dispute was brought
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 123 
 
 before the courts, where a decision was 
 rendered against the latter. This decision 
 involved the loss of a considerable sum 
 of money, and the elder Burns had a hard 
 fight to raise a sufiicient sum to pay it. 
 This preyed so much on his mind that he 
 never recovered from the effects of it, al- 
 though he still went on bravely with his 
 usual work. 
 
 When about eighteen years of age 
 Burns attended the village dancing-school, 
 to give his manners a '"brush," he tells 
 us. This is said to be the first step he 
 ever took in direct opposition to his 
 father's wishes This dancing-school, 
 however, was the means of first bringing 
 him before the public as a poet of more 
 than ordinary ability. Out of the twenty 
 young girls who attended the school, 
 there was scarcely one on whom his fanc}' 
 did not light, and whose praises and ac 
 complishments were not immediately 
 celebrated in one or more songs. These 
 songs, remarkable for their beauty and 
 sweetness, so charmed the hearers, that 
 very soon they began to find their way 
 throughout the country, and were sung 
 at fairs, meetings, and so forth. 
 
 Burns assisted on the farm at Lochlea 
 until he was about the age of twenty-two, 
 when he began to turn his thoughts to 
 earning a living for himself. He had often 
 heard that flax dressing was a very pro- 
 fitable occupation, and he resolved to turn 
 flax dresser. Accordingly he set out for 
 the town of Irving, a few miles distant 
 from Ayr, where he rented a small room, 
 for the sum of one shilling a week. He 
 began the business of fiax dressing, and 
 was getting along very successfull)', when 
 one morning, while out with a few com- 
 panions, giving a welcome carousal to the 
 New Year, the shop took fire, and was 
 burned to ashes, and he was left, he tells 
 us, "like a true poet not worth a six- 
 pence." 
 
 His life, however, at Irving, was not 
 an exemplary one. Taking into account 
 the early religious training his mind had 
 received, it was a portion of his existence 
 he might well be ashamed of. He tells 
 us, " From this adventure I learned 
 something of town life; but the principal 
 thing that gave my mind a turn was a 
 friendship I formed with a )-oung fellow, 
 a noble character. His mind was fraught 
 with independence, magnanimity, and 
 every manly virtue. I loved and admired 
 him to a degree of enthusiasm, and, of 
 
 course strove to imitate him. In some 
 measure I succeeded. I had pride before, 
 but he taught it to How in proper chan- 
 nels. His knowledge of the world was 
 vastly superior to mine, and I was all 
 attention to learn. He was the only man 
 I ever saw who was a greater fool than 
 myself when woman was the presiding 
 star. But he spoke of love with the levity 
 of a sailor; love, which hitherto 1 had re- 
 garded with honor. Here his friend-ship 
 did me a mischief." 
 
 Whilst at Irving, Burns had also met 
 with a disappointment in love, which 
 told very much on his feelings about 
 this time. He had become engaged to a 
 very prepossessing young lady, named 
 Ellison Begbie; but she, just at the point 
 when everything for their marriage had 
 been arranged, transferred her affections 
 to a richer man, whom she ultimately 
 married. Disappointed with all his fail- 
 ures, he returned to Lochlea, only to find 
 a greater calamity awaiting him in the ex- 
 pected death of his father. The old man had 
 held out bravely as long as he could. With 
 a determined will he had set his mind to 
 conquer obstacles and misfortunes which 
 would have discouraged at the outset 
 stronger and even richer men than he had 
 been. But his fight had ended, leaving 
 in its trail visible traces of a ruined con- 
 stitution; and all could see that the end was 
 near. 
 
 To his wife, while at Mount Oliphant, 
 he had one day said, pointing to 
 Robert, " Who ever lives to see it, some- 
 thing extraordinary will come from that 
 boy;" and now while she stood at his 
 death-bed, he told her there was only one 
 of his — children whose future he could not 
 think of without fear. Robert, who was 
 standing near, anxiousl}- asked, "O 
 father, is it me you mean?" "Ay," said 
 the dying man, "it is even you, Robert." 
 Burns, in a torrrent of tears, had at once 
 to leave the room, nor could he control 
 his feelings during the few hours which 
 his father afterwards lived. 
 
 Shortly after his arrival at home, seeing 
 the crisis to which they were rapidl)- ap- 
 proaching, Robert and Gilbert took, on 
 their own account, a small farm called 
 Mossgiel. This was done so that when 
 their lather died, and they would be com- 
 pelled to leave Lochlea, a house would be 
 in readiness to receive the family. " This 
 farm," Gilbert writes. " consisted of one 
 hundred and eighteen acres. It was
 
 124 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 stocked by the individual savings of the 
 whole family, and was a joint concern 
 among us. Every member of the famil)' 
 was allowed ordinary wages for the labor 
 performed. My brother's allowance and 
 mine was seven pounds per annum each." 
 
 On the 17th of February, 1774, Burns 
 wrote to a cousin, — 
 
 " On the 13th current I lost the best of 
 fathers. Though, to be sure, we have had 
 long warning of the impending stroke, 
 still the feelings of Nature claim their part; 
 and I cannot recollect the tender endear- 
 ments and parental lessons of the best of 
 friends and ablest instructors, without 
 feeling what, perhaps, the calmer dictates 
 of reason would partly condemn." 
 
 Shortly afterward Burns took his 
 widowed mother, and the other members of 
 the family, to their new home. He enter- 
 ed on the undertaking with the firm resolu- 
 tion of becoming a prosperous farmer. He 
 read farming books, calculated crops, at- 
 tended markets, worked early and late, 
 and did all that lay in the power of man 
 to make the concern a success. But the 
 fates were against him. Nature had never 
 intended Robert Burns for a ploughman 
 or a farmer of any kind. She had laid out 
 a grander destiny for him. 
 
 The first year, from unfortunately buy- 
 ing bad seed, and the second from a late 
 harvest, he lost half his crops. This was 
 enough to distract him. But, in addition 
 to these, new tioubles had begun to spring 
 up around him, troubles which his own 
 genius had been the means of bringing 
 into existence. 
 
 Burns was a man who loved passionate- 
 ly all that was noble and good, while he 
 as passionately hated all that was mean, 
 or savored in any way of hypocrisy. In 
 his various dealings with men, he had 
 been brought in contact with a great 
 many of the clergymen, a few of whom 
 did not come up to the standard of perfec- 
 tion in his mind that their hoi}' calling 
 required. He could see that they preach- 
 ed one thing, while they practised another. 
 He entered into discussions with them, 
 and they, instead of pointing out to him 
 wherein he was wrong, at once became 
 his most bitter enemies. Maddened with 
 their conduct, he proceeded to attack them 
 in verses of such unusual satirical severity, 
 that the very people who sided with him 
 in his arguments against them, were 
 amazed and awed at the productions of 
 their hero. The church in Ayr at that 
 
 time was divided into two sects; one was 
 called the New Lights, and the other the 
 Auld Lights. Most of the poets friends 
 belonged to the former party. Burns im- 
 mediately joined their ranks, and at once 
 let fly the arrow of his satire into the 
 enemy's camp. The poems of The Twa 
 Herds, Holy Willie's Prayer, The Ordina- 
 tion, and The Holy Fair, succeeded each 
 other with wonderful rapidity. The sensa- 
 tion they produced was such that the 
 Auld Lights were forced to hide them- 
 selves, and admit that their opponents 
 had the best of the fight. But the damage 
 they did to the poet was great. People 
 he once numbered amonghis most esteem- 
 ed friends now passed him by without 
 deigning to recognize him; and it was 
 with great sorrow that he discovered how 
 much his own moral character had suffer- 
 ed through these witty productions. 
 
 Toubles of a different nature, however, 
 also began to claim his serious attention. 
 At a penny wedding in Mauchline he had 
 met Jean Armour. She was the daughter of 
 a master stone-mason in that town, and is 
 described as being a smart and intelligent 
 looking girl. Burns fell in love with her, 
 with all the ardency of his nature, and she 
 as warmly reciprocated his affection. Mar- 
 riage was soon agreed upon; but owing to 
 the failure of his farming speculations they 
 concluded to defer it for some time. Mean- 
 while her father became aware of the selec- 
 tion his daughter had made of a husband. 
 To a man professing the religious senti- 
 ments that he did, the discovery came to 
 his feelings with a terrible shock. His in- 
 dignation was so great, on his daughter 
 admitting the relationship that existed 
 between herself and what he called " such 
 a wild and worthless man as Burns," that 
 he actuall)' fainted. In his sternest manner 
 he forbade her ever to see or hold any cor- 
 respondence with the poet from that day 
 forth, with the alternative of leaving her 
 home at once and forever. 
 
 It is needless to say that poor Jean, 
 sorry to have offended him who had al- 
 ways been a good father to her, was com- 
 pelled to submit. Great as his wrath had 
 been, however, it was nothing in compari- 
 son to what it became when a few 
 months later Jean became the mother of 
 twin children. On becoming aware of 
 her condition, she had written to Burns 
 acquainting him of the fact. Not daring 
 to visit her in her father's house, he im- 
 mediately sent her a letter, acknowledg
 
 CELEBRA2ED SONOS OB' SCOTLAND. 
 
 125 
 
 ing her as his wife. This, in Scotland, is 
 what is called an irregular, but strictly 
 legal marriage. This document her father 
 demanded, and at once committed to 
 the flames. Not satisfied with this, he 
 proceeded to sue Burns for the support of 
 the children, and threatened him with im- 
 prisonment until he could find suitable 
 security for the same. 
 
 It was now, surrounded with all these 
 troubles, that dispair began to overtake 
 him. Looking into the past, he saw that 
 his life had been a failure. Nor could he 
 discern, poet though he knew himself to 
 be, that the future held any brighter pros- 
 pects in store for him. How he loved 
 Jean is too well shown in many of his 
 songs and letters at that time, to admit of 
 any doubt. But he began to be angry 
 with her for giving way so easily to her 
 father. Had she left him, and clung to 
 the poet, he would have provided a home 
 for her somehow. 
 
 While busy with these reflections, a situ- 
 ation was offered him as book-keeper on 
 an estate in Jamaica. To enable him to 
 raise sufficient money to defray his pass- 
 age, and supply him with other necessi- 
 ties, a few friends advised him to print a 
 volume of his poems by subscription. 
 The idea harmonized agreeably with his 
 own desires, and he began to look around 
 for a printer, and take subscriptions. The 
 printer was soon found in the person of 
 John Wilson, of Kilmarnock, who entered 
 into the project with great enthusiasm. It 
 was necessary that Burns should correct 
 the proofs of his poems himself; and, to 
 enable him to do this, he was obliged to 
 steal in and out of Kilmarnock at night, 
 for Mr. Armour's wrath had by no means 
 subsided, and he still held a warrant for 
 the arrest of the poet, which he was de- 
 termined to execute as soon as he came 
 within his reach. 
 
 After one or two delays, in July, 
 1786, appeared the now very scarce 
 and valuable, little volume, entitled 
 '^ Poems, chiefly in the Scotch Dialect, by 
 Robert Bums." Its success was greater 
 than he anticipated. He says, "I threw 
 off about six hundred copies, of which I 
 got subscriptions for about three hundred 
 and fifty. My vanity was highly gratified 
 by the reception I met with from the pub- 
 lic; and, besides, I pocketed, all expenses 
 deducted, nearly twenty pounds. This 
 sum came very seasonably, as I was 
 thinking of indenting myself, for want of 
 
 money, to procure a passage. As soon as 
 I was master of nine guineas, the price of 
 wafting me to the torrid zone, I took a 
 steerage passage irf the first ship that was 
 to sail from the Clyde, for, 
 
 *' Hungry ruin had me in the wind." 
 
 I had been for some days skulking from 
 covert to covert, under all the terrors of a 
 jail, as some ill-advised people had un- 
 coupled the merciless pack of the law at 
 my heels. I had taken the last farewell 
 of my friends, my chest was on the way to 
 Greenock, I had composed the last song 
 I should ever measure in Caledonia, The 
 gloomy night is gathering fast, when a 
 letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of 
 mine, overthrew all my schemes, by open- 
 
 ng up new prospects to my poetic ambi- 
 
 tion. 
 
 This letter, expressing the warmest ad-, 
 miration for the genius contained in the 
 little volume, concluded by strongly urg- 
 ing upon him to lose no time in repairing 
 to Edinburgh, with the view of issuing a 
 second and larger edition of his poems, 
 for which the writer assured him, the pub- 
 lic were beginning to clamor very im- 
 patiently. 
 
 About this time occurs another love 
 affair in the life of Burns, which is still 
 involved in considerable mystery, on ac- 
 count of the connection he must still have 
 held with the Armour family. 
 
 The majority of his biographers, how- 
 ever, have come to the conclusion that, 
 disgusted with the conduct of the whole 
 of that family, and determined to have 
 nothing more to do with any of them, he 
 renewed the acquaintance he once had 
 with Mar>^ Campbell, a servant girl in the 
 neighborhood. To her he made an im- 
 mediate offer of marriage, which she 
 accepted, and at once gave up her situa- 
 tion. With the view of informing her 
 friends of the intended change in her life, 
 she resolved to make a short trip into 
 the Western Highlands where they resid- 
 ed. The Sunday before she left was a 
 memorabe day for Burns. They met, in 
 the afternoon, beside a small brook, and, 
 standing one on each side, with a Bible 
 between them, they pronounced their 
 solemn vows to be true to each other. 
 This Bible, which is still in existence, 
 bears the inscription in Burns's hand- 
 writing, "And ye shall not swear in my 
 name falsely, I am the Lord. Levit., 19th 
 chap., I2th verse."
 
 126 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 In the evening they parted, never to 
 meet again; for Mary wa.s taken suddenly 
 sick, and died at Greenock, where she 
 was buried. The sudden intelligence of 
 her death was to Burns the saddest shock 
 he had ever received. Many years after- 
 ward, when he had settled down with his 
 family, her image rose before him, clothed 
 with all the virtue and graces that adorn 
 a pure woman; and on the night of the 
 anniversar}^ of her death he betook him- 
 self to the barn, where he gave vent to 
 his feelings in the lines To Mary in 
 Heaven, one of the finest and most touch- 
 ing laments in any language. 
 
 In the meantime his poems had been 
 attracting attention in all parts of Scot- 
 land; their fame had even crossed the 
 Border, and ventured into England. Let- 
 ters, with words of encouragement and 
 advice, kept pouring in on him from all 
 classes of people. Some of these pro- 
 nounced him to be the greatest poet that 
 his country had ever preduced. He could 
 see that happiness if not wealth were yet 
 within his power. The desire of his child- 
 hood — to do something for Scotland — 
 had been gratified. 
 
 " E'en then a wish, I mind its power, 
 A wish that to my latest hour 
 
 Shall strongly heave my breast, 
 That I for poor Auld Scotland's sake 
 Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, 
 
 Or sing a sang at least." 
 
 He had been able both to sing a song, 
 and make a book, and now his long- 
 wished-for ambition to become a national 
 poet was on the point of being realized, 
 if he only laid hold to the prize by giving 
 up his intention of going to Jamaica, and 
 proceed to Edinburgh instead. He was 
 not long in deciding which course to pur- 
 sue, and, bidding good-bye to friends and 
 foes in Ayrshire, he betook himself to 
 Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland, and at 
 that time the centre of wealth, fashion, 
 and culture. Here a reception awaited 
 him, the magnificence of which he had 
 never even dreamed of. He was welcom- 
 ed by rich and poor, and was the chief 
 conversation of the city for weeks after- 
 ward, He could not walk the streets 
 without being pointed to, and stared at as 
 a living wonder. Invitations to dine with 
 lords and noblemen came so frequently, 
 that he was at length forced to apologize, 
 and decline accepting what he would once 
 have looked upon as marked favors. 
 
 He went to work with a will, however, 
 
 on the new edition of his poems, for which 
 assistance of all kinds was kindly offered 
 him. The few poems in his first edition 
 had been very favorably reviewed in the 
 Edinburgh Magazine, and the public mind 
 was in a high fever of expectation to see 
 what might appear in the second. 
 
 Through the influence of the Earl of 
 Glencairn, the members of the Caledonian 
 Hunt subscribed in a bod)' for one hun- 
 dred copies. Other parties subscribed 
 for ten, twent}', and forty copies each and 
 all things seemed to be favorably inclined 
 toward him. 
 
 While pursuing his occupation of flax 
 dressing, at Irving, he had accidently fall- 
 en in with a copy of the poems of Robert 
 Fergusson. To his alread)"^ poetic nature 
 these had lent a new impulse, and he 
 frequently alluded to the fact that several 
 of his best productions were formed on 
 models supplied by his gifted, but ill-fated 
 countryman; and now, while in Edinburgh, 
 he sought out his grave, in the old Canon- 
 gate Churchyard, and, kneeling down, 
 reverently kissed the sod. Nor was this 
 all. To prove to the world the sincerity 
 of his love for him whom he called 
 
 " My elder brother in misfortune, 
 
 By far my elder brother in the muses." 
 
 before he left Edinburgh he erected over 
 his grave a monument, on which was in- 
 scribed the following lines: — 
 
 " No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay. 
 
 No storied urn, nor -animated bust, 
 This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way. 
 
 To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust." 
 
 On the 2ist of April, 1784, appeared the 
 new edition of his poems. Like the first, 
 it was hailed with delight by his admiring 
 countr)'men. When the edition was ex- 
 hausted he found that his profits amount- 
 ed to over four hundred pounds. Two 
 hundred of this sum he immediately 
 forwarded to help his brother Gilbert who 
 still struggled with the farm of Mossgiel. 
 
 On leaving Edinburgh, he, with a friend, 
 made a short tour through Scotland, visit- 
 ing some of the old historical battle- 
 fields, rivers, and castles, whose very 
 names had been sacredly enshrined in his 
 memory since the days of his childhood. 
 
 With the balance of the money he re- 
 turned to Dumfries, where he leased the 
 farm of Ellisland, situated on the out- 
 skirts of the city, and having made it up, 
 so to speak, with Jean Armour, by going 
 through the ceremony of marriage in pub-
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 127 
 
 lie with her, he took her to their new 
 home, where he settled down once more 
 with the intention of becoming an indus- 
 trious farmer. 
 
 For a while all went well. He attended 
 personally and punctually to every detail 
 in connection with the working of the 
 farm, and nature blessed his labors with 
 success. Happy in the bosom of his 
 family, he could appreciate the truthful- 
 ness of what he had once written: 
 
 " To make a h.Tppy fireside clime 
 
 To weans and wife. 
 That's the true pathos and sublime 
 
 Of human life " 
 
 Amid these domestic joys came song 
 after song from his heart; and liere was 
 composed in one day that grand master- 
 piece of poetical fiction, Tarn o' Shanter, a 
 poem of which Alexander Smith says, 
 " Since Bruce fought Bannockburn the 
 best single day's work done in Scotland." 
 He also contributed largely at this time to 
 Johnsons Museiuii and we may safely 
 assert that had it not been for the valu- 
 able service which he rendered to this 
 work it would never have outlived its 
 first volume. 
 
 But if Burns, tired of being lionized, 
 petted, and courted, while in Edinburgh, 
 had imagined he would live in quietness 
 and retirement at Ellisland, he was great- 
 ly mistaken. It was not long before the 
 little farm-house contained each night a 
 circle of admiring friends, as large as any 
 that ever congregated around him in 
 Edinburgh. Learned men from all parts 
 of Scotland made the journey to Ellis- 
 land only to talk with the gifted poet. 
 These had to be welcomed and treated as 
 became their station, and Burns had to 
 allow his servants to attend now and then 
 to the work themselves. 
 
 With the birth of another child, came 
 the conclusion that more money was re- 
 quired to keep them comfortably than 
 what his farm was capable of producing. 
 It was then that he decided on taking the 
 step which, ultimately, was the means of 
 hastening his death. 
 
 Through the aid of a friend he was 
 offered a position in the Excise, at a salary 
 of fifty pounds a year. In accepting this 
 situation it was not necessary that he 
 should devote his entire time to this busi- 
 ness alone. By devoting a few hours each 
 day to its interests, he could still superin- 
 tend the working of the farm during his 
 spare hours. 
 
 But this, instead of improving his pros- 
 pects, began to make matters worse. His 
 duties frequently compelled him to go 
 long distances from home, and it was 
 often very late i-n the evening when he re- 
 turned. It was also the means of taking 
 him into companj', which he should and 
 might otherwise have avoided. Certain it 
 is he began to neglect his farm entirely, 
 and soon resolved to give it up altogether. 
 Accordingly he sold out, and moved into 
 Dumfries, where he received a new ap- 
 pointment as an Exciseman, at seventy 
 pounds a ysar. 
 
 Of all government positions in Scotland 
 there is none that is more despised by the 
 people than that of an Excise officer. The 
 office is frequently h/;)d by men who stop 
 at nothing, however mean it may be, in 
 order to gain promotion for themselves, 
 and we can easily understand that nothing 
 but sheer necessity compelled Burns to ac- 
 cept of such a position. Alas for the gen- 
 eration in which he lived that allowed such 
 a necessity to exist Very little can be 
 said to their ciedit. 
 
 "I know not," he writes, "how the 
 word exciseman, or the still more oppro- 
 brious gauger, will sound in your ears. I, 
 too, have seen the day when my auditory 
 nerves would have felt very delicately on 
 this subject; but a wife and children are 
 things which have a wonderful power in 
 blunting this kind of sensations." 
 
 Having accepted the position, however, 
 Burns proceeded with his duty in as 
 friendly a spirit as his conscience would 
 allow. To the professional smuggler he 
 is said to have been severe, but to the 
 poor country folks, who brewed a little on 
 the sly for themselves, or who kept in 
 stock a few more gallons of ale than what 
 their license entitled them to, he tem- 
 porized justice with mercy, and, in some 
 cases, he is known to have overlooked t"'ie 
 offence altogether. Many a poor woman 
 has been known to bless the day they 
 made Robbie Burns a gauger. 
 
 But his life in Dumfries was far from 
 being a happy or profitable one. Let us 
 bear in mind that tavern life in Scotland, 
 so graphically described in Tain o' Shanter 
 was then at its height. 
 
 It was not looked upon as an offence 
 for a man, however high his station in life 
 may have been, to be seen under the in- 
 fluence of liquor, reeling home from his 
 favorite tavern in the middle of the night. 
 No meeting or company in Dumfries
 
 128 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 was considered complete unless the poet 
 lent his presence to it. That alone was 
 a sufficient guarantee of the pleasures the 
 night would be spent in. He was also an 
 ardent Freemason, and willingly joined 
 with that worthy body in all their convi- 
 vial moments. Travelers passing through 
 the town would stay over night at the 
 Globe Tavern, in hopes of meeting and 
 hearing more of this wonderful indi- 
 vidual, of whom they had already heard 
 so much. With these he would sit drink- 
 ing until late into the night, keeping them 
 the while in a continued state of merri- 
 ment by the brilliant flashes of wit and 
 sarcasm which kept pouring out of him; 
 for his wit and genius shone forth like a 
 bright star in the heavens, whether he was 
 seated at an earl's dinner-table, or with a 
 few drouth)^ old cronies was drinking 
 home-brewed ale in an old rickety inn. 
 Yet it cannot be said that Burns loved 
 drinking for its own sake. He was not 
 what we would call a drunkard in the 
 common sense of the word. It has been 
 proved that he has kept liquors in his 
 house for months at a time without tasting 
 or even looking at them; but in a social 
 company drink certainly got the better of 
 him, and he would even go so far as to 
 pride himself on being able to sing song 
 for song, or drink glass for glass, with 
 any one present. 
 
 More than once did he determine to 
 shake off the fetters these social habits 
 were binding about him; but alas! it was 
 only to find how weak in this respect he 
 was. As soon as evening came there was 
 sure to be an invitation from the Globe 
 Tavern to come and express his views on 
 certain questions then agitating the public 
 mind, and these invitations seemed to 
 have more control over him than all the 
 determinations he ever made; for, in a 
 few moments after their reception Burns 
 would be seen quietly walking from the 
 house in the direction of his favorite tav- 
 ern. Politics never claimed so much of his 
 attention as they began to do about this 
 lime. His republican ideas, so openly ex- 
 pressed, brought severe reprimands from 
 his superiors, and in one or two instances 
 was the means ot near!)'- losing him his 
 position. He sent a present of guns to 
 the French Revolutionists, to show the 
 sympathy he had with them in their cry of 
 " Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity." At 
 a public dinner at which the health of 
 
 William Pitt, the prime minister of Eng- 
 land, was proposed, he astonished his 
 hearers by rising and craving a bumper 
 to the health of a better man, — George 
 Washington. Man)'^ and kind friends 
 warned and begged of him to be more 
 guarded in his speech, pointing out the 
 fact that he was ruining himself in the 
 estimation of those who were best able to 
 advance him in position and income. But 
 this advice was wasted on Burns. If an 
 idea took possession of his mind, and he 
 desired to express it, all the hopes of ad- 
 vancement ever spoken of would not keep 
 him from doing so. 
 
 One thing only checked his course at 
 this time, namely, his health. To himself 
 and others his constitution began to show 
 the sad results of the many merry but ill- 
 timed carousals he had indulged in. Yet 
 so little attention was given to this serious 
 matter, that about the month of July, 1796, 
 he was prostrated with an attack of rheu- 
 matic fever, which confined him to bed 
 for six weeks. 
 
 What his feelings must have been at 
 this time can only be imagined. That he 
 determined to lead a different life from 
 what he had been doing, is evident from 
 the following lines, which he addressed to 
 a brother exciseman while he was re- 
 covering: — 
 
 " Ye've heard this vhile how I've been licket, 
 And by fell death was nearly nicket: 
 Grim loun ! he gat me by the fecket, 
 
 And sair me sheuk : 
 But by gude luck I lap a wicket, 
 
 And turn'd a neuk. 
 
 " But by that health, I've got a share o't. 
 And by that life, I'm promised mair o't, 
 My heal and weel I'll take a care o't 
 
 A tcntier way. 
 Then farewell, folly, hide and hair o't, 
 
 For ance and aye." 
 
 But, alas! Folly had been too long the 
 intimate friend of Burns, to bid her 
 farewell so easily. No sooner was he 
 somewhat restored to health than he join- 
 ed hands with her more willingly than 
 before. Again the walls of the Globe 
 Tavern reverberated with mirth and song; 
 once more was held the meetings with 
 old cronies; but this was only for a short 
 space of time. His nervous system was 
 in too shattered a condition to brave any 
 more excesses of this kind, and again he 
 had to take to his bed. 
 
 His name having been placed on the 
 sick list, he was onl)' entitled to half pay.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 129 
 
 This worried him a great deal, as he was 
 short of money, and he had a horror of 
 poverty once more making his home her 
 abode. 
 
 During his illness one of his children, 
 a little girl, died, and this also gave a still 
 more gloomy aspect to the surroundings in 
 which he was placed. He had been very 
 fond of her, and not being able to attend 
 personally to her burial preyed heavily 
 on his mind. B3' degrees, with careful 
 nursing, he was able to leave his bed, and, 
 ultimatel}- was permitted to indulge in a 
 short walk out-of-doors. 
 
 It would, perhaps, have been well for 
 Burns, and the world also, had he been 
 confined to his room for a year or two, in- 
 stead of a few months. While enjoying one 
 of these quiet walks in the evening, he 
 strayed into his old haunt, the Globe Tav- 
 ern. A company had alread}' assembled in 
 its cozy little parlor, into which Burns was 
 at once received with acclamations of joy. 
 What a night that must have been. The 
 bowl went round, songs were sung, jokes 
 cracked, and mirth and jollity reigned 
 supreme. It was ver}' late when Burns 
 aro;e to go. No one thought of seeing him 
 home; perhaps it was as much as any one ' 
 was able to do to get himself home. Com- 
 ing out into the cold atmosphere, added 
 to the liquor which he had so liberally 
 partaken of, produced a drowsiness on 
 him which made him stumble and fall. So 
 overcome was he that he lay asleep where 
 he had fallen for four hours, and when he 
 awoke he was unable to stand or walk. 
 A fever was boiling in all his veins, and 
 people who then saw him began to fear 
 that death was not far off. He was taken 
 home, and the best medical aid procured 
 for him; but he never rallied from that 
 attack. He sank lower and lower, until, 
 as a last hope, he was advised to try the 
 effects of sea-bathing. Lodgings were pro- 
 cured for him at a small village called i 
 Brow, situated on the Solwa}- coast. Be- 
 fore proceeding thither he remarked to his 
 wife that he did not expect to live much 
 longer, adding, " But don't be afraid, 1 
 Jean: I'll be more respected a hundred 
 y*ears after I am dead than I am at the 
 present day." 
 
 Shortly after his arrival at Brow he 
 wrote to her that although the sea-bathing 
 had eased his pains, it had not done any- 
 thing to restore his health. Mrs. Riddell, 
 a personal friend of his, who was also 
 
 staying at Brow for her health, gives the 
 following account of an interview she had 
 with him on his arrival there: — 
 
 " I was struck with his appearance on 
 entering the room. The stamp of death 
 was imprinted on his features. He seem- 
 ed already touching the brink of eternity. 
 His firstsalutationwas, 'well madam, have 
 you any commands fer the other world?' 
 I replied that it seemed a doubtful case 
 %vhich of us should be there soonest, and 
 that I hoped he would 3-et live to write my 
 epitaph. He looked in my face with an 
 air of great kindness, and expressed his 
 concern at seeing me look so ill, with his 
 accustomed sensibility. We had a long 
 and serious conversation about his pre- 
 sent situation, and the approaching termi- 
 nation of all his earthl\- prospects. He 
 spoke of his death without any of the 
 ostentation of philosophy, but with firm- 
 ness as well as feeling, as an event likely 
 to happen very soon, and which gave him 
 concern chief]}- from leaving his four 
 children so young and unprotected, and 
 his wife hourly expecting a fifth. He 
 mentioned, with seeming pride and satis- 
 faction, the promising genius of his eldest 
 son, and the flattering marks of approba- 
 tion he had received from his teachers, 
 and dwelt particularly on his hopes of 
 that boy's future conduct and merit. His 
 anxiety for his family seemed to hang 
 heavy on him, and the more, perhaps, from 
 the reflection that he had not done them 
 all the justice he was so well qualified to 
 do. Passing from this subject, he showed 
 great concern about the care of his literary 
 fame, and, particularl}', the publication 
 of his posthumous works. He said he 
 was well aware that his death would create 
 some noise, and that every scrap of his 
 writing would be revived against him to 
 the iajur}' of his future reputation; that 
 his letters and verses, written with un- 
 guarded and improper freedom, and which 
 he earnestly wished to have buried in 
 oblivion, would be handed about by idle 
 vanity or malevolence, when no dread of 
 his resentment would restrain them, or 
 prevent the censures of shrill-tongued 
 malice, or the insidious sarcasms of envy, 
 from pouring forth all their venom to blast 
 his fame. 
 
 " He lamented that he had written many 
 epigrams on persons against whom he 
 entertained no enmity, and whose char- 
 acters he would be sorry to wound; and
 
 130 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 many indifferent poetical pieces, which he 
 feared would now, wiih all tneir imper- 
 fections on their head, be thrust upon the 
 world. On this account he deeply regret- 
 ted having deferred to put his papers in a 
 state of arrangement, as he was now in- 
 capable of the exertion. The conversa- 
 tion," she adds, "was kept up with great 
 evenness and animation on his side. 1 had 
 seldom seen his mind greater or more col- 
 lected. There was frequently a consider- 
 able degree of vivacity in his sallies, and 
 they would probably have had a greater 
 share, had not the concern and dejection I 
 could not disguise damped the spirit of 
 pleasantry he seemed not unwilling to in- 
 dulge. We parted about sunset on the 
 evening of that day (the 5th of July, 1796); 
 the next day I saw him again, and we 
 parted to meet no more." 
 
 During his short stay at Brow he was 
 annoyed by letters from small tradesmen, 
 demanding payment of some peltj- claims 
 which the}- had against him. We blush 
 when we read the following letter sent by 
 him at this time to his friend Thomson, 
 the publisher: — 
 
 "After all my boasted independence, 
 curst necessit}' compels me to implore you 
 for five pounds. A cruel scoundrel of a 
 haberdasher, to whom I owe an account, 
 taking it into his head that I am dying, 
 has commenced a process, and will in- 
 fallibly put me into jail. Do, for God's 
 sake, send that sum, and that by return of 
 post. Forgive me this earnest request, 
 but the horrors of a jail have made me 
 distracted, I do not ask it gratuitously, for 
 with returning health, I hereby promise 
 and agree to furnish you with five pounds' 
 worth of the neatest song of genius )'ou 
 have seen." 
 
 We need hardly say that the money was 
 forwarded as desired, and the poet's mind 
 considerabl}' relieved for the time being. 
 
 On the 1 8th of July, 1796. he left Brow, 
 and returned home to Dumfries. Those 
 who saw him then knew the)- were looking 
 on him for the last time. All hope for his 
 recovery had been abandoned. Allan 
 Cunningham, who was then in Dumfries, 
 thus discribes the state of excitement the 
 people were in: — 
 
 "The anxiety of the people, high and 
 low, was very great. Wherever two or 
 three were together, their talk was of 
 Burns, and of him alone. They spoke of 
 his history, of his person, and of his 
 
 works, of his witty sayings, and sarcastic 
 replies, and of his too early fate, with much 
 enthusiasm, and sometimes with deep feel- 
 ing. All that he had done, and all that 
 the}^ had hoped he would accomplish, 
 were talked of. Half a dozen of them 
 stopped Dr. Maxwell in the street, and 
 said, ' How is Burns, sir?' He shook his 
 head-, saying, 'He cannot be worse,' and 
 passed on to be subjected to similar 
 inquiries further up the way. I heard one 
 of ihe group inquire, with much simplicity 
 'Who do you think will be our poet 
 now? • " 
 
 But even at the last his wit still strove to 
 master his other feelings. He belonged 
 to the Dumfries Volunteers, and, turning 
 to a comrade who was standing beside his 
 bed, he said, with a smile, " O John, don't 
 let the awkward squad fire over me." 
 
 On the morning of July 21, he sank in- 
 to delirium, which continued until noon, 
 when, with a muttered execration to a 
 threatening letter which he had received 
 from a lawyer, the soul of Burns took its 
 flight. "And thus he passed," writes 
 Thomas Carlyle, " not softly but speedily 
 into that still country, where the hail- 
 storms and fire-showers do not reach, and 
 the heaviest laden wayfarer at length lays 
 down his load." 
 
 The local newspaper that week contain- 
 ed the follov,-ing intimation of the mourn- 
 ful event: — 
 
 "Died here on the morning of the 21st 
 inst., and in the thirty-eighth year of his 
 age, Robert Burns, the Scottish bard. His 
 manlv form and penetrating eye strikingly 
 indicated extraordinary mental vigor. For 
 originality of wit, rapidity of conception, 
 and tluency of nervous phraseology, he 
 was unrivaled. Animated by the fire of 
 nature, he uttered sentiments which, by 
 their pathos, melted the heart to tender- 
 ness, or expanded the mind by their sub- 
 limity. As a luminary emerging from 
 behind a cloud, he rose at once into notice; 
 and his works and his name can never die, 
 while living, divine Poesy shall agitate the 
 chords of the human heart." 
 
 He was buried with military honors and 
 a great public funeral in St. Michael's 
 Cemetery, Dumfries ; and it is curiou= to 
 relate that while the remains of her husband 
 were being consigned to the dust, ^Irs. 
 Burns gave birth to a son. A few years 
 later she had erected over his resting-place 
 a small stone, with his name, and so forth;
 
 CELEBRATED S0NO8 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 131 
 
 but in 1815 this was replaced by the hand- 
 some mausoleum which stands to-day, 
 having been erected by a public subscrip- 
 tion, contributed to by all classes, from 
 the poor peasant up to royalty itself. 
 
 " Flow gently, sweet Afton " was writ- 
 ten by Burns in honor of Mrs. Stewart, of 
 Afton Lodge. She was the first lady of 
 rank from whom he received any attention. 
 The Afton is a small river in Ayrshire. 
 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy 
 
 green braes, 
 Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in 
 
 thy praise; 
 My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring 
 
 stream, 
 Flow ajently, sweet Afton. disturb not 
 
 her dream. 
 
 Thou stock-dove whose echo re- 
 sounds thro' the glen, 
 
 Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon 
 thorny den, 
 
 Thou green-crested lapwing thy 
 screaming forbear, 
 
 I charge you disturb not my slumber- 
 ing fair. 
 
 How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neigh- 
 boring hills. 
 
 Far mark'd with the courses of clear 
 winding rills; 
 
 There daily I wander as noon rises 
 high, 
 
 My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot 
 in my eye. 
 
 How pleasant thy banks and green 
 
 valleys below. 
 Where wild in the woodlands the 
 
 primroses blow; 
 There oft as mild evening weeps over 
 
 the lea, 
 The sweet-sented birk shades my 
 
 Mary and me. 
 
 Thy crystal stream, Afton, how love- 
 ly it glides; 
 
 And winds by the cot where my 
 Mary resides; 
 
 How wanton thy waters her snowy 
 feet lave. 
 
 As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems 
 thy clear wave. 
 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy 
 
 green braes, 
 Flow gently, sweet river, the theme 
 
 of my lays; 
 My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring 
 
 stream. 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not 
 
 her dream. 
 
 HANDSOME NELL. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 '•The following composition, was the 
 first of my performances, ano done at an 
 early period of my life, when ni}' heart 
 glowed with honest warm simplicity, un- 
 acquainted and uncorrupted with the ways 
 of a wicked world. The performance is, 
 indeed, very puerile and silly, but I am 
 always pleased with it, as it recalls to my 
 mind those happy days when my heart 
 was yet honest, and my tongue was sin- 
 cere. The subject of it was a young girl, 
 who really deserved all the praises I have 
 bestowed on her. I not only had this 
 opinion of her then — but I actually think 
 so still, now that the spell is long since 
 broken, and the enchantment at an end." 
 — Burns, 
 
 "This ballad, though characterised by 
 Burns as a ver}' puerile and silly perform- 
 ance, contains here and there lines of 
 which he need hardly have been ashamed 
 at any period of his life." — Lockhart. 
 
 Oh, once I loved a bonnie lass, 
 
 Ay, and I love her still; 
 And whilst that virtue warms my 
 breast, 
 
 I'll love my handsome Nell.
 
 132 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 As bonnie lasses I hae seen, 
 
 An mony full as braw, 
 But for a modest, gracfu' mien, 
 
 The like I never saw. 
 
 A bonnie lass, I will confess, 
 
 Is pleasant to the e'e, 
 But without some better qualities, 
 
 She's no a lass for me. 
 
 But Nelly's looks are blythe and 
 sweet, 
 
 And what is best of a'. 
 Her reputation is complete. 
 
 And fair without a flaw. 
 
 She dresses aye sae clean and neat. 
 
 Both decent and genteel ; 
 And then there's something in her gait 
 
 Gars ony dress look weel. 
 
 A gaudy dress and gentle air 
 May slightly touch the heart, 
 
 But it's innocence and modesty. 
 That polishes the dart. 
 
 'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 
 *Tis this enchants my soul ; 
 
 For absolutely in my breast. 
 She reigns without control. 
 
 TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Composed at EUisland on the 20th 
 October, 1789, the anniversary of the day 
 upon which the tidings of the death of 
 Mary Campbell were conve3'ed to the poet. 
 See page 125, 
 
 Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning 
 ray, 
 
 That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
 Again thou usher'st in the day 
 
 My Mary from my soul was torn. 
 O Mary! dear departed shade! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
 
 See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend 
 his breast? 
 
 That sacred hour can I forget; 
 
 Can I forget the hallowed grove. 
 Where by the winding Ayr we met 
 
 To live one day of parting love? 
 Eternity will not efface 
 
 Those records dear of transports 
 past; 
 Thy image at our last embrace; 
 
 Ah! little thought we 'twas our 
 last! 
 
 Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled 
 shore, 
 O'erhung with wild woods, thick'n- 
 ing green; 
 The fragrant birch and hawthorn 
 hoar. 
 Twined amorous round the raptur'd 
 scene; 
 The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 
 The birds sang love on every 
 spray — 
 Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
 Proclaim'dthe speed of winged day. 
 
 Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry 
 wakes, 
 And fondly broods with miser care; 
 Time but th' impression stronger 
 makes, 
 As streams their channels deeper 
 wear. 
 My Mary, dear departed shade! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend 
 his breast ? 
 
 THERE WAS A LAD. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 It is universally known that Burns him- 
 self was the " Rantin', rovin', Robin," of 
 this popular song. In the second stanza 
 he celebrates the destruction of the
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 133 
 
 "Auld Clay Biggin "which was caused, 
 however, by a February instead a Jan- 
 uary wind. The old air of " O' gin ye 
 were dead guidman " to which this song 
 is sung, appears to have been a favorite 
 with the early Reformers in Scotland. It 
 was used for a hymn beginning: 
 
 " Till our guidman, till our guidman. 
 Keep faith and love till our guidman; 
 For our guidman in heuen does reigne 
 In gloire and bliss without ending." 
 
 It is related of Burns' father that on the 
 night on which the poet was born he took 
 horse and set out through the darkness of 
 a stormy January night for Ayr for the 
 midwife. When he approached a rivulet 
 which crosses the road, and which 
 was not then provided with a bridge, he 
 found it so deep in flood that a wayfaring 
 female sat on the other side unable to 
 make her way across on foot. Notwith- 
 standing his haste, he conveyed the poor 
 woman through the stream on his horse. 
 When he returned he found that the gipsy, 
 as she proved to be, had made good her 
 quarters beside his cottage fireside. It is 
 said that on the child being placed in her 
 lap, she inspected the palm, after the 
 manner of her profession, and made the 
 predictions which the poet himself has 
 embodied in this whimsical song. 
 
 There was a lad was born in Kyle, 
 But whatna day o' whatna style, 
 I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
 To be sae nice wi' Robin. 
 Robin was a rovin' boy, 
 
 Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin'; 
 Robin was a rovin' boy, 
 Rantin' rovin' Robin. 
 
 Our monarch's hindmost year but ane 
 Was five-and-twenty days begun, 
 'Twas then a blast o' Janwar' win, 
 Blew hansel in on Robin. 
 
 The gossip keekit in his loof. 
 Quo' she, Wha lives will see the proof, 
 This waly boy will be na coof ; 
 I think we'll ca' him Robin. 
 
 He'll ha'e misfortunes great and sma,' 
 But aye a heart aboon them a'; 
 He'll be a credit to us a' — 
 We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 
 
 But sure as three times three mak' nine, 
 I see by ilka score and line. 
 This chap will dearly like our kin', 
 So leeze me on thee, Robin. 
 
 Guid faith, quo' she, I doubt you'll gar 
 The bonnie lasses lie aspar; 
 But twenty fauts ye may hae waur — 
 So blessin's on thee, Robin! 
 Robin was a rovin' boy, 
 
 Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin'; 
 Robin was a rovin' boy, 
 Rantin' rovin' Robin. 
 
 AUUD LANG SYNE. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 While there are numerous songs in ex- 
 istence bearing this title the present one 
 from the first has cast all others in the 
 shade, and to-day is doubtless the best 
 known Scottish song in the world. In 
 sending it to Mrs. Dunlop, Burns says, 
 "Is not the Scotch phrase 'Auld lang 
 syne,' exceedingly expressive. There is 
 an old song and tune which has often 
 thrilled through mv soul ***** 
 Light be the turf on the breast of the 
 Heaven-inspired poet who composed this 
 glorious fragment! There is more of the 
 fire of native genius in it, than in half a 
 dozen of modern English Bacchanalians." 
 It will be seen from this, that what we 
 term Burns' "Auld lang syne," is in 
 realitv only an old song which he com- 
 pleted by adding a line and perhaps a verse 
 wherehefound they were required. He was 
 by no means the author of the entire song 
 as is frequently asserted. He contributed it 
 to Johnson's Aluseitm and it is there mark- 
 ed with a Z signifying that it is an old 
 song with additions and alterations. In a 
 letter to Mr. Thomson, (September, 1793,) 
 he says, "One song more, and I am done 
 — 'Auld Langsyne.' The air is but medi- 
 ocre; but the following song, the old song 
 of the olden times, and which has never 
 been in print, nor even in manuscript, until 
 I took it down from an old man's singing, 
 is enough to recommend any air." 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 An' never brought to mind ?
 
 134 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 An' days o' auld lang syne ? 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 For auld lang syne, my dear, 
 
 For auld lang syne, 
 We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet. 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 We twa ha'e ran about the braes, 
 
 An' pu'd the gowansfine; 
 But we've wander'd mony a weary 
 foot 
 
 Sin' auld lang syne. 
 
 We w I ha'e paidl't i' the burn, 
 Frae mornin' sun till dihe; 
 
 But seas between us braid ha'e roar'd 
 Sin' auld lang syne. 
 
 An' here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 
 An' gi'e's a hand o' thine; 
 
 An' we'll tak' a right guid willie- 
 w aught, 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 An' surely you'll be your pint-stoup, 
 
 An' surely I'll be mine; 
 An' we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 SCOT'S WHA' HA'E. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Mr. Sj-me, who was traveling with 
 Burns on the 30th Jul}', 1793, between the 
 house of Mr. Gordon of Kenmare, and 
 the village of Gatehouse in Kirkcudbright- 
 shire, gives the following account of the 
 origin of this immortal song. "I took him," 
 says Mr. Syme, " by the moor road, where 
 savage and desolate regions extended wide 
 around. The sky was sympathetic with 
 the wretchedness of the soil, it became 
 lowering and dark, the hollow winds sigh- 
 ed, the lightnings gleamed, the thunder 
 rolled. The poet enjoyed the awful 
 scene; he spoke not a word, but seemed 
 wrapt in meditation. What do you think 
 he was about ? He was charging the En- 
 
 glish army along with Bruce at Bannock- 
 burn. He was engaged in the same 
 manner on our ride home from St. Mary's 
 Isle, and I did not disturb him. Next 
 day, he produced me the following address 
 of Bruce to his troops, and gave me a copy 
 for Dalzell." 
 
 This however, does not agree with the 
 poets own account of the composition of 
 the song. In a letter to Mr. Thomson, 
 dated September, 1793, he says. "There 
 is a tradition, which I have met with in 
 many places in Scotland, that it (The air 
 Hey tattie taitie) was Robert Bruce's 
 march at the battle of Bannockburn. 
 This thought, in my solitary wanderiags, 
 warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on 
 the theme of Liberty and Independence, 
 which I threw into a kind of Scottish 
 ode, fitted to the air that one might sup- 
 pose to be the gallant, Royal Scot's address 
 to his heroic followers on that eventful 
 morninsr." 
 
 Scots, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled, 
 Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; 
 
 Welcome to your gory bed, 
 Or to victorie! 
 
 Now's the day, and now's the hour; 
 See the front o' battle lour; 
 See approach proud Edward's power- 
 Chains and Slavery! 
 
 Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
 Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
 Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
 Let him turn and fiee! 
 
 Wha for Scotland's king and law 
 Freedom's sword will strongly draw 
 Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 
 Let him follow me ! 
 
 By oppression's woes and pains! 
 By your sons in servile chains! 
 We will drain our dearest veins, 
 But they shall be free! 
 
 Lay the proud usurpers low! 
 Tyrants fall in every foe! 
 Liberty's in every blow! — 
 Let us do, or die !
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 135 
 
 A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 One of the grandest songs ever com- 
 posed. Berenger, the great French poet, 
 once said of it. "This song is not a song 
 for an age but an eternity." In a letter 
 to Mr. Thomson, dated January, 1795, 
 Burns says, "A great crUic, Aikin, on 
 songs, says that love and wine are the 
 exclusive themes for song-writing; the 
 following is one on neither subject, and 
 consequently is no song, but will be al- 
 lowed, I think, to be two or three pretty 
 good prose thouglits inverted into rhyme." 
 
 Is there for honest poverty 
 
 That hangs his head, an' a' that ? 
 The coward slave we pass him by, 
 
 We dare be poor for a' that! 
 For a' that, an' a' thitt. 
 
 Our toils obscure, an' a' that. 
 The rank is but the guinea's^ stamp, 
 
 The man's the gowd for a' that. 
 
 What though on hamely fare we dine, 
 
 Wear hoddin gray, an' a' that! 
 Gi'e fools their silks, and knaves their 
 wine, 
 
 A man's a man for a' that ; 
 For a' that, an' a' that. 
 
 Their tinsel show an' a' that; 
 The honest man, though e'er sae poor. 
 
 Is king o' rnen for a' that. 
 
 Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 
 
 Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that; 
 Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 
 
 He's but a coof for a' that: 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 
 His riband, star, an' a' that, 
 The man of independent mind, 
 
 He looks an' laughs at a' that. 
 
 A prince can mak' a belted knight, 
 A marquis, duke, an' a' that; 
 
 But an honest man's aboon his might, 
 Gude faith he manna fa' that. 
 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 
 Their dignities, an' a' that. 
 
 The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth, 
 Are higher ranks than a' that. 
 
 Then let us pray that come it may. 
 
 As come it will for a' that. 
 That sense an' worth, o'er a' the earth, 
 
 May bear the gree an' a' that. 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 
 It's coming yet, for a' that. 
 That man to man, the warld o'er, 
 
 Shall brothers be for a' that. 
 
 MY NANNIE'S AWA'. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Mrs. McLehose, (Clarinda) is the sup- 
 posed heroine of this song. 
 
 Now in her green mantle blythe 
 
 nature arrays. 
 An' listens the lambkins that bleat 
 
 o'er the braes, 
 While birds warble welcome in ilka 
 
 green shaw: 
 But to me it's delightless — my 
 
 Nannie's awa'. 
 
 The snaw-drap an' primrose our 
 
 woodlands adorn. 
 An' violets bathe in the weet o' the 
 
 morn; 
 They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly 
 
 they blaw. 
 They mind me o' Nannie — an' 
 
 Nannie's awa'. 
 
 Thou lav'rock that springs frae the 
 dews of the lawn, 
 
 The shepherd to warn o' the gray- 
 breaking dawn. 
 
 An' thou mellow mavis that hails the 
 night-fa'. 
 
 Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa'. 
 
 Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow 
 an' gra 
 soothe 
 decay; 
 
 an gray, 
 An' soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's
 
 136 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 The dark, dreary winter, an' wild- 
 driving snaw, 
 
 Alane can delight me — now Nannie's 
 awa'. 
 
 have ever acknowledged the receipt of it. 
 Miss Alexander died on the 5th June, 
 1843, aged 88 years. 
 
 THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The heroine of this song was Miss 
 Wilhelmina Alexander, of Ballochmyle, 
 an estate about two miles from Mossgiel. 
 Speaking of the song Burns says: " I 
 had roved out as chance directed, in the 
 favorite haunts of my muse, on the banks 
 of the Ayr, to view nature in all the gay- 
 ety of the vernal year. The evening sun 
 was flaming over the distant western hills; 
 not a breath stirred the crimson opening 
 blossom, or the verdant spreading leaf. 
 It was a golden moment for a poetic heart. 
 I listened to the feathered warblers pour- 
 ing their harmony on every hand, with a 
 kindled regard, and frequently turned out 
 of my path, lest I should disturb their 
 little songs, or frighten them to another 
 station. Surely, said I to myself, he must 
 be a wretch indeed, who regardless of your 
 harmonious endeavors to please him, can 
 eye your elusive flights to discover your 
 secret recesses, and to rob you of all the 
 property nature gives you, your dearest 
 comforts, your helpless nestlings. Even 
 the hoary hawthorn twig that shot across 
 the way, what heart but at such a time 
 must have been interested in its welfare, 
 and wished it preserved from the rudeh'- 
 browsing cattle, or the withering eastern 
 blast? Such was the scene — and such the 
 hour, when, in a corner of my prospect, I 
 spied one of the fairest pieces of nature's 
 workmanship that ever crowned a poetic 
 landscape, or met a poet's eye: those 
 visionary bards excepted who hold com- 
 merce with aerial beings. Had calumny 
 or villany taken my walk, they had at that 
 moment sworn eternal peace with such an 
 object. What an hour of inspiration for 
 a poet! It v/ould have raised plain, dull, 
 historic prose into metaphor and measure! 
 The enclosed song was the work of my re- 
 turn home; and, perhaps, it but poorly 
 answers what might have been expected 
 from such a scene." Burns afterwards 
 sent the song enclosed in a letter to Miss 
 Alexander, but she does not seem to 
 
 'TwAS even — the dewy fields were 
 green, 
 
 On every blade the pearls hang. 
 The zyphyr wanton'd round the bean, 
 
 An' bore its fragrant sweets alang: 
 In ev'ry glen the mavis sang. 
 
 All nature list'ning seem'd the 
 while, 
 Except where greenwood echoes rang, 
 
 Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 
 
 With careless steps I onward stray'd, 
 
 My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy. 
 When, musing in a lonely glade, 
 
 A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy; 
 Her look was like the morning's eye, 
 
 Her air like nature's vernal smile, 
 Perfection whisper'd, passing by, 
 
 Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle! 
 
 Fair is the morn in flow'ry May, 
 
 And sweet is night in autumn mild; 
 When roving thro' the garden gay, 
 
 Or wand'ring in the lonely wild: 
 But woman, nature's darling child! 
 
 There all her charms she does com- 
 pile; 
 E'en there her other works are foil'd 
 
 By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 
 
 Oh, had she been a country maid. 
 
 And I the happy country swain, 
 Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed 
 
 That ever rose on Scotland's plain. 
 Thro* weary winter's wind and rain, 
 
 With joy, with rapture, I would toil; 
 And nightly to my bosom strain 
 
 The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle! 
 
 Then pride might climb the slipp'ry 
 
 steep, 
 Where fame and honors lofty shine; 
 And thirst of gold might tempt the 
 
 deep.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 187 
 
 Ordownward seek the Indian mine; 
 Give me the cot below the pine; 
 
 To tend the flocks, or till the soil, 
 And every day have joys divine 
 
 With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 
 
 CORN RIGS. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 This is one of the Poet's earliest pro- 
 ductions and appears in the first edition 
 of his poems. Annie Ronald, afterwards 
 Mrs. Paterson of Aikenbrae, was said to 
 have been the heroine of the song, but it is 
 now generally believed Jean Armour was 
 the real heroine and inspirer of it. There is 
 a portion of a very old song in existence, 
 called "Corn Rigs" the chorus of which 
 runs: 
 
 " O corn riggs and rye riggs, 
 
 And corn riggs are bonnie. 
 And gin you meet a bonnie lass, 
 
 Prin up her cockernony." 
 
 It was upon a lamm?s night. 
 
 When corn rigs are bonnie, 
 Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 
 
 I held awa' to Annie: 
 The time flew by wi' tentlessheed. 
 
 Till 'tween the late and early, 
 Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed 
 
 To see me thro' the barley. 
 
 Corn rigs, and barley rigs, 
 And corn rigs are bonnie: 
 
 I'll ne'er forget that happy night, 
 Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 
 
 The sky was blue, the wind was still. 
 
 The moon was shining clearly; 
 I set her down wi' right good will 
 
 Amang the rigs o' barley; 
 I ken't her heart was a' my ain; 
 
 I lov'd her most sincerely; 
 I kissed her owre and owre again, • 
 
 Amang the rigs o' barley. 
 
 I lock'd her in my fond embrace; 
 
 Her heart was beating rarely: 
 My blessings on that happy place, 
 
 Amang the rigs o' barley; 
 
 But by the moon and stars so bright, 
 That shone that hour so clearly! 
 
 She aye shall bless that happy night, 
 Amang the rigs o' barley. 
 
 I ha'e been blythe wi' comrades dear: 
 
 I ha'e been merry drinkin'; 
 I ha'e been joyfu' gath'rin' gear; 
 
 I ha'e been happy thinkin': 
 But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 
 
 Tho' three times doubl'd fairly. 
 That happy night was worth them a', 
 
 Amang the rigs o* barley. 
 
 YE BANKS AND BRAES. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Miss Peggy Kennedy of Dalgarrock, 
 who is here supposed to give utterance to 
 her lamentations, was the heiress to con- 
 siderable property in Carrick. She is said 
 to have been deceived by her lover when 
 only seventeen years of age and died 
 soon afterwards of a broken heart. In a 
 letter to Mr. Thomson, dated November, 
 1794, Burns gives the following account 
 of the origin of the air to the song. "A 
 good many years ago, Mr. James Miller, 
 writer, in your good town, a gentleman 
 whom possibly you know, was in com- 
 pany with our friend Clarke: and talking 
 of Scottish music, Miller expressed an 
 ardent ambition to be able to compose a 
 Scots air. Mr. Clarke, partly by way of 
 joke, told him to keep to the black keys 
 of the harpsichord, and preserve some 
 sort of rhythm, and he would infallibly 
 compose a Scots air. Certain it is, that in 
 a few days, Mr. Miller produced the rudi- 
 ments of an air, which Mr. Clarke, with 
 some touches and corrections, fashioned 
 into the tune in question." 
 
 Ye banks an' braes o' bonnie Doon, 
 
 How can ye bloom sae fresh an' fair; 
 How can ye chant, ye little birds. 
 
 An' I sae weary fu' o' care! 
 Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling 
 bird. 
 That wantons thro' the flowering 
 thorn :
 
 138 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Thou minds me o' departed joys, 
 Departed — never to return! 
 
 Aft ha'e I roved by bonnie Doon, 
 
 To see the rose and woodbine twine; 
 An' ilka bird sang o' its luve, 
 
 An' fondly sae did I o' mine. 
 Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 
 
 Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; 
 An' my fause luver stole my rose, 
 
 But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me. 
 
 THE DE'IL'S AWA' WI' THE 
 EXCISEMAN. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Lockhart says that this song was com- 
 posed on the shores of the Solwa)', while 
 the poet and a number of brother excise- 
 men were engaged in watching a smuggling 
 brig which had put in there. " Burns," he 
 saj'S, "manifested considerable impatience 
 while thus occupied, being left for many 
 hours in a wet, salt marwh, with a force 
 which he knew to be inadequate for the 
 purpose it was meant to fulfil. One of 
 his friends hearing him abuse his friend 
 Lewars. in particular, for being slow about 
 his journey, the man answered that he also 
 wisned the devil had him for his pains, 
 and that Burns in the meantime would do 
 well to indite a song upon the sluggard. 
 Burns said nothing, but after taking a few 
 strides by himself among the reeds and 
 shingles, rejoined the party, and chanted 
 to them this well-known ditty." 
 
 The de'il cam' fiddling through the 
 town, 
 
 An' danced awa' wi' the Exciseman, 
 And ilka wife cries — "Auld Mahoun, 
 
 I wish you luck o' the prize, man!" 
 The de'il's awa', the de'il's awa', 
 
 The de'il's awa' wi' the Exciseman; 
 He's danc'd awa', he's danc'd awa', 
 
 He's danc'd awa, wi' the Exciseman ! 
 
 We'll mak' our maut, we'll brew our 
 drink. 
 We'll dance, an' sing, an' rejoice, 
 man; 
 
 And mony braw thanks to the meikle 
 iDlack de'il 
 That danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman. 
 The de'il's awa' the de'il's awa', 
 The de'il's awa' wi' the Excise- 
 man; 
 He's danc'd awa', he's danc'd aw^a' 
 He's danc'd awa' wi' the Ex- 
 ciseman. 
 
 There's threesome reels, there's four- 
 some reels. 
 There's hornpipes and strathspeys, 
 man; 
 But the ae best dance e'er cam' to 
 the land 
 Was — the de'il's awa' wi' the Ex- 
 ciseman, 
 The de'il's awa', the de'il's awa', 
 The de'il's awa' wi' the Excise- 
 man; 
 He's danc'd awa', he's danc'd 
 awa'. 
 He's danc'd awa' with the Ex- 
 ciseman. 
 
 'TWAS NA HER BONNIE 
 BLUE E'E. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 'TwAS na her bonnie blue e'e was my 
 
 ruin ; 
 Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my 
 
 undoing; 
 'Twas the dear smile when naebody 
 
 did mind us, 
 'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown 
 
 glance o' kindness. 
 
 Sair do I fear that to hope is denied 
 
 me, 
 Sair do I fear that despair maun abide 
 
 me; 
 But tho' fell fortune should fate us to 
 
 sever, 
 Queen shall she be in my bosom for 
 
 ever.
 
 CKLEBRAIED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 139 
 
 Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sin- 
 
 cerest! 
 And thou has plighted me love o' the 
 
 dearest! 
 And thou'rt the angel that never can 
 
 alter, 
 Sooner the sun in his motion would 
 
 falter. 
 
 MARK YONDER POMP. 
 
 R015ERT r.UKNS. 
 
 Written in 1795. Jean Lorimer was the 
 subject of the song. 
 
 Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 
 Round the wealthy, titled bride: 
 
 But when compar'd with real passion, 
 Poor is all that princely pride. 
 What are the showy treasures ? 
 What are the noisy pleasures ? 
 
 The gay gaudy glare of vanity and 
 art: 
 The polish'd jewel's blaze 
 May draw the wond'ring gaze, 
 And courtly grandeur bright 
 The fancy may delight, 
 
 But never, never can come near the 
 heart. 
 
 But did you see my dearest Chloris, 
 In simplicity's array ; 
 
 Lovely as yonder sweet op'ning flower 
 is, 
 Shrinking from the gaze of day. 
 Oh then the heart alarming, 
 And all resistless charming, 
 
 In Love's delightful fetters she chains 
 the willing soul ! 
 Ambition would disown 
 The world's imperial crown, 
 Even Avarice would deny 
 His worshipp'd deity, 
 
 And feel through ev'ry vein Love's 
 raptures roll. 
 
 MY LUVE IS LIKE A RED, 
 RED ROSE. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 This is an old song revised by Burns 
 for the Aluseum. "The tune," he says, 
 "of this song, is in Neil Gow's first 
 collection and is there called "Major 
 Graham." 
 
 Oh, my luve's like a red, red rose. 
 
 That's newly sprung in June : 
 Oh, my luve's like the melodic, 
 
 That's sweetly played in tune. 
 As fair art thou, my bonnie lass 
 
 So deep in luve am I ; 
 And I will luve thee still my dear, 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry. 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
 
 And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 
 I will luve thee still, my dear, 
 
 While the sands o' life shall run. 
 And fare thee weel my only luve ! 
 
 And fare thee weel awhile ! 
 And I will come again my luve, 
 
 Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 
 
 FROM THEE ELIZA. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The heroine of this song, some say, was 
 Elizabeth Miller, one of the " Mauchline 
 Belles "; others avow that she was Eliza- 
 beth Black, afterwards Mrs. Stewart, a 
 vintner in Alva; while John Gait is of 
 opinion that the real lady was a relative of 
 his own, named Elizabeth Barbour. — Alex. 
 Whiielaii). 
 
 From thee, Eliza, I must go. 
 
 And from my native shore, 
 The cruel Fates between us throw 
 
 A boundless ocean's roar : 
 But boundless oceans, roaring wide, 
 
 Between my love and me, 
 They never, never can divide 
 
 My heart and soul from thee !
 
 140 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 
 
 The maid that I adore ! 
 A boding voice is in mine ear, 
 
 We part to meet no more ! 
 The latest throb that leaves my heart, 
 
 While death stands victor by, 
 That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 
 
 And thine that latest sigh ! 
 
 GREEN GROW THE RASHES O. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The old song "We're a' dry wi' drinkin' 
 o't " first suggested to Burns the following 
 verses, which undoubtedly form one of his 
 finest lyrics. 
 
 There's nought but care on ev'ryhan'. 
 In every hour that passes, O : 
 
 What signifies the life o' man, 
 An' 'twere na for the lassies, O. 
 
 Green grow the rashes, O ! 
 
 Green grow the rashes, O ! 
 The sweetest hours that e'er I 
 spend 
 
 Are spent amang the lassies, O. 
 
 The war'ly race may riches chase, 
 An' riches still may fly them, O ; 
 
 An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 
 Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O 
 
 But gi'e me a canny hour at e'en. 
 My arms about my dearie, O ; 
 
 An' war'ly cares, an' war'ly men. 
 May a' gae tapsalteerie, O. 
 
 For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, 
 Ye're nought but senseless asses, O; 
 
 The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, 
 He dearly loved the lasses, O. 
 
 Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
 Her noblest work she classes, O; 
 
 Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, 
 An' then she made the lasses, O. 
 
 ROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The chorus and air of this song are 
 very old. The rest of the verses do not 
 refer to an incident in connection with the 
 Poet's love for Jean Armour, as was at 
 one time conjectured. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Robin shure in hairst, 
 
 I shure wi' him ; 
 Fient a heuk had I, 
 
 Yet I stack by him. 
 
 I gaed up to Dunse, 
 
 To warp a wab o' plaiden ; 
 At his daddie's yett, 
 
 Wha met me but Robin ? 
 
 Was na Robin bauld, 
 Though I was a cottar, 
 
 Play'd me sic a trick. 
 
 And me the eller's dochter ? 
 
 Robin promised me 
 
 A' my winter vittle ; 
 Fient haet he had but three 
 
 Goose feathers and a whittle. 
 
 DUNCAN GRAY. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 "It is generally reported," writes Mr. 
 Stenhouse, " that this lively air was com- 
 posed by Duncan Gra^^ a carter or car- 
 man in Glasgow about the beginning of 
 last centur}'^, and that the tune was taken 
 down from his whistling it two or three 
 times to a musician in that city." Burns got 
 the idea of the song from an old version, 
 which he contributed with some altera- 
 tions to Johnson's Museum. 
 
 Duncan Gray cam' here to woo. 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 On blythe Yule night when we were 
 fou', 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 141 
 
 Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
 Look'd asklent an' unco skeigh, 
 Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
 Duncan fleech'd an* Duncan pray'd, 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 
 Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 Duncan sigh'd baith out an' in, 
 Grat his een baith bleert an' blin , 
 Spak' o' lowpin owre a linn ; 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
 Time an' chance are but a tide, 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 
 
 Slighted love is sair to bide, 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
 Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 
 
 For a haughty hizzie dee ? 
 
 She may gae to — France for me ! 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
 How it conies let doctors tell, 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 
 
 Meg grew sick — as he grew hale. 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
 Something in her bosom wrings. 
 
 For relief a sigh she brings ; 
 
 An' oh, her een, they speak sic things ! 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
 Duncan was a lad o' grace. 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 Maggie's was a piteous case, 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 Duncan could na be her death. 
 Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
 Now they're crouse an' canty baith; 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
 AE FOND KISS. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 This matchless love song was composed 
 by Burns in 1791, three weeks after his 
 last interview with Clarinda. She was 
 then completing her arrangements to go 
 
 to Jamaica and did not meet the poet 
 again. " The following exquisite!}- affect- 
 ing stanza," says Sir Walter Scott^ "con- 
 tains the essence of a thousand love-tales." 
 
 " Had we never loved sae kindly, 
 Had we never loved sae blindly. 
 Never met — or never parted. 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted." 
 
 Byron adopted these lines as the motto to 
 "The Bride of Abydos." 
 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
 Ae fareweel, and then for ever ! 
 Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge 
 
 thee. 
 Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee 
 Who shall say that fortune grieves him 
 While the Star of Hope she leaves him? 
 Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
 Dark despair around benights me. 
 
 I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
 Naething could resist my Nancy; 
 And to see her, was to love her; 
 Love but her, and love forever. 
 Had we never loved sae kindly. 
 Had we never loved sae blindly. 
 Never met or never parted, 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 
 
 Fare-thee weel, thou first and fairest! 
 Fare-thee weel, thou best and dearest! 
 Thine be ilka joy and treasure. 
 Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever, 
 Ae fareweel, alas! forever! 
 Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge 
 
 thee. 
 Warring sighs and groans I'll wage 
 
 thee. 
 
 SUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 "This song refers to the disgraceful 
 manner in which the union of Scotland 
 with England was effected, by the bribery 
 of man)' of the Scottish nobles. The 
 beneficial effects of the union were long 
 in developing themselves, indeed for
 
 142 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 nearly the first fifty years, Scotland was 
 positively injured by it; but, apart from 
 this, Burns, like all true hearted Scots- 
 men, could never think of the loss of his 
 country's independence without a sigh of 
 regret." — Akx. IVhitelaw. 
 
 Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, 
 
 Fareweel our ancient glory, 
 Fareweel even to the Scottish name, 
 
 Sae fam'd in martial story. 
 Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands, 
 
 And Tweed rins to the ocean, 
 To mark where England's province 
 stands — 
 
 Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 
 
 What force or guile could not subdue, 
 
 Thro' many warlike ages, 
 Is wrought now by a coward few, 
 
 For hireling traitors' wages. 
 The English steel we could disdain. 
 
 Secure in valour's station; 
 But English gold has been our 
 bane — 
 
 Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 
 
 Oh would, or I had seen the day 
 
 That treason thus could sell us. 
 My auld gray head had lien in clay, 
 
 Wi' Bruce an' loyal Wallace! 
 But pith an' power, till my last hour, 
 
 I'll make this declaration; 
 We're bought and sold for English 
 gold — 
 
 Such a parcel of rogues in a nation! 
 
 THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 A tribute from Burns in August, 1795, 
 to the numerous endearments and accom- 
 plishments of Jean Armour. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Oh this is no my ain lassie. 
 Fair tho' the lassie be; 
 
 Oh weel ken I my ain lassie, 
 Kind love is in her e'e. 
 
 I see a form, I see a face 
 Ye weel may wi' the fairest place; 
 It wants to me the witching grace, 
 The kind love that's in her e'e. 
 
 She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and 
 
 tall. 
 And lang has had my heart in thrall; 
 And aye it charms my very saul. 
 The kind love that's in her e'e. 
 
 A thief sae paukie is my Jean, 
 To steal a blink, by a' unseen; 
 But gleg as light are lovers' een, 
 When kind love is in her e'e. 
 
 It may escape the courtly sparks, 
 It may escape the learned clerks; 
 But weel the watching lover marks 
 The kind love that's in her e'e 
 
 WHISTLE O'ER THE 
 LAVE O'T. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS, 
 
 An old song purified by Burns. The 
 air was composed about 1720, by John 
 Bruce a native of Dumfries. 
 
 First when Maggy was my care. 
 Heaven I thought was in her air; 
 Now vve're married — spier nae mair- 
 
 Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
 Meg was meek, an' Meg was mild, 
 Bonnie Meg was nature's child; 
 Wiser men than me's beguil'd — 
 
 Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
 
 How we live, my Meg an' me, 
 How we love, an' how we 'gree, 
 I care na by how few may see — 
 
 Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
 Wha I wish were maggots' meat, 
 Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
 I could write — but Meg maun see't- 
 
 Whistle o'er the lave o't.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 143 
 
 I DREAM'D I LAY. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 "These two stanzas," says Burns, "I 
 composed when I was about seventeen. 
 They are among the oldest of my printed 
 pieces." They are given in Johnson's 
 Museum. 
 
 I dream'd I lay where flowers were 
 springing, 
 Gaily in the sunny beam; 
 List'ning to the wild birds singing, 
 
 By a falling crystal stream: 
 Straight the sky grew black and dar- 
 ing; 
 Through the woods the whirlwinds 
 rave; 
 Trees with ag^d arms were warring 
 O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. 
 
 Such was my life's deceitful morning, 
 
 Such the pleasures I enjoyed ; 
 But long or soon, loud tempests 
 storming, 
 A' my flow'ry bliss destroy'd. 
 Though fickle fortune has deceiv'd 
 me, 
 (She promis'd fair, and perform'd 
 but ill;) 
 Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, 
 I bear a heart shall support me 
 still. 
 
 THE FAREWELL TO THE 
 
 BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S 
 
 LODGE TARBOLTON. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Burns was enrolled as a Freemason on 
 the 4th July, 1781. The following fare- 
 well song to his Masonic brethern, was 
 written shortly after the publication of his 
 first volume of poems, and about the time 
 that he was preparing to embark for 
 Jamaica. William Wallace, the Grand 
 Master referred to in the concluding 
 stanza, was at one time Sheriff of Ayr- 
 shire. He died on the aSth November, 
 178- 
 
 Adieu! a heart-warm fond adieu! 
 
 Dear brothers of the mystic tie! 
 Ye favor'd, ye enlighten'd few. 
 
 Companions of my social joy! 
 Though I to foreign lands must hie, 
 
 Pursuing Fortune's sliddry ba'. 
 With melting heart, and brimful eye, 
 
 I'll mind you still, though far awa. 
 
 Oft have I met your social band, 
 
 And spent a cheerful festive night; 
 Oft, honor'd with supreme command, 
 
 Presided o'er the sons of light; 
 And by that hieroglyphic bright. 
 
 Which none but craftsmen ever 
 saw! 
 Strong memory on my heart shall 
 write 
 
 Those happy scenes when far ^wa! 
 
 May freedom, harmony, and love. 
 
 Unite you in the grand design, 
 Beneath the Omniscient Eye above, 
 
 The glorious architect divine! 
 That you may keep th' unerring line, 
 
 Still rising by the plummet's law. 
 Till order bright completely shine — 
 
 Shall be my prayer when far awa. 
 
 And you, farewell! whose merits 
 claim. 
 
 Justly, that highest badge to wear! 
 Heaven bless your honor'd, noble 
 name. 
 
 To Masonry and Scotia dear! 
 A last request permit me here, 
 
 When yearly ye assemble a'. 
 One round, I ask it with a tear. 
 
 To him, the bard, that's far awa. 
 
 HIGHLAND MARY. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The remains of Highland Mary repose 
 in the West Churchyard of Greenock.
 
 144 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Ye banks, and braes, and streams 
 around. 
 
 The castle o' Montgomery, 
 Green be your woods, and fair your 
 flowers, 
 
 Your waters never drumlie! 
 There simmer first unfauld her robes, 
 
 An' there the langest tarry; 
 For there I took the last fareweel 
 
 O' my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 How sweetly bloom'd the gay green 
 birk, 
 
 How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
 As underneath their fragrant shade, 
 
 I clasp'd her to my bosom! 
 The golden hours, on angel wings. 
 
 Flew o'er me and my dearie; 
 For dear to me as Ught and life, 
 
 Was my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 
 
 Our parting was fu' tender; 
 And pledging aft to meet again, 
 
 We tore oursel's asunder; 
 But, Oh! fell death''* untimely frost, 
 
 That nipt my flower sae early! 
 Now green's the sod, and cauld's the 
 clay, 
 
 That wraps my Highland Mary! 
 
 Oh pale, pale, now, those rosy lips, 
 
 I aft ha'e kissed sae fondly! 
 An' closed for aye the sparkling 
 glance 
 
 That dwelt on me sae kindly; 
 And mouldering now in silent dust 
 
 That heart that lov'd me dearly! 
 But still within my bosom's core 
 
 Shall live my Highland Mary. 
 
 NITH 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 But sweeter flows the Nith, to me, 
 Where Cummins ance had high 
 command: 
 When shall I see that honor'd land. 
 That winding stream I love so 
 dear! 
 Must wayward fortune's adverse 
 hand 
 For ever, ever keep me here ? 
 
 How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, 
 Where spreading hawthorn's gaily 
 bloom! 
 How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, 
 Where lambkins wanton thro' the 
 broom! 
 Tho' wandering, now, must be my 
 doom, 
 Far frae thy bonnie banks and 
 braes. 
 May there my latest hours consume, 
 Amang the friends of early days! 
 
 MENIE. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 This song of despondency was written 
 by Burns about the time he produced 
 " The Ode to Ruin " and " The Lament." 
 The chorus was the composition of a friend 
 of the poet's. " Menie" is. an abbrevia- 
 tion for " Miriamne." 
 
 The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 
 Where royal cities stately stand; 
 
 Again rejoicing nature sees, 
 Her robe assume its vernal hues. 
 Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
 All freshly steep'd in morning 
 dews. 
 An' maun I still on Menie doat, 
 An' bear the scorn that's in 
 her e'e ? 
 For it's jet, jet black, an' like a 
 hawk, 
 An' winna let a body be. 
 
 In vain to me the cowslips blaw. 
 In vain to me the vi'lets spring; 
 
 In vain to me, in glen or shaw. 
 The mavis an' the lintwhite sing.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 145 
 
 The merry ploughboy cheers his 
 team, 
 
 Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks; 
 But h'fe to me's a weary dream, 
 
 A dream of ane that never wauks. 
 
 The wanton coot the water skims, 
 Amang the reeds the ducklins cry, 
 
 The stately swan majestic swims, 
 An' everything is blest but I. 
 
 The shepherd steeks his faulding slap. 
 An' owre the moorland whistles 
 shrill; 
 
 Wi' wild unequal, wand'ring step, 
 I meet him on the dewy hill. 
 
 An' when the lark, 'tween light an' 
 dark, 
 Blythe waukens by the daisy's side. 
 An' mounts an' sings on flittering 
 wings, 
 A woe-worn ghaist I hameward 
 glide. 
 
 Come Winter with thine angry howl, 
 
 An' raging bend the naked tree: 
 Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless 
 
 soul. 
 When nature all is sad like me! 
 
 SAE FLAXEN WERE HER 
 RINGLETS. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Jean Lorimer was the heroine of this 
 effusion. The song is said to have been 
 written by Burns, not only to celebrate 
 her charms, but also to furnish words for 
 an Irish melody of which he was parti- 
 cularly fond. Jean Lorimer died in 1831. 
 
 Sae flaxen were her ringlets. 
 Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
 
 Bewitchingly o'er-arching 
 
 Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue, 
 
 Her smiling, sae wiling. 
 
 Wad make a wretch forget his woe ; 
 
 What pleasure, what treasure, 
 
 Unto those rosy lips to grow; 
 Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 
 When first her bonnie face I saw. 
 An' aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 
 She says she lo'es me best of a'. 
 
 Like harmony her motion ; 
 
 Her pretty ankle is a spy 
 Betraying fair proportion. 
 
 Wad make a saint forget the sky. 
 Sae warming, sae charming. 
 
 Her faultless form and graceful 
 air; 
 Ilk feature — auld nature 
 
 Declared that she could do nae 
 mair. 
 Hers are the willing chains o' love. 
 
 By conquering beauty's sovereign 
 law; 
 An' aye my Chloris dearest charm. 
 
 She says she lo'es me best of a'. 
 
 Let others love the city, 
 
 And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
 Gi'e me the lonely valley, 
 
 The dewy eve, and rising moon; 
 Fair beaming, and streaming. 
 
 Her silver light the boughs amang; 
 While falling, recalling, 
 
 The amorous thrush concludes his 
 sang: 
 There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 
 
 By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
 An' hear my vows o' truth and love, 
 
 An' say thou lo'es me best of a'. 
 
 BLYTHE, BLYTHE AND 
 MERRY WAS SHE. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 " I composed these verses," says Burns, 
 "while I strayed at Auchtertyre, with Sir 
 William Murray. The heroine was Miss 
 Euphemia Murray, commonly and deserv- 
 edly called 'The Flower of Strathmore.' " 
 Miss Murray, in 1794, became the wife of 
 Lord Methevm, a Judge of the Court of 
 Session.
 
 146 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Blythe, blythe and merry was she, 
 Blythe was she butt and ben: 
 
 Blythe by the banks of Ern, 
 An' blythe in Glenturit glen. 
 
 By Auchtertyre grows the aik, 
 
 On Yarrow banks the birken shaw; 
 
 But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
 Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 
 
 Her looks were like a flower in May, 
 Her smile was like a simmer morn: 
 
 She tripped by the banks o' Ern, 
 As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
 
 Her bonnie face it was as meek 
 
 As ony lamb upon a lea; 
 The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 
 
 As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. 
 
 The Highland hills I've wander'd 
 v/ide, 
 
 An' o'er the Lowlands I ha'e been; 
 But Phemie was the blythest lass. 
 
 That ever trod the dewy green. 
 
 AULD ROB MORRIS. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 There's auld Rob Morris that wons 
 
 in yon glen, 
 He's the king o' gude fellows an' wale 
 
 o' auld. men 
 Pie has gowd in his coffers, he has 
 
 owsen an' kine, 
 An' ae bonnie lassie, his darling an' 
 
 mine. 
 
 She's fresh as the morning, the fairest 
 
 in May; 
 She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the 
 
 new hay; 
 As blythe and as artless as the lambs 
 
 on the lea, 
 .\n' dear to my heart as the light to 
 
 my e'e. 
 
 But, oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's 
 a laird, 
 
 An' my daddie has naught but a cot- 
 house an' yard; 
 
 A wooer like me maunna hope to 
 come speed, 
 
 The wounds I must hide that will 
 soon be my dead. 
 
 The day comes to me, but delight 
 
 brings me nane; 
 The night comes to me, but my rest 
 
 it is gane; 
 I wander my lane like a night-troubled 
 
 ghaist, 
 And I sigh as my heart it wad burst 
 
 in my breast. 
 
 Oh had she but been of a lower de- 
 gree, 
 
 I then might ha'e hop'd she wad 
 smil'd upon me! 
 
 Oh, how past describing had then 
 been my bliss, 
 
 As now my distraction no words can 
 express! 
 
 MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 " James Macpherson was a noted High- 
 land freebooter, of uncommon personal 
 strenjTth, and an excellent performer on 
 the violin. After holding the counties of 
 Aberdeen, Banff, and Moray in fear for 
 some 3-ears, he was seized by DufT, of 
 Braco, ancester of the Earl of Fife, and 
 tried before the sheriff" of Banffshire 
 (November 7, 1700) along with certain 
 gypsies who had been taken in his com- 
 pany. In the prison, while he lay under 
 sentence of death, he composed a song, 
 and an appropriate air, the former com- 
 mencing thus: — 
 
 ' I've spent my time in rioting, 
 Debauched my health and strength; 
 I squandered fast as pillage came, 
 And fell to shame at length. 
 But dantonly, and wantonly, 
 
 And rantonly I'll gae; 
 I'll play a tune, and dance it roun', 
 Beneath the gallows-tree.'
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 147 
 
 When brought lo the place of execution, 
 on the Gallows-hill of Banff (Nov. i6), he 
 pla3'ed the tune on his violin, and then 
 asked if any friend was present who 
 would accept the instrument as a gift at 
 his hands. No one coming forward, he 
 indignantly broke the violin on his knee, 
 and threw away the fragments; after 
 which, he submitted to his fate. The 
 traditionary accounts of Macpherson's 
 immense prowess are justified by his 
 sword, which is still preserved in Duff 
 House, at Banff, and is an implement of 
 great length and weight — as well as by 
 his bones, which were found a few years 
 ago, and were allowed by all who saw them 
 to be much stronger than the bones of 
 ordinar}- men. The verses of Burns — 
 justly called by Mr. Lockhart, 'a grand 
 lyric,' — were designated as an improve- 
 ment on those of the freebooter, preserv- 
 ing the same air." — Dick's Edition of 
 Burns. 
 
 Farewell, ye dungeons dark and 
 strong, 
 
 The wretch's destinie! 
 Macpherson's time will not be long 
 
 On yonder gallows-tree. 
 
 Sae rantingly, sae wontonly, 
 
 Sae dauntingly gaed he; 
 He play'd a spring, and danc'd 
 
 it round, 
 Below the gallows-tree. 
 
 Oh, what is death but parting breath ! — 
 
 On mony a bloody plain 
 I've dar'd his face, and in this place 
 
 I scorn him yet again! 
 
 Untie these bands from off my hands. 
 And bring to me my sword: 
 
 And there's no a man in all Scotland, 
 But I'll brave him at a word. 
 
 I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife; 
 
 I die by treacherie: 
 It burns my heart I must depart, 
 
 And not avenged be. 
 
 Now farewell light — thou sunshine 
 bright, 
 
 And all beneath the sky! 
 May coward shame disdain his name, 
 
 The wretch that dares not die! 
 
 I HA'E A WIFE O' MY AIN. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 " The poet was accustomed to say that the 
 most happy period of his life was the first 
 winter he spent at Ellisland — for the first 
 time under a roof of his own, — with his 
 wife and children about him. It is known 
 that he welcomed his wife to her roof-tree 
 at Ellisland in this song." — Lockhart. 
 
 I ha'e a wife o' my ain — 
 
 I'll partake wi' naebody; 
 I'll tak' cuckold frae nane, 
 
 I'll gi'e cuckold to naebody. 
 I ha'e a penny to spend, 
 
 There — thanks to naebody; 
 I ha'e naething to lend, 
 
 I'll borrow frae naebody. 
 
 I am naebody's lord — 
 
 I'll be slave to naebody; 
 I ha'e a gude braid sword, 
 
 I'll tak' dunts frae naebody. 
 I'll be merry an' free, 
 
 I'll be sad for naebody; 
 If naebody care for me, 
 
 I'll care for naebody. 
 
 OH! TIBBIE, I HA'E SEEN 
 THE DAY. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 This is one of Burns' early productions. 
 "Tibbie" was one Isabel Steven, the 
 daughter of a small farmer in the neigh- 
 borhood of Lochlea. 
 
 Oh Tibbie, I ha'e seen the day 
 Ye wad na been sae shy; 
 
 For lack o' gear ye lightly me, 
 But, trowth, I care na by.
 
 148 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Yestreen I met you on the moor, 
 Ye spak na but gaed bye like stoure; 
 Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
 But fient a hair care I. 
 
 I doubt na, lass, that ye may think, 
 Because ye ha'e the name o' clink, 
 That ye can please me at a wink, 
 Whene'er ye like to try. 
 
 But sorrow tak' him that's sac mean, 
 Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
 Wha follows ony saucy queen. 
 That looks sae proud and high. 
 
 Altho' a lad were e'er sae sniart, 
 If that he want the yellow dirt, 
 Ye'll cast your head anither airt. 
 An' answer him fu' dry. 
 
 But if he ha'e the name o' gear, 
 Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 
 Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear. 
 Be better than the kye. 
 
 But, Tibbie, lass, tak' my advice. 
 Your daddie's gear mak's you sae 
 
 nice; 
 The de'il a ane wad spier your price, 
 Were ye as poor as I. 
 
 There lives a lass in yonder park, 
 I wad na gi'e her in her sark, 
 For thee, wi' a' thy thousan mark; 
 Ye need na look sae high. 
 
 THE WINSOME WEE THING. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Written in 1792, for Thomson's collec- 
 tion. 
 
 She is a winsome wee thing. 
 She is a handsome wee thing, 
 She is a bonnie wee thing, 
 This sweet wee wife o' mine. 
 
 I never saw a fairer, 
 
 I never lo'ed a dearer; 
 
 And neist my heart I'll wear her, 
 
 For fear my jewel tine. 
 
 Oh leeze me on my wee thing-; 
 My bonnie, blythesome wee thing; 
 Sae lang's I ha'e my wee thing, 
 I'll think my lot divine. 
 
 Tho' warld's care we share o't. 
 And may see meikle mair o't; 
 Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, 
 And ne'er a word repine. 
 
 HIGHLAND LASSIE. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Written by Burns in earl}'- life in honor 
 of Highland Mary. 
 
 Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, 
 Shall ever be my muse's care: 
 Their titles a' are empty show: 
 Gi'e me my Highland lassie, O. 
 
 Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
 Aboon the plain sae rushy, O, 
 I set me down wi' right good 
 
 will. 
 To sing my Highland lassie, O. 
 
 Oh, were yon hills an' valleys mine, 
 Yon palace an' yon gardens fine! 
 The world then the love should know 
 I bear my Highland lassie, O. 
 
 But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
 An' I maun cross the raging sea; 
 But while my crimson currents flow, 
 I'll love my Highland lassie, O. 
 
 Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
 I know her heart will never change. 
 For her bosom burns with honor's 
 
 glow. 
 My faithful Highland lassie, O.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 149 
 
 For her I'll dare the billow's roar, 
 For her I'll trace a distant shore, 
 That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
 Around my Highland lassie, O. 
 
 She has my heart, she has my hand, 
 By sacred truth an' honor's band! 
 Till the mortal stroke shall lay me 
 
 low, 
 I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O, 
 
 Farewell the glen sae bushy, O! 
 
 Farewell the plain sae rushy, O! 
 
 To other lands I now must go. 
 
 To sing my Highland lassie, O. 
 
 JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, 
 JOHN. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 According to tradition, John Anderson 
 was at one time the town piper of Kelso. 
 There is a very old song or dialogue still 
 in existence with this title, one of the 
 verses being as follows: — 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, cum in as ze gae by, 
 And ze shall get a sheip's h^d, weel baken in a pye: 
 Weel baken in a pye, and the haggis in a pat, 
 John Anderson, my jo, cum in and ze's get that. 
 
 Numerous additions have been made to 
 the version by Burns, but these are gen- 
 erally of an inferior order. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 When we were first acquent; 
 Your locks were like the raven, 
 
 Your bonnie brow was brent; 
 But now your brow is beld John, 
 
 Your locks are like the snaw; 
 But blessings on your frosty pow, 
 
 John Anderson, my jo. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 We clamb the hill thegither, 
 An' mony a canty day, John, 
 
 We've had wi' ane anither; 
 Now we maun totter down, John, 
 
 But hand in hand we'll go. 
 An' sleep thegither at the foot, 
 
 John Anderson, my jo. 
 
 OH, SAW YE BONNIE LESLEY. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Writing to Mrs. Dunlop, the poet says 
 with reference to this Song. " Know that 
 the heart-struck awe the distant humble 
 approach, the delight we should have in 
 gazing upon and listening to a messenger 
 of heaven, appearing in all the unspotted 
 purity of his celestial home, among the 
 coarse, polluted, far inferior sons of men, 
 to deliver to them tidings that make their 
 hearts swim in joy, and their imaginations 
 soar in transport — such, so delighting and 
 so pure, were the emotions of my soul on 
 meeting the other day with Miss Lesley 
 Baillie, your neighbor. Mr. Baillie, who 
 with his two daughters accompanied by Mr. 
 H. of G., passing through Dumfries a few 
 days ago, on their way to England, did me 
 the honor of calling on me; on which I 
 took my horse (though God knows I could 
 ill spare the time,) and accompanied them 
 fourteen or fifteen miles, and dined and 
 spent the day with them. 'Twa* about 
 nine, I think, when I left them; and rid- 
 ing home I composed the following 
 ballad." 
 
 Oh, saw ye bonnie Lesley, 
 A's she gaed owre the border? 
 
 She's gane, like Alexander, 
 
 To spread her conquests farther. 
 
 To see her is to love her, 
 
 An' love but her forever; 
 For nature made her what she is. 
 
 An' never made anither! 
 
 Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
 Thy subjects we, before thee; 
 
 Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
 The hearts o' men adore thee. 
 
 The de'il he could na scaith thee, 
 Or aught that wad belang thee; 
 
 He'd look into thy bonnie face, 
 An' say, " I canna wrang thee! " 
 
 The powers aboon will tent thee; 
 
 Misfortune sha' na steer thee; 
 Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 
 
 That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
 
 150 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Return again, fair Lesley, 
 
 Return to Caledonie! 
 That we may brag, we ha'e a lass 
 
 There's nane again sae bonnie. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Many people consider this one of the 
 poet's finest songs. It was contributed to 
 Thomson's collection. 
 
 When wild war's deadly blast was 
 blawn, 
 
 An' gentle peace returning, 
 Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 
 
 An' mony a widow mourning, 
 I left the lines an' tented field. 
 
 Where lang I'd been a lodger. 
 My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 
 
 A poor but honest sodger. 
 
 A leal, light heart was in my breast. 
 
 My hand unstain'd wi' plunder; 
 An' for fair Scotia, hame again, 
 
 I cheery on did wander. 
 I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 
 
 I thought upon my Nancy; 
 I thought upon the witching smile 
 
 That caught my youthful fancy. 
 
 At length I reach'd the bonnie glen 
 
 Where early life I sported; 
 I pass'd the mill, an' trysting thorn. 
 
 Where Nancy aft I courted: 
 Wha spied I but my ain dear maid 
 
 Down by her mother's dwelling! 
 And turn'd me round to hide the flood 
 
 That in my een was swelling. 
 
 Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, "Sweet lass; 
 Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 
 Oh! happy happy may he be, 
 That's dearest to thy bosom! 
 
 My purse is light, I've far to gang, 
 An' fain wad be thy lodger; 
 
 I've serv'd my king an' country lang — 
 Take pity on a sodger!" 
 
 Sae wistfully she gazed on me. 
 
 An' levelier was than ever; 
 Quo' she, "A sodger ance I lo'ed, 
 
 Forget him shall I never: 
 Our humble cot an' hamely fare 
 
 Ye freely shall partake o't; 
 That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 
 
 Ye're welcome for the sake o't." 
 
 She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose — 
 
 Syne pale like ony lily; 
 She sank within my arms an' cried, 
 
 "Art thou my ain dear Willie?" 
 " By him who made yon sun and sky, 
 
 By whom true love's regarded, 
 I am the man; an' thus may still 
 
 True lovers be rewarded. 
 
 "The wars are o'er, an' I'm come 
 hame. 
 
 An' find thee still true hearted! 
 Tho' poor in gear we're rich in love, 
 
 An' mair we'se ne'er be parted." 
 Quo' she, " My grandsire left me 
 gowd, 
 
 A mailen plenish'd fairly; 
 An' come, my faithfu' sodger lad, 
 
 Thou'rt welcome to it dearly." 
 
 For gold the merchant ploughs the 
 main. 
 
 The farmer ploughs the manor; 
 But glory is the sodger's prize, 
 
 The sodger's wealth is honor. 
 The brave .poor sodger ne'er despise, 
 
 Nor count him as a stranger; 
 Remember he's his country's stay 
 
 In day an' hour of danger. 
 
 I GAED A WAEFU' GATE 
 YESTREEN. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The subject of this beautiful song was 
 a daughter of the Rev. Mr. Jeffre_v of 
 Lochmaben, under whose roof Burns slept 
 one night.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 151 
 
 I Gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, 
 
 A gate, I fear, f'll dearly rue ; 
 1 gat my death frae twa sweet een, 
 
 Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 
 'Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; 
 
 Her lips like roses wat wi' dew, 
 Her heaving bosom, lily-white — 
 
 It was her een sae bonnie blue. 
 
 She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she 
 wil'd; 
 She charm'd my soul — I wist na 
 how ; 
 An' aye the stound, the deadly 
 wound. 
 Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
 But spare to speak, and spare to 
 speed; 
 She'll aiblins listen to my vow ; 
 Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 
 To her twa een sae bonnie blue. 
 
 MY FATHER WAS A FARMER. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 This song was composed during the 
 most depressed period of the poet's early- 
 life, when struggling with family dis- 
 tresses at Lochlea. " It is a wild rhap- 
 sody," he says, "miserably deficient in 
 versification; but as the sentiments are the 
 o-enuine feelings of my heart, I have a 
 particular pleasure in conning it over." 
 
 Mv father was a farmer upon the 
 
 Carrick border, O, 
 And carefully he bred me in decency 
 
 and order, O ; 
 He bade me act a manly part, though 
 
 I had ne'er a farthing, O ; 
 For without an honest manly heart, 
 
 no man was worth regarding, O. 
 
 Then out into the world my course I 
 
 did determine, O ; 
 Tho' to be rich was not my wish, 
 
 yet to be great was charming, O; 
 
 My talents they were not the worst, 
 nor yet my education, O ; 
 
 Resolv'd was I at least to try to mend 
 my situation, O. 
 
 In many a way, and vain essay, I 
 
 courted fortunes favor, O; 
 Some cause unseen still stept between 
 
 to frustrate each endeavor, O, 
 Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd ; 
 
 sometimes by friends forsaken, O: 
 And when my hope was at the top 
 
 I still was worst mistaken, O. 
 
 Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last 
 
 with fortune's vain delusion, O, 
 I dropt my schemes like idle dreams, 
 
 and came to this conclusion, O, 
 The past was bad, and the future hid ; 
 
 its good or ill untried, O ; 
 But the present hour was in my pow'r, 
 
 and so I would enjoy it, O- 
 
 No help, nor hope, nor view had I, 
 
 nor person to befriend me, O ; 
 So I must toil, and sweat, and broil, 
 
 and labor to sustain me, O ; 
 To plough and sow, and reap and 
 
 mow, my father bred me early, O ; 
 For one, he said, to labor bred, was 
 
 a match for fortune fairly, O. 
 
 Thus all obscure, unknown and poor, 
 thro' life I'm doom'd to wan- 
 der, O, 
 
 Till down my weary bones I lay in 
 everlasting slumber, O. 
 
 No view nor care, but shun whate'er 
 might breed me pain or sorrow, O ! 
 
 I live to-day, as well's I may, regard- 
 less of to-morrow, O. 
 
 But cheerful still, I am as well, as a 
 monarch in a palace, O! 
 
 Tho' fortunes frown still hunts me 
 down, with all her wonted 
 malice, O !
 
 153 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 I make indeed my daily bread, but 
 ne'er can make it farther, O! 
 
 But, as daily bread is all I need, I do 
 not much regard her, O! 
 
 When sometimes by my labor I own 
 
 a little money, O ! 
 Some unforeseen misfortune comes 
 
 gen'rally upon me, O! 
 Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or 
 
 my good-natur'd folly, O! 
 But come what will, I've sworn it still, 
 
 I'll ne'er be melancholy, O! 
 
 All you who follow wealth and power 
 
 with unremitting ardour, O! 
 The more in this you look for 
 
 bliss, you leave your view the 
 
 farther, O! 
 Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or 
 
 nations to adore you, O! 
 A cheerful, honest-hearted clown I 
 
 will perfer before you, O! 
 
 MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A 
 LASSIE YET. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 This is an old song, touched up by 
 Burns for the Museum. 
 
 My love she's but a lassie yet. 
 
 My love she's but a lassie yet, 
 We'll let her stand a year or twa, 
 
 She'll no be half sae saucy yet. 
 I rue the day I sought her, O, 
 
 I rue the day I sought her, O, 
 Wha gets her needs na say she's 
 woo'd, 
 
 But he may say he's bought her, O! 
 
 Come, draw a drap o' the best o't 
 yet, 
 Come draw a drap o the best o't 
 yet; 
 Gae seek for pleasure where ye will, 
 But here I never miss'd it yet. 
 
 We're a' dry wi' drinking o't; 
 
 We're a dry wi drinking o't; 
 The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, 
 
 An' could na preach for think- 
 ing o't. 
 
 OH POORTITH CAULD. , 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 Composed in Januar}^ 1793. 
 
 Oh poortith cauld, and restless love, 
 Ye wreck my peace between ye; 
 
 Yet poortith a' I could forgive, 
 An 'twere na for my Jeanie. 
 
 Oh why should fate sic pleasure 
 have. 
 Life's dearest bands untwin- 
 ing? 
 Or why sae sweet a flower as love. 
 Depend on Fortune's shining? 
 
 This warld's wealth when I think on, 
 Its pride and a' the lave o't; 
 
 Fie, fie on silly coward man. 
 That he should be the slave o't. 
 
 Oh why, &c. 
 
 Her een sae bonnie blue betray 
 How she repays my passion; 
 
 But prudence is her o'erword aye, 
 She talks of rank and fashion. 
 Oh why, &c. 
 
 Oh wha can prudence think upon, 
 
 And sic a lassie by him? 
 Oh wha can prudence think upon. 
 
 And sae in love as I am ? 
 Oh why, &c. 
 
 How blest the humble cottar's fate! 
 
 He woos his simple dearie; 
 The silly bogles, wealth and state. 
 
 Can never make them eerie. 
 Oh why, &c.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 153 
 
 DOES HAUGHTY GAUL. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Written in 1795, when Britain was tlireat- 
 ened with invasion by France. " Burns 
 enrolled himself in the bands of gentle- 
 men volunteers of Dumfries," sa3-s Allan 
 Cunningham, "though not without opposi- 
 tion from some of the haughty Tories who 
 demurred about his principles, which they 
 called democratic. I remember well the 
 appearance of that respectable corps: their 
 odd, but not ungraceful, dress; white 
 kerseymere breeches and waistcoat; short 
 blue coat, faced with red; and round hat 
 surmounted by a bear skin, like the hel- 
 mets of our horse guards; and I remember 
 the poet also — his very swarthy face, his 
 very ploughman-stoop, his large dark eyes, 
 and indifferent dexterity in the handling of 
 his arms." 
 
 Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? 
 
 Then let the loons beware, Sir; 
 There's wooden walls upon our seas, 
 
 An' volunteers on shore, Sir. 
 The Nith shall run to Corsincon, 
 
 An' Griff el sink in Solway, 
 Ere we permit a foreign foe 
 
 On British ground to rally! 
 
 Fall de rail, &c. 
 
 Oh, let us not, like snarling tykes, 
 
 In wrangling be divided; 
 Till slap, come in an unco loon, 
 
 An' wi' a rung decide it. 
 Be Britain still to Britain true, 
 
 Among oursel's united: 
 For never but by British hands 
 
 Maun British wrangs be righted. 
 Fall de rail, &c. 
 
 The kettle o' the kirk an' state. 
 
 Perhaps a clout may fail in't; 
 But de'il a foreign tinkler loon 
 
 Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
 Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought. 
 
 An' wha wad dare to spoil it, 
 By heaven! the sacrilegious dog 
 
 Shall fuel be to boil it. 
 Fall de rail, &c. 
 
 The wretch that wad a tyrant own. 
 An' the wretch, his true-born 
 brother. 
 Who wad set the mob aboon the throne, 
 
 May they be damned together! 
 Who will not sing, " God save the 
 King," 
 Will hang as high's the steeple; 
 But while we sing, "God save the 
 King," 
 We'll ne'er forget the People. 
 Fall de rail, &c. 
 
 OH, WILLIE BREW'D A PECK 
 O' MAUT. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Lockhart pronounced this, " the best of 
 all Burns's bacchanalian pieces." The 
 three merry boys were the poet, William 
 Nicol, of the High School, Edinburgh, 
 and Allan Masterton, another school 
 master. Burns says, " we had such a joy- 
 ous meeting, that Mr. Masterton and I 
 agreed, each in our own way, to celebrate 
 the business. The air is Masterton's the 
 song is mine." 
 
 Oh, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, 
 An' Rob an' Allan cam' to pree: 
 
 Three blyther hearts that lea-lang 
 night. 
 Ye wad na find in Christendie. 
 
 We are na fu', we're na that fu'. 
 
 But just a drappie in our e'e; 
 The cock may craw, the day may 
 
 daw. 
 And aye we'll taste the barley 
 
 bree. 
 
 Here are we met three merry boys, 
 Three merry boys, I trow, are we ; 
 
 An' mony a night we've merry been. 
 And mony mae we hope to be! 
 
 It is the moon; I ken her horn. 
 That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie;
 
 154 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 She shines sae bright to wile us 
 hame, 
 But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee! 
 
 Wha first shall rise to gang awa', 
 A cuckold, coward loon is he! 
 
 Wha last beside his chair shall fa', 
 He is the king amang us three! 
 
 A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY 
 WALK. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Written in 1787, in compliment to the 
 daughter of his friend William Cruik- 
 shank, one of the masters of the High 
 School, Edinburgh, and in whose house 
 the poet resided for several weeks during 
 his stay in Edinburgh. 
 
 A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, 
 Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
 Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 
 
 All on a dewy morning. 
 Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled. 
 In a' its crimson glory spread. 
 An' drooping rich the dewy head, 
 
 It scents the early morning. 
 
 Within the bush, her covert nest, 
 A little linnet fondly prest, 
 The dew sat chilly on her breast 
 
 Sae early in the morning. 
 She soon shall see her tender brood. 
 The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
 Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd, 
 
 Awake the early morning. 
 
 So thou, dear bird, young Jeanie fair! 
 On trembling string or vocal air, 
 Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
 
 That tends thy early morning. 
 So thou, sweet rose-bud, young an' gay. 
 Shall beauteous blaze upon the day. 
 An' bless the parent's evening ray, 
 
 That watch'd thy early morning. 
 
 BONNIE JEAN. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The heroine of this song was Miss Jean 
 Macmurdo, daughter of Mr. John Mac- 
 murdo, of Drumlanrig. "I have not 
 painted her," says Burns, " in the rank 
 which she holds in life, but in the dress 
 and character of a cottager." The song 
 was composed in the Summer of 1793, and 
 was inserted by Thomson in his collection. 
 
 There was a lass, and she was fair, 
 At kirk and market to be seen; 
 
 When a' the fairest maids were met, 
 The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 
 
 And aye she wrought her mammie's 
 wark, 
 
 And aye she sang sae merrilie; 
 The blythest bird upon the bush 
 
 Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 
 
 But hawks will rob the tender joys 
 That bless the little lintwhite's nest; 
 
 And frost will blight the fairest flowers, 
 And love will break the soundest 
 rest. 
 
 Young Robie was the brawest lad. 
 The flower and pride of a' the glen; 
 
 And he had owsen, sheep, and kye. 
 And wanton naigies nine or ten. 
 
 He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste. 
 He danced wi' Jeanie on the down; 
 
 And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 
 Her heart was tint, her peace was 
 stown. 
 
 As in the bosom o' the streain. 
 
 The moon-beam dwells at dewy 
 e'en; 
 
 So trembling pure, was tender love 
 Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 
 
 And now she works her mammie's 
 wark, 
 
 And aye she sighs wi' care and pain; 
 Yet wist na what her ail might be, 
 
 Or what wad mak her weel again.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 155 
 
 But did nae Jeanie's lieart loup light, 
 And did nae joy blink in her e'e, 
 
 As Robie tauld a tale o' love 
 Ae e'enin, on the lily lea ? 
 
 The sun was sinking in the west 
 The birds sang sweet in ilka grove, 
 
 His cheek to hers he fondly prest, 
 And whisper'd thus his tale o' 
 love: — 
 
 " Oh ! Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear, 
 Oh, canst thou think to fancy me ? 
 
 Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 
 And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? 
 
 At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, 
 Or naething else to trouble thee; 
 
 But stray amang the heather-bells, 
 And tent the waving corn wi' me." 
 
 Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 
 
 She had nae will to say him na: 
 At length she blushed a sweet consent. 
 
 And love was ave between them twa. 
 
 BONNIE ANN. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 "I composed this song out of compli- 
 ment to Miss Ann Masterton, the daughter 
 of my friend Allan Masterton, the author 
 of the air ' Strathallan's Lament,' and two 
 or three others in this work (Johnson's 
 Scott's Musical Museum)." — Burns. 
 
 Ye gallants bright, I red ye right. 
 
 Beware o' bonnie Ann; 
 Her comely face sae fu' o' grace. 
 
 Your heart she will trepan. 
 Her een sae bright, like stars by night, 
 
 Her skin is like the swan; 
 Sae j imply lac'd her genty waist. 
 
 That sweetly ye might span. 
 
 Youth, grace, and love, attendant 
 move. 
 And pleasure leads the van; 
 In a' their charms and conquering 
 arms. 
 They wait on bonnie Ann. 
 The captive bands may chain the 
 hands. 
 But love enslaves the man; 
 Ye gallants braw, I red you a', . 
 Beware o' bonnie Ann. 
 
 PEGGY. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The heroine of this song was a young 
 girl residing in Kirkoswald. " I went on 
 with a high hand with m}- geometry," sa)'S 
 Burns, when writing of the heroine of 
 this song "till the sun entered Virgo, a 
 month which is alwa}-s a carnival in my 
 bosom, when a charming fillette, who 
 lived next door to the school, overset my 
 trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent 
 from the sphere of my studies. I, how- 
 ever, struggled on with my sines and co- 
 sines for a few days more; but stepping 
 into the garden one charming noon to take 
 the sun's altitude, there I met my angel, 
 
 ' Like Proserpine gathering flowers. 
 Herself a fairer flower.' — 
 
 It was in vain to think of doing any more 
 good at school. The remaining week I stav- 
 ed I did nothing but craze the faculties of 
 my soul about her, or steal out to meet her; 
 and the last two nights of my stay in the 
 country, had sleep been a mortal sin, the 
 image of this modest and innocent girl 
 had kept me guiltless." 
 
 Now westlin' winds, and slaught'ring 
 guns. 
 Bring autumn's pleasant weather: 
 The moorcock springs, on whirring 
 wings, 
 Amang the blooming heather: 
 Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, 
 
 Delights the weary farmer; 
 And the moon shines bright, when I 
 rove at night, 
 To muse upon my chancier.
 
 156 
 
 CELEBRATED SONOS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 The partridge loves the fruitful fells: 
 
 The plover loves the mountains: 
 The woodcock haunts the lojiely dells; 
 
 The soaring hern the fountains: 
 Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves, 
 
 The path of man to shun it; 
 The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 
 
 The spreading thorn the linnet. 
 
 Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, 
 
 The savage and the tender; 
 Some social join, and leagues com- 
 bine; 
 
 Some solitary v,-ander: 
 Avaunt, away! the cruel sway, 
 
 Tyrannic man's dominion: 
 The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring 
 cry. 
 
 The flutt'ring, gory pinion! 
 
 But Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear, 
 
 Thick flies the skimming swallow: 
 The sky is blue, the fields in view. 
 
 All fading-green and yellow: 
 Come let us stray our gladsome way. 
 
 And view the charms of nature; 
 The rustling corn, the fruited thorn. 
 
 And ev'ry happy creature. 
 
 We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 
 
 Till the silent moon shine clearly; 
 I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 
 
 Swear how I love thee dearly: 
 Not vernal show'rs to budding flowers, 
 
 Not autumn to the farmer, 
 So dear can be as thou to me, 
 
 My fair, my lovely charmer! 
 
 HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM 
 THAT'S AWA. 
 
 song, beginning, !' Here's a health to ane 
 that's awa." 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 First published in the Scott's Magazine 
 for January, iSiS. It is merely a contin- 
 uation or extension of an old Jacobite 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa', 
 Here's a health to them that's awa'; 
 And wha winna wish guid luck to 
 
 our cause. 
 May never guid luck be their fa'! 
 It's guid to be merry and wise. 
 It's guid to be honest and true. 
 It's guid to support Caledonia's cause. 
 And bide by the buff and the blue. 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa', 
 Here's a health to them that's awa'; 
 Here's a health to Charlie, the chief 
 
 o' the clan, 
 Altho' that his band be but sma'. 
 May Liberty meet wi' success! 
 May Prudence protect her frae evil! 
 May tyrants and tyranny tine in the 
 
 mist, 
 And wander their way to the devil! 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa', 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa'; 
 
 Here's a health to Tammie, the Nor- 
 land laddie, 
 
 That lives at the lug o' the law! 
 
 Here's freedom to him that wad read! 
 
 Here's freedom to him that wad write! 
 
 There's nane ever feared that the 
 truth should be heard. 
 
 But they wham the truth wad indite. 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa', 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa' ; 
 
 Here's Chieftain McLeod, a Chief- 
 tain worth gow'd, 
 
 Tho' bred ainang mountains o' snaw! 
 
 Here's friends on both sides of the 
 Forth. 
 
 And friends on both sides of the 
 Tweed: 
 
 And wha wad betray old Albion's 
 rights. 
 
 May they never eat of her bread!
 
 CELEBRATED SONQS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 157 
 
 MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT 
 GAY. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 " Burns, in the ' Reliques,' says, 'The 
 oldest title I ever heard to this tune was 
 'The Highland watch's farewell to lie- 
 land.' The chorus I picked up from an 
 old woman in Dunblane, the rest of the 
 song is mine.' In this note Burns alludes 
 to the three first stanzas only; the other 
 two were added by a Mr. Sutherland. 
 ' Highland Harr)'/ according to Mr. 
 Peter Buchan, was a Harrj- Lumsdale, 
 who made love to a daughter of the Laird 
 of Knockhaspie. Burns and Sutherland 
 have made the song a Jacobite one. In 
 some versions 'Ronald' is substituted 
 for ' Harry.' " — Lyric Gems of Scotland. 
 
 My Harry was a gallant gay, 
 
 Fu' stately strode he on the plain: 
 
 But now he's banish'd far away, 
 I'll never see him back again. 
 
 Oh for him back again! 
 
 Oh for him back again! 
 I wad gi'e a' Knockhaspie's land 
 
 For Highland Harry back again. 
 
 When a' the lave gae to their bed, 
 I wander dowie up the glen; 
 
 I set me down and greet my fill. 
 And aye I wish him back again. 
 
 Oh were some villains hangit high. 
 And ilka body had their ain! 
 
 Then I might see the joyful sight, 
 My Highland Harry back again. 
 
 Sad was the day, and sad the hour. 
 He left me in his native plain. 
 
 And rush'd his much wrong'd prince 
 to join; 
 But, oh, he'll ne'er come back again. 
 
 Strong was my Harry's arm in war. 
 Unmatched on a' Culloden's plain; 
 
 But vengence marks him for her ain, 
 I'll never see him back again. 
 
 TAM GLEN. 
 
 kOBERT BURNS. 
 
 One of the the poet's most humorous 
 productions. It was written for Johnson's 
 Mtiseuin, in 17S8. 
 
 My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie! 
 
 Some counsel unto me come len', 
 To anger them a' is a pity, 
 
 But what will I do wi' Tam Glen ? 
 
 I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow 
 In poortith I might make a fen'; 
 
 What care I in riches to wallow. 
 If I maunna marry Tam Glen ? 
 
 There's Lowrie, the laird o' Drum- 
 eller, 
 "Guidday, toyou, brute!" he comes 
 ben; 
 He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 
 But when will he dance like Tam 
 Glen ? 
 
 My minnie does constantly deave me, 
 And bids me beware o' young men ; 
 
 They flatter, she says, to deceive me. 
 But wha can think saeo' Tam Glen? 
 
 My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
 He'll gi'e me guid hunder marks ten, 
 
 But if it's ordain'd I maun tak' him: 
 O wha will I get but Tam Glen ? 
 
 Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, 
 My heart to my mou' gi'ed a sten; 
 
 For thrice I drew ane without failing. 
 And thrice it was written — Tam 
 Glen. 
 
 The last Halloween I was waukin' 
 
 My droukit sark sleeve, as ye ken; 
 His likeness cam' up the house 
 staukin'. 
 And the very gray breeks o' Tam 
 Glen!
 
 158 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Come counsel, dear tittie ! dont tarry — 
 I'll gi'e you my bonnie black hen, 
 
 Gif ye will advise me to marry 
 The lad I lo'e dearly. Tarn Glen. 
 
 MEIKLE THINKS MY LUVE. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 First published in Johnson's Museum. 
 
 Oh meikle thinks my luve o' my 
 beauty, 
 An' meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; 
 But little thinks my luve I ken brawly 
 My tocher's the jewel has charms 
 for him. 
 It's a' for the appl'e he'll nourish the 
 tree ; 
 It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish 
 the bee; 
 My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the 
 siller. 
 He canna ha'e luve to spare for me. 
 
 Your proffer o' luve's an arle-penny. 
 My tocher's the bargain ye wad 
 
 buy, . , 
 
 But an ye be crafty, I am cunnm , 
 Sae ye wi' another your fortune 
 maun try. 
 Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten 
 wood, 
 Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten 
 tree ; 
 Ye'll slip f rae me like a knotless thread, 
 An' ye'll crack your credit wi' mae 
 nor me. 
 
 Tho' I am your wedded wife, 
 Yet I am not your slave, sir." 
 
 " One of two must still obey, 
 
 Nancy, Nancy; 
 Is it man, or woman, say, 
 
 My spouse, Nancy ?" 
 
 " If 'tis still the lordly word, 
 
 Service and obedience; 
 I'll desert my sov'reign lord, 
 
 And so good-bye allegiance!" 
 
 " Sad will I be, so bereft, 
 
 Nancy, Nancy, 
 Yet I'll try to make a shift, 
 
 My spouse, Nancy." 
 
 " My poor heart then break it must, 
 My last hour I'm near it: . 
 
 When you lay me in the dust, 
 
 Think, think how you will bear it." 
 
 " I will hope and trust in heaven, 
 
 Nancy, Nancy, 
 Strength to bear it will be given, 
 
 My spouse, Nancy." 
 
 " Well, sir, from the silent dead, 
 Still I'll try to daunt you; 
 
 Ever round your midnight bed 
 Horrid sprites shall haunt you." 
 
 " I'll wed another like my dear, 
 
 Nancy, Nancy, 
 Then all hell will fly for fear, 
 
 My spouse, Nancy." 
 
 MY SPOUSE, NANCY. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 Contributed to Thomson's Collection in 
 1793- 
 
 "Husband, husband, cease your 
 strife, 
 Nor longer idly rave, sir; 
 
 THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, 
 JAMIE. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Written to the beautiful air, "Saw ye 
 Johnnie comin', quo' she." 
 
 Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 
 Thou hast left me ever; 
 
 Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 
 Thou hast left me ever.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 159 
 
 Aften hast thou vow'd that death 
 
 Only should us sever; 
 Now thou'st left thy lass for aye 
 
 I maun see thee never, Jamie 
 
 I'll see thee never. 
 
 Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 
 Thou hast me forsaken, 
 
 Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 
 Thou hast me forsaken. 
 
 Thou canst love anither, jo. 
 While my heart is breaking; 
 
 Soon my weary een I'll close, 
 Never mair to waken, Jamie, 
 Never mair to waken. 
 
 LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 "This livel}' song was written by Burns 
 for the second volume of Johnson's Mu- 
 seum. It was not, however, inserted there. 
 In the meantime the poet revised it, and 
 sent it to Mr. George Thomson's collection, 
 in the second volume of which it appeared 
 and soon became very popular. Though 
 the alterations are by no means improve- 
 ments, we give the second edition, as it is 
 the one most generally sung. The tune 
 called 'The Queen of the Lothians' is 
 very old, and adapted to a ballad begin- 
 ning,— 
 
 ' The queen o' the Lothians cam' cruising to Fife, 
 
 Fal de ral, lal de ral, lairo; 
 To see gin a wooer would tak' her for life; 
 Sing hey, fal lal de ral, fal de ral, lal de ral. 
 Hey, fal lal de ral, lairo.' " — Lyric Gems of Scot- 
 land. 
 
 Last May a braw wooer cam' down 
 the lang glen, 
 And sair wi' his love he did deave 
 me; 
 I said there was naething I hated 
 like men — 
 The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, 
 
 believe me, 
 The deuce gae wi'm to believe me. 
 
 He spak' o' the darts o' my bonnie 
 black een. 
 And vow'd for my love he was 
 dying; 
 I said he might die when he liked for 
 Jean — 
 The Lord forgi'e me for lying, for 
 
 lying, 
 The Lord forgi'e me for lying ! 
 
 A weel-stockit mailen, himsel' for the 
 laird, 
 And marriage aff-hand, were his 
 proffers; 
 I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or 
 car'd, 
 But thought I might ha'e waur offers, 
 
 waur offers. 
 But thought I might ha'e waur offers. 
 
 But what wad ye think ? in a fortnight 
 or less — 
 The de'il tak' his taste to gae near 
 her! 
 He up the lang loan to my black 
 cousin Bess, 
 Guess ye how, the jad! I could 
 
 bear her, could bear her. 
 Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear 
 her. 
 
 But a' the neist week as I fretted wi' 
 
 care, 
 
 I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, 
 
 An' wha but my fine fickle lover was 
 
 there! 
 
 I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a 
 
 warlock, 
 I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. 
 
 But owre my left shouther I ga'e him 
 
 a blink, 
 
 Lest neibors might say I was saucy; 
 
 My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in 
 
 drink, 
 
 And vow'd I was his dear lassie, 
 
 dear lassie. 
 And vow'd I was his dear lassie.
 
 160 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and 
 
 sweet, 
 
 Gin she had recover'd her hearin', 
 
 And how her new shoon fit her auld 
 
 shachl't feet, 
 
 But, heavens! how he fell a-swear- 
 
 in', a-swearin'. 
 But, heavens! how he fell a-swear- 
 in'. 
 
 He begg'd, for guidsake, I wad be 
 his wife, 
 Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow: 
 So e'en to preserve the puir body in 
 life, 
 I think I maun wed him to-morrow, 
 
 to-morrow, 
 I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 
 
 ON CESSNOCK BANKS. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Ellison Begbie is the supposed heroine 
 of this song. It was not published until 
 1839, when it appeared in the Aldine 
 edition of Burns. It was taken from a 
 manuscript in the poet's handwriting. 
 
 On Cessnock banks there lives a lass. 
 
 Could I describe her shape an' mien: 
 The graces of her weel-faur'd face. 
 
 An' the glancin' of her sparklin' 
 een! 
 She's fresher than the morning dawn 
 
 When rising Phoebus first is seen. 
 When dew-drops twinkle o'er the 
 lawn; 
 
 An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 
 
 She's stately like yon youthful ash. 
 That grows the cowslip braes be- 
 tween. 
 
 An' shoots its head above each bush; 
 An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 
 
 She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn. 
 With flowers so white an' leaves so 
 green. 
 
 When purest in the dewy morn; 
 An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 
 
 Her looks are like the sportive lamb, 
 
 When flow'ry May adorns the scene, 
 That wantons round its bleating dam; 
 
 An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 
 Her hair is like the curling mist 
 
 That shades the mountain-side at 
 e'en. 
 When flow'r reviving rains are past; 
 
 An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 
 
 Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, 
 
 When shining sunbeams intervene, 
 An' gild the distant mountain's brow; 
 
 An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 
 Her voice is like the evening thrush 
 
 That sings in Cessnock banks un- 
 seen. 
 While his mate sits nestling in the 
 bush; 
 
 An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 
 
 Her lips are like the cherrie ripe 
 
 That sunny walls from Boreas 
 screen — 
 They tempt the taste an' charm the 
 sight; 
 
 An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 
 Her teeth are like a flock o' sheep, 
 
 With fleeces newly washen clean, 
 That slowly mount the rising steep; 
 
 An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 
 
 Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
 That gently stirs the blossom'd 
 bean. 
 When Phoebus sinks beneath the seas; 
 An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 
 But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
 Tho' matching beauty's fabled 
 queen. 
 But the mind that shines in ev'ry 
 grace, 
 An' chiefly in her sparklin' een.
 
 CELEBRATED SONOS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 161 
 
 BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Composed while visiting Moness, near 
 Aberfeldy in Peiihshire, during the Sum- 
 mer of 1787. The air of the song dates 
 back to 1657. The following are the 
 words which were then sung to it: 
 
 " Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 
 Will ye go, will ye go, 
 Bonnie lassie, will ye go 
 
 To the birks of Aberfeldy ? 
 Ye sail get a gown of silk, 
 A gown of silk, a gown of silk, 
 Ye sail get a gown of silk. 
 
 And a coat of Callimankie. 
 
 Na, kind sir, I daur na gang, 
 1 daur na gang, I daur na gang, 
 Na, kind sir, 1 daur na gang. 
 My minnie wad be angry. 
 Sair, sair wad she flyte, 
 Sair, sair wad she flyte; 
 
 And sair, sair wad she ban me," 
 
 Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 
 Will ye go, will ye go ; 
 Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 
 To the birks of Aberfeldy ? 
 
 Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, 
 An' o'er the crystal streamlet plays; 
 Come, let us spend the lightsome days 
 In the birks of Aberfeldy. 
 
 The little birdies blythely sing, 
 While o'er their heads the hazels hing. 
 Or lightly flit on wanton wing 
 In the birks of Aberfeldy. 
 
 The braes ascend, like lofty wa's, 
 The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's, 
 O'erhungwi'fragrant spreading shaws, 
 The birks of Aberfeldy. 
 
 The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' 
 
 flowers, 
 White o'er the linns the burnie pours, 
 An' rising, weets wi' misty showers 
 The birks of Aberfeldy. 
 
 Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
 They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
 Supremely blest wi' love an' thee, 
 In the birks of Aberfeldy. 
 
 WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Written for the third volume ol Johnson's 
 Aluseuin, in 1790. An inferior song to 
 the same air entitled "What shall a young 
 woman do with an old man," appears in 
 D'Urfey's Pills to Purge Melancholy, 
 (1703). 
 
 What can a young lassie, what shall 
 a young lassie. 
 What can a young lassie do wi' an' 
 auld man ? 
 Bad luck on the penny that tempted 
 my minnie 
 To sell her poor Jenny for siller 
 an' Ian'! 
 Bad luck on the penny that 
 tempted my minnie 
 To sell her poor Jenny for 
 siller an' Ian'! 
 
 He's always compleenin' frae morning 
 to e'ening', 
 He hoasts an' he hirples the weary 
 day lang; 
 He's doyl't an' he's dozin', his bluid 
 it is frozen, 
 Oh, dreary's the night wi' a crazy 
 auld man ! 
 He's doyl't an' he's dozin', his 
 bluid it is frozen. 
 Oh, dreary's the night wi' a 
 crazy auld man ! 
 
 He hums an' he hankers, he frets an' 
 he cankers, 
 I never can please him, do a' that 
 I can; 
 He's peevish an' jealous of a' the 
 young fellows: 
 Oh, dool on the day I met wi' an 
 auld man! 
 He's peevish an' jealous of a' the 
 young fellows: 
 Oh, dool on the day I met wi' 
 an auld man!
 
 163 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 My auld auntie Katie upon me tak's 
 
 pity, 
 
 I'll do my endeavor to follow her 
 plan; 
 I'll cross him, an' wrack him, until I 
 heart-break him, 
 An' then his auld brass will buy me 
 a new pan. 
 I'll cross him, an' wrack him, until 
 I heart-break him 
 An' then his auld brass will 
 buy me a new pan. 
 
 OH WHISTLE AN' I'LL COME 
 TO YOU. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The air to this song was composed by 
 one John Bruce, a fiddler in Dumneld, 
 about 1760. 
 
 Oh whistle an' I'll come to you, 
 
 ray lad, 
 Oh whistle an' I'll come to you, 
 
 my lad, 
 Tho' father an' mither an' a' should 
 
 gae mad. 
 Oh whistle an' I'll come to you, 
 
 my lad. 
 
 But warily tent, when ye come to court 
 
 me, 
 An' come na unless the back yett be 
 
 a-jee; 
 Syne up the back stile, an' let naebody 
 
 see, 
 An' come as ye were na comin' to me. 
 
 An' come, &c. 
 
 At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye 
 
 meet me, 
 Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd nae 
 
 a flie; 
 But steal me a blink o' your bonnie 
 
 black e'e. 
 Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me. 
 Yet look, &c. 
 
 Aye vow an' protest that ye care na 
 
 for me. 
 An' whiles ye may lightly my beauty 
 
 a wee; 
 But court na anither, tho' jokin' ye 
 
 be, 
 For fear that she wile your fancy frae 
 
 me. 
 
 For fear, &c. 
 
 LOGAN'S BRAES. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 "Have you ever, my dear sir, felt your 
 bosom ready to burst with indignation on 
 reading of those mighty villains who 
 divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate 
 provinces, and lay nations waste, out of 
 the wantonness of ambition, or often from 
 still more ignoble passions? In a mood 
 of this kind to-day I recollected the air 
 of 'Logan Water,' and it occurred to me 
 that its querulous melody probably had its 
 origin from the plaintiif indignation of 
 some swelling, suffering heart, fired at the 
 tyrannic strides of some public destroyer, 
 and overwhelmed with private distress, 
 the consequence of a country's ruin. If 
 I have done anything at all like justice to 
 my feelings, the following song composed 
 in three-quarters of an hour's meditation 
 in my elbow chair, ought to have some 
 merit:" — Burns to Afi: Thoi/ison. 
 
 Oh Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 
 That day I was my Willie's bride; 
 An' vears sinsvne ha'e o'er us run. 
 Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
 But now thy flow'ry banks appear 
 Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, 
 While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
 Far, far frae me an' Logan braes. 
 
 Again the merry month o' May 
 Has made our hills an' valleys gay; 
 The birds rejoice in leafy bowers. 
 The bees hum round the breathing 
 flowers;
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 163 
 
 Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye, 
 An' evening's tears are tears of joy; 
 My soul, delightless, a' surveys, 
 While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 
 
 Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
 Amang her nestlings sits the thrush; 
 Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
 Or wi' his songs her cares beguile; 
 But 1 wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
 Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer. 
 Pass widow'd nights an' joyless days. 
 While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 
 
 Oh, wae upon you, men o' state. 
 That brethren rouse to deadly hate! 
 As ye make many a fond heart mourn, 
 Sae may it on your heads return! 
 How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
 The widow's tear, the orphan's cry ? 
 But soon may peace bring happy days. 
 An' Willie hame to Logan braes! 
 
 MY HEART'S IN THE HIGH- 
 LANDS. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The first four lines of this song belong 
 to an old ballad called, " The Strong 
 Walls of Derry." 
 
 My heart's in the Highlands, my 
 
 heart is not here; 
 My hearts's in the Highlands, a-chas- 
 
 ing the deer; 
 Chasing the wild deer, and following 
 
 the roe — 
 My heart's in the Highlands, wherever 
 
 I go. 
 Farewell to the Highlands, farewell 
 
 to the North, 
 The birth-place of valor, the country 
 
 of worth; 
 Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 
 The hills of the Highlands for ever I 
 
 love. 
 
 Farewell to the mountains high 
 cover'd with snow 
 
 Farewell to the straths and green 
 valleys below: 
 
 Farewell to the forests and wild hang- 
 ing woods; 
 
 Farewell to the torrents and loud- 
 pouring floods. 
 
 My heart's in the Highlands, my 
 heart is not here; 
 
 My heart's in the Highlands, a-chas- 
 ing the deer: 
 
 Chasing the wild deer, and following 
 the roe — 
 
 My heart's in the Highlands wherever 
 I go. 
 
 OH! FOR ANE-AND-TWENTY 
 TAM. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The poet is said to have composed this 
 song on a real incident. A young girl, 
 heiress to some small property was urged 
 bv her relations and friends, to marrj^ an 
 old, rich gentleman. She refused to do 
 this, however, as she had previously placed 
 her affections with one whose age corres- 
 ponded with her own. The song repre- 
 sents her assuring her favored lover of her 
 constancy towards him, and her earnest 
 wish that she was twenty-one when she 
 would be mistress of herself and would 
 learn her relations "a rattlin' sang." 
 
 And oh, for ane-and-twenty, Tarn, 
 And hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, 
 Tam, 
 
 I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang, 
 An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. 
 
 They snool me sair, and baud me 
 down. 
 And gar me look like bluntie, Tam! 
 But three short years will soon wheel 
 roun' — 
 And then comes ane-and-twenty, 
 Tam.
 
 164 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 
 Was left me by my auntie, Tam ; 
 
 At kith or kin I need na spier, 
 An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. 
 
 They'll ha'e me wed a wealthy coof, 
 Tho' I mysel' ha'e plenty, Tam ; 
 
 But hear'st thou, laddie— there's my 
 loof— 
 I'm thine at ane-and-twenty, Tam. 
 
 THEIR 
 
 GROVES OF 
 MYRTLE. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 SWEET 
 
 " Burns," sa3'S Dr. Currie, "wrote pro- 
 fessedly for the peasantry of his country, 
 and by them their native dialect is uni- 
 versally relished. To a numerous class of 
 the natives of Scotland of another des- 
 cription, it may also be considered as 
 attractive in a different point of view. 
 Estranged from their native soil, and 
 spread over foreign lands, the idiom of 
 their countrj' unites with the sentiments 
 and descriptions on which it is employed, 
 to recall to their minds the interesting 
 scenes of infancy and youtli— to awaken 
 many pleasing, many tender recollections. 
 For Scotsmen of this description more 
 particularly, Burns seems to have written 
 his song, 'Their groves o' sweet myrtle,' 
 a beautiful strain, which, it may be confi- 
 dently predicted, will be sung with equal 
 or superior interest on the banks of the 
 Ganges or of the Mississippi, as on those 
 of tire Tay or the Tweed." 
 
 Their groves o' sweet myrtle let 
 foreign lands reckon. 
 Where bright-beaming summers 
 exalt the perfume ; 
 Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' 
 green breckan, 
 Wi' the burn stealing under the 
 lang yellow broom. 
 
 Far dearer to me are yon humble 
 broom bowers, 
 Where the blue-bell an' gowan 
 lurk lowly unseen; 
 
 For there, lightly tripping amang the 
 wild flowers, 
 A-Iistening the linnet, aft wanders 
 my Jean. 
 
 Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay 
 sunny valleys. 
 An' cauid Caledonia's blast on the 
 wave ; 
 Their sweet sented woodlands that 
 skirt the proud palace, 
 What are they? — the haunt of the 
 tyrant and slave! 
 
 The slave's spicy forests, and gold- 
 bubbling fountains, 
 The brave Caledoni^tn views wi' 
 disdain ; 
 He wanders as free as the winds of 
 his mountains. 
 Save loves willing fetters — the 
 chains o' his Jean! 
 
 HEY FOR A LASS WI' A 
 TOCHER. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 "Your 'Hey for a lass wi' a tocher,' 
 is a most excellent song, and with 
 you the subject is something new 
 indeed. It is the first time I have seen 
 you debasing the god of soft desire into 
 an amateur of acres and guineas." — Thom- 
 son to Burns. 
 
 Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's 
 
 i alarms. 
 The slender bit beauty you grasp in 
 
 your arms; 
 O, gi'e me the lass that has acres o' 
 
 charms, 
 O, gi'e me the lass wi' the weel-stockit 
 farms ! 
 
 Then, hey for a lass wi' a tocher, 
 
 Then, hey for a lass wi' a tocher. 
 
 Then, hey for a lass wi' a tocher! 
 
 The nice yellow guineas for 
 
 me!
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 165 
 
 Your beauty's a flower in the morn- 
 ing that blows, 
 And withers the faster, the faster it 
 
 grows; 
 But the rapturous charms o' the 
 
 bonnie green knowes, 
 Ilk spring they're new-deckit wi' 
 
 bonnie white ewes. 
 And e'en when this beauty your 
 
 bosom has bless'd, 
 The brightest o' beauty may cloy 
 
 when possess'd; 
 But the sweet yellow darlins, wi' 
 
 Geordie imprest, 
 The langer ye ha'e them, the mair 
 
 they're carest. . 
 
 SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 
 The spot they ca'd it Linkumdod- 
 die; 
 Willie was a wabster guid, 
 
 Could stown a clue wi' ony bodie; 
 He had a wife was dour and din, 
 O, Tinkler Madgie was her mither — 
 Sic a wife as Willie had, 
 I wad na gie a button for her. 
 
 She had an e'e — she has but ane, 
 The cat has twa the very color; 
 Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, _ 
 
 A clapper tongue wad deave a miller 
 A whiskin' beard about her mou'. 
 Her nose and chin they threaten 
 ither; 
 Sic a wife, &c. 
 
 She's bow-hough'd, she's heinshinned, 
 Ae limpin' leg a hand-breed shorter; 
 
 She's twisted right, she's twisted left. 
 To balance fair in ilka quarter: 
 
 She has a hump upon her breast, 
 The twin o' that upon her shouther; 
 Sic a wife, &c. 
 
 Auld baudrons by the ingle sits, 
 
 An' wi' her loof her face a-washin'; 
 But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, 
 She dights her grunzie wi' a 
 hushion; 
 Her wailie neives like midden creels, 
 Her face wad fyle the Logan Water; 
 Sic a wife as Willie had, 
 I wad na gie a button for her. 
 
 MARY MORISON. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 One of the poet's earliest productions 
 and one of his best. 
 
 Oh Mary, at thy window be. 
 
 It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! 
 Those smiles an' glances let me see. 
 
 That make the miser's treasure poor; 
 How blytheiy wad I bide the stoure, 
 
 A weary slave frae sun to sun, 
 Could I the rich reward secure, 
 
 The lovely Mary Morison. 
 
 Yestreen when to the trembling string, 
 
 The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 
 To thee my fancy took its wing, 
 
 I sat, but neither heard nor saw. 
 Tho' this was fair, an' that was braw, 
 
 An' yon the toast of a' the town, 
 I sigh'd, an' said amang them a', 
 
 " Ye are na Mary Morison." 
 
 Oh Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 
 
 Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? 
 Or canst thou break that heart of his, 
 
 Whase only faut is loving thee ? 
 If love for love thou wilt nae gie, 
 
 At least be pity on me shown; 
 A thought ungentle canna be 
 
 The thought o' Mary Morison.
 
 166 
 
 CELEBRATED SONQS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 GO FETCH TO ME A PINT O' 
 WINE. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Burns is said to have composed this 
 beautiful and verj' popular song after wit- 
 nessing a 3'oung officer take farewell of his 
 sweetheart on the pier of Leilh ana embark 
 for service abroad. 
 
 Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 
 
 And fill it in a silver tassie; 
 That I may drink before I go,_ 
 
 A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
 The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, 
 
 Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the 
 ferry; 
 The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 
 
 And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 
 
 The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 
 
 The glittering spears are ranked 
 ready ; 
 The shouts o' war are heard afar. 
 
 The battle closes thick and bloody; 
 But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 
 
 Wad make me langer wish to tarry; 
 Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — 
 
 It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 
 
 WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES ? 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 " In my very early years, when I was 
 thinking of going to the West Indies, I took 
 the following farewell of a dear girl. It is 
 quite trifling, and has nothing of the merits 
 of ' Ewe-bughts,' but it will fill up this 
 page. You must know that all my earlier 
 love-songs were the breathings of ardent 
 passion, and though it might have been easy 
 in after-times to have given them a polish, 
 )-et that polish, to me, whose they were, 
 and who perhaps alone cared for them, 
 would have defaced the legend of my 
 heart, which was so faithfully inscribed on 
 them. Their uncouth simplicit}- was, as 
 they say of wines their ' race.' " — Burns (o 
 Mr. Thomson. 
 
 Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
 And leave old Scotia's shore ? 
 
 Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
 Across the Atlantic's roar.? 
 
 Oh sweet grow the lime and the 
 orange. 
 
 And the apple on the pine; 
 But a' the charms o' the Indies 
 
 Can never equal thine. 
 
 I ha'e sworn by the heavens to my 
 Mary, 
 I ha'e sworn by the heavens to be 
 true; 
 And sae may the heavens forget me, 
 When I forget my vow! 
 
 Oh plight me your faith, ray Mary, 
 And plight me your lilly-white 
 hand; 
 
 Oh plight me your faith, my Mary, 
 Before I leave Scotia's strand. 
 
 We ha'e plighted our troth, my Mary, 
 In mutual affection to join. 
 
 And curst be the cause that shall 
 part us! 
 The hour and the moment o' time! 
 
 OH! OPEN THE DOOR. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 This is an old song, altered consider- 
 ably for Thomson's Collection. 
 
 "Oh! open the door, some pity to 
 show. 
 Oh! open the door to me, oh! 
 Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever 
 prove true, 
 Oh! open the door to me, oh! 
 
 "Cauld is the blast upon my pale 
 cheek, 
 But caulder thy love for me, oh!
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 167 
 
 The frost that freezes the life at my 
 heart, 
 Is nought to my pains frae thee, 
 oh! 
 
 "The wan moon is setting behind 
 the white wave, 
 An' time is setting with me, oh! 
 False friends, false love, farewell ! for 
 mair 
 I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, 
 oh!" 
 
 She has open'd the door, she has 
 open'd it wide; 
 She sees his pale corse on the plain, 
 oh! 
 "My true love!" she cried, an' sank 
 down by his side. 
 Never to rise again, oh! 
 
 MY AIN KIND DEARIE, O. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Written in October, 1792, to the air of 
 "The Lea Rig," and interesting from the 
 fact that it was the poet's first contribution 
 to Thomson's Collection. 
 
 When o'er the hill the eastern star 
 
 Tells bughtin' time is near, my jo; 
 An' owsen frae the furrow'd field 
 
 Return sae dowf an' weary, O; 
 Down by the burn, where sented 
 birks 
 
 Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
 I'll meet thee on the lea rig. 
 
 My ain kind dearie, O. 
 
 In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 
 
 I'd rove, an' ne'er be earie, O, 
 If thro' that glen I ga'ed to thee. 
 
 My ain kind dearie, O. 
 Altho' the night was ne'er sae wild, 
 
 An' I were ne'er sae wearie, O, 
 I'd meet thee on the lea rig, 
 
 My ain kind dearie, O. 
 
 The hunter lo'es the morning sun. 
 
 To rouse the mountain deer, my jo: 
 At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 
 
 Along the burn to steer, my jo; 
 Gi'e me the hour o' gloamin' gray, 
 
 It mak's my heart sae cheery, O, 
 To meet thee on the lea rig, 
 
 My ain kind dearie, O. 
 
 GALA WATER. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 " The following verses are all that are 
 known of the original song: — 
 
 " Braw, braw lads of Gala Water, 
 Braw, braw lads of Gala Water; 
 I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee; 
 And follow my love through the water. 
 
 O'er yon bank, and o'ei yon brae, 
 O'er yon moss amang the heather; 
 
 I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, 
 
 And follow my love through the water." 
 
 Mr. Robert Chambers, in his collection 
 of songs, has inserted another version of 
 'Gala Water,' which, though curious 
 enough in a literary point of view, contains 
 too many local allusions to be generally 
 acceptable. 
 
 The modern song of 'Gala Water' was 
 written by Burns in 1793 for Mr. Thom- 
 son's collection. Haydn, who harmonized 
 it for Whyte's ' Collection of Scottish 
 Songs,' wrote this short note on the MS. 
 sheet of the music: — 'This one Dr. Haydn's 
 favorite song.' The Gala rises in Mid- 
 lothian, runs south, and falls into the 
 Tweed a few miles above Melrose." — Lyric 
 Gems of Scotland. 
 
 There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow 
 
 braes, 
 
 That wander thro' the bloorning 
 
 heather; 
 
 But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws, 
 
 Can match the lads o' Gala Water. 
 
 But there is ane, a secret ane, 
 Aboon them a' I lo'e him better; 
 
 And I'll be his and he'll be mine, 
 The bonnie lad o' Gala Water.
 
 168 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Altho' his daddie be nae laird, 
 And tho' I ha'e na meikle tocher; 
 
 Yet rich in kindest, truest love, 
 
 We'll tent our flocks by Gala Water. 
 
 It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
 That coft contentment, peace, or 
 pleasure: 
 The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
 Oh that's the chiefest warld's 
 treasure. 
 
 GUDEWIFE COUNT THE 
 LAWIN. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 The chorus is very old. 
 
 Gane is the day, an' mirk's the night. 
 But we'll ne'er stray for fau't o' light, 
 For ale an' brandy's stars an' moon, 
 An' bluid-red wine's the rising sun. 
 
 Then gudewife, count the lawin. 
 
 The lawin, the lawin; 
 Then gudewife, count the lawin. 
 
 An' bring a coggie mair. 
 
 There's wealth an' ease for gentlemen, 
 An' semple folk maun fecht an' fen; 
 But here we're a' in ae accord, 
 For ilka man that's drunk 's a lord. 
 
 My coggie is a haly pool. 
 
 That heels the wounds o' care and 
 
 dool; 
 An' pleasure is a wanton trout, 
 
 An ye drink but deep ye'llfind him 
 out. 
 
 OH! WERE 
 
 I ON PARNASSUS' 
 HILL. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Written by Burns in honor of his wife, 
 and as a welcome to her in their new home 
 at Ellisland. " These tributes to domes- 
 tic afTection," says Lockhart, " are among 
 the last of his performances one would wish 
 to lose." 
 
 Oh, were I on Parnassus' hill! 
 Or had of Helicon my fill; 
 That I might catch poetic skill. 
 
 To sing how dear I love thee. 
 But Nith maun be my muse's well, 
 My muse maun be thy bonnie sel'; 
 On Corsincon I'll glow'r an' spell. 
 
 An' write how dear I love thee. 
 
 Then come, sweet muse, inspire my 
 
 lay! 
 For a' the lee-lang simmer's day 
 I couldna sing, I couldna say. 
 
 How much, how dear I love thee. 
 I see thee dancing o'er the green. 
 Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae 
 
 clean. 
 Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een — 
 By heaven an' earth I love thee! 
 
 By night, by day, a-field, at hame, 
 The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame; 
 An' aye I muse an' sing thy name — 
 
 I only live to love thee. 
 Tho' I were doom'd to wander on, 
 Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
 Till my last weary sand was run; 
 
 Till then — and then I love thee. 
 
 A HIGHLAND LAD MY LOVE 
 WAS BORN. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The " Rancle Carline's " song, in the 
 "Jolly Beggars." 
 
 A Highland lad my love was born 
 The Lawlan' laws he held 
 But he still was faithfu' to 
 My gallant, braw John Hig 
 
 Sing, hey my braw John 
 man! 
 
 Sing, hey my braw John Hig 
 
 There's not a lad in a' the 
 
 Was match for my John Highland- 
 man. 
 
 m scorn; 
 his clan, 
 jjhlandman. 
 Highland- 
 
 hlandmanf 
 Ian'
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 169 
 
 With his philibeg and tartan plaid, 
 An' gude claymore down by his side, 
 The ladies hearts he did trepan, 
 ]\Iy gallant, braw John Highlandman. 
 Sing, hey, &c. 
 
 We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
 An' lived like lords and ladies gay: 
 For a Lawlan's face he feared nane. 
 My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 
 
 Sing, hey, &c. 
 
 They banish'd him beyond the sea, 
 But ere the bud was on the tree, 
 Adown my cheek the pearls ran, 
 Embracing my John Highlandman. 
 
 Sing, hey, «S:c. 
 
 But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last, 
 And bound him in a dungeon fast: 
 My curse upon them every one, 
 They've hanged my braw John High- 
 landman. 
 
 Sing, hey, &c. 
 
 And now a widow, I must mourn 
 The pleasures that will ne'er return; 
 No comfort but a hearty can. 
 When I think on John Highlandman. 
 Sing, hey, &c. 
 
 WANDERING WILLIE. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 " Here awa' there awa' wandering 
 Willie" is the title of an old fragment 
 which first appeared, printed in "Herd's 
 Collection." Burns who was fond of the 
 air, composed the following verses to it 
 for "Thomson's Collection." In his let- 
 ter to Mr. Thomson he expresses his 
 opinion as to what is essential to a good 
 song, viz: simplicit}'. " Give me leave," 
 " he says, to criticise your taste in the only 
 thing in which it is in my opinion repre- 
 hensible. You know I ought to know 
 something of my own trade. Of pathos, 
 
 sentiment, and point, you are a complete 
 judge; but there is a quality more necessary 
 than either, in a song, and which is the 
 verj' essence of a ballad, I mean simplicity; 
 now, if I mistake not, this last feature you 
 are apt to sacrifice to the foregoing." 
 
 Here awa', there awa', wandering 
 Willie, 
 Now tired with wandering, haud 
 awa' hame! 
 Come to my bosom, my ain only 
 dearie. 
 And tell me thou bring'st me my 
 Willie the same. 
 
 Loud blew the cauld winter winds at 
 our parting; 
 It was nae the blast brought the 
 tear in my e'e; 
 Now welcome the simmer, and wel- 
 come my Willie, » 
 The simmer to nature, my Willie to 
 me. 
 
 Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' 
 your slumbers! 
 Oh, how your wild horrors a lover 
 alarms! 
 Awaken, ye breezes! row gently, ye 
 billows ! 
 And waft my dear laddie ance mair 
 to my arms. 
 
 But if he's forgotten his faithfullest 
 Nannie, 
 O still flow between us, thou wide- 
 roaring main; 
 May I never see it, may I never trow 
 
 it, 
 But, dying, believe that my Willie's 
 
 my ain! 
 
 CA' THE YOWES TO THE 
 KNOWES. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Burns took the chorus of this song from 
 the one written by Isabel Pagan, also called
 
 170 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 "Ca' the yowes to the knowes"(see page 80). 
 He knew the oricrinal song, but he does not 
 seem to have known the authoress. In 
 one of his letters to Mr. Thomson he says: 
 " I am flattered at your adopting, ' Ca' the 
 yowes to the knowes,' as it was owing to 
 me that ever it saw the light. About 
 seven years ago I was well acquainted 
 with a worthy little fellow of a clergyman, 
 a Mr. Clunie, who sung it charmingly; 
 and, at my request, Mr. Clark took it 
 down from his singing. When I gave it 
 to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the 
 song, and mended others, but still it will 
 not do for you. In a solitary stroll which 
 I took to-day, I tried my hand on a few 
 pastoral lines, following up the idea of 
 the chorus, which I would preserve. 
 Here it is with all its crudities and im- 
 perfections on its head." 
 
 Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
 Ca' them where the heather grows, 
 Ca' them where the burnie rowes, 
 My bonnie dearie. 
 Hark the mavis' evening sang 
 Sounding Cluden's woods amang, 
 Then a-faulding let us gang, 
 My bonnie dearie. 
 Ca' the, &c. 
 
 We'll gae down by Cluden side, 
 Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 
 O'er the waves that sweetly glide, 
 To the moon sae clearly. 
 Ca' the, &c. 
 
 Yonder Cluden's silent towers, 
 Where at moonshine midnight 
 
 hours. 
 O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
 Fairies dance sae cheerie. 
 
 Ca' the, &c. 
 
 Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear: 
 Thou'rt to Love and Heaven sae 
 
 dear, 
 Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
 My bonnie dearie. 
 
 Ca' the, &c. 
 
 Fair and lovely as thou art. 
 Thou hast stown my very heart; 
 I can die — but canna part, 
 My bonnie dearie. 
 
 Ca' the, &c. 
 
 THE WEARY FUND O' TOW. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The air and the chorus of this song are 
 both very old. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 The weary pund, the weary pund, 
 
 The weary pund o' tow: 
 I think my wife will end her life, 
 
 Before she spin her tow. 
 
 I bought my wife a stane o' lint, 
 
 As gude as e'er did grow; 
 And a' that she has made o' that, 
 
 Is ae poor pund of tow. 
 The weary pund, &c. 
 
 There sat a bottle in a bole, 
 
 Beyont the ingle low. 
 And aye she took the tither souk, 
 
 To drouk the stourie tow. 
 The weary pund, &c. 
 
 Quoth I, " For shame, ye dirty dame, 
 Gae spin your tap o' tow!" 
 
 She took the rock, and wi' a knock 
 She brak it o'er my pow. 
 The weary pund, &c. 
 
 At last her feet — I sang to see't — 
 Gaed foremost o'er the knowe, 
 
 And or I wad anither jad, 
 I'll wallop in a tow. 
 The weary pund, &c.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 171 
 
 THE BONNIE WEE THING. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 " Was composed," says Burns, " on my 
 little idol, the charming, lovely Davies." 
 Allan Cunningham says, " Her education 
 was superior to that of most young ladies 
 of her station of life; she was equally 
 agreeable and witty ; her company was 
 much courted in Nithsdale, and others 
 than Burns respected her talents in poetic 
 composition." 
 
 Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
 
 Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine; 
 I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
 
 Lest my jewel I should tine ! 
 Wishfully I look an' languish 
 
 In that bonnie face of thine; 
 An' my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 
 
 Lest my wee thing be na mine. 
 
 Wit, an' grace, an' love, an' beauty, 
 
 In ae constellation shine; 
 To adore thee is my duty, 
 
 Goddess o' this soul o' mine! 
 Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
 
 Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
 I wad wear thee in my bosom. 
 
 Lest my jewel I should tine! 
 
 SOMEBODY. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Written by Burns for Johnson's Museum. 
 The first verse, with the exception of the 
 first line belongs to the old song. 
 
 My heart is sair — I dare na tell — 
 My heart is sair for somebody; 
 I could wake a winter night 
 For the sake of somebody. 
 Oh-hon, for somebody! 
 Oh-hey, for somebody! 
 I could range the world around, 
 For the sake o' somebody! 
 
 Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 
 
 Oh, sweetly smile on somebody! 
 Frae ilka danger keep him free, 
 And send me safe my somebody. 
 Oh-hon, for sombody! 
 Oh-hey, for somebody ! 
 I wad do — what wad I not! 
 For the sake o' somebody! 
 
 THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE 
 UNTIL JAMIE COMES HAME. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 Founded on an old song. 
 
 By yon castle wa', at the close o' the 
 
 day, 
 I heard a man sing, though his head 
 
 it was grey; 
 And as he was singing, the tears down 
 
 came. 
 There'll never be peace until Jamie 
 
 comes hame. 
 The Church is in ruins, the State is in 
 
 jars, 
 Delusions, oppressions, and murder- 
 ous wars; 
 We darena weel say't, but we ken 
 
 wha's to blame; 
 There'll never be peace until Jamie 
 
 comes hame. 
 
 My seven braw sons for Jamie drew 
 
 sword. 
 And now I greet round their green 
 
 beds in the yird; 
 It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' 
 
 auld dame; 
 There'll never be peace until Jamie 
 
 comes hame. 
 Now life is a burden that bows me 
 
 down. 
 Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his 
 
 crown; 
 But till my last moments my words 
 
 are the same. 
 There'll never be peace until Jamie 
 
 comes hame.
 
 173 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 THE BRAES O' BALLOCH- 
 MYLE. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Written in 1786, and sent to Miss 
 Maria Whitefoord on the occasion of her 
 family quitting the estate of Ballochmyle. 
 The words were set to music by Allan 
 Masterton. 
 
 The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 
 
 The flowers decayed on Catrine 
 lea, 
 Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, 
 
 But nature sicken'd on the e'e, 
 Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 
 
 Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, 
 And aye the wild wood echoes rang, 
 
 Fareweel, the braes o' Ballochmyle! 
 
 Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 
 
 Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair, 
 Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers, 
 
 Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
 But here, alas! for me nae mair, 
 
 Shall birdie charm, or floweret 
 smile; 
 Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 
 
 Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Balloch- 
 myle! 
 
 As o'er the moor they lightly foor, 
 
 A burn was clear a glen was green. 
 Upon the banks they eas'd their 
 shanks 
 And aye she set the wheel between. 
 But Duncan sware a haly aith. 
 
 That Meg should be a bride the 
 morn. 
 Then Meg took up her spinnin' 
 graith. 
 And flung them a' out o'er the 
 burn. 
 
 We'll big a house — a wee, wee house, 
 
 And we Avill live like king and queen, 
 Sae blythe and merry we will be. 
 
 When ye set by the wheel at e'en. 
 A man may drink and no be drunk; 
 
 A man may fight and no be slain; 
 A man may kiss a bonnie lass. 
 
 And aye be welcome back again. 
 
 LEEZE ME ON MY SPINNIN' 
 WHEEL. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 An excellent song of rustic toil and con- 
 tentment. 
 
 THERE WAS A LASS THEY 
 CA'D HER MEG. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, 
 And she held o'er the moors to 
 spin; 
 
 There was a lad that follow'd her 
 They ca'd him Duncan Davison. 
 
 The moor was dreigh, and Meg was 
 skeigh. 
 
 Her favor Duncan could na win; 
 For wi' the rock she wad him knock. 
 
 And aye she shook the temper-pin. 
 
 Oh leeze me on my spinnin' wheel, 
 Oh leeze me on my rock an' reel; 
 Frae tap to tae that leeds me bien, 
 An' haps me fiel an' warm at e'en! 
 I'll sit me down an' sing an' spin, 
 While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
 Blest wi' content, an' milk an' meal — 
 Oh leeze me on my spinnin' wheel! 
 
 On ilka hand the burnies trot, 
 An' meet below my theekit cot; 
 The scented birk an' hawthorn white, 
 Across the pool their arms unite. 
 Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
 And little fishes' caller rest: 
 The sun blinks kindly in the biel'. 
 Where blythe I turn my spinnin' 
 wheel.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 173 
 
 On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
 An' echo cons the dolefu' tale; 
 The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
 Delighted, rival ither's lays: 
 The craik amang the clover hay; 
 The paitrick whirrin' o'er the ley, _ 
 The swallow Jinkin' round my shiel, 
 Amuse me at my spinnin' wheel. 
 
 Wi' sma' to sell, an' less to buy, 
 Aboon distress, below envy, 
 Oh wha wad leave this humble state, 
 For a' the pride of a' the great? 
 Amid their flarin', idle toys, 
 Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys. 
 Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
 Of Bessie at her spinnin' wheel? 
 
 THE GALLANT WEAVER. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 "The Cart flows through .Paisley, cele- 
 brated for its productions of the loom, and 
 it is said that 'a gallant weaver' there, named 
 Robert Wilson, offered his hand in mar- 
 riage to jean Armour, at a time when she 
 was obliged to seek refuge with a relation 
 in that town, to avoid the efTects of her 
 father's displeasure. In those days a 
 weaver was considered superior in station 
 to a husbandman; and Burns was at first 
 deeply jealous of his Paisley rival; but 
 he afterwards, when Jean proved her 
 fidelity, laughed over the subject — and the 
 present song was in all probability sug- 
 gested by reminiscences of this passage 
 in his life." — Alex. Whitelaw. 
 
 Where Cart rins rowin' to the sea, 
 By mony a fiow'r and spreading tree. 
 There lives a lad, the lad for me. 
 He is a gallant weaver. 
 
 Oh I had wooers aucht or nine, 
 They gied me rings and ribbons fine; 
 And I was fear'd my heart would tine, 
 And I gied it to the weaver. 
 
 My daddie sign'd my tocher-band 
 To gie the lad that has the land, 
 But to my heart I'll haud my hand, 
 And give it to the weaver. 
 
 While birds rejoice in leafy bowers; 
 While bees delight in opening flowers; 
 While corn grows green in simmer 
 showers, 
 I'll love my gallant weaver. 
 
 LORD GREGORY. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Founded on the old ballad "The Lass 
 of Lochryan." 
 
 O MIRK, mirk, is this midnight hour, 
 And loud the tempests roar; 
 
 A waeful wanderer seeks thy tower, 
 Lord Gregory ope thy door. 
 
 An exile frae her father's ha'. 
 
 And a' for loving thee; 
 At least some pity on me shaw, 
 
 If love it may na be. 
 
 Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the 
 grove, 
 
 By bonnie Irwin side. 
 Where first I own'd that virgin love 
 
 I lang, lang had denied ? 
 
 How aften didst thou pledge and vow, 
 Thou wad for aye be mine; 
 
 And my sad heart, itsel sae true, 
 It ne'er mistrusted thine. 
 
 Hard is thy heart. Lord Gregory, 
 And flinty is thy breast — 
 
 Thou dart o' heav'n that flashes by, 
 O wilt thou give me rest! 
 
 Ye mustering thunders from above 
 
 Your willing victims see! 
 But spare and pardon my fause love. 
 
 His wrangs to Heaven and me!
 
 174 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 CONTENTED WF LITTLE. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Written for Thomson's Collection. In 
 the letter accompanying the song, dated 
 igth November, 1794, Burns says, "Scot- 
 tish bacchanalians we certainly want, 
 though the few we have are excellent. 
 * * * Apropos to bacchanalian songs 
 in Scottish, I composed one yesterday, for 
 an air I like much,—' Lumps of pudd- 
 ing.' " 
 
 Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' 
 
 mair, 
 Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and 
 
 care, 
 I gie them a skelp, as they're creeping 
 
 alang, 
 Wi' a cog o' guid swats and an auld 
 
 Scottish sang. 
 
 I whyles claw the elbow o' trouble- 
 some thought; 
 
 But man is a sodger, and life is a 
 faught; 
 
 My mirth and guid humor are coin in 
 my pouch, 
 
 And my freedom's my lairdship nae 
 monarch dare touch. 
 
 A towmond o' trouble, should that be 
 
 my fa, 
 A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it 
 
 a'; 
 When at the blythe end of our 
 
 journey at last, 
 Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road 
 
 he has past ? 
 
 Blind Chance, let her snapper and 
 
 stoyte on her way, 
 Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the 
 
 jade gae; 
 Come ease, or come travail; come 
 
 pleasure or pain, 
 My warst word is: "Welcome and 
 
 welcome again!" 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 This is the song to which Burns refers 
 when he says, "I had composed the last 
 song I should ever measure in Caledonia 
 — 'The gloomy night is gathering fast,' 
 when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a 
 friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes 
 by opening new prospects to my poetic 
 ambition." 
 
 The gloomy night is gathering fast. 
 Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, 
 Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
 I see it driving o'er the plain; 
 The hunter now has left the moor, 
 The scatter'd coveys meet secure; 
 While here I wander prest with care, 
 Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 
 
 The autumn mourns her rip'ning corn, 
 By early winter's ravage torn; 
 Across her placid, azure sky, 
 She sees the scowling tempest fly: 
 Chill runs my blood to hear it rave — 
 I think upon the stormy wave. 
 Where many a danger I must dare. 
 Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 
 
 'Tis not the surging billows roar, 
 'Tis not that fatal deadly shore: 
 Tho' death in every shape appear, 
 The wretched have no more to fear! 
 But round my heart the ties are bound 
 That heart transpierc'd with many a 
 
 wound; 
 These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
 To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 
 
 Farewell old Coila's hills and dales. 
 Her heathy moors and winding vales; 
 The scenes where wretched fancy 
 
 roves. 
 Pursuing past, unhappy loves! 
 Farewell, my friends! farewell, my 
 
 foes ! 
 My peace with these, my love with 
 
 those — 
 The bursting tears my heart declare; 
 Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 175 
 
 TO DAUNTON ME. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 Partly an old song. 
 
 The blude-red rose at Yule may 
 
 blaw, 
 The simmer lilies bloom in snaw, 
 The frost may freeze the deepest sea; 
 But an auld man shall never daunton 
 me. 
 To daunton me, an' me so young, 
 Wi' his fause heart an' flatt'ring 
 
 tongue, 
 That is the thing you ne'er shall 
 
 see ; 
 For an auld man shall never daun- 
 ton me. 
 
 For a' his meal an' a' his maut, 
 For a' his fresh beef an' his saut, 
 For a' his gold an' white monie, 
 An' auld man shall never daunton me. 
 
 His gear may buy him kye an' yowes, 
 His gear may buy him glens an' 
 
 knowes; 
 But me he shall not buy nor fee, 
 For an auld man shall never daunton 
 
 me. 
 
 He hirples twa-faule as he dow, 
 
 Wi' his teethless gab an' his auld 
 
 beld pow. 
 An' the rain rains down frae his red 
 
 bleer'd e'e — 
 That auld man shall never daunton 
 
 me. 
 
 Farewell, thou fair day, thou green 
 earth, and ye skies, 
 Now gay with the bright setting 
 sun; 
 Farewell loves and friendships, ye 
 dear tender ties — 
 Our race of existence is run! 
 
 Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's 
 gloomy foe! 
 Go frighten the coward and slave; 
 Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! 
 but know. 
 No terrors hast thou to the brave! 
 
 Thou strik'st the dull peasant — he 
 sinks in the dark, 
 Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name; 
 Thou strik'st the young hero — a 
 glorious mark! 
 He falls in the blaze of his fame! 
 
 In the field of proud honor — our 
 swords in our hands. 
 Our king and our country to save — 
 While victory shines on life's last 
 ebbing sands. 
 Oh! who would not die with the 
 brave! 
 
 DEATH SONG. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Scene. — A field of battle. — Time of the 
 day, evening. — The wounded and dying of 
 the victorious arm}' are supposed to join 
 in the following song: — 
 
 THE 
 
 LOVELY LASS O' IN- 
 VERNESS. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The first four lines belong to an old 
 song. Drummossie Muir was the field 
 where the fatal battle of Culloden was 
 fought on the i6th of April, 1746. 
 
 The lovely lass o' Inverness, 
 
 Nae joy or pleasure she can see; 
 For e'en and morn she cries, alas! 
 
 And aye the saut tear blinds her e'e. 
 Drummossie moor! Drummossie day, 
 
 A waefu' day it was to me ; 
 For there I lost my father dear. 
 
 My father dear and brethren three.
 
 176 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Their winding sheet's the bluidy lea, 
 Their graves are growing green to 
 see, 
 
 And by them lies the dearest lad^ 
 That ever blessed a woman's e'e. 
 
 Now wae to thee thou cruel lord, 
 A bluidy man I trow thou be; 
 
 For monie a heart thou hast made 
 
 sair, 
 
 hat r 
 
 thee. 
 
 That ne'er did wrang to thine or 
 
 SWEET CLOSES THE 
 EVENING. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Another song in honor of Jean Lorimer. 
 The chorus is old. " Craigie-burn wood," 
 says Dr. Currie, " is situated on the 
 banks of the river Moffat, about three 
 miles from the village of that name. The 
 woods of Craigie-burn and DumcriefF were 
 at one time favorite haunts of Burns. It 
 was there he met the ' Lassie wi' the lint- 
 white locks,' and there he conceived 
 several of his beautiful lyrics." 
 
 LASSIE Wr THE LINT-WHITE 
 LOCKS. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Composed in honor of Jean Lorimer. 
 The poet claimed that the verses formed a 
 regular pastoral, in which he says, " The 
 vernal morn, the summer noon, the 
 autumnal evening, and the winter night, 
 
 are 
 
 regularlv rounded." 
 
 Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 
 Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. 
 
 Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 
 Wilt thou be my dearie, O ? 
 
 Now Nature deeds the flowery lea, 
 An' a' is young an' sweet like thee: 
 Oh, wilt thou share its joys wi' me. 
 An' say thou'lt be my dearie, O ? 
 
 An' when the welcome simmer shower 
 Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flovver. 
 We'll to the breathing woodbine 
 bower 
 At sultry noon, my dearie, O. 
 
 When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
 The weary shearer's hameward way. 
 Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 
 An' talk o' love, my dearie, O. 
 
 An' when the howling wintry blast 
 Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest. 
 Enclasped to my faithful breast, 
 I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O. 
 
 Sweet closes the eve on Craigieburn- 
 wood, 
 
 And blithely awaukens the morrow; 
 But the pride of the spring in the 
 Craigieburn-wood 
 
 Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. 
 
 Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, 
 dearie. 
 And oh, to be lying beyond thee; 
 Oh, sweetly, soundly, weel may he 
 sleep 
 That's laid in the bed beyond 
 thee! 
 
 I see the spreading leaves and flowers, 
 I hear the wild birds singing; 
 
 But pleasure they hae nane for me. 
 While care my heart is wringing. 
 
 I canna tell, I maunna tell, 
 
 I darena for your anger; 
 But secret love will break my heart, 
 
 If I conceal it langer. 
 
 I see thee gracefu', straight, and tall, 
 I see thee sweet and bonnie; 
 
 But oh, what will my torments be, 
 If thou refuse thy Johnnie! 
 
 To see thee in anither's arms, 
 In love to lie and languish, 
 
 'Twad be my dead, that will be seen, 
 My heart wad burst wi' anguish
 
 CELEBRATED S0N08 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 177 
 
 But, Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, 
 Say thou lo'es nane before me; 
 
 And a' my days o' life to come 
 I'll gratefully adore thee. 
 
 SWEET FA'S THE EVE. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 . 
 
 Another version of "Sweet closes the 
 Evening." 
 
 Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn, 
 An' blythe awakes the morrow; 
 
 But a' the pride o' spring's return 
 Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 
 
 I see the flowers an' spreading trees, 
 I hear the wild birds singing; 
 
 But what a weary wight can please, 
 An' care his bosom wringing ? 
 
 Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, 
 Yet dare na for your anger; 
 
 But secret love will break my heart, 
 If I conceal It langer. 
 
 If thou refuse to pity me. 
 If thou shalt love anither, 
 
 When yon green leaves fade frae the 
 tree, 
 Around my grave they'll wither. 
 
 OH 
 
 LUVE WILL 
 TURE IN. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 VEN- 
 
 Burns caught the idea of this beautiful 
 song from hearing his wife singing por- 
 tions of the famous old ballad "Where 
 are you going to my pretty maid." 
 
 Oh luve will venture in where it 
 
 daurna weel be seen ; 
 Oh love will venture in where wisdom 
 
 ance has been ; 
 
 But I will down yon river rove, 
 amang the wood sae green — 
 An' a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear 
 May. 
 
 The primrose I will pu', the firstling 
 
 o' the ye^ir, 
 An' I will pu' the pink, the emblem 
 
 o' my dear; 
 For she's the pink o' womankind, 
 
 and blooms without a peer — 
 An' a' to be a posie to my ain dear 
 
 May. 
 
 I'll pu' the budding rose, when 
 
 Phoebus peeps in view, 
 For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet 
 
 bonnie mou'; 
 The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its 
 
 unchanging blue — 
 An' a' to be a posie to my ain dear 
 
 May. 
 
 The lily it is pure, an' the lily it is 
 fair. 
 
 An' in her lovely bosom I'll place the 
 lily there; 
 
 The daisy's for simplicity, an' unaf- 
 fected air — 
 An' a* to be a posie to my ain dear 
 Ivlay. 
 
 The hawthorn I will pu' wi' its locks 
 
 o' siller gray, 
 Where, like an aged man, it stands at 
 
 break of day; 
 But the songsters nest within the 
 
 bush I winna tak' away — 
 An' a' to be a posie to my ain dear 
 
 May, 
 
 The woodbine I will pu' when the 
 
 e'ening star is near, 
 And the diamond drops o' dew shall 
 
 be here e'en sae clear: 
 The violet's for modesty which weel 
 
 she fa's to wear, 
 And a' to be a posie to my ain dear 
 
 May.
 
 178 
 
 CELEBRATED 80NOS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken 
 
 band o' luve, 
 And I'll place it in her breast, and 
 
 I'll swear by a' above, 
 That to ni}^ latest draught o' life the 
 
 band shall ne'er remove. 
 And this will be a posie to my ain 
 
 dear May. 
 
 A BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The following song appeared in the first 
 Edinburgh edition of the poet's works, 
 
 1787. 
 
 No churchman am I for to rail and to 
 
 write, 
 No statesman or soldier to plot or to 
 
 No sly man of busmess contnvmg a 
 
 snare, — 
 For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of 
 
 my care. 
 
 The peer I dont envy, I give him his 
 
 bow, 
 I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so 
 
 low; 
 But a club of good fellows, like those 
 
 that are here. 
 And a bottle like this, are my glory 
 
 and care. 
 
 Here passes the squire on his brother 
 
 — his horse: 
 There centum per centum, the cit with 
 
 his purse; 
 But see you The Crown, how it waves 
 
 in the air! 
 There, a big-bellied bottle still eases 
 
 my care. 
 
 The wife of my bosom, alas! she did 
 
 die! 
 For sweet consolation to church I did 
 
 fly; 
 
 I found that old Solomon proved it 
 
 fair. 
 That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for 
 
 all care. 
 
 I once was persuaded a venture to 
 
 make; 
 A letter inform'd me that all was to 
 
 wreck; 
 But the pursy old landlord just 
 
 waddl'd upstairs, 
 With a glorious bottle that ended my 
 
 cares, 
 
 ' Life's cares they are comforts ' — a 
 
 maxim laid down 
 By the bard, Avhat d'ye call him, that 
 
 wore the black gown. 
 And faith I agree with th' old prig to 
 
 a hair; 
 For a big-bellied bottle's a heaven of 
 
 care. 
 
 [A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge. ] 
 
 Then fill up a bumper and make it 
 o'erflow. 
 
 And honors masonic prepare for to 
 throw: 
 
 May every true brother of the com- 
 pass and square 
 
 Have a big-bellied bottle when 
 harass'd with care! 
 
 THERE GROWS A BONNIE 
 BRIER BUSH. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 An old Song, altered by Burns, and 
 contributed by him to Johnson's Museum, 
 
 There grows a bonnie brier brush in 
 
 our kail-yard; 
 And white are the blossoms o't in our 
 
 kail-yard,
 
 CELEBRATED SONOS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 179 
 
 Like wee bit white cockades for our 
 
 loyal Hieland lads 
 And the lasses lo'e the brier bush in 
 
 our kail-yard. 
 
 But were they a' true that are far awa'? 
 Oh! were they a' true that are far awa'? 
 They drew up wi' glaiket Englishers 
 
 at Carlisle ha', 
 And forgot auld frien's when far awa'. 
 
 Ye'll come nae mair, Jamie, where 
 
 aft ye hae been; 
 Ye'll come nae mair, Jamie, where 
 
 aft ye hae been; 
 Ye lo'ed owre weel the dancin' at 
 
 Carlisle ha'. 
 And forgot the Hieland hills that 
 
 were far awa*. 
 
 He's comin' frae the north that's to 
 
 fancy me. 
 He's comin' frae the north that's to 
 
 fancy me, 
 A feather in his bonnet, and a ribbon 
 
 at his knee, 
 He's a bonnie Hieland laddie, and 
 
 you be na he. 
 
 THE BANKS OF THE DEVON 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 "These verses, were composed on a 
 charming girl, a Miss Charlotte Hamilton, 
 who is now married to James M'Kitrick 
 Adair, Esq., physician. She is sister to 
 my \forthy friend Gavin Hamilton, of 
 Mauchline; and was born on the banks of 
 Ayr, but was, at the time I wrote these 
 lines (August, 1787) residing at Herveyston, 
 in Clackmananshire, on the romantic 
 banks of the little river Devon. I first 
 heard the* air from a lady in Inverness." — 
 Burns. 
 
 How pleasant the banks of the clear 
 winding Devon, 
 With green spreading bushes, and 
 flowers blooming fair; 
 
 But the bonniest flower on the banks 
 of the Devon 
 Was once a sweet bud on the braes 
 of the Ayr. 
 Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing 
 flower. 
 In the gay rosy morn as it bathes 
 in the dew; 
 And gentle the fall of the soft vernal 
 shower, 
 That steals on the evening each 
 leaf to renew. 
 
 Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient 
 breezes, 
 With chill hoary wing, as ye usher 
 the dawn; 
 And far be thou distant, thou reptile 
 that seizes 
 The verdure and pride of the 
 garden and lawn! 
 Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded 
 Lilies, 
 And England, triumphant, display 
 her proud Rose; 
 A fairer than either adorns the green 
 valleys, 
 Where Devon, sweet Devon, mean- 
 dering flows. 
 
 I'M OWRE YOUNG TO MARRY 
 YET. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Both the air and the chorus of this song 
 are old. 
 
 I'm owre young to marry yet; 
 
 I'm owre young to marry yet; 
 I'm owre young — 'twad be a sin 
 To tak' me frae my mammy yet. 
 
 I am my mammy's ae bairn, 
 Wi' unco folk I weary. Sir; 
 
 An' if I gang to your house, 
 
 I'm fley'd 'twill make me eerie, Sir.
 
 180 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Hallowmas is come an' gane, 
 
 The nights are lang in winter, Sir; 
 
 An' you an' I in ae bed, 
 
 In trouth I dare na venture, Sir. 
 
 Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind 
 Blaws through the leafless timmer, 
 Sir; 
 
 But if ye come this gate again, 
 I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. 
 
 LAY THY LOOF IN MINE. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 "Written for Johnson's Museum, to 
 the air of ' Tlie Cordwainer's March.' 
 ' The Cordwainer's March ' ma}' be called 
 the 'gathering tune' of the ancient and 
 .honorable fraternity of Sutors, and was 
 usually played at their annual procession 
 on St. Crispin's day. The last great pro- 
 cession of the craft took place in Edinburgh, 
 about forty years ago. Mr. Savvers, boot- 
 maker, of that city, swayed the regal 
 sceptie on the occasion." — Lyric Gems of 
 Scotland. 
 
 MY NANNIE, O. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 One of the finest songs ever written. 
 The heroine was a servant girl named Agnes 
 Fleming who resided at Calcothill near 
 Lochlea. In the poets Common-place 
 book wherein the song is inscribed he 
 remarks: "Whether the following song 
 will stand the test (of criticism) I will 
 not pretend to say, because it is my own; 
 only I can say it was, at the time, genuine 
 from the heart." The Lugar is a small 
 river in Ayrshire. 
 
 Oh lay thy loof in mine, lass, 
 
 In mine, lass, in mine, lass; 
 
 And swear on thy white hand, lass, 
 
 That thou wilt be my ain. 
 A slave to love's unbounded sway, 
 He aft has wrought me meikle wae; 
 But now he is my deadly fae. 
 
 Unless thou be my ain. 
 
 There's mony a lass has broke my rest, 
 
 That for a blink I ha'e lo'ed best; 
 
 But thou art Queen within my breast, 
 For ever to remain. 
 
 Oh lay thy loof in mine, lass, 
 In mine, lass, in mine, lass, 
 And swear on thy white hand, lass. 
 
 That thou wilt be my ain. 
 
 Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 
 'Mang moors an' mosses many, O, 
 
 The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 
 An' I'll awa' to Nannie, O. 
 
 The westlin wind blaws loud an' shrill; 
 
 The night's baith mirk an' rainy, O; 
 But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal, 
 
 An' owre the hills to Nannie, O. 
 
 My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' 
 young; 
 
 Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O; 
 May ill befa' the flattering tongue 
 
 That wad beguile my Nannie, O. 
 
 Her face is fair, her heart is true, 
 As spotless as she's bonnie, O: 
 
 The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew, 
 Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 
 
 A country lad is my degree. 
 
 An' few there be that ken me, O; 
 
 But what care I how few there be ? 
 I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O. 
 
 My riches a's my penny-fee, 
 An' I maun guide it cannie, O; 
 
 But warl's gear ne'er troubles me. 
 My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O, 
 
 Our auld gudeman delights to view 
 His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O; 
 
 But I'm as blythe that hauds his 
 pleugh, 
 An' has nae care but Nannie, 0.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 181 
 
 Come weel, come woe, I care na by, 
 I'll tak' what Heaven will sen' me, 
 
 Nae ither care in life ha'e I, 
 
 But live, an' love my Nannie, O. 
 
 HAPPY WE'VE BEEN A' 
 
 THEGITHER. 
 
 Attributed to Robert Burns. Many 
 critics, however, believe it to have been 
 the v/ork of Daniel Macphail, author of 
 "Blythe, Blythe around the Nappie." 
 
 Here around the ingle bleezin', 
 Wha sae happy and sae free ? 
 Tho' the northern wind blaws freezin', 
 Frien'ship warms baith you an' me. 
 • Happy we are a' thegither, 
 Happy we'll be ane an' a'; 
 Time shall see us a' the blyther 
 Ere we rise to gang awa.' 
 
 See the miser o'er his treasure 
 
 Gloating wi' a greedy e'e! 
 Can he feel the glow o' pleasure 
 
 That around us here we see ? 
 
 Can the peer in silk and ermine, 
 Ca' his conscience half his own ? 
 
 His claes are spun an' edged wi' 
 vermin 
 Tho' he Stan' afore a throne! 
 
 Thus then let us a' be tassing 
 Aff our stoups o' gen'rous flame; 
 
 An' while roun' the board 'tis passing, 
 Raise a sang in frien'ship's name. 
 
 Frien'ship mak's us a' mair happy, 
 
 Frien'ship gi'es us a' delight; 
 Frien'ship consecrates the drappie, 
 Frien'ship brings us here to-night. 
 Ha])py we've been a' thegither, 
 Happy we've been ane an' a'; 
 Time shall find us a' the blyther 
 When we rise to gang awa.' 
 
 YE JACOBITES BY NAME. 
 Attributed to Robeit Burns, 
 
 Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, 
 give an ear; 
 Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear; 
 Ye Jacobites by name, 
 
 Your fautes I will proclaim, , 
 Your doctrines I maun 
 blame — 
 You shall hear. 
 
 What is right, and what is wrang, by 
 the law, by the law. 
 What is right, and what is wrang, 
 by the law ? 
 What is right, and what is wrang ? 
 A short sword, and a lang, 
 A weak arm, and a Strang 
 For to draw. 
 
 What makes heroic strife, fam'd 
 afar, fam'd afar ? 
 What makes heroic strife, fam'd 
 afar ? 
 What makes heroic strife ? 
 To whet th' assassin's 
 knife. 
 Or hunt a parent's life 
 Wi' bluidie war. 
 
 Then let your schemes alone, in 
 the state, in the state; 
 Then let your schemes alone, 
 in the state; 
 Then let your schemes alone, 
 Adore the rising sun, 
 And leave a man un- 
 done 
 To his fate. 
 
 OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND 
 
 CAN BLAW. 
 
 The first two stanzas were written by 
 Robert Burns in honor of his wife. The 
 last two were added by John Hamilton, 
 and are generallj- used in singing the 
 song.
 
 182 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 
 
 I dearly like the west, 
 For there the bonnie lassie lives, 
 
 The lassie I lo'e best: 
 There wild woods grow, and rivers 
 row. 
 
 And mony a hill between; 
 But day and night my fancy's flight 
 
 Is ever wi' my Jean. 
 
 I see her in the dewy flowers, 
 
 I see her sweet and fair: 
 I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 
 
 I hear her charm the air: 
 There's not a bonnie flower that 
 springs 
 
 By fountain, shaw, or green. 
 There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 
 
 But minds me o' my Jean. j 
 
 O blaw, ye westlin' winds, blaw saft 
 
 Amang the leafy trees; 
 Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale. 
 
 Bring hame the laden bees; 
 And bring the lassie back to me 
 
 That's aye sae neat and clean; 
 Ae blink o' her wad banish care, 
 
 Sae lovely is my Jean. 
 
 What sighs and vows amang the 
 knowes, 
 
 Ha'e past atween us twa! 
 How fain to meet, how wae to part. 
 
 That day she gade awa'! 
 The powers aboon can only ken, 
 
 To whom the heart is seen, 
 That nane can be sae dear to me. 
 
 As my sweet lovely Jean! 
 
 Or the low-dwelling, snow-breasted 
 gowan, 
 Surcharg'd wi' mild e'ening's soft 
 tear } 
 O, then ye ha'e seen my dear lassie, 
 
 The lassie I lo'e best of a'; 
 But far frae the hame o' my lassie, 
 I'm mony a lang mile awa'. 
 
 Her hair is the wing o' the blackbird, 
 Her eye is the eye o' the dove. 
 
 Her lips are the ripe blushing rose- 
 bud, 
 Her bosom's the palace of love. 
 
 Though green be thy banks, O sweet 
 Clutha! 
 Thy beauties ne'er charm me ava; 
 
 Forgive me, ye maids o' sweet Clutha, 
 
 I My heart is wi' her that's awa'. 
 
 O love, thou'rt adear fleeting pleasure! 
 
 The sweetest we mortals here know; 
 But soon is thy heaven, bright beam- 
 ing 
 
 O'ercast with the darkness of woe. 
 As the moon, on the oft-changing 
 ocean, 
 
 Delights the loan mariner's eye, 
 Till red rush the storms of the desert, 
 
 And dark billows tumble on high. 
 
 OH! PITY AN AULD HIGH- 
 LAN' PIPER. 
 
 Also attributed to Robert Burns, Jr. 
 
 HA'E YE SEEN, IN THE CALM 
 DEWY MORNING. 
 Attributed to Robert Burns, Jr. 
 
 in the calm dewy 
 
 Ha'e ye seen, 
 morning. 
 The red-breast wild warbling 
 clear; 
 
 sae 
 
 Oh ! pity an auld Highlan' piper, 
 An' dinna for want let him dee: 
 
 Oh ! look at my faithfu' wee doggie, 
 The icicle hangs frae his e'e. 
 
 I ance had a weel theekit cot-house 
 On Morvala's sea-beaten shore; 
 
 But our laird turn'd me out frae my 
 cot-house ; 
 Alas! I was feckless an' puir.
 
 CELEBRATED HONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 183 
 
 My twa sons were baith press'd for 
 sailors, 
 
 An' brave for their kintra did fa'; 
 My auld wife she died soon o' sorrow, 
 
 An' left me bereft o' them a'. 
 
 I downa do ony sair wark, 
 
 For maist bauld is my lyart auld 
 pow, 
 :So I beg wi' my pipes, an' my doggie. 
 An' mony a place we've been 
 through. 
 
 I set mysel' down i' the gloamin', 
 An' tak' my wee dog on my knee, 
 
 An' I play on my pipes wi' sad sorrow. 
 An' the tear trickles doun frae my 
 e'e. 
 
 The tear trickles doun frae my e'e, 
 An' my heart's like to break e'en 
 in twa, 
 When I think on my auld wife an' 
 bairns, 
 That now are sae far, far awa'. 
 
 Come in thou puir lyart auld carle. 
 And here nae mair ill shalt thou 
 dree; 
 And lang as I'm laird o' this manor, 
 There's nane shall gae helpless frae 
 me. 
 
 And ye shall get a wee cot-house. 
 An' ye shall get baith milk an' meal; 
 
 For he that has sent it to me, 
 Has sent it to use it weel. 
 
 DUNCAN GRAY. 
 
 Johnson's museum. 
 
 The Scots Musical Museum was begun 
 in 1786 by William Johnson, a music 
 seller and engraver at Edinburgh. It was 
 undertaken at the suggestion of William 
 Tytler of Woodhouselee, and Dr. Black- 
 lock, and was intended to be in two 
 
 volumes. Its object was "to unite the 
 songs and music of Scotland in one 
 general collection." Bv the aid and con- 
 tributions of Burns, who once informed a 
 friend that he had "collected, begged, 
 borrowed and stolen all the songs he 
 could for it," the Museum ran the lenirth 
 of six volumes and wa^ completed in 1803. 
 A new edition with notes, &c., was com- 
 menced at one time by Mr. William Sten- 
 house, but he died in 1S27, leaving his 
 task unfinished. Mr. David Laing and 
 Mr. C. K. Sharp, however, took up the 
 work where he had left off, and in 1853 
 gave to the world an edition of this cele- 
 brated work the value of which is said to 
 be immeasurable. Johnson died in in- 
 digent circumstances at Edinburgh, in 
 February, 1811. He was the first to u?e 
 pewter plates for engraving music. The 
 following is the old version of Duncan 
 Gra)', communicated b}' Burns to the 
 Rlitsfum. 
 
 Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray, 
 
 Ha, ha, the girdin' o't; 
 Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray, 
 
 Ha, ha, the girdin' o't; 
 When a' the lave gae to their play, 
 Then I maun sit the lee-lang day, 
 An' jeeg the cradle wi' my tae. 
 
 An' a' for the girdin' o't. 
 
 Bonnie was the Lammas moon, 
 
 Ha, ha, the girdin' o't, 
 Glowrin' a' the hills aboon, 
 
 Ha, ha, the girdin* o't; 
 The girdin' brak', the beast cam' 
 
 down, 
 I tint my cruch an' baith my shoon; 
 An', Duncan, ye're an unco loon, 
 
 Wae on the bad girdin' o't. 
 
 But, Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith. 
 
 Ha, ha, the girdin' o't, 
 I'll bless you wi' my hindmost breath, 
 
 Ha, ha, the girdin' o't. 
 Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith. 
 The beast again can bear us baith, 
 An' auld Mess John will mend the 
 skaith, 
 
 An' clout the bad grindin' o't.
 
 184 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 THE CAMPBELLS ARE 
 COMING. 
 
 Johnson's museum. 
 
 Mr. Stenhouse s note on this song is as 
 follows:—" In the index to the third 
 volume of the A/useum, this song is said 
 to have been composed on the imprison- 
 ment of the unfortunate Mary, Queen of 
 Scots, in the Castle of Lochleven in 1567. 
 The Earl of Argyle was on the Queen's 
 party at the batile of Lan.side, in 156S, 
 and, perhaps, the tune may have been the 
 Campbell's quick-march for two centuries 
 past; but, nevertheless, the words of the 
 song contain intrinsic evidence that it is 
 not much above a century old. In all pro- 
 bability it was written about the year 1715, 
 on the'breaking out of the rebellion in the 
 reign of George I., when John Campbell, 
 the great Duke of Argyle, was made com- 
 mander-in-chief of his Majesty's forces in 
 North Britain, and was the principal 
 means of its total suppression. I have 
 seen the tune, however, in several old col- 
 lections." 
 
 The Campbells are coming, 0-ho, 
 0-ho! 
 The Campbells are coming, 0-ho! 
 The Campbells are coming to bonnie 
 Lochleven! 
 The Campbells are coming, 0-ho, 
 0-ho! 
 
 Upon the Lomonds I lay, I lay; 
 
 Upon the Lomonds I lay; 
 I lookit doun to bonnie Lochleven, 
 
 And saw three perches play. 
 The Campbells are coming, &c. 
 
 Great Argyle he goes before 
 
 He makes the cannons and guns to 
 roar; 
 With sound of trumpet, pipe and 
 drum; 
 The Campbells are coming, 0-ho, 
 0-ho! 
 
 The Campbells they are a' in arms, 
 Their loyal faith and truth to show, 
 
 With banners rattling in the wind; 
 The Campbells are coming, 0-ho, 
 0-ho! 
 
 O RATTLIN' ROARIN' WILLIE. 
 
 Johnson's museum. 
 
 The first two stanzas are a fragment of 
 an old song. Burns composed the last one, 
 " In compliment to one of the worthiest 
 fellows in the world, William Dunbar Esq. 
 writer to the Signet, Edinburgh, and Co!, 
 of the Crochallan Corps, a club of wits 
 who took that title at the time of raising 
 the fencible regiments." To this William 
 Dunbar, Burns afterwards became greatly 
 attached. He says in a letter to him: — 
 "I have a strong fancy that, in some 
 future eccentric planet, the comet of 
 happier systems than any with which 
 astronomy is yet acquainted, you and I, 
 among the harum-scarum sons of imagina- 
 tion and whim, with a hearty shake of a 
 hand, a metaphor, and a laugh, shall 
 recognize old acquaintance." 
 
 Another old song under the same title 
 begins thus: — 
 
 " O rattlin', roarin' Willie; 
 
 Where hae ye been sae late ? 
 I've been to court my INIaggie, 
 
 Sae weel's I ken the gate; 
 
 Sae weel's I ken the gate, 
 
 An' the tirlin' o' the pin; 
 Though it be never sae late. 
 
 She'll rise an' let me in." 
 
 O rattlin' roarin' Willie, 
 
 O he hied to the fair, 
 And for to sell his fiddle. 
 
 And buy some other ware ; 
 But parting wi' his fiddle. 
 
 The saut tear blin't his e'e; 
 And rattlin' roarin' Willie 
 
 Ye're welcome hame to me. 
 
 O, Willie, come sell your fiddle, 
 
 sell your fiddle sae fine; 
 O, Willie, come sell your fiddle. 
 
 And buy a pint o' wine. 
 If I should sell my fiddle, 
 
 The warld would think I was mad^. 
 For mony a rantin' day 
 
 My fiddle and I hae had. 
 
 As I cam' in by Crochallan, 
 
 1 cannily keekit ben; 
 Rattlin' roarin' Willie 
 
 Was sitting at yon board-en',
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 185 
 
 Sitting at yon board-en' 
 
 And amang gude companie; 
 
 Rattlin' roatin' Willie, 
 
 Ye'er welcome hame to me. 
 
 WE'RE A' NODDIN'. 
 Johnson's museum. 
 This is an old version altered by Burns. 
 
 Gude'en to you, Kimmer, 
 
 And how do ye do ? 
 Hiccup, quo' Kimmer, 
 
 The better that I'm fou. 
 We're a' noddin', nid, nid noddin'. 
 We're a' noddin' at our house at 
 hame. 
 
 Kate sits i' the neuk, 
 
 Suppin' hen broo; 
 Deil tak Kate 
 
 An' she be noddin' too ! 
 
 We're a' noddin', &c. 
 
 How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, 
 
 And how do ye fare ? 
 A pint o' the best o't, 
 
 And twa pints mair. 
 
 We're a' noddin', &c. 
 
 How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, 
 And how do you thrive; 
 
 How mony bairne hae ye ? 
 
 Quo' Kimmer, I ha'e five. 
 
 We're a' noddin', &c. 
 
 Cats like milk, 
 
 And dogs like broo; 
 Lads like lasses weel, 
 
 And lasses lads too. 
 
 We're a' noddin', &c. 
 
 THE BREIST KNOTS. 
 Johnson's museum. 
 
 Hey the bonnie, how the bonnie, 
 Hey the bonnie breist-knots! 
 
 Tight and bonnie were they a', 
 When they got on their breist- 
 knots. 
 
 There was a bridal in this town, 
 And till't the lasses a' were boun', 
 Wi' mankie facings on their gowns, 
 And some o' them had breist-knots. 
 
 At nine o'clock the lads convene. 
 Some clad in blue, some clad in 
 
 green, 
 Wi' glancin' buckles in their shoon, 
 
 And flowers upon their waist- 
 coats. 
 
 Forth cam' the wives a' wi' a 
 
 phrase. 
 And wished the lassie happy days; 
 Andmeikle thocht they o' her claes. 
 And 'specially the breist-knots. 
 
 HEY DONALD, HOWE 
 DONALD. 
 
 Johnson's museum. 
 A fragment of a very old song. 
 
 Hey, Donald, howe Donald, 
 
 Hey Donald Couper! 
 He's gane awa' to seek a wife. 
 
 And he's come hame without her. 
 
 O Donald Couper and his man 
 Held to a Highland fair, man; 
 
 And a' to seek a bonnie lass — 
 But fient a ane was there, man. 
 
 At length he got a carlin gray, 
 
 And she's come hirplin' hame, man; 
 
 And she's fawn ower the buffet stool. 
 And brak' her rumple-bane, man.
 
 186 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 LIZZY LINDSAY. 
 
 Johnson's museum. 
 Adapted by Burns from an earlier song. 
 
 Will ye gang wi" me, Lizzy Lindsay, 
 Will ye gang to the Highlands wi' 
 me? 
 
 Will ye gang wi' me, Lizzy Lindsay, 
 My bride and my darling to be ? 
 
 To gang to the Highlands wi' you, 
 sir, 
 I dinna ken how that may be; 
 For I ken nae the land that you 
 live in, 
 Nor ken I the lad I'm gaun wi'. 
 
 O Lizzy, lass, ye maun ken little, 
 
 If sae ye dinna ken me; 
 For my name is Lord Ronald Mac- 
 Donald, 
 
 A chieftain o' high degree. 
 
 She has kilted her coats o' green satin. 
 She has kilted them up to the knee, 
 
 And she's off wi' Lord Ronald Mac- 
 Donald, 
 His bride and his darling to be. 
 
 Though ye had a' the sun shines on, 
 And the earth conceals sae lowly, 
 
 I wad turn my back on you and it a', 
 And embrace my collier laddie. 
 
 I can win my five-pennies in a day, 
 And spen't at night fu' brawlie: 
 
 And make my bed in the collier's 
 neuk. 
 And lie down wi' my collier laddie. 
 
 Love for love is the bargain for me, 
 Tho' the wee cot-house should 
 haud me, 
 And the Avarld before me to win my 
 bread, 
 And fair fa' my collier laddie. 
 
 THE COLLIER LADDIE. 
 Johnson's museum. 
 
 Whare live ye, my bonnie lass, 
 And tell me what they ca' ye ? 
 
 My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, 
 And I follow the collier laddie. 
 
 See ye not yon hills and dales, 
 The sun shines on sae brawlie! 
 
 They a' are mine, they shall be thine. 
 Gin ye'll leave your collier laddie. 
 
 Ye shall gang in gay attire, 
 Weel buskit up sae gawdy: 
 
 And ane to wait on every hand, 
 Gin ye'll leave your collier laddie. 
 
 JAMIE O' THE GLEN. 
 
 Johnson's museum. 
 
 A vet)' old and at one time popular 
 song. 
 
 AuLD Rob, the laird o' muckle land. 
 To woo me was na very blate. 
 
 But spite o' a' his gear he fand 
 He came to woo a day owre late. 
 
 A lad sae blythe, sae fu' o' glee. 
 My heart did never ken, 
 
 And nane can gi'e sic joy to me 
 As Jamie o' the glen. 
 
 My minnie grat like daft, and rair'd. 
 To gar me wi' her will comply, 
 
 But still I wadna ha'e the laird, 
 Wi' a his ousen, sheep, and kye. 
 A lad sae blythe, &c. 
 
 Ah, what are silks and satins braw ? 
 
 What's a' his warldly gear to me ? 
 They're daft that cast themsel's awa', 
 
 Where nae content or love can be. 
 A lad sae blythe, &c.
 
 CELEBRATED SONOS OF SCOTLANL. 
 
 187 
 
 I cou'dna bide the silly clash 
 
 Came hourly frae the gawky laird! 
 
 And sae, to stop his gab and fash, 
 Wi' Jamie to the kirk repair'd. 
 
 A lad sae blythe, &c. 
 
 Now ilka summer's day sae lang, 
 And winter's clad wi' frost and 
 snaw, 
 
 A tunefu' lilt and bonnie sang 
 
 Aye keep dull care and strife awa.' 
 
 A lad sae blythe, &c. 
 
 HEY, THE DUSTY MILLER. 
 
 Johnson's museum. 
 A fragment of an old song. 
 
 Hey, the dusty miller, 
 And his dusty coat; 
 He will win a shilling, 
 Or he spend a groat. 
 Dusty was the coat. 
 
 Dusty was the color, 
 Dusty was the kiss 
 
 That I got frae the miller. 
 
 Hey, the dusty miller, 
 And his dusty sack: 
 Leeze me on the calling 
 Fills the dusty peck — 
 Fills the dusty peck, 
 
 Brings the dusty siller; 
 I wad gi'e my coatie 
 For the dusty miller. 
 
 KILLICRANKIE. 
 Johnson's museum. 
 
 Whare ha'e ye been sae braw, lad ? 
 
 Whare ha'e ye been sae brankie, O ? 
 Whare ha'e ye been sae braw, lad ? 
 
 Came ye by Killicrankie, O ? 
 
 An ye had been whare I ha'e 
 been. 
 
 Ye wadna been sae cantie, O; 
 An ye had seen what I ha'e seen, 
 
 r the braes o' Killicrankie, O. 
 
 I faught on land, I faught at sea, 
 At hame I faught my auntie, O; 
 
 But I met the devil and Dundee, 
 On the braes o' Killicrankie, O. 
 An ye had been, &c. 
 
 The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr. 
 And Clavers gat a clankie, O, 
 
 Or I had fed an Athol gled 
 
 On the braes o' Killicrankie, O. 
 An ye had been, &c. 
 
 O fie, Mackay, what gart ye lie 
 
 I' the bush ayont the brankie, O ? 
 Ye'd better kiss'd King Willie's loof. 
 Than come to Killicrankie, O. 
 It's nae shame, it's nae shame, 
 
 It's nae shame to shank ye, O; 
 There's sour slaes on Athol 
 braes, 
 And deils at Killicrankie, O. 
 
 TIBBIE FOWLER O' THE 
 
 GLEN. 
 
 Johnson's museum. 
 
 Tibbie Fowler o' tlje Glen, 
 
 There's ower mony wooin' at her; 
 Tibbie Fowler o' the Glen. 
 
 There's ower mony wooin' at her. 
 Wooin' at her, pu'in' at her, 
 Courtin' her, and canna get 
 her; 
 Filthy elf, it's for her pelf 
 
 That a' the lads are wooin' at 
 her. 
 
 Ten cam' east, and ten cam' west; 
 Ten cam' rowin' ower the water;
 
 188 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Twa cam' down the long dyke-side: 
 There's twa-and-thirty wooin' at 
 her. 
 There's seven but, and seven ben, 
 
 Seven in the pantry wi' her; 
 Twenty head about the door: 
 
 There's ane-and-forty wooin' at 
 her. 
 
 She's got pendles in her lugs; 
 
 Cockle-shells wad set her better! 
 High-heel'd shoon, and siller tags, 
 
 And a' the lads are wooin' at her. 
 
 Be a lassie e'er sae black, 
 
 Gin she ha'e the name o' siller, 
 
 Set her up on tintock tap. 
 
 The wind will blaw a man till her. 
 
 Be a lassie e'er so fair, 
 
 And she want the penny siller, 
 A flie may fell her i' the air. 
 
 Before a man be even'd till her. 
 
 O, AN YE WERE DEAD GUID- 
 
 MAN. 
 
 Johnson's museum. 
 
 O, AN ye were dead, guidman, 
 O, an ye were dead, guidman. 
 That I might wair my widowheid 
 Upon a ranting Highlandman. 
 
 There's six eggs in the pan, guidman. 
 There's six eggs in the pan, guidman ; 
 The ane to you and twa to me. 
 And three to our John Highlandman. 
 
 There's beef into the pot, guidman; 
 There's beef into the pot, guidman ; 
 The banes to you, the broe to me. 
 And the beef for our John Highland- 
 man. 
 
 There's sax horse in the sta', guidman, 
 There's sax horse in the sta', guidman; 
 
 There's ane to you, and twa to me. 
 And three to our John Highlandman. 
 
 There's sax kye in the byre, guidman, 
 
 There's sax kye in the byre, guidman; 
 
 There's nane o' them yours, but twa 
 o' them mine. 
 
 And the lave is our John Highland- 
 man's. 
 
 WHEN SHE CAM 
 BOBBIT FU' 
 
 BEN SHE 
 LAW. 
 
 JOHNSON S MUSEUM. 
 
 O WHEN she cam ben she bobbit fu' law, 
 O when she cam ben she bobbit fu' law. 
 And when she cam ben she kissed 
 
 Cockpen, 
 And syne she denied that she did it at a' 
 
 And wasna Cockpen richt saucy witha', 
 And wasna Cockpen richt saucy witha', 
 In leaving the dochter of a lord. 
 And kissing a collier lassie an a.'? 
 
 O never look doun, my lassie, at a', 
 O never look doun, my laf^^ie, at a'. 
 Thy lips are as sweet, and thy figure 
 
 complete, 
 As the finest dame in castle or ha'. 
 
 Though thou hae nae silk and hoUand 
 
 sae sma,' 
 Though thou hae nae silk and holland 
 
 sae sma'. 
 Thy coat and thy sark are thy ain 
 
 handywark, 
 And Lady Jean was never sae braw. 
 
 FAIRLY SHOT O' HER. 
 
 Johnson's museum. 
 
 Said to have been written by John 
 Anderson, an apprentice to Johnson, the 
 publisher of the Museum.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 189 
 
 O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! 
 Fairly, fairly, fairly shot o' her ! 
 O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! 
 If she were dead, I wad dance on 
 the top o' her. 
 
 Till we were married I couldna see 
 
 licht till her ; 
 For a month after, a' thing aye gaed 
 
 richt wi' her : 
 But these ten years I hae prayed for 
 
 a wright to her — 
 O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! 
 O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! &c. 
 
 Nane o' her relations or friends could 
 
 stay wi' her, 
 The neebors and bairns are fain to flee 
 
 frae her : 
 And I my ainsell am forced to gie way 
 
 till her : 
 O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! 
 O gin I were fairly shot o' her! &c. 
 
 She gangs aye sae braw, she's sae 
 
 muckle pride in her ; 
 There's no a gudewife in the haill 
 
 country-side like her : 
 Wi' dress and wi' drink, the deil wadna 
 
 bide wi' her : 
 O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! 
 O gin I were fairly shot o' her! &c. 
 
 If the time were but come that to the 
 
 kirk-gate wi' her. 
 And into the yird I'd mak mysell quit 
 
 o' her, 
 I'd then be as blythe as first when I 
 
 met wi' hejr ! 
 O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! 
 O gin I were fairly shot o' her! &c. 
 
 WITHIN A MILE OF EDIN- 
 BURGH TOWN. 
 
 JOHNSON'S MUS^.UM. 
 
 Towards the close of the seventeenth 
 century, Scottish songs and especially 
 
 Scottish airs, became very popular with 
 the people of England. In 1698 there was 
 published at London, Playford's "Wit and 
 Mirth," which contained a few imitations 
 of these, afterwards termed by Burns, 
 "Anglo-Scottish productions." Among 
 them we find the original version of "Within 
 a Mile of Edinburgh Town." It was writ- 
 ten by Thomas D'Urfey, and is entitled, 
 " 'Twas within a Furlong of Edinburgli 
 Town." Altogether it is a miserable 
 production, and we print the first verse 
 merely as a specimen of the others. 
 
 " 'Twas within a furlong of Edinburgh Town, 
 In the rosie time of the year when the grass was 
 down; 
 Bonnie Jockey, blythe and gay. 
 Said to Jenny making hay, 
 ' Let's sit a little, dear, and prattle, 
 
 'Tis a sultry day.' 
 He long had courted the black-brow'd maid, 
 But Jockey was a wag, and would ne'er consent to 
 
 wed; 
 Which made her pshaw and phoo, and cry out ' It 
 
 will not do, 
 I cannot, cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot buckle 
 too.' " 
 
 In 1719, D'Urfey published his " Pills 
 to Purge Melancholy:" a collection of 
 songs, &c. This work also contains a 
 number of trashy imitations of Scottish 
 songs and music, and although it can 
 prove of little or no importance to anj'one 
 nowadays, yet it is very scarce, and a high 
 price is easily obtained for any stray 
 copies which may be offered for sale. It 
 is not known who composed the modern 
 version of "Within a Mile of Edinburgh 
 Town." It first appeared in Johnson s Mu- 
 setun, and has since become a favorite song 
 at home and abroad; but we think that 
 this is more on account of the beautiful 
 air to which it is sung, than from any 
 value which can be attached to the words. 
 " Jockey and Jenny," says Dr. Robert 
 Chambers, "were names which, for a 
 long period previous to the early part of 
 the last century, acted as general titles 
 for every Scottish pair in humble life. 
 The male name in particular, was then 
 invariably used by the English as appro- 
 priate to the personified idea of a Scots- 
 man, exactly as 'Sandy' is used at the 
 present day." 
 
 'TwAS within a mile of Edinburgh 
 town, 
 In the rosy time of the year,
 
 190 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Sweet flowers bloom'd, and the grass 
 
 was down, 
 And each shepherd woo'd his dear; 
 
 Bonny Jockey, blythe and gay, 
 
 Kiss'd sweet Jenny making hay; 
 The lassie blush'd, and, frowning, 
 
 cried, 
 
 " Na, na, it winna do; 
 I canna, canna, winna, winna, munna 
 
 buckle to." 
 
 Jockey was a wag that ne'er wad wed, 
 
 Tho' lang he had follow'd the lass ; 
 
 Contented she earned and ate her 
 
 brown bread, 
 And merrily turn'd up the grass. 
 
 Bonny Jockey, blythe and free. 
 
 Won her heart right merrily; 
 Yet still she blush'd, and, frowning, 
 
 cried, 
 
 " Na, na, it winna do; 
 I canna, canna, winna, winna, munna 
 
 buckle to." 
 
 But when he vow'd, he wad make her 
 
 his bride, 
 Tho' his flocks and herds were but 
 
 few, 
 She gied him her hand, and a kiss 
 
 beside, 
 And vow'd she'd for ever be true, 
 
 Bonny Jockey, blythe and free. 
 
 Won her heart right merrily; 
 At church she nae mair, frowning, 
 
 cried, 
 
 " Na, na, it winna do, 
 I canna, canna, winna, winna, munna 
 
 buckle to." 
 
 COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE. 
 
 Johnson's museum. 
 
 There are numerous versions of this old 
 song in existence. The following one 
 was prepared by Burns for the Museum. 
 
 Gin a body meet a body 
 
 Comin' through the rye, 
 Gin a body kiss a body. 
 
 Need a body cry .'' 
 Every lassie has her laddie, 
 
 Nane, they say, ha'e I! 
 Yet a' the lads they smile at me, 
 
 When comin' through the rye. 
 Amang the train there is a swain 
 
 I dearly lo'e mysel; 
 But whaur his hame, or what his name, 
 I dinna care to tell. 
 
 Gin a body meet a body, 
 
 Comin' frae the town. 
 Gin a body greet a body, 
 
 Need a body frown ? 
 Every lassie has her laddie, 
 
 Nane, they say, ha'e I! 
 Yet a' the lads they smile at me, 
 
 When comin' through the rye. 
 Amang the train there is a swain, 
 
 I dearly lo'e mysel ; 
 But whaur his hame, or what his name, 
 I dinna care to tell. 
 
 COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE. 
 modern version. 
 
 Gin a body meet a body 
 
 Comin' through the rye ; 
 Gin a body kiss a body 
 
 Need a body cry ? 
 Ilka lassie has her laddie, 
 
 Nane, they say, ha'e I ; 
 Yet a' the lads they smile on me 
 
 When comin' through the rye. 
 
 Gin a body n^eet a body 
 
 Comin' frae the well ; 
 Gin a body kiss a body. 
 
 Need a body tell ? 
 Ilka lassie has her laddie, 
 
 Ne'er a ane ha'e 1 ; 
 But a' the lads they smile on me 
 
 When comin' through the rye.
 
 CELEBRATED S0N08 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 191 
 
 Gin a body meet a body 
 
 Comin' frae the town ; 
 Gin a body meet a body, 
 
 Need a body frown ? ^ 
 Ilka lassie has her laddie, 
 
 Nane, they say, ha'e I ; 
 But a' the lads they lo'e me weel, 
 
 An' what the waur am I ? 
 
 HELLEN OF KIRKCONNEL. 
 
 JOHN MAYNE. 
 
 There are at least three different versions 
 of this ballad or song, known to exist. 
 The first two are old, while the following 
 one is of modern date, having been written 
 by John Mayne, about 1805, and was first 
 published in the Edinburgh Annual Regis- 
 ter-, for 1815. Mayne is well known to all 
 readers of Scottish literature as the author 
 of " The Siller Gun," a poem which con- 
 tains many passages of striking originality 
 and power. He is also held in high esteem 
 by many admirers of his beautiful version 
 of the old song, "Logan Braes." Mayne 
 was born in humble circumstances, at 
 Dumfries, in 1761, and at an early age 
 began the battle of life as a printer's ap- 
 prentice. He soon acquired a taste for 
 literature, and when only sixteen years of 
 age composed some verses which displayed 
 considerable poetical talent, and gained for 
 him the favorable notice of many eminent 
 men of letters. He became editorand part 
 proprietor of the 5/«rnewspaper, published 
 in London, and continued his connection 
 with it until his death. He was a warm- 
 hearted genial Scotsman and a most 
 enthusiastic admirer of everything that 
 pertained to the land of his birth. He died 
 in 1836, at the ripe age of seventy-five, and 
 was followed to his last resting place by a 
 large body of friends, to whom he had 
 endeared himself by his many noble acts 
 of charity, his fine social qualities and his 
 free and unassuming manner. 
 
 The tradition on which the song of "Hel- 
 en of Kirkconnel" is founded dates back 
 to the regime of the ill-fated Mary Queen 
 of Scots. The heroine, Ellen Terry, was 
 a daughter of the ancient house of Kirk- 
 connel, in Annandale, Scotland, and was 
 famed throughout the neighborhood where- 
 
 in she resided, for her remarkable beauty 
 and various other accomplishments. At 
 the age of nineteen she became the affianced 
 bride of a young gentleman named Adam 
 Fleming, having, however at an earlier 
 age, neglected the addresses of another 
 youthful suitor, whose tender feelings her 
 heart had been unable to reciprocate. 
 Both young men were of handsome ap- 
 pearance and each was endowed with an 
 equal amount of rank and fortune, and 
 when the rejected lover became aware of 
 his mistress' betrothal to his rival Fleming, 
 he swore to be revenged on him in a man- 
 ner that would forever silence the ringing 
 of his marriage bells. One moonlight 
 night, as Helen was walking with Fleming 
 along the banks of a small stream, called 
 the Kirtle, she became greatly alarmed on 
 noticing that her neglected lover was 
 closely following them on the other side 
 of the stream, and when he had reached 
 a point exactly opposite to them, she, 
 with horror, beheld him raise a pistol and 
 take aim at the man on whose arm she 
 reclined. Without hesitating an instant 
 she placed herself in front of him, receiv- 
 ing at the same moment, in her breast, the 
 fatal bullet that had been intended for the 
 heart of her favored suitor. She sank 
 moaning into his arms and expired in a 
 few moments. Exasperated to fury by 
 the sudden and treacherous death of his 
 beautiful young mistress, Fleming cross- 
 ed the stream and pursued her slayer with 
 such speed that he soon overtook him, and 
 with one powerful blow he knocked him 
 senseless to the ground and drove his 
 sword through his body, or to quote the 
 words of the old ballad — 
 
 " I crossed the stream, the sword did draw, 
 I hacked him into pieces sma,' 
 I hacked him into pieces sma,' 
 For her sake that died for me." 
 
 Having thus avenged the death of fair 
 Helen, he fled to Spain, where with a 
 view of atoning in some measure for the 
 deed he had committed he joined an army 
 and fought for many years against the 
 infidels. At length, however, on becom- 
 ing tired of warfare he returned home, 
 and having sought out the grave of the 
 woman who had so nobly sacrificed her 
 young life for his, he laid himself down 
 among the long grass b}' her side and died 
 of a broken heart. He was interred next 
 day in the spot where he had died and his 
 grave is still to be seen in the old Kirk- 
 connel Churchyard with its weather-beaten
 
 192 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 headstone, on which is carved a cross and 
 a sword with the words underneath, " Hie 
 Jacet Adam Fleming." 
 
 I WISH I were where Helen lies,_ 
 For night and day on me she cries, 
 And like an angel to the skies 
 
 Still seems to beckon me! 
 For me she lived, for me she sighed, 
 For me she wished to be a bride; 
 For me in Life's sweet morn she died 
 
 On fair Kirkconnel-Lee! 
 
 Where Kirtle waters gently wind, 
 As Helen on my arm reclined, 
 A rival with a ruthless mind 
 
 Took deadly aim at me; 
 My love, to disappoint the foe, 
 Rushed in between me and the blow; 
 And now her corse is lying low 
 
 On fair Kirkconnell-Lee! 
 
 Though heaven forbids my wrath to 
 
 swell, 
 I curse the hand by which she fell— 
 The fiend who made my heaven a hell, 
 
 And tore my love from me ; 
 For if, where all the graces shine — 
 Oh, if on earth there's aught divine 
 My Helen! all those charms were thine. 
 
 They centred all in thee ! 
 
 Ah, what avails it that amain, 
 
 I clove the assassin's head in twain ; 
 
 No peace of mind, my Helen slain, 
 
 No resting place for me ; 
 I see her spirit in the air — 
 I hear the shriek of wild despair. 
 When Murder laid her bosom bare, 
 
 On fair Kirkconnel-Lee ! 
 
 Oh, when I'm sleeping in my grave 
 And o'er my head the rank weeds wave, 
 May He who life and spirit gave, 
 
 Unite my love and me ! 
 Then from this world of doubts and 
 
 • sighs 
 My soul on wings of peace shall rise; 
 And joining Helen in the skies. 
 
 Forget Kirkconnel-Lee. 
 
 LOGAN'S BRAES. 
 
 JOHN MAYNE. 
 
 John Ma^-ne oni_v composed the first 
 three stanzas of this'song. The last three, 
 which, by the way, are very inferior in 
 style, were added by an anonymous writer, 
 and first published in Duncan's " Encyclo- 
 paedia of Scottish, English and Irish 
 Songs," at Glasgow, in 1836. The stream 
 froni whxh the song takes its name sepa- 
 rates the parishes of Lesmahagoand Muir- 
 kirk, in the southwest of Scotland, and 
 after flowing for nearly eight miles reaches 
 the river Nethan, into which it deposits 
 its waters. The air, which is very sweet 
 and pathetic, can be traced as far back as 
 the middle of the seventeenth century. 
 
 ' ' By Logan's streams that rin sae deep, 
 Fu' aft wi' glee Fve herded sheep; 
 Herded sheep or gather'd slaes, 
 Wi' my dear lad, on Logan braes. 
 But wae's my heart ! thae days are gane, 
 And I, wi' grief, may herd alane; 
 While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
 Far, far frae me an' Logan braes. 
 
 " Nae mair at Logan kirk will he 
 Atween the preachin's meet wi' me; 
 Meet wi' me, or when it's mirk. 
 Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk. 
 I weel may sing thae days are gane — 
 Frae kirk an' fair I come alane. 
 While my dear lad maun face his faes. 
 Far, far frae me an' Logan braes. 
 
 " At e'en, when hope amaist is gane, 
 I dauner out, or sit alane — 
 Sit alane beneath the tree 
 Where aft he kept his tryst wi' me. 
 Oh! could I see thae days again. 
 My lover scaithless, an' my ain! 
 Belov'd by frien's, rever'd by faes, 
 We'd live in bliss on Logan braes." 
 
 While for her love she thus did sigh, 
 She saw a sodger passin' by, 
 Passin' by wi' scarlet claes, 
 While sair she grat on Logan braes. 
 Says he, "What gars thee greet sae 
 sair —
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 193 
 
 What fills thy heart sae fu' o' care ? 
 Thae sporting lambs hae blythesome 
 
 days, 
 An' playfu' skip on Logan braes." 
 
 "■ What can I do but weep an' mourn ? 
 I fear my lad will ne'er return — 
 Ne'er return to ease my waes, 
 Will ne'er come harae to Logan 
 
 braes." 
 AVi' that he clasp'd her in his arms, 
 And said, " I'm free frae war's alarms, 
 I now ha'e conquer'd a' my faes. 
 We'll happy live on Logan braes." 
 
 Then straight to Logan kirk they 
 
 went, 
 An' join'd their hands wi' one con- 
 sent, 
 Wi' one consent to end their days, 
 And live in bliss on Logan braes. 
 An' now she sings, '' Thae days are 
 
 gane, 
 When I wi' grief did herd alane. 
 While my dear lad did fight his faes, 
 Far, far frae me an" Logan braes." 
 
 THE WINTER SAT LANG. 
 
 JOHN MAYNE. 
 
 The winter sat lang on the spring o' 
 
 the year, 
 Our seedtime was late, and our mail- 
 ing was dear; 
 My mither tint her heart when she 
 
 look'd on us a', 
 And we thought upon those that were 
 
 farest awa'. 
 Oh, were they but here that are farest 
 
 awa' ! 
 Oh, were they but here that are dear 
 
 to us a'! 
 Our cares would seem light and our 
 
 sorrow but sma', 
 If they were but here that are far frae 
 
 us a'! 
 
 Last week, when our hopes were o'er- 
 
 clouded wi' fear, 
 And nae ane at hame the dull pros- 
 pect to cheer; 
 Our Johnnie had written, frae far awa* 
 
 parts, 
 A letter that lightens and bauds up 
 
 our hearts. 
 He says, " My dear mither, though I 
 
 be awa,' 
 In love and affection I'm still wi' ye' a'; 
 While I ha'e a being ye'se aye hae 
 
 a ha', 
 Wi' plenty to keep out the frost and 
 
 the snaw." 
 
 My mither, o'erjoy'd at this change 
 
 in her state. 
 By the bairn she doated on early and 
 
 late, 
 Gi'es thanks night and day to the 
 
 Giver of a', 
 There's been naething unworthy o' 
 
 him that's awa'! 
 Then here is to them that are far frae 
 
 us a', 
 The friend that ne'er fail'd us, though 
 
 farest awa'! 
 Health, peace, and prosperity wait on 
 
 us a'; 
 And a blithe comin' hame to the friend 
 
 that's awa'! 
 
 SAW YE JOHNIE COMIN'.? 
 
 JOANNA BAILLIE 
 
 Joanna Baillie was the daughter of the 
 Rev. Dr. Baillie, minister at one time 
 of Bothwell in Lanarkshire. She was born 
 in 1762, and received an education super- 
 ior in many respects lo that which was 
 generally afforded to her sex in Scotland 
 at that date. From her earliest years she 
 exhibited a remarkable power in writing 
 verses, and at the age of twenty-eight, 
 ventured on the publication of a small 
 volume of poems and songs, which did
 
 194 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 not, however, receive a very flattering ac- 
 knowledgment from the public. Eight 
 years later she published a volume of 
 plays, and the genuine talent displayed 
 in this volume at once established her re- 
 putation as an authoress. Among her 
 best known songs are "Saw ye Johnnie 
 Comin'?" "Todlin' Hame," "The Wee 
 Pickle Tow," and " Fy, let us a' to the 
 Wedding." These and many others were 
 contributed at intervals to Thomson's 
 Melodies, and The Harp of Caledonia. 
 Miss Baillie was a very charitable woman, 
 and had always a kind word to bestow on 
 anyone who needed her sympathy. Among 
 her personal friends she numbered Sir 
 Walter Scott, who admired her writings 
 ver}' much and dedicated one of his poems 
 to her. She died at Hampstead, England, 
 in the 89th year of her age. 
 
 "Saw ye Johnnie comin' ?" quo she; 
 
 " Saw ye Johnnie comin' ? 
 AVi' his blue bonnet on his head, 
 
 And his doggie rinnin'. 
 Yestreen, about the gloamin' time, 
 
 I chanced to see him comin', 
 WhistHng merrily the tune, 
 
 That I am a' day hummin'," quo, 
 she; 
 '* I am a' day hummin'." 
 
 "Fee him, faither, fee him," quo' she; 
 
 "Fee him, faither, fee him; 
 A' the wark about the house 
 
 Gaes wi' me when I see him: 
 A' the work about the house 
 
 I gang sae lightly through it; 
 And though you pay some merks o' 
 gear, 
 
 'Hoot! ye winna rue it," quo' she; 
 " No; ye winna rue it." 
 
 " What wad I do wi' him, hizzy? 
 
 What wad I do wi' him ? 
 He's ne'er a sark upon his back, 
 
 And I hae nane to gi'e him." 
 "I hae twa sarks into my kist, 
 
 And ane o' them I'll gi'e him." 
 And for a merk o' mair fee. 
 
 Oh, dinna stand wi' him," quo' she; 
 " Dinna stand wi' him." 
 
 " Weel do I lo'e him," quo' she; 
 
 "Weel do I lo'e him; 
 The brawest lads about the place 
 
 Are a' but hav'rels to him. 
 Oh, fee him, faither; lang, I trow, 
 
 We've dull and dowie been: 
 He'll haud the plough, thrash i' the 
 barn, 
 
 And crack wi' me at e'en," quo' she; 
 "Crack wi' me at e'en." 
 
 GOOD NIGHT, GOOD NIGHT. 
 
 JOANNA BAILLIE. 
 
 The sun is sunk, the day is done, 
 E'en stars are setting one by one; 
 Nor torch nor taper longer may 
 Eke out the pleasures of the day; 
 And since, in social glee's despite. 
 It needs must be. Good night, good 
 night! 
 
 The bride into her bower is sent, 
 And ribbald rhyme and jesting spent; 
 The lover's whisper'd words and few 
 Have bade the bashful maid adieu; 
 The dancing-floor is silent quite — 
 No foot bounds there; Good night, 
 good night! 
 
 The lady in her curtain'd bed, 
 The herdsman in his wattled shed, 
 The clansman in the heather'd hall. 
 Sweet sleep be with you, one and all! 
 We part in hope of days as bright 
 As this now gone — Good night, good 
 night! 
 
 Sweet sleep be with us one and all ! 
 And if upon its stillness fall 
 The visions of a busy brain, 
 We'll have our pleasure o'er again; 
 To warm the heart, to charm the sight, 
 Gay dreams to all! Good night, good 
 night!
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 195 
 
 THE WEARY FUND O* TOW. 
 
 JOANNA BAILLE. 
 
 Burns furnished a version of this song 
 to Johnson's Museum. (See page 170). 
 
 A young gudewife is in my house, 
 
 And thrifty means to be, 
 But aye she's runnin' to the town 
 
 Some ferlie there to see. 
 
 The weary pund, the weary pund, the 
 
 weary pund o' tow, 
 I soothly think, ere it be spun, I'll 
 
 wear a lyart pow. 
 
 And when she sets her to her wheel, 
 To draw her threads wi' care. 
 
 In comes the chapman wi' his gear. 
 And she can spin nae mair. 
 
 The weary pund, etc. 
 
 And then like ony merry May, 
 
 At fairs may still be seen, 
 At kirkyard preachings near the tent. 
 
 At dances on the green. 
 
 The weary pund, etc. 
 
 Her dainty ear a fiddle charms, 
 
 A bagpipe's her delight, 
 But for the crooning o' her wheel 
 
 She disna care a mite. 
 
 The weary pund, etc. 
 
 "You spake, my Kate, of snaw-white 
 webs 
 
 Made o' your hinkum twine, 
 But, ah! I fear our bonnie burn 
 
 Will ne'er lave web o' thine. 
 
 The weary pund, etc, 
 
 " Nay, smile again, my winsome mate, 
 
 Sic jeering means nae ill ; 
 Should I gae sarkless to my grave, 
 
 I'll lo'e and bless thee still." 
 
 The weary pund, etc. 
 
 POVERTY PARTS GUDE 
 COMPANIE. 
 
 JOANNA BAILLE. 
 
 When wliite was my o'erlay as foam 
 
 o' the linn, 
 And siller was clinkin' my pouches 
 
 within; 
 When my lambkins were bleating on 
 
 meadow and brae; 
 As I gaed to my love in new deeding 
 
 sae gay, 
 Kind was she, and my friends were 
 
 free, 
 But poverty parts gude companie. 
 
 How swift pass'd the minutes and 
 
 hours of delight! 
 The piper play'd cheerly, the crusie 
 
 burn'd bright; 
 And link'd in my hand was the 
 
 maiden sae dear. 
 As she footed the floor in her holiday 
 
 gear. 
 Woe is me, and can it then be, 
 That poverty parts sic companie! 
 
 We met at the fair, we met at the kirk, 
 We met in the sunshine and met in 
 
 the mirk. 
 And the sounds of her voice, and the 
 
 blinks of her een, 
 The cheering and life of my bosom 
 
 have been. 
 Leaves frae the tree at Martinmas 
 
 flee; 
 And poverty parts sweet companie. 
 
 At bridal and infare I've braced me 
 
 wi' pride; 
 The bruse I ha'e won, and a kiss o' the 
 
 bride; 
 And loud was the laughter gay fellows 
 
 among, 
 When I utter'd my banter and 
 
 chorus'd my song. 
 Dowie to dree are jesting and glee, 
 When poverty parts gude companie.
 
 196 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Wherever I gaed the blythe lasses 
 
 smiled sweet, 
 And mithers and aunties were mair 
 
 than discreet, 
 While kebbuck and bicker were set 
 
 on the board; 
 But now they pass by me, and never a 
 
 word. 
 So let it be, for the worldly and 
 
 slie 
 Wi' poverty keep nae companie. 
 
 HOOLY AND FAIRLY. 
 
 JOANNA BAILLIE. 
 
 Oh! neighbors! what had I to do for 
 
 to marry ? 
 My wife she drinks posset and wine 
 
 o' Canary; 
 And ca's me a niggardly, thrawn-gab- 
 
 bet cairly, 
 
 O gin my Avife wad drink hooly and 
 
 fairly! 
 Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly; 
 O gin my wife wad drink hooly 
 
 and fairly! 
 
 She sups, wi' her kimmers, on dainties 
 enow. 
 
 Aye bowing, and smirking, and wip- 
 ing her mou'; 
 
 While I sit aside, and am helpit but 
 sparely. 
 
 O gin my wife wad feast hooly 
 
 and fairly! 
 Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly; 
 O gin my wife wad feast hooly 
 
 and fairly! 
 
 To fairs, and to bridals, and preach- 
 ings an' a', 
 
 She gangs sae light-headed; and bus- 
 kit sae braw. 
 
 In ribbons and mantuas, that gar me 
 gae barely. 
 
 O gin my wife wad spend hooly 
 
 and fairly! 
 Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly! 
 O gin my wife wad spend hooly 
 
 and fairly! 
 
 r the kirk sic commotion last Sab- 
 bath she made, 
 
 Wi' babs o' red roses, and breast-knots 
 o'erlaid; 
 
 The dominie stickit the psalm very 
 nearly. 
 
 O gin my wife wad dress hooly and 
 fairly ! 
 Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly; 
 O gin my wife wad dress hooly and 
 fairly. 
 
 She's warring and flyting frae mornin' 
 
 till e'en. 
 And if ye gainsay her, her een glower 
 
 sae keen; 
 Then tongue, neive and cudgel she'll 
 
 lay on me sairly. 
 
 O gin my wife wad strike hooly and 
 fairly! 
 Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly; 
 O gin my wife wad. strike hooly and 
 fairly. 
 
 When tired wi' her cantrips, she lies 
 in her bed — 
 
 The wark a' negleckit, the chalmer 
 unred — 
 
 While a' our gude neighbors are stirr- 
 ing sae early. 
 
 O gin my wife wad wark timely and 
 
 fairly; 
 Timely and fairly, timely and 
 
 fairly; 
 O gin my wife wad wark timely and 
 
 fairly ! 
 
 A word o' gude counsel or grace she'll 
 
 hear none; 
 She bandies the elders, and mocks at 
 
 Mess John;
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 197 
 
 While back in his teeth his own text 
 she flings sairly. 
 
 O gin my wife wad speak hooly and 
 
 fairly! 
 Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly! 
 O gin my wife wad speak hooly and 
 
 fairly! 
 
 I wish I were single, I wish I were 
 
 freed; 
 I wish I were doited, I wish I were 
 
 dead; 
 Or she in the mouls, to dement me 
 
 nae mairly. 
 
 What does it 'vail to cry, Hooly and 
 
 fairly! 
 Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly; 
 Wasting my health to cry, Hooly 
 
 and fairly! 
 
 Scoff on, my rich Owen, for faint is 
 
 thy glee 
 When the maid of Llanwellyn smiles 
 
 sweetly on me. 
 
 The farmer rides proudly to market 
 
 or fair. 
 The clerk, at the alehouse, still claims 
 
 the great chair; 
 But of all our proud fellows the 
 
 proudest I'll be, 
 While the maid of Llanwellyn smiles 
 
 sweetly on me. 
 
 For blythe as the urchin at holiday 
 
 play. 
 And meek as the matron in mantle of 
 
 gray, 
 And trim as the lady of gentle degree, 
 Is the maid of Llanwellyn who smiles 
 
 upon me. 
 
 THE MAID OF LLANWELLYN. 
 
 JOANNA BAILLIE. 
 
 I've no sheep on the mountain, nor 
 
 boat on the lake, 
 Nor coin in my coffer to keep me 
 
 awake. 
 Nor corn in my garner, nor fruit on 
 
 my tree — 
 Yet the maid of Llanwellyn smiles 
 
 sweetly on me. 
 
 Soft tapping, at eve, to her window I 
 
 came, 
 And loud bay'd the watch-dog, loud 
 
 scolded the dame; 
 For shame, silly Lightfoot; what is it 
 
 to thee; 
 Though the maid of Llanwellyn smiles 
 
 sweetly on me ? 
 
 Rich Owen will tell you, with eyes full 
 
 of scorn, 
 Threadbare is my coat, and my hosen 
 
 are torn: 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S SONG. 
 
 JOANNA BAILLIE. 
 
 The gowan glitters on the sward, 
 
 The lav'rock's in the sky, 
 And Collie on my plaid keeps ward. 
 
 And time is passing by. 
 Oh, no! sad an' slow! 
 
 I hear nae welcome sound; 
 The shadow of our trystin' bush. 
 
 It wears sae slowly round! 
 
 My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west, 
 
 My lambs are bleating near, 
 But still the sound that I lo'e best, 
 
 Alack! I canna hear. 
 Oh, no! sad an' slow! 
 
 The shaddow lingers still; 
 And like a lanely ghaist I stand, 
 
 And croon upon the hill. 
 
 I hear below the water roar. 
 The mill wi' clackin' din;
 
 198 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 And Lucky scolding frae her door, 
 
 To bring the bairnies in. 
 Oh, no! sad an' slow! 
 
 These are nae sounds for me ; 
 The shadow of our trystin' bush, 
 
 It creeps sae drearily. 
 
 I coft yestreen frae chapman Tam, 
 
 A snood of bonnie blue, 
 And promised, when our trystin' 
 cam', 
 To tie it round her brow. 
 
 Oh, no! sad an' slow! 
 The time it winna pass; 
 The shaddow of that weary thorn 
 Is tether'd on the grass. 
 
 O now I see her on the way. 
 
 She's passed the witches' knowe ; 
 She's climbin' up the brownie's brae — 
 
 My heart is in a lowe. 
 Oh, no! 'tis na so! 
 
 'Tis glaumrie I hae seen: 
 The shadow of that hawthorn bush 
 
 Will move nae mair till e'en. 
 
 My book of grace I'll try to read. 
 
 Though conn'd wi' little skill ; 
 When Collie barks I'll raise my head, 
 
 And find her on the hill. 
 Oh, no! sad an' slow! 
 
 The time will ne'er be gane ; 
 The shadow of the trystin' bush 
 
 Is fixed like ony stane. 
 
 IT FELL ON A MORNING 
 WHAN WE WERE THRANG. 
 
 JOANNA BAILLIE, 
 
 It fell on a morning whan we were 
 thrang. 
 Our kirn was gaun, our cheese was 
 
 making. 
 And bannocks on the girdle bak- 
 ing, 
 That ana at the door chapt loud and 
 
 Inns. 
 
 But the auld gudewife and her 
 Mays sae tight. 
 Of this stirring and din took sma' 
 notice, I ween 
 For a chap at the door, in braid 
 day-light, 
 Is no like a chap when heard at e'en. 
 
 Then the clocksey auld laird of the 
 warlock glen, 
 Wha stood without, half cow'd, 
 
 half cheerie. 
 And yearn 'd for a sight of his win- 
 some dearie. 
 Raised up the latch and came crouse- 
 ly ben. 
 His coat was new and his o'erlay 
 was white. 
 And his hose and his mittens were 
 coozy and bein ; 
 But a wooer that comes in braid 
 day-light, 
 Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en. 
 
 He greeted the carlin' and lasses sae 
 braw. 
 And his bare lyart pow he smooth- 
 ly straiket, 
 And looked about, like a body half 
 glaiket, 
 On bonnie sweet Nanny the youngest 
 of a'. 
 "Ha, ha!" quo' the carlin, "and 
 look ye that way ? 
 Hoot! le't nae sic fancies bewilder ye 
 clean: 
 An elderlin man i' the noon o' the 
 day. 
 Should be wiser than youngsters that 
 come at e'en." 
 
 " Na na! " quo' the pauky auld wife, 
 " I trow. 
 You'll fash na' your head wi' a 
 
 youthfu' gilly, 
 As wild and as skeigh as a muir- 
 land filly. 
 Black Madge is far better and fitter 
 for you."
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 199 
 
 He hem'd and he haw'd and he 
 screw'd in his mouth, 
 And he squeez'd his blue bonnet his 
 twa hands between, 
 For wooers that come when the 
 sun's in the south, 
 Are mair aukvvart than wooers that 
 come at e'en. 
 
 "Black Madge she is prudent." — 
 " What's that to me ?" 
 " She is eident and sober, has sense 
 
 in her noddle, 
 Is douse and respeckit." — " I care 
 na a boddle. 
 I'll baulk na' my luive, and my 
 fancy's free." 
 Madge toss'd back her head wi' a 
 saucy slight. 
 And Nanny ran laughing out to the 
 green ; 
 For wooers that come when the 
 sun shines bright. 
 Are na like the wooers that come at 
 e'en. 
 
 Awa* flung the laird and loud mut- 
 ter'd he: 
 " All the daughters of Eve between 
 
 Orkney and Tweed, O, 
 Black and fair, young and old, 
 dame, damsel, and widow. 
 May gang wi' their pride to the deil 
 forme!" 
 But the auld gudewife and her 
 Mays sae tight, 
 For a' his loud banning cared little, 
 I ween; 
 For a wooer that comes in braid 
 day-light. 
 Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en. 
 
 WOO'D, AND MARRIED, 
 AND A'. 
 
 JOANNA BAILLIE. 
 
 The bride she is winsome and bonnie. 
 Her hair it is snooded sae sleek; 
 
 And faithful and kind is her Johnnie, 
 Yet fast fa' the tears on her check. 
 
 New pearlings are cause o' her 
 sorrow — 
 New pearlings and plenishing too; 
 
 The bride that has a' to borrow 
 Has e'en right muckle ado. 
 
 Woo'd, and married, and a'; 
 Woo'd and married, and a'; 
 And is na she very weel aff. 
 To be woo'd, and married, and a'? 
 
 Her mither then hastily spak' — 
 
 "The lassie is glaikit wi' pride; 
 In my pouches I hadna a plack 
 
 The day that I was a bride. 
 E'en tak' to your wheel and be clever, 
 
 And draw out your thread in the 
 sun; 
 The gear that is gifted, it never 
 
 Will last like the gear that is won, 
 
 Woo'd, and married, and a', 
 Tocher and havings sae sma'; 
 I think ye are very weel aff 
 To be woo'd, and married, 
 and a'." 
 
 "Toot, toot!" quo' the grey headed 
 faither; 
 
 "She's less of a bride than a bairn; 
 She's ta'en like a cowt frae the 
 heather, 
 
 Wi' sense and discretion to learn. 
 Half husband, I trow, and half daddy, 
 
 As humor inconstantly leans; 
 A chiel' maun be constant and steady, 
 
 That yokes wi' a mate in her teens. 
 
 Kerchief, to cover so neat, 
 Locks the winds used to blaw; 
 I'm baith like to laugh and to 
 
 greet. 
 When I think o' her married 
 
 at a'." 
 
 Then out spak' the wily bridegroom, 
 Weel waled were his wordies, I 
 ween, —
 
 200 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 "I'm rich, though my coffer be toom, 
 Wi' the blinks o' your bonnie blue 
 een; 
 I'm prouder o' thee by my side, 
 Though thy ruffles or ribbons be 
 few, 
 Than if Kate o' the Craft were my 
 bride, 
 Wi' purples and pearlings enew. 
 Dear and dearest of ony, 
 I've woo'd, and bookit, and a'; 
 And do you think scorn o' your 
 
 Johnnie, 
 And grieve to be married at a'? " 
 
 She turn'd, and she blush'd, and she 
 smiled, 
 And she lookit sae bashfully down; 
 The pride o' her heart was beguiled. 
 And she played wi' the sleeve o' her 
 gown ; 
 She twirl'd the tag o' her lace, 
 
 And she nippit her boddice sae 
 blue; 
 Syne blinkit sae sweet in his face, 
 And aff like a maukin she flew. 
 Woo'd, and married, and a', 
 Married and carried awa'; 
 She thinks hersel' very weel aff, 
 To be woo'd, and married, and a'. 
 
 THE WEE PICKLE TOW. 
 
 JOANNA BAILLIE. 
 
 A LIVELY young lass had a wee pickle 
 tow, 
 And she thought to try the spinnin' 
 o't; 
 She sat by the fire, and her rock took 
 alow, 
 And that was an' ill beginnin' o't. 
 Loud and shrill was the cry that she 
 
 utter'd I ween; 
 The sudden mischanter brought tears 
 
 to her een ; 
 Her face it was fair, but her temper 
 was keen; 
 O dole for the ill beginnin' o't! 
 
 She stamp'd on the floor, and her twa* 
 
 hands she wrung. 
 Her bonnie sweet mou' she crookit, 
 
 O! 
 And fell was the outbreak of words 
 
 frae her tongue; 
 Like ane sair demented she lookit, 
 
 O! 
 " Foul fa' the inventor o' rock and o' 
 
 reel! 
 I hope, Gude forgi'e me, he's now wi' 
 
 the d — 1, 
 He brought us mair trouble than help,. 
 
 wot I weel; 
 O dole for the ill beginnin' o't! 
 
 "And now, when they're spinnin' and 
 
 kempin' awa', 
 They'll talk o' my rock and the 
 
 burnin' o't. 
 While Tibbie, and Mysie, and Maggie, 
 
 and a'. 
 Into some silly joke will be turnin"^ 
 
 it: 
 They'll say I was doited, they'll say I 
 
 was fu' 
 They'll say I was dowie, and Robin 
 
 untrue; 
 They'll say in the fire some luve- 
 
 powther I threw, 
 And that made the ill beginnin' o't, 
 
 O curst be the day, and unchancy 
 
 the hour. 
 When I sat me adown to the 
 
 spinnin' o't! 
 Then some evil spirit or warlock had 
 
 power. 
 And made sic an ill beginnin' o't. 
 May Spunkie my feet to the boggie 
 
 betray. 
 The lunzie folk steal my new kirtle 
 
 away, 
 And Robin forsake me for douce 
 
 Effie Grav, 
 The next time I try the spinnin' 
 
 o't!"
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 201 
 
 AS I CAM' DOWN THE CANON- 
 GATE. 
 
 From Cromck's Remains of Nithsdale 
 and Galloway Sontr. 
 
 As I cam' down the Canongate, 
 The Canongate, the Canongate, 
 As I cam' down the Canongate, 
 I heard a lassie 
 
 sing, 
 
 Merry may the keel row, 
 The keel row, the keel row. 
 Merry may the keel row, 
 The ship that my love's in. 
 
 My love has breath o' roses, 
 O' roses, o' roses, 
 Wi' arms o' lily posies, 
 To fauld a lassie in. 
 O merry, &c. 
 
 My love he wears a bonnet, 
 A bonnet, a bonnet, 
 A snawy rose upon it, 
 A dimple on his chin. 
 O merry, &c. 
 
 NEIL GOW'S FAREWEEL TO 
 WHISKY. 
 
 MRS. AGNES LYON. 
 
 Mrs. Agnes Lyon was a daughter of John 
 R. L'Amy, of Dunkenn}', Forfarshire. 
 She was born at Dundee, in 1762, and in 
 1786, became the wife of the Rev. Dr. 
 Lyon, Minister of Glammis. She died in 
 1840. She says in reference to this song: 
 
 "Everybody knows Neil Gow. When 
 he was poorly, the physicians forbade him 
 to drink his favorite liquor. The words 
 following were composed, at his particular 
 desire, to a lamentation he had just made." 
 
 You've surely heard o' famous Neil, 
 The man that play'd the fiddle weel; 
 I wat he was a canty chiel. 
 
 And dearly lo'ed the whisky, O. 
 
 And, aye sin' he wore the tartan trews. 
 He dearly liket Athole brose; 
 And wae was he, you may suppose. 
 To play fareweel to whisky, O. 
 
 Alake, quoth Neil, I'm frail and auld. 
 And find my blude grows unco cauld; 
 Ithink'twadmakemeblytheandbauld, 
 
 A wee drap Highland whisky, O. 
 Yet the doctors they do a' agree. 
 That whisky's no the drink for me. 
 Saul! quoth Neil, 'twill spoil my glee. 
 
 Should they part me and whisky, O. 
 
 Though I can baith get wine and ale. 
 And find my head and fingers hale, 
 I'll be content, though legs should fail. 
 
 To play fareweel to whisky, O. 
 But still I think on auld lang syne. 
 When Paradise our friends did tyne. 
 Because something ran in their mind — 
 Forbid like Highland whisky, O. 
 
 Yet I'll tak' my fiddle in my hand. 
 And screw the pegs up while they'll 
 
 stand, 
 To make a lamentation grand. 
 
 On gude auld Highland whisky, O. 
 Come, a' ye powers o' music, come; 
 I find my heart grows unco glum; 
 My fiddle-strings will no play bum, 
 
 To say, Fareweel to whisky, O. 
 
 WITHIN THE TOWERS OF 
 ANCIENT GLAMMIS. 
 
 MRS. AGNES LYON. 
 
 Within the towers of ancient Glammis 
 
 Some merry men did dine, 
 And their host took care they should 
 richly fare 
 In friendship, wit and wine. 
 But they sat too late, and mistook the 
 gate.
 
 202 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 (For wine mounts to the brain); 
 O, 'twas merry in the hall, when the 
 beards wagg'd all: 
 O, we hope they'll be back again; 
 We hope they'll be back again! 
 
 Sir Walter tapped at the parson's door, 
 
 To find the proper way, 
 But he dropt his switch, though there 
 was no ditch, 
 
 And on the steps it lay. 
 So his wife took care of this nice affair. 
 
 And she wiped it free from stain; 
 For the knight was gone, nor the 
 owner known, 
 
 So he ne'er got the switch again; 
 
 So he ne'er got the switch again. 
 
 This wondrous little whip remains 
 
 Within the lady's sight, 
 (She crambo makes, with some 
 mistakes. 
 But hopes for further light). 
 So she ne'er will part with this switch 
 so smart. 
 These thirty years her ain; 
 Till the knight appear, it must just lie 
 here. 
 He will ne'er get his switch again; 
 He will ne'er get his switch again. 
 
 Waitin' on me, my love, 
 
 He's waitin' on me; 
 For he's low doun, he's in the 
 
 brume. 
 That's waitin' on me. 
 
 My auntie Kate sits at her wheel, 
 
 And sair she lightlies me; 
 But weel ken I it's a' envy, 
 
 For ne'er a joe has she. 
 
 But let them say, &c. 
 
 My cousin Kate was sair beguiled 
 
 Wi' Johnnie o' the Glen; 
 And aye sinsyne she cries. Beware 
 
 O' fause deluding men ; 
 But let them say, &c. 
 
 Gleed Sandy, he cam' wast yestreen, 
 And speir'd when I saw Pate; 
 
 And aye sinsyne the neebors round 
 They jeer me air and late; 
 But let them say, &c. 
 
 MY DADDIE IS A CANKERT 
 
 CARLE. 
 
 From The Lark, and ascribed to James 
 Carnegie, of Balnamoon. 
 
 My daddie is a cankert carle. 
 
 He'll no twine wi' his gear; _ 
 My Minnie she's a scauldin' wife. 
 Hands a' the house asteer; 
 
 But let them say, or let them do. 
 
 It's a' ane to me, 
 For he's low doun, he's in the 
 brume, 
 That's waitin' on me: 
 
 WOO ME AGAIN. 
 
 EBENEZER PICKEN. 
 
 Ebenezer Picken, was born at Paisley, 
 in 1769. He wa> for many years a school 
 teacher, although he had studied for the 
 ministry. He published two volumes of 
 poetry, in 1813. He died at Edinburgh, 
 in 1816. 
 
 Whan Jamie first woo'd me, he was 
 but a youth: 
 
 Frae his lips flow'd the strains o' per- 
 suasion and truth; 
 
 His suit I rejected wi' pride an dis- 
 dain, 
 
 But, O! wad he offer to woo me again! 
 
 He aft wad ha'e tauld me his love was 
 
 sincere, 
 And e'en wad ha'e ventured to ca' 
 
 me his dear:
 
 CELEBRATED S0N08 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 203 
 
 My heart to his tale was as hard as a 
 
 stane; 
 But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again! 
 
 He said that he hoped I would yield 
 
 an' be kind, 
 But I counted his proffers as light as 
 
 the wind; 
 I laugh'd at his grief, when I heard 
 
 him complain; 
 But, oh ! wad he offer to woo me 
 
 again! 
 
 He fiatter'd my locks, that war black 
 
 as a slae, 
 And praised my fine shape, frae the 
 
 top to the tae; 
 I flate, an' desired he wad let me 
 
 alane; 
 But, oh! wad he offer to woo me 
 
 again ! 
 
 Repulsed, he forsook me, an' left me 
 
 to grieve. 
 An' mourn the sad hour that my 
 
 swain took his leave; 
 Now, since I despised, an' was deaf 
 
 to his mane, 
 I fear he'll ne'er offer to woo me 
 
 again ! 
 
 Oh! wad he but now to his Jean be 
 
 inclined, 
 My heart in a moment wad yield to 
 
 his mind; 
 But I fear wi' some ither my laddie 
 
 is taen. 
 An' sae he'll ne'er offer to woo me 
 
 again. 
 
 Ye bonnie young lasses, be warned by 
 
 my fate. 
 Despise not the heart you may value 
 
 too late; 
 Improve the sweet sunshine that now 
 
 gilds the plain; 
 With you it may never be sunshine 
 
 again. 
 
 The simmer o' life, ah! it soon flits 
 
 awa'. 
 An' the bloom on your cheek will 
 
 soon dow in the snaw; 
 Oh ! think, ere )^ou treat a fond youth 
 
 wi' disdain. 
 That in age the sweet flower never 
 
 blossoms again. 
 
 PEGGIE Wr THE GLAN- 
 CIN' E'E. 
 
 EBENEZER PICKEW. 
 
 Walkin' out ae mornin' early, 
 
 Ken ye wha I chanced to see ? 
 But my lassie, gay and frisky, 
 
 Peggie wi' the glancin' e'e. 
 Phoebus, left the lap o' Thetis, 
 
 Fast was lickin' up the dew. 
 Whan, ayont a risin' hillock, 
 
 First my Peggie came in view. 
 
 Hark ye, I gaed up to meet her; 
 
 But whene'er my face she saw, 
 Up her plaidin' coat she kiltit, 
 
 And in dafifin' scour'd awa.' 
 Weel kent I that though my Peggie 
 
 Ran sae fast out o'er the mead. 
 She was wantin' me to follow — 
 
 Yes, ye swains, an' sae I did. 
 
 At yon burnie I o'ertook her, 
 
 Whare the shinin' pebbles lie; 
 Whare the flowers, that fringe the 
 border, 
 
 Soop the stream, that wimples by. 
 While wi' her I sat reclinin', 
 
 Frae her lips I staw a kiss; 
 While she blush'd, I took anither, — 
 
 Shepherds, was there ill in this ? 
 
 Could a lass, sae sweet an' comely, 
 Ever bless a lover's arms ? 
 
 Could the bonnie wife o' Vulcan 
 Ever boast o' half the charms ?
 
 204 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 While the zephyrs fan the meadows, 
 While the flow'rets crown the lea, 
 
 While they paint the gowden simmer, 
 Wha sae blest as her an' me ? 
 
 BLYTHE ARE WE SET, 
 
 EBENEZER PICKEN. 
 
 Blythe are we set wi' ither: 
 Fling care ayont the moon; 
 Nae sae afi we meet thegither ! 
 
 Wha wad think o' parting soon ? 
 Though snaw bends down the forest 
 trees, 
 And burn and river cease to flow; 
 Though nature's tide has shor'd to 
 freeze, 
 And winter nithers a' below, 
 Blythe are we, &c. 
 
 Now round the ingle cheerly met, 
 
 We'll scog the blast and dread nae 
 harm, 
 Wi' jaws o' toddy reeking het. 
 
 We'll keep the genial current warm. 
 The friendly crack, the cheerfu' sang, 
 
 Shall cheat the happy hours awa' 
 Gar pleasure reign the e'ening lang. 
 
 And laugh at biting frost and snaw. 
 Blythe are we, &c. 
 
 The cares that cluster round the heart, 
 
 And gar the bosom stound wi' pain, 
 Shall get a fright afore we part, 
 
 Will gar them fear to come again. 
 Then, fill about, my winsome chiels, 
 
 The sparkling glass will banish pine : 
 Nae pain the happy bosom feels, 
 
 Sae free o' care as yours and mine. 
 Blythe are we' &c. 
 
 THE TEARS I SHED 
 
 MRS. DOUGALD STEWART. 
 
 The first four lines of the last stanza are 
 by Burns. 
 
 The tears I shed must ever fall: 
 
 I mourn not for an absent swain; 
 For thoughts may past delights recall. 
 
 And parted lovers meet again, 
 I weep not for the silent dead: 
 
 Their toils are past, their sorrows 
 o'er; 
 And those they loved their steps shall 
 tread. 
 
 And death shall join to part no more. 
 
 Though boundless oceans roll be- 
 tween, 
 If certain that his heart is near, 
 A conscious transport glads each 
 scene. 
 Soft is the sigh, and sweet the tear. 
 E'en when by death's cold hand 
 removed. 
 We mourn the tenant of the tomb: 
 To think that e'en in death he loved. 
 Can gild the horrors of the gloom. 
 
 But bitter, bitter are the tears 
 
 Of her who slighted love bewails; 
 No hope her dreary prospect cheers, 
 
 No pleasing melancholy hails. 
 Hers are the pangs of wounded pride, 
 
 Of blasted hope, of wither'd joy; 
 The flattering veil is rent aside. 
 
 The flame of love burns to destroy. 
 
 In vain does memory renew 
 
 The hours once tinged in transport's 
 dye; 
 The sad reverse soon starts to view, 
 
 And turns the past to agony. 
 E'en time itself despairs to cure 
 
 Those pangs to ev'ry feeling due: 
 Ungenerous youth ! thy boast how 
 poor. 
 
 To win a heart — and break it too. 
 
 No cold approach, or alter'd mien, 
 Tust what would make suspicion 
 start; 
 No pause the dire extremes between 
 He made me blest — and broke my 
 I heart.
 
 LADY NAIRNE.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 205 
 
 From liope, the wretched's anchor, 
 torn; 
 
 Neglected and neglecting all; 
 Friendless, forsaken and forlorn, 
 
 The tear I shed must ever fall. 
 
 THE ROWAN TREE. 
 
 LADY NAIRNE. 
 
 Lady Nairne was born at the " Auld 
 House" of Gask, in Perthshire, on the six- 
 teenth of July, 1766. Her father was one of 
 those staunch oia Jacobites who openly es- 
 poused the cause of the Stuarts, and proved 
 his loyalty to Prince Charles Edward by 
 taking an active part with him in the rebel- 
 lion of 1745-6. The disastrous results of 
 this rebellion are well known to every 
 reader of history. It extinguished forever 
 the hopes of that gallant young prince, and 
 compelled him and his principal followers 
 to retreat to the continent for safety. 
 Among the latter was Lord Nairne, who 
 thus spent seventeen years of his iife in 
 exile. " When he found it safe to return 
 home," Dr. Rogers tells us, "he would 
 not permit the names of the reigning 
 monarch and his queen to be mentioned 
 in his presence; and when impaired eye- 
 sight compelled him to seek the assistance 
 of his family in reading the newspapers, 
 he angrily reproved the reader if the 'Ger- 
 man lairdie and his leddy' were designated 
 otherwise than by the initial letters ' K. 
 and Q.' This extreme Jacobitism, at a 
 period when the crime was scarcely to be 
 dreaded, was reported to George HL, who 
 sent the Laird liis compliments as Elector 
 of Hanover, with a message testifying re- 
 spect for the steadiness of his principles." 
 Lady Nairne was christened Caroline in 
 honor of Prince Charles, and in earl}^ life 
 received an excellent education. She was 
 an exceedingly pretty child, and at the 
 ase of eighteen was acknowledged to be 
 one of the most beautiful, intelligent and 
 refined young ladies in Scotland. Her 
 sweet and gentle manner, combined with 
 her many charitable gifts so modestly be- 
 stowed upon the poor, gained for her the 
 poetical title of "The Flower of Strath- 
 earn," but no one suspected her of being 
 the authoress of the many charming songs 
 which were then attracting by their beauty 
 the admiration of the public. Many of 
 
 these compositions first appeared under 
 the assumed initials of " B. B." in Stnith's 
 Scottish Minstrel, and so careful and 
 anxious was Lady Nairne to conceal her 
 part in them, that even the publishers of 
 the work were not sure of the real name 
 and position of their gifted contributor un- 
 til after their labor was completed. Since 
 that time her songs have enjoyed a world 
 wide reputation, and deservedly so, as 
 with few exceptions they are worthy to be 
 placed beside the noble productions of her 
 great countrymen, Ramsay, Burns and 
 Tannahill. They are all exquisite little 
 pieces of poetry. Take for instance "The 
 Rowan Tree" or "The Auld House." 
 What tender recollections of childhood's 
 days do these two songs recall. Nothing 
 could be more fraught with sweet, and, in 
 many cases, sad memories of the past 
 than the verses: 
 
 Oh! the auld house, the auld house 
 
 What tho' the rooms were wee! 
 Oh.! kind hearts were dwellin' there. 
 
 And bairnies fu' o' glee; 
 The wild rose and the jessamine, 
 
 Still hang upon the wa', 
 How many cherished memories 
 
 Do they, sweet flowers, reca'. 
 
 The mavis still doth sweetly sing. 
 
 The blue bells sweetly blaw. 
 The bonnj' Earn's clear winding still, 
 
 But the auld house is awa', 
 The auld house, the auld house. 
 
 Deserted tho' ye be, 
 There ne'er can be a new house 
 
 Will seem sae fair to me. 
 
 Or take again her well known song, "The 
 Land o' the Leal," which was composed 
 on the occasion of the death in infancy of 
 the first born of a personal friend of Lady 
 Nairne. We certainly could not wish for 
 any verses that would touch our hearts 
 more deeply or engage our sympathies 
 more earnestly than these do: 
 
 I'm wearing awa', John, 
 
 Like snaw wreaths in thaw, John, 
 
 I'm wearing awa' 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 There's nae sorrow there, John, 
 There's neither cauld nor care, John, 
 
 The day is aye fair 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 Our bonnie bairn's there. John, 
 She was baith gude and fair, John, 
 
 i^nd we grudged her right sair 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, 
 And joy's a' comin' fast, John, 
 
 In joy that's aye to last, 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 ********
 
 206 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Lines like these require no comment at 
 our hands. They speak for themselves, 
 and to many who have undergone the 
 sad ordeal of parting with a little one 
 through death, the second verse must al- 
 ways appeal to their hearts with a feeling 
 that is almost sacred. "The Land o' the 
 Leal," is at once the finest and noblest of 
 all Lady Nairne's productions, and as 
 such has been recognized and sung in all 
 parts of the civilized world. Turning, 
 however, from the serious to the comic 
 side of human nature, how graphically 
 does she portray to us the amusing story 
 of the Laird o' Cockpen, a worthy gentle- 
 man, who at rather an advanced period of 
 his existence, arrives at the conclusion 
 that he requires a wife, "his braw house 
 to keep," and having settled the fact to his 
 entire satisfaction, his choice settles on a 
 certain lady whose age corresponds with 
 his own, and who is known by the title of 
 " Mistress Jean." Accordingly he resolves 
 to at once impart his conclusions to Mis- 
 tress Jean, and having equipped himself 
 ■with a sword and a cocked hat, he mounts 
 his gray mare to make his appearance the 
 more imposing, and sets forth, never 
 dreaming that the conclusions of the lady 
 might not exactly concide with his own. 
 Oh, no; he was the Laird o' Cockpen 
 while she was only 
 
 A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree. 
 
 In due time he arrives at his destination, 
 and at once commands the servant in an 
 authoritative voice to 
 
 Tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben ; 
 
 She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen. 
 
 And who cannot but enjoy the discomfi- 
 ture and astonishment of the worthy laird 
 at the result of the interview and the 
 wonderful courage he exhibits when all 
 is over: 
 
 When she cam' ben, he boued fu' low; 
 And what was his errand he soon let her know, ^ 
 Amazed was the laird when the lady said " Na,' 
 And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'. 
 
 Dumfoundered was he, but nae sigh did he gi'e; 
 He mounted his mare, and rade cannilie; 
 And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen. 
 She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen! 
 
 We are glad, however, to learn that the 
 laird is ultimately successful, and that 
 
 Next time that the laird and the lady were seen. 
 They were gaun arm-and-arm to the kirk on the 
 green. 
 
 Next to James Hogg, Lady Nairne de- 
 serves special notice for her many contri- 
 butions to the Jacobite Songs of Scotland, 
 Such songs as, " Whail be King but 
 Charlie," "He's o'er the hills that I lo'e 
 weel," "There grows a bonnie brier bush, 
 in our kail yard," "Wi' a hundred pipers 
 an' a' an' a'," "Charlie is my darling," 
 and "Will 5'e no come back again?" are 
 among the finest and most popular of our 
 national songs, and are certainly destined 
 to remain as such for many generations 
 to come. There is no misdoubting the 
 sympathies which Lady Nairne entertained 
 towards the exiled Stuart family in these 
 compositions. Each song is a masterpiece 
 in itself of devoted patriotism and uncon- 
 querable loyalty to the principles and cause 
 for which her father had suffered. 
 
 Another excellent song is, " Caller Her- 
 rin'," which describes the various thoughts 
 that agitate the hearts of the fishermen's 
 wives while their husbands are engaged in 
 their perilous occupations on the deep. 
 The rest of her songs are each and all wor- 
 thy of notice, and will well repay the time 
 spent in reading them. 
 
 Lady Nairne was married to her second 
 cousin, Captain William Murray Nairne, 
 in 1806, and had one child, a son. Her 
 husband died in 1S30, and her son in 
 1837. After this she resided on the Con- 
 tinent, until failing health compelled her 
 to forgo the fatigues of travel and return 
 to Gask. Here she gradually became 
 very frail, and on Sunday, the 26th of 
 October, 1845, passed peacefully away to 
 the "Land o' the Leal," in the 79th year 
 of her age. She left considerable sums of 
 money to be used in extending the use- 
 fulness of various institutions, and it will 
 be a long time before the good name and 
 charitable acts of Lady Nairne, "The 
 flower of Strathearn," are forgotten in Scot- 
 land. 
 
 Oh, Rowan tree ! Oh, Rowan tree ! 
 
 thou'lt aye be dear to me, 
 Intwined thou art wi' mony ties o' 
 
 hame and infancy; 
 Thy leaves were aye the first o' spring, 
 
 thy flow'rs the simmer's pride; 
 There was nae sic a bonnie tree, in a' 
 
 the country side. 
 
 Oh, Rowan tree!
 
 CELEBRAIED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 207 
 
 How fair wert thou in simmer time, wi' 
 
 a' thy clusters white, 
 How rich and gay thy autumn dress, 
 
 wi' berries red and bright, 
 We sat aneath thy spreading shade, 
 
 the bairnies round thee ran; 
 They pu'd thy bonnie berries red, and 
 
 neckhices they Strang. 
 Oh, Rowan tree! 
 
 On thy fair stem were mony names, 
 
 which now nae mair I see; 
 But they're engraven on my heart, 
 
 forgot they ne'er can be; 
 My mother ! oh ! I see her still, she 
 
 smil'd our sports to see ; 
 Wi' little Jeanie on her lap, wi' Jamie 
 
 at her knee! 
 
 Oh, Rowan tree! 
 
 Oh ! there arose my father's prayer, in 
 
 holy evening's calm, 
 How sweet was then my mother's 
 
 voice, in the Martyr's psalm; 
 Now a' are gane ! we meet nae mair 
 
 aneath the Rowan tree, 
 But hallowed thoughts around thee 
 
 twine o' hame and infancy. 
 Oh, Rowan tree! 
 
 THE AULD HOUSE. 
 
 LADY NAIRNE. 
 
 "The Auld House" of this song was 
 the house of Gask, the birthplace of Lady 
 Nairne. Dr. Rogers saj's: " The old man- 
 sion of Gask, celebrated in this song was 
 removed on the erection of the present 
 commodious structure earl}^ in the centurj'. 
 The lock of Prince Charles Edward's hair 
 referred to in the song is still preserved in 
 the family. It was, however, not 'dipt' by 
 the 'leddy' but by John Stewart, the 
 Prince's servant. 
 
 Oh ! the auld house! the auld house! 
 
 What though the rooms were wee .' 
 Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there, 
 
 And bairnies fu' o' glee ! 
 
 The wild-rose and the jesamine 
 
 Still hang upon the wa'; 
 How mony cherish'd memories 
 
 Do they, sweet flowers, reca'! 
 
 Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird! 
 
 Sae canty, kind, and crouse; 
 How mony did he welcome to 
 
 His ain wee dear auld house! 
 And the leddy too, sae genty. 
 
 There shelter'd Scotland's heir. 
 And dipt a lock wi' her ain hand 
 
 Frae his lang yellow hair. 
 
 The mavis still doth sweetly sing, 
 
 The blue bells sweetly blaw. 
 The bonnie Earn's clear winding still. 
 
 But the auld house is awa'. 
 The auld house, the auld house, 
 
 Deserted though ye be, 
 There ne'er can be a new house, 
 
 Will seem sae fair to me. 
 
 Still flourishing the auld pear tree 
 
 The bairnies liked to see, 
 And oh, how often did they speir 
 
 When ripe they a' wad be! 
 The voices sweet, the wee bit feet 
 
 Aye rinnin' here and there. 
 The merry shout — Oh! whiles we greet 
 
 To think we'll hear nae mair. 
 
 For they are a' wide scatter'd now, 
 
 Some to the Indies gane. 
 And ane, alas! to her lang hame; 
 
 Not here we'll meet again. 
 The kirkyaird, the kirkyaird, 
 
 Wi' flowers o' every hue, 
 Shelter'd by the holly's shade, 
 
 An' the dark sombre yew. 
 
 The setting sun, the setting sun. 
 
 How glorious it gaed down ; 
 The cloudy splendor raised our hearts 
 
 To cloudless skies aboon ! 
 The auld dial, the auld dial. 
 
 It tauld how time did pass: 
 The wintry winds ha'e dung it down, 
 
 Now hid 'mang weeds and grass.
 
 208 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 AULD LANG SYNE. 
 
 LADY NAIRNE. 
 
 What gude the present day can gi'e, 
 May that be yours an' mine; 
 
 But beams o' fancy sweetest rest 
 On auld lang syne. 
 
 On auld lang syne, my dear, 
 
 On auld lang syne, 
 The bluid is cauld that winna warm 
 
 At thoughts o' lang syne. 
 
 We twa hae seen the simmer sun, 
 And thought it aye would shine; 
 
 But mony a cloud has come between, 
 Sin auld lang syne. 
 
 Sin auld lang syne, &c. 
 
 But still my heart beats warm to thee, 
 And sae to me does thine. 
 
 Blest be the pow'r that still has left 
 The frien's o' lang syne. 
 O' auld lang syne, &c. 
 
 THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN. 
 
 LADY NAIRNE. 
 
 The two last stanzas were added by Miss 
 Ferrier, the novelist The air " When she 
 cam' been she bobbet," to which this song 
 was composed is one of the oldest Scottish 
 melodies in existence. 
 
 The Laird o'Cockpen, he's proud and 
 
 he's great; 
 His mind is ta'en up wi' the things o' 
 
 the state: 
 He wanted a wife his braw house to 
 
 keep; 
 But favor wi' wooin' was fashious to 
 
 seek. 
 
 Doun by the dyke-side a lady did 
 
 dwell, 
 At his table-head he thought she'd 
 
 look well; 
 
 M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha* 
 
 Lee — 
 A pennyless lass wi' a lang pedigree. 
 
 His wig was weel pouther'd as guid as 
 
 when new, 
 His waistcoat was white, his coat it 
 
 was blue: 
 He put on a ring, a sword, and cock'd 
 
 hat — 
 And wha could refuse the Laird wi' 
 
 a' that ? 
 
 He took the grey mare, and rade 
 
 cannilie — 
 And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' 
 
 Lee ; 
 "Gae tell mistress Jean to come 
 
 speedily ben: 
 She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird 
 
 o' Cockpen." 
 
 Mistress Jean she was makin' the 
 
 elder-flower wine ; 
 "And what brings the Laird at sic a 
 
 like time ?" 
 She put aff her apron, and on her silk 
 
 gown. 
 Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed 
 
 awa' down. 
 
 And when she cam' ben he boued fu' 
 
 low; 
 And what was his errand he soon let 
 
 her know. 
 Amazed was the Laird when the lady 
 
 said, Na, 
 And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned 
 
 awa'. 
 
 Dumfounder'd he was, but nae sigh 
 
 did he gi'e ; 
 He mounted his mare, and rade 
 
 cannilie ; 
 And aften he thought, as he gaed 
 
 through the glen, 
 "She's daft to refuse the Laird o' 
 
 Cockpen."
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 209 
 
 And now that the Laird his exit had 
 
 made, 
 Mistress Jean she reflected on what 
 
 she had said ; 
 **0h! for ane I'll get better, it's waur 
 
 I'll get ten — 
 I was daft to refuse the Laird o' 
 
 Cockpen." 
 
 Neist time that the Laird and the Lady- 
 were seen, 
 
 They were gaun arm and arm to the 
 kirk on the green; 
 
 Now she sits in the ha' like a weel- 
 tappit hen, 
 
 But as yet there's nae chickens appear 'd 
 at Cockpen. 
 
 CALLER HERRIN'. 
 
 LADY NAIRNE. 
 
 This song was written for the benefit of 
 a son of the celebrated musician, Neil 
 Gow. He is said to have composed the 
 music for it while listening one day to the 
 bells of St. Andrew's Church, in Edin- 
 burgh, mingled with the well known cries 
 of two New Haven fisher-women. 
 
 Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? 
 They're bonnie fish and halesome 
 
 farin'; 
 Wha'll buy my caller herrin' 
 New drawn frae the Forth ? 
 
 When ye were sleepin' on your pillows, 
 Dream'd ye aught o' our puir fellows, 
 Darkling as they fac'd the billows, 
 A' to fill the woven willows ? 
 Buy my caller herrin' 
 New drawn frae the Forth. 
 
 Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? 
 They're no brought here without brave 
 
 daring; 
 Buy my caller herrin', 
 Haul'd thro' wind and rain. 
 
 Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? &c. 
 
 Wha'll buy rny caller herrin' .'' 
 Oh, ye may ca' them vulgar farin'. 
 Wives and mithers maist despairing, 
 Ca' them li\'es o' men. 
 
 Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? &c. 
 
 When the creel o' herrin' passes. 
 Ladies, clad in silks and laces. 
 Gather in their braw pelisses. 
 Cast their heads and screw their faces. 
 Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? &c. 
 
 Caller herrin's no got lightlie. 
 Ye can trip the spring fu' tightlie, 
 Spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin', 
 Gow has set you a' a-singin'. 
 
 Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? <S:c. 
 
 Neebour wives, now tent my tellin': 
 When the bonnie fish ye're sellin', 
 At ae word be in ye're dealin' — 
 Truth will stand when a' thing's failin'. 
 
 Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? 
 
 They're bonnie fish and halesome 
 farin'. 
 
 Wha'll buy my caller herrin', 
 
 New drawn frae the Forth ? 
 
 THE HUNDRED PIPERS. 
 
 LADY NAIRNE. 
 
 Charles Edward entered Carlisle pre- 
 ceded by a hundred pipers. Two thousand 
 Highlanders crossed the Esk at Longtown; 
 the tide being swollen, nothing was seen 
 of them but their heads and shoulders; 
 they stemmed the force of the stream, and 
 lost not a man in the passage. When 
 landed, the pipers struck up, and they 
 danced reels until they were dry again. — 
 Authentic Account of the Occupation of Car- 
 lisle, by George G. Moncey. 
 
 Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a', 
 Wi, a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'. 
 We'll up, and we'll gi'e them a blaw, 
 
 a blaw, 
 Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.
 
 210 
 
 CELEBRATED SONQS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 It is ower the border, awa', awa', 
 It is ower the border, awa', awa', 
 Oh, we'll on, and we'll march to 
 
 Carlisle Ha', 
 Wi' its yetts, its castel, an' a', an' a'. 
 
 Oh, our brave sodger lads looked braw, 
 
 an' braw, 
 Wi' their tartans, their kilts, an' a', an'a', 
 Wi' bannets an' feathers, an' glitterin' 
 
 gear, 
 An' pibrochs soundin' sae sweet an' 
 
 clear. 
 Will they a' come hame, to their ain 
 
 dear glen ? 
 Will they a' return, our brave Hieland 
 
 men ? 
 Oh, second-sichted Sandy look'd fu' 
 
 wae, 
 An' mithers great sair when they 
 
 march'd away. 
 
 Wi' a hundred pipers, &c. 
 
 Oh, wha is the foremaist o' a', o' a'? 
 Wha is it first follows the blaw, the 
 
 blaw? 
 Bonnie Charlie, the king o' us a*, us a', 
 Wi' his hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'. 
 His bannet and feather, he's waving 
 
 high, _ 
 His prancin' steed maist seems to fly; 
 The nor' wind play wi' his curly hair. 
 While the pipers blaw up an unco flare ! 
 Wi' his hundred pipers, &c. 
 
 The Esk was swollen sae red and sae 
 
 deep. 
 But shouther to shouther the brave 
 
 lads keep; 
 Twa thousand swam ower to fell 
 
 English ground. 
 An' danced themselves dry to the 
 
 pibroch sound. 
 Dumbfounder'd the English were a', 
 
 were a', 
 Dumbfounder'd they a' heard theblaw, 
 
 the blaw, 
 
 Dumbfounder'd they a' ran awa', awa', 
 Frae the hundred pipers, an' a', an' a', 
 Wi' a hundred pipers, (S:c. 
 
 THE LAND O' THE LEAL. 
 
 LADY NAIRNE. 
 Composed in 1798. See page 205. 
 
 I'm wearin' awa', John, 
 
 Like snaw wreaths in thaw, John, 
 
 I'm wearin' awa' 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 There's nae sorrow there, John, 
 There's neither cauld nor care, John, 
 The day is aye fair 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 Our bonnie bairn's there, John, 
 She was baith gude and fair, John, 
 And oh! we grudged her sair 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, 
 And joy's a-comin' fast, John, 
 The joy that's aye to last 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 Sae dear's that joy was bought, John, 
 Sae free the battle fought, John, 
 That sinfu' man e'er brought 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 Oh! dry your glistn'ing e'e, John, 
 My soul langs to be free, John, 
 And angels beckon me 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 
 Oh! haud ye leal and true, John, 
 Your day it's wearin' thro', John, 
 And I'll welcome you 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 Now fare ye weel, my ain John, 
 This warld's cares are vain, John, 
 We'll meet, and aye be fain, 
 
 In the land o' the leal.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 211 
 
 THE LAND O' THE LEAL. 
 
 ANOTHER VKRSION. 
 
 " The Land o' the Leal," was first pub- 
 lished anonymously in iSoo, and was then 
 attributed to Burns. From the fact of the 
 author being unknown, various versions 
 appeared at intervals in the newspapers, 
 and each of thoe new versions claimed 
 to be the original one. The following 
 appears in Blackie's Book of Scottish 
 Song. It is there prefaced with the follow 
 ing note: "We can find no information 
 regarding the authorship of this song. It 
 appeared shortly after the death of Burns, 
 whose dying thoughts it alFects to per- 
 sonify." 
 
 I'm wearin' awa', Jean, 
 
 Like snaw when it's thaw, Jean; 
 
 I'm wearin' awa', Jean, 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 There's nae sorrow there, Jean, 
 There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, 
 The day is aye fair, Jean, 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 Ye were aye leal and true, Jean, 
 Your task's ended noo, Jean, 
 And I'll welcome you 
 
 To the land a' the leal. 
 Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean, 
 She was baith guid and fair, Jean, 
 And we grudged her right sair 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 
 Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean, 
 My soul langs to be free, Jean, 
 And angels wait on me 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 Now, fair ye weel, my ain Jean, 
 This warld's care is vain, Jean, 
 We'll meet and aye be fain 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 BONNIE CHARLIE'S NOW 
 AWA'. 
 
 LADY NAIRNE. 
 
 About one hundred and thirty follow- 
 ers are said to have accompanied Prince 
 
 Charles to France, while the different 
 clans throughout Scotland, which had 
 flocked to his standard, were persecutea 
 in every conceivable manner for long 
 afterwards. But they bore their sufferings 
 in silence, strong in the belief that their 
 Prince would return from France in a )'ear 
 or two with an armj' sufficient to defeat 
 the Royal forces, and place him on the 
 throne of his forefathers. Prince Charles, 
 however, made no such attempt, and his 
 life during exile proved anything but 
 creditable to him. He died at Florence, 
 in 1788. 
 
 Bonny Charlie's now awa', 
 Safely owre the friendly main; 
 Mony a heart will break in twa. 
 Should he ne'er come back again. 
 
 Will ye no come back again ? 
 AVill ye no come back again ? 
 Better lo'ed ye canna be. 
 Will ye no come back again ? 
 
 Ye trusted in your Hielan' men, 
 They trusted you, dear Charlie, 
 They kent you hidin' in the glen. 
 Your cleadin' was but barely. 
 
 Will ye no, &c. 
 
 English bribes were a' in vaiHy 
 An' e'en tho' puirer we may be, 
 Siller canna buy the heart 
 That beats aye for thine an' thee. 
 
 Will ye no, &c. 
 
 We watch'd thee in the gloamin' hour, 
 We watch'd thee in the mornin' grey; 
 Tho' thirty-thousand pounds they'd 
 
 gie; 
 Oh! there is nane that wad betray. 
 
 Will ye no, &c. 
 
 Sweet the laverock's note an lang, 
 Lilting wildly up the glen, 
 But aye to me, he sings ae sang. 
 Will ye no come back again ? 
 Will ye no, &c.
 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 THE LASS O' GOWRIE. 
 
 LADY NAIRNE. 
 
 There are various versions of this song 
 in existence, but the present one is the 
 most popular. 
 
 "TwAs on a summer's afternoon, 
 
 A wee afore the sun gaed down, 
 A lassie wi' a braw new goun 
 
 Cam' ower the hills to Gowric. 
 The rosebud wash'd in summer's 
 shower, 
 
 Bloom'd fresh within the sunny 
 bower; 
 But Kitty was the fairest flower 
 
 That e'er was seen in Gowrie. 
 
 To see her cousin she cam' there. 
 
 And oh! the scene was passin' fair, 
 For what in Scotland can compare 
 
 Wi' the Carse o' Gowrie ? 
 The sun was settin' on the Tay; 
 
 The blue hills meltin' into grey, 
 The"mavis and the blackbird's lay 
 
 Were sweetly heard in Gowrie. 
 
 lang the lassie I had woo'd. 
 
 An' truth an' constancy had vowed, 
 But cam' nae speed wi' her I lo'ed 
 Until she saw fair Gowrie. 
 
 1 pointed to my faither's ha', 
 
 Yon bonnie bield ayont the shaw, 
 Sae loun' that there nae blast could 
 blaw, 
 Wad she no bide in Gowrie ? 
 
 Her faither was baith glad and wae; 
 
 Her mither she wad naething say; 
 The bairnies thocht they wad get play 
 
 If Kitty gaed to Gowrie. 
 She whiles did smile, she whiles did 
 greet, 
 
 The blush and tear were on her 
 cheek; 
 She naething said, but hung her head, 
 
 But now she's Leddy Gowrie. 
 
 WHA'LL BE KING BUT 
 CHARLIE ? 
 
 LADY NAIRNE. 
 
 " Wha'll be Kingbut Charlie ?" is a noble 
 and spirited song. It carries us back to 
 the year 1745, when Prince Charles Edward 
 and his little heroic band of followers 
 landed at Borodale, and began what has 
 been termed "one of the most desperate 
 and romantic campaign^ in modern his- 
 tory." Many of the clans at once gathered 
 to welcome and support him, and after a 
 brief council with a number of the most 
 prominent Highland Chiefs the standard 
 was raised in the valley of Glenfinnan. 
 " The spot," says Dr. Chambers, "selected 
 for the rearing of the standard, was a little 
 eminence in the centre of the vale. The 
 Marquis of Tullibardine, whose rank enti- 
 tled him to the honor, pitched himself on 
 the top of this knoll, supported by two 
 men, on account of his weak state of health. 
 He then fiung upon the mountain breeze 
 that flag which, shooting like a streamer 
 from the north, was soon to spread such 
 omens of woe and terror over the peaceful 
 vales of Britain." Captain Simon Fraser, 
 in his "Airs and Melodies peculiar to the 
 Highlands of Scotland and the Isles" 
 (Edinburgh, 1816), gives the following 
 note upon the air of this song: " This is a 
 melody common to Ireland, as well as to 
 the Highlands of Scotland— but, having 
 been known in this country since the year 
 1745, as one of the incentives of rebellion, 
 if originally Irish, some of the troops or 
 partisans engaged for Charles from that 
 country might have brought it over — but 
 the melody is simple and beautiful, assimu- 
 lating itself very much to the style of 
 either." 
 
 The news frae Moidart cam' yestreen 
 
 Will soon gar mony ferlie; 
 That ships o' war hae just come in, 
 
 And landed royal Charlie. 
 Come through the heather, around 
 him gather, 
 
 Ye're a' the welcomer early; 
 Around him cling, wi' a' your kin, 
 
 For wha'll be king but Charlie ? 
 
 Come through the heather, around 
 him gather,
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 213 
 
 Come Ronald, come Donald, 
 come a' thegither, 
 And crown your rightfu' lawful 
 king, 
 For wha'll be king but Charlie? 
 
 The Highland clans, wi' sword in hand 
 Frae John o' Groats to Airly, 
 
 Hae to a man declar'd to stand 
 Or fa' wi' royal Charlie. 
 
 Come through the heather, &c. 
 
 The Lowland's a', baith great and sma', 
 Wi' mony a lord and laird hae 
 
 Declar'd for Scotia's king an' law. 
 And speir ye wha but Charlie ? 
 Come through the heather, &c. 
 
 There's ne'er a lass in a' the land 
 But vows baith late and early. 
 
 To man she'll ne'er gie heart or hand, 
 Wha wadna fecht for Charlie. 
 Come through the heather, &c. 
 
 Then here's a health to Charlie's cause, 
 And be't complete and early; 
 
 His very name my heart's blood warms 
 To arms for royal Charlie ! 
 
 Come through the heather, &:c. 
 
 CHARLIE IS MY DARLING. 
 
 LADY NAIRNE. 
 
 There are various versions of this song 
 in existence each of which have their own 
 special admirers. 
 
 'T WAS on a Monday morning 
 Right early in the year. 
 
 When Charlie cam' to our toun, 
 The young Chevalier. 
 
 Oh! Charlie is my darling. 
 My darling, my darling, 
 
 Oh! Charlie is my darling. 
 The young Chevalier. 
 
 As he cam' marching up the street, 
 The pipes play'd loud and clear. 
 
 And a' the folk cam' running out, 
 To meet the Chevalier. 
 
 Oh! Charlie is my darling, &c. 
 
 Wi' Hieland bonnets on their heads^ 
 And claymores bright and clear, 
 
 They cam' to fight for Scotland's right 
 And the young Chevalier. 
 
 Oh! Charlie is my darling, &c. 
 
 They've left their bonnie Hieland hills,. 
 
 Their wives and bairnies dear, 
 To draw the sword for Scotland's lord, 
 
 The young Chevalier. 
 
 Oh! Charlie is my darling, &c. 
 
 Oh! there were many beating hearts 
 And many a hope and fear, 
 
 And many were the prayers put up 
 For the young Chevalier. 
 
 Oh! Charlie is my darling, &c. 
 
 THE TWA DOOS. 
 
 LADY NAIRNE. 
 
 There were twa doos sat in a dookit^ 
 Twa wise-like birds, and round they 
 
 lookit, 
 An' says the ane unto the ither, 
 What do you see, my gude brither ? 
 
 I see some pickles o' gude strae. 
 An' wheat some fule has thrown away; 
 For a rainy day they should be boukit, 
 Sae down they flew frae aff their dookit. 
 
 The snaw will come, an* cour the 
 
 grund, 
 Nae grains o' wheat will then be fund. 
 They picket a' up and a* were boukit, 
 Then roun' an' roun' again they lookit.
 
 214 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 lang he thocht an' lang he lookit, 
 An' aye his wise-like head he shook it, 
 
 1 see, I see, what ne'er should be, 
 I see what's seen by mair than me. 
 
 Wae's me there's thochtless lang Tarn 
 
 Gray, 
 Aye spendin' what he's no to pay; 
 In wedlock, to a taupie hookit. 
 He's ta'en a doo, but has nae dookit. 
 
 When we were young, it was nae sae; 
 Nae rummulgumshion folk now hae: 
 What gude for them can ere be lookit, 
 When folk tak doos that hae nae dookit. 
 
 JOHN TOD. 
 
 LADY NATRNE. 
 
 The Rev. John Tod, was minister for 
 some time of Ladykirk, in Berwickshire. 
 
 He's a terrible man, John Tod, John 
 
 Tod, 
 He's a terrible man, John Tod; 
 He scolds in the house, he scolds at 
 
 the door. 
 He scolds in the very hie road, John 
 
 Tod, 
 He scolds in the very hie road. 
 
 The weans a' fear John Tod, John 
 Tod, 
 The weans a' fear John Tod; 
 When he's passing by the mothers 
 will cry, 
 Here's an ill wean, John Tod, John 
 
 Tod, 
 Here's an ill wean, John Tod. 
 
 The callants a' fear John Tod, John 
 Tod, 
 The callants a' fear John Tod; 
 If they steal but a neep, the laddie 
 he'll whip. 
 An' it's unco weel done o' John Tod, 
 
 John Tod, 
 An'it's unco weel done o' John Tod. 
 
 And saw ye nae little John Tod, John 
 Tod? 
 O saw ye nae little John Tod ? 
 His shoon they were re'in, and his 
 feet they were seen. 
 But stout does he gang on the road, 
 
 John Tod, 
 But stout does he gang on the road. 
 
 How is he fendin', John Tod, John 
 Tod? 
 How is he wendin' John Tod? 
 He is scourin' the land wi' his rung in 
 his hand, 
 And the French wadna frighten 
 
 John Tod, John Tod, 
 And the French wadna frighten 
 John Tod. 
 
 Ye're sun-burnt and batter'd, John 
 
 Tod, John Tod, 
 
 Ye're tautit and tatter'd, John Tod; 
 
 Wi' your auld strippit cowl ye look 
 
 maist like a fule; 
 
 But there's nouse in the linin' John 
 
 Tod, John Tod, 
 But there's nouse in the linin' John 
 Tod. 
 
 He's weel respeckit, John Tod, John 
 Tod, 
 He's weel respeckit, John Tod; 
 Though a terrible man, we'd a' gang 
 wrang. 
 If e'er he should leave us, John Tod, 
 
 John Tod, 
 If e'er he should leave us, John Tod. 
 
 FAREWEEL EDINBURGH. 
 
 LADY NAIRNE. 
 
 Fareweel, Edinburgh, where happy 
 
 we hae been, 
 Fareweel, Edinburgh, Caledonia's 
 
 Queen!
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 215 
 
 Auld Reekie, fare-ye-weel, and Reekie 
 
 New beside, 
 Ye're like a ciiieftain grim and grey, 
 
 wi' a young bonnie bride. 
 Fareweel, Edinburgh, and your trusty 
 
 volunteers, 
 Your Council, a' sae circumspect, 
 
 your Provost without peers. 
 Your stately College stuff' d wi' lear, 
 
 you rantin' High-Schule yard; 
 The jib, the lick, the roguish trick, 
 
 the ghaists o' auld toun-guard. 
 
 f areweel, Edinburgh, your philoso- 
 phic men; 
 
 Your scribes that set you a' to richts, 
 and wield the golden pen; 
 
 The Session-court, your thrang resort, 
 bigwigs and lang gowns a'; 
 
 And if ye dinna keep the peace, it's 
 no for want o' law. 
 
 Fareweel, Edinburgh, and a' your glit- 
 tering wealth; 
 
 Your Bernard's Well your Calton 
 Hill, where every breeze is health; 
 
 An' spite o' a' your fresh sea-gales 
 sliould ony chance to dee, 
 
 It's no for want o' recipe, the doctor, 
 or the fee. 
 
 Fareweel, Edinburgh, your hospitals 
 
 and ha's. 
 The rich man's friend, the Cross lang 
 
 ken'd, auld Ports, and city wa's; 
 The Kirks that grace their honored 
 
 place, now peacefu' as they stand. 
 Where'er they'er found, on Scottish 
 
 ground, the bulwarks of the land. 
 Fareweel, Edinburgh, your sons o' 
 
 genius fine, 
 That send your name on wings o' 
 
 fame beyond the burnin' line; 
 A name that's stood maist since the 
 
 flood, and just when it's forgot. 
 Your bard will be forgotten too, your 
 
 ain Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 Fareweel, Edinburgh, and a' your 
 
 daughters fair; 
 Your Palace in the shelter'd slen, 
 
 your Castle m the air; 
 Your rocky brows, your grassy knowes, 
 
 and eke your mountain bauld; 
 Were I to tell your beauties a', my 
 
 tale would ne'er be tauld; 
 Now, fareweel, Edinburgh, where 
 
 happy we ha'e been; 
 Fareweel, Edinburgh, Caledonia's 
 
 Queen! 
 Prosperity to Edinburgh wi' every 
 
 risin' sun. 
 And blessin's be on Edinburgh till 
 
 time his race has run! 
 
 HE'S OWER THE HILLS 
 THAT I LO'E WEEL. 
 
 LADY NAIRNE. 
 
 He's ower the hills that I lo'e weel, 
 He's ower the hills we daurna name; 
 He's ower the hills ayont Dunblane, 
 Wha soon will get his welcome 
 hame. 
 
 My father's gane to fight for him. 
 My brithers winna bide at hame; 
 My mither greets and prays for them, 
 And 'deed she thinks they're no to 
 blame. 
 
 He's ower the hills, &c. 
 
 The Whigs may scoff, the Whigs may 
 
 jeer; 
 But, ah! that love maun be sincere 
 Which still keeps true whate'er betide. 
 An' for his sake leaves a' beside. 
 He's ower the hills, &c. 
 
 His right these hills, his right these 
 
 plains; 
 Ower Hieland hearts secure he reigns; 
 What lads e'er did our laddies will do; 
 Were I a laddie, I'd follow him too. 
 He's ower the hills, &c.
 
 216 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Sae noble a look, sae princely an air, 
 Sae gallant and bold, sae young and 
 
 sae fair; 
 Oh, did ye but see him, ye'd do as 
 
 we've done! 
 Hear him but ance, to his standard 
 
 you'll run. 
 He's ower the hills, &c. 
 
 Then draw the claymore, for Charlie 
 
 then fight; 
 For your country, religion, and a' that 
 
 is right; 
 Were ten thousand lives now given to 
 
 me, 
 I'd die as aft for ane o' the three. 
 
 He's ower the hills, &c. 
 
 THERE GROWS A BONNIE 
 BRIER BUSH. 
 
 LADY NAIRNE. 
 
 There grows a bonnie brier bush in 
 
 our kail yard, 
 And white are the blossoms o't in our 
 
 kail yard. 
 Like wee bit cockauds, to deck our 
 
 hieland lads. 
 And the lassies lo'e the bonnie bush 
 
 in our kail yard. 
 
 An' it's hame, an' it's hame, to the 
 
 north countrie. 
 An' it's hame, an' it's hame, to the 
 
 north countrie. 
 Where my bonnie Jean is waiting for 
 
 me, 
 Wi' a heart kind an' true, in my ain 
 
 countrie. 
 
 But were they a' true that were far 
 
 awa'? 
 C were they a' true that were far awa'? 
 They drew up wi' glaikit Englishers 
 
 at Carlisle ha'. 
 And forgot auld frien's that were far 
 
 awa'. 
 
 Ye'll come nae mair, Jamie, where aft 
 
 ye have been, 
 Ye'll come nae mair, Jamie, to Atholl's 
 
 green, 
 O'er weel ye lo'ed the dancm' at 
 
 Carlisle ha'. 
 And forgot the hieland hills, that were 
 
 far awa' 
 
 I ne'er lo'ed a dance but on Atholl's 
 
 green, 
 I ne'er lo'ed a lassie, but my dorty 
 
 Jean, 
 Sair, sair against my will, did I bide 
 
 sae lang awa'. 
 And my heart was aye in Atholl's 
 
 green, at Carlisle ha'. 
 
 The brier bush was bonnie ance in 
 
 our kail yard. 
 The brier bush was bonnie ance in 
 
 our kail yard, 
 A blast blew ower the hill, that ga'e 
 
 Atholl's flowers a chill, 
 An the bloom's blawn afF the bonnie 
 
 bush in our kail yard. 
 
 HUNTINGTOWER. 
 
 LADY NAIRNE. 
 
 We give the following version of this 
 popular song a place in this collection, as 
 many people prefer it to the old one. 
 
 "When ye gang awa', Jamie, 
 When ye gang awa', laddie. 
 What will ye gi'e my heart to cheer, 
 When ye are far awa' Jamie?" 
 
 "I'll gi'e you a braw new gown, 
 
 Jeanie, 
 I'll gi'e you a braw new gown, 
 
 lassie, 
 An' it will be a silken ane, 
 
 Wi' Valenciennes trimm'd round, 
 
 Jeanie."
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 217 
 
 "O, that's nae luve at a' laddie, 
 That's nae luve at a', Jamie, 
 How could I bear braw gowns to wear, 
 When ye are far awa', laddie." 
 
 "But mind me when awa', Jamie, 
 Mind me when awa', laddie, 
 For out o' sicht is out o' mind 
 Wi' mony folk we ken, Jamie." 
 
 "Oh, that can never be, Jeanie, 
 Forgot ye ne'er can be, lassie; 
 Oh, gang wi' me to the north countrie. 
 My bonnie bride to be, Jeanie." 
 
 "The hills are grand and hie, Jeanie, 
 The burnies runnin' clear, lassie; 
 *Mang birks and braes, where wild 
 deer strays. 
 Oh, come wi' me, and see, lassie." 
 
 "I winna gang wi' thee, laddie, 
 I tell'd you sae afore, Jamie; 
 Till free consent my parents gi'e. 
 I canna gang with thee, Jamie." 
 
 "But when ye're wed to me, Jeanie, 
 Then they will forgi'e, lassie; 
 How can ye be sae cauld to me, 
 Wha's loe'd ye weel an' lang, lassie," 
 
 "No sae lang as them, laddie, 
 No sae lang as them, Jamie; 
 A grief to them I wadna be, 
 
 No for the Duke himsel', Jamie." 
 
 "We'll save our penny fee, laddie, 
 To keep frae poortith free, Jamie; 
 An' then their blessing they will gi'e 
 Baith to you and me, Jamie. 
 
 "Huntingtower is mine, lassie, 
 Huntingtower is mine, Jeanie; 
 Huntingtower an' Blairnagower, 
 An' a' that's mine is thine, Jeanie!" 
 
 HUNTINGTOWER. 
 
 OLD VERSION. 
 
 She. — When ye gang awa', Jamie, 
 Far across the sea, laddie; 
 When ye gang to Germanic, 
 
 What will ye send to me, laddie? 
 
 He. — I'll send ye a braw new gown,. 
 Jeanie, 
 I'll send ye a braw new gown^ 
 
 lassie. 
 And it shall be o' silk and gowdy 
 Wi' Valenciennes set round, lassie. 
 
 She. — That's nae gift ava', Jamie, 
 That's nae gift ava', laddie, 
 There's ne'er a gown in a' the land 
 I'd like when ye're awa', laddie. 
 
 come back 
 
 again^ 
 
 He. — When I 
 Jeanie, 
 
 When I come back again, lassie^ 
 I'll bring wi' me a gallant gay. 
 To be your ain guidman, lassie. 
 
 She. — Be my guidman yoursel', Jamie, 
 Be my guidman yoursel', laddie. 
 And talc' me ower to Germanic 
 Wi' you at hame to dwell, laddie, 
 
 He. — I dinna ken how that would do, 
 Jeanie, 
 I dinna ken how that can be, 
 lassie. 
 For I've a wife and bairnics three. 
 And I'm no sure how ye'd gree, 
 lassie. 
 
 She. — You should ha'e tclt me that in 
 time, Jamie, 
 You should ha'e telt me that in 
 time, laddie, 
 For had I kent o' your fause heart. 
 You ne'er had gotten mine, 
 laddie.
 
 218 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 He. — Vour een were like a spell, 
 Jeanie, 
 Your een were like a spell, lassie, 
 That ilka day bewitched me sae, 
 I could na help mysel', lassie. 
 
 She. — Gae back to your wife and 
 hame, Jamie, 
 Gae back to your bairnies three, 
 laddie; 
 And I will pray they ne'er may 
 thole 
 A broken heart like me, laddie. 
 
 He. — Dry that tearfu' e'e, Jeanie, 
 My story's a' a lee, lassie, 
 I've neither wife nor bairnies three. 
 And I'll wed nane but thee, lassie. 
 
 ye 
 
 rue. 
 
 She. — Think weel before 
 Jamie, 
 Think weel before ye rue, laddie, 
 For I have neither gowd nor lands, 
 To be a match for you, laddie. 
 
 He. — Blair in Athol's mine, Jeanie, 
 Little Dunkeld is mine, leddy. 
 Saint Johnston's bower, and Hunt- 
 ing Tower, 
 An' a' that's mine is thine, lassie. 
 
 UP IN THE MORNIN' EARLY. 
 
 JOHN HAMILTON. 
 
 John Hamilton is supposed to have been 
 born at Edinburgh, in 1761. Nothing is 
 known of his carl)' life. He composed a 
 number of Scottish songs, besides many 
 beautiful airs, which have always been 
 popular with the people of Scotland. He 
 was in business for some years as a music 
 seller in North Bridge Street, Edinburgh, 
 and added considerably to his income by 
 teaching instrumental music to a few pu- 
 pils at their homes. One of these, a young 
 lady of rank and fortune, fell in love with 
 him and married him, much against the 
 wishes of her relations and friends. Their 
 future lot, however, was passed amid much 
 domestic happiness and peace. Hamilton 
 died in 1814. 
 
 Cauld blaws the wind frae north to 
 south ; 
 
 The drift is drifting sairly; 
 The sheep are cowrin' in the heuch, 
 
 O! sirs, its winter fairly. 
 Now up in the mornin's no for me, 
 
 Up in the mornin' early; 
 I'd rather gae supperless to my bed, 
 
 Than rise in the morning early. 
 
 Loud roars the blast amang the woods, 
 
 And tirls the branches barely; 
 On hill and house hear how it thuds! 
 
 The frost is nipping sairly. 
 Now up in the mornin's no for me, 
 
 Up in the mornin' early, 
 To sit a' nicht wad better agree, 
 
 Than rise in the mornin' early. 
 
 The sun peeps owre yon southland 
 hills, 
 
 Like ony timorous carlie, 
 Just blinks a wee, then sinks again: 
 
 And that we find severely. 
 Now up in the mornin's no for me, 
 
 Up in the mornin' early, 
 When snaw blaws in at the chimley 
 cheek, 
 
 Wha'd rise in the mornin' early ? 
 
 Nae Unties lilt on hedge or bush: 
 
 Poor things they suffer sairly; 
 In cauldrife quarters a' the nicht; 
 
 A' day they feed but sparely. 
 Now up in the mornin's no for me, 
 
 Up in the mornin' early; 
 A pennyless purse I wad rather dree 
 
 Than rise in the mornin' early. 
 
 A cosie house and canty wife. 
 
 Aye keep a body cheerly; 
 And pantries stowed wi' meat and 
 drink, 
 
 They answer unco rarely. 
 But up in the mornin' — na, na, na! 
 
 Up in the mornin' early! 
 The gowans maun glent on bank and 
 brae. 
 
 When I rise in the mornin' early.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 219 
 
 THE RANTIN HIGHLAND- 
 MAN. 
 
 JOHN HAMILTON. 
 
 Ae morn, last ouk, as I gaed out 
 
 To flit a tether'd yowe and lamb, 
 I met, as skififing ower the green, 
 
 A jolly rantin' Highlandman. 
 His shape was neat, wi' feature 
 sweet, 
 
 And ilka smile my favor wan; 
 I ne'er had seen sae braw a lad, 
 
 As this young rantin' Highland- 
 man. 
 
 He said, My dear, ye're sune asteer; 
 
 Cam' ye to hear the laverock's 
 sang? 
 O, wad ye gang and wed wi' me, 
 
 And wed a rantin' Highlandman ? 
 In summer days, on flowery braes, 
 
 When frisky is the ewe and lamb, 
 I'se row ye in my tartan plaid, 
 
 And be your rantin' Highlandman. 
 
 With heatherbells, that sweetly smells, 
 
 I'll deck your hair sae fair and 
 lang. 
 If ye'U consent to scour the bent 
 
 Wi' me, a rantin' Highlandman. 
 We'll big a cot, and buy a stock, 
 
 Syne do the best that e'er we can: 
 Then come, my dear, ye needna fear 
 
 To trust a rantin' Highlandman. 
 
 His words sae sweet gaed to my heart. 
 
 And fain I wad ha'e gien my han', 
 Yet durstna, lest my mother should 
 
 Dislike a rantin' Highlandman. 
 But I expect he will come back; 
 
 Then, tliough my kin' should scould 
 and ban, 
 I'll ower the hill, or where he will, 
 
 Wi' my young rantin' Highland- 
 man. 
 
 GO TO BERWICK JOHNNIE. 
 
 JOHN HAMILTON. 
 Founded on an old song beginning: 
 
 " Go, go, go. 
 
 Go to Berwick, Johnnie; 
 Thou shalt liave the horse. 
 
 And I shall have the pony." 
 
 Go to Berwick, Johnnie; 
 
 Bring her frae the Border; 
 Yon sweet bonny lassie, 
 
 Let her gae nae farther. 
 English loons will twine ye 
 
 O' the lovely treasure; 
 But we'll let them ken 
 
 A sword wi' them w^e'll measure. 
 
 Go to Berwick, Johnnie, 
 
 And regain your honor; 
 Drive them o'er the Tweed, 
 
 And show our Scottish banner. 
 I am Rob, the King, 
 
 And ye are Jock, my brither; 
 But, before we lose her, 
 
 We'll a' there thesrither. 
 
 MISS FORBES' FAREWELL 
 TO BANFF. 
 
 JOHN HAMILTON. 
 
 Farewell, ye fields an' meadows 
 green ! 
 The blest retreats of peace an' love; 
 Aft have I, silent, stolen from hence. 
 With my young swain a while to 
 rove. 
 Sweet was our walk, more sweet our 
 talk, 
 Among the beauties of the spring; 
 An' aft we'd lean us on a bank, 
 To hear the feathered warblers sing. 
 
 The azure sky, the hills around, 
 Gave double beauty to the scene; 
 
 The lofty spires of Banff in view — 
 On every side the waving grain.
 
 220 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 The tales of love my Jamie told. 
 In such a saft an' moving strain, 
 
 Have so engaged my tender heart, _ 
 I'm loath to leave the place again. 
 
 But if the Fates will be sae kind 
 As favor my return once more, 
 For to enjoy the peace of mind 
 
 In those retreats I had before: 
 Now, farewell, Banff! the nimble 
 steeds 
 
 Do bear me hence — I must away; 
 Yet time, perhaps, may bring me 
 back, 
 
 To part nae mair from scenes so 
 
 gay. 
 
 WHEN THE KYE COMES 
 HAME. 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 James Hogg, or, as he called himself, 
 "The Ettrick Shepherd" was born at Et- 
 trick, in Selkirkshire, about the first of 
 December, 1770. He entertained the be- 
 lief, however, that he was born on the 25th 
 of January, 1772, but according to the 
 Baptismal Register of Ettrick, he was bap- 
 tised on the gth of December, 1770. His 
 father followed the occupation of a shep- 
 herd, and being in possession of only a 
 small salary, could not afford the means 
 required for an ordinary education to his 
 son, and he was consequently sent out to 
 service as a cowherd among the hills and 
 glens which in time he learned to love so 
 well. His mother, however, who seems 
 to have been a woman of some intellect- 
 ual acquirement, undertook to instruct 
 him during the evenings, and so well did 
 she succeed in her task, that before James 
 was eighteen years of age, he had read 
 through with much interest and satisfac- 
 tion, " The Life and Adventures of Sir 
 William Wallace," "The Gentle Shep- 
 herd," by Allan Ramsay, and a few other 
 notable works of a religious character. 
 From his mother he also became familiar 
 with many of the famous Jacobite songs 
 and ballads, and in this manner acquired 
 a liking for this particular class of litera- 
 ture, which he cherished ever afterward. 
 At the age of twenty he was given 
 
 the position of head shepherd to Mr. 
 James Laidlaw, the father of the author 
 of "Lucy's Flittin'," and through this 
 gentleman's influence, procured an in- 
 troduction to tlie great Sir (then Mr.) 
 Walter Scott, with whom he formed a 
 warm and life-long friendship. It was 
 about this time that Hogg first became im- 
 pressed with the idea that he was a poet. 
 He had written a few pieces, and he tells 
 us that his rhymes were "songs and bal- 
 lads made up for the lassies to sing in 
 chorus, and a proud man I was when I 
 first heard the rosy nymphs chanting my 
 uncouth strains; and jeering me by the 
 still dear appellation of 'Jamie the 
 Poeter.' " In 1801, while spending a week 
 at Edinburgh, attending a cattle fair, he 
 wrote down from memory a few of what 
 he considered to be his best pieces, and 
 published them in a small volume consist- 
 ing of sixty-two pages. This volume, we 
 are told. " fell still-born from the press, 
 and the author had to pay a smart printer's 
 bill for the gratification of seeing himself 
 in print." Nothing daunted, however, by 
 this first failure, he appeared again a few 
 years later before the public as the author 
 of another volume of poems and songs, 
 entitled "The Mountain Bard," and this 
 time he was more fortunate. The book 
 sold well, and after the edition had been 
 exhausted he found that he had cleared 
 nearly three hundred pounds from it, after 
 deducting all expenses. With this money 
 he speculated in a sheep farm situated in 
 the parish of Tynron, Dumfriesshire, but 
 here again he was unsuccessful, and in 
 less than three years he was glad to aban- 
 don his farm and take to his pen as a 
 means of support. He returned to Edin- 
 burgh, where he began the publication of 
 "The Forest Minstrel," a collection of 
 songs, old and modern. This work, al- 
 though valuable at the time, attained only 
 a limited circulation, and hardly repaid 
 the Editor for the labor which he bestow- 
 ed upon it. His next venture was "The 
 Spy," a weekly periodical, the publication 
 of which he was obliged to suspend one 
 year after the first number had been issued, 
 as the public did not seem to appreciate 
 the efforts which he put forth on their be- 
 half in this new enterprise. In 1813, how- 
 ever, appeared a work from his pen which 
 at once made him famous throughout 
 Great Britain, viz: "The Queen's Wake." 
 This is a series of tales supposed to be 
 told or sung by a number of old minstrels
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 221 
 
 before Mary Queen of Scots, at Holyrood 
 Palace. It achieved at once a wonderful 
 popularity, and is to-day admitted to be 
 one of the finest books of poems which 
 any Scottish author, except Burns, has 
 produced. " The design of ' The Queen's 
 Wake,' " s^ys one of Hogg's biographers, 
 "was excellent, and the execution so 
 varied and masterly, that he was at once 
 placed among the first of our native poets. 
 The different productions of the local 
 minstrels are strung together by a thread 
 of narrative so gracefully written in many 
 parts, that the reader is surprised equally at 
 the delicacy and the genius of the author." 
 Having recovered after a while from the 
 effects of the applause which greeted the 
 appearance of "The Queen's Wake," 
 Hogg rented the farm of Altrive Lake 
 from the Duke of Buccleuch, and while 
 giving his personal attention to the man- 
 agement of this farm, still found time to 
 devote to the task of editing old works, 
 and the writing of new ones. "The Pil- 
 grims of the Sun," " Mador of theMoor," 
 "The Poetic Mirror," and the famous 
 "Jacobite Relics of Scotland," are each 
 and all works of special interest in their 
 place. To the last named work the lovers 
 of Jacobite songs are especialh' indebted, 
 and although it is far from being a com- 
 plete or even correct collection of these 
 famous historical songs, yet it is the best 
 work that we have on the subject and all 
 praise must be awarded to Hogg for the 
 sincerity and love with which he gathered 
 together and preserved for future genera- 
 tions, so many of those honorable relics 
 of a by-gone age. Nor must we forget, 
 about this period, to mention the connection 
 of Hogg with "Blackwood's Edinburgh 
 Magazine." To him, and a few other enter- 
 prising individuals belong the credit of 
 having projected and brought into exis- 
 tence a magazine which to-day occupies 
 one of the foremost places among the 
 standard monthly publications of Europe. 
 
 In 1831, Hogg paid a visit to London, 
 where he was received with every mark of 
 distinction by all classes of society. A 
 great festival, we read, "attended by near- 
 ly two hundred persons, including noble- 
 men, Members of Parliament and men of 
 letters, was given him in Freemasons' 
 Hall." After his return from London, he 
 was again entertained at a public dinner 
 in Peebles, presided over by Professor 
 Wilson, of " Noctes Ambrosianae" fame. 
 
 In the same year he published a complete 
 edition of his songs, which was well re- 
 ceived b}' the public. He also edited a 
 new edition of Burns, which proved to be 
 the most valuable edition of the poets 
 works which so far had been published. 
 From this time until 1834, he remained 
 idle as far as literary work was concerned. 
 During the summer of that year he pub 
 lished a volume, entitled "Lay Sermons 
 on good Principles and Good Breeding." 
 His next and last work was "Montrose 
 Tales," in three volumes, which he issued 
 in 1835. Toward the end of 1835, he was 
 attacked with a dropsical complaint from 
 which he never recovered. He died on 
 the twenty-first of November of that year, 
 in the sixty-fifth year of his age. His re- 
 mains were interred in the old churchyard 
 at Ettrick, and a plain tombstone was 
 shortl}' afterward erected b)' his widow to 
 point out the last resting-place of the man 
 who had risen from a shepherd boy to one 
 of the highest literary pinnacles in Great 
 Britain. " When the dark clouds of win- 
 ter," writes Henry Scott Riddell, "pass 
 away from the crest of Ettrick-pen, and 
 the summits of the nearer-lying mountains, 
 which surround the scene ot his repose, 
 and the yellow gowan opens its bosom by 
 the banks of the mountain stream, to 
 welcome the lights and shadows of the 
 spring returning over the land, many are 
 the wild daisies which adorn the turf that 
 covers the remains of The Ettrick Shep- 
 herd." 
 
 " Flow my Ettrick ! it was thee 
 Into my life that first did drop me; 
 Thee I'll sing, and when I dee 
 Thou will lend a sod to hap me. 
 Pausing swains will say, and weep, 
 Here our Shepherd lies asleep." 
 
 "Next to Robert Burns," says Dr. 
 Rogers, "the Ettrick Shepherd is unques- 
 tionably the most distinguished of Scot- 
 tish bards springing from the ranks of the 
 people; in the region of the supernatural 
 he stands alone. A child of the forest, 
 nursed amid the wilds and tutored among 
 the solitudes of nature, his strong and 
 vigorous imagination had received impres- 
 sions from the mountains, the cataract, 
 the torrent and the wilderness, and was 
 filled with pictures and images of the 
 mysterious, which those scenes were cal- 
 culated to awaken 
 
 His ballads and songs are sweet and 
 musical, and replete with pathos and 
 pastoral dignity. Though he had written
 
 222 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 only ' Flora Macdoiiald's Lament ' and 
 'When the Kye Comes Hame,' his claims 
 to an honored place in the temple of song 
 had been unquestioned." 
 
 Hogg was married in 1820, to Margaret 
 Philips, the youngest daughter of Mr. G. 
 Philips, of Longbridemoore, in Annan- 
 dale, and at his death left a widow and 
 five children, for whose comfort both the 
 government and the public made ample 
 provision. He himself left no money. 
 A collected edition of his works was com- 
 piled and published in Glasgow shortly 
 after his death, from the proceeds of which 
 his family also derived much benefit. 
 
 " In the title and chorus of this favorite 
 pastoral song, I choose rather to violate a 
 rule in grammar, than a Scottish phrase so 
 common, that when it is altered into the 
 proper way, every shepherd and shep- 
 herd's sweetheart account it nonsence. I 
 was once singing it at a wedding with 
 great glee the latter way, ' When the kye 
 come hame,' when a tailor, scratching his 
 head, said, ' It was a terrible affectit way 
 that!' I stood corrected, and have never 
 sung it so again." — ^o^g. 
 
 Come all ye jolly shepherds 
 
 That whistle through the glen, 
 I'll tell you of a secret 
 
 That courtiers dinna ken. 
 What is the greatest bliss 
 
 That the tongue o' man can name? 
 'Tis to woo a bonnie lassie 
 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 When the kye comes hame, 
 When the kye comes hame, 
 
 'Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk. 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 'Tis not beneath the burgonet, 
 
 Nor yet beneath the crown, 
 'Tis not on couch of velvet, 
 
 Nor yet on bed of down: 
 'Tis beneath the spreading birch, 
 
 In the dell without a name, 
 Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie. 
 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 When the kye comes hame, &c. 
 
 There the blackbird bigs his nest 
 
 For the mate he loves to see, 
 And up upon the tapmost bough. 
 
 Oh, a happy bird is he! 
 Then he pours his melting ditty, 
 
 An' love 'tis a' the theme, 
 And he'll woo his bonnie lassie. 
 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 When the kye comes hame, &c. 
 
 When the bluart bears a pearl, 
 
 And the daisy turns a pea, 
 And the bonnie lucken gowan 
 
 Has fauldit up his e'e, 
 Then the laverock frae the blue lift 
 
 Draps down, and thinks nae shame 
 To woo his bonnie lassie 
 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 When the kye comes hame, &c. 
 
 Then the eye shines sae bright, 
 
 The haill soul to beguile, 
 There's love in every whisper. 
 
 And joy in every smile; 
 O, wha would choose a crown, 
 
 Wi' its perils and its fame. 
 And miss a bonnie lassie 
 
 When the kye comes hame? 
 
 When the kye comes hame, &c. 
 
 See yonder pawky shepherd 
 
 That lingers on the hill — 
 His yowes are in the fauld, 
 
 And his lambs are lying still; 
 Yet he downa gang to rest. 
 
 For his heart is in a flame 
 To meet his bonnie lassie 
 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 When the kye comes hame, &c. 
 
 Awa' wi' fame and fortune — 
 
 What comfort can they gi'e?- 
 And a' the arts that prey 
 
 On man's life and libertie! 
 Gi'e me the highest joy 
 
 That the heart o' man can frame, 
 My bonnie, bonnie lassie. 
 
 When the kye comes hame.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 22)5 
 
 When the kye comes hame, 
 When the kye comes hame, 
 'Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk, 
 When the kye comes hame! 
 
 DONALD MACDONALD. 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 " I once heard this song sung at the the- 
 atre, at Lancaster, when the singer substi- 
 tuted the following lines of his own for 
 the last verse : 
 
 ' For Jock Bull he is good in a hurry. 
 An' Sawney is steel to the bane, 
 An' wee David Welsh is a widdy, 
 An' Paddy will hurkle to nane; 
 They'll a' prove baith sturdy and loyal, 
 Come dangers around them what may, 
 An' I, their gude-brither, Macdonald, 
 Shall ne'r be the last in the fray,' Slc. 
 
 It took exceedingly well, and was three 
 times encored, and there was I sitting in 
 the galler}^ applauding as much as any- 
 body. My vanity prompted me to tell a 
 i'oll3'Yorkshire manufacturer that night that 
 was the author of the song. He laughed 
 excessively at m}' assumption, and told the 
 landlady that he took me for a half-crazed 
 Scots pedlar." — f^ogg. 
 
 My name it is Donald Macdonald — 
 
 I leeve in the Highlands sae grand; 
 I've follow'd our banner, and will do. 
 
 Wherever my maker has land. 
 When rankit amang the blue bonnets, 
 
 Nae danger can fear me ava ; 
 I ken that my brethren around me 
 
 Are either to conquer or fa'. 
 
 Brogues, and brochan, and a'. 
 
 Brochan, and brogues, and a', 
 And is nae her very weel aff 
 
 Wha has brogues, and brochan, 
 and a'? 
 
 What though we befreendit young 
 Charlie.'' 
 To tell it I dinna think shame; 
 Puir lad! he cam' to us but barely, 
 And reckon'd our mountains his 
 hame. 
 
 It's true that our reason forbade us, 
 But tenderness carried the day; 
 
 Had Geordie come friendless amang 
 us, 
 Wi' him we had a' gane away. 
 
 Sword, and buckler, and a', 
 Buckler, and sword, and a'; 
 
 For George we'll encounter the 
 devil, 
 Wi' sword, and buckler, and a'. 
 
 And O I wad eagerly press him 
 
 The keys o' the East to retain; 
 For should he gi'e up the possession, 
 
 We'll soon ha'e to force them again; 
 Than yield up an inch wi' dishonor, 
 
 Though it were my finishin' blow, 
 He aye may depend on Macdonald, 
 
 Wi' his Highlandmen all in a row. 
 
 Knees, and elbows, and a' 
 Elbows, and knees, and a' 
 
 Depend upon Donald Macdonald, 
 His kees, and elbows, and a'. 
 
 If Bonaparte land at Fort William, 
 
 Auld Europe nae langer shall grane; 
 I laugh when I think how we'll gall 
 him 
 
 Wi' bullet, wi' steel, and wi' stane: 
 Wi' rocks o' the Nevis and Garny 
 
 We'll rattle him aff frae our shore, 
 Or lull him asleep in a cairnie. 
 
 And sing him Lochaber no more! 
 
 Stanes, and bullets, and a'. 
 Bullets, and stanes, and a'; 
 
 W^e'll finish the Corsican callan 
 Wi' stanes, and bullets, and a'. 
 
 The Gordon is gude in a hurry; 
 
 And Campbell is steel to the bane, 
 And Grant, and Mackenzie, and 
 Murray, 
 
 And Cameron, will hurkle to nane; 
 The Stuart is sturdy and wannel; 
 
 And sae is Macleod and Mackay; 
 And I, their gude-brither, Macdonald, 
 
 Shall never be last in the fray.
 
 "224 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Brogues, and brochan, and a'. 
 
 Brochan, and brogues, and a'; 
 And up wi' the bonnie blue 
 
 bonnet. 
 The kilt, and feather, and a'. 
 
 FLORA MACDONALD'S 
 LAMENT. 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 •' Was composed to an air handed me by 
 tthe late lamented Neil Gow, Jr. He said 
 dt was an ancient Skye air, but afterwards 
 told me it was his own. When I first heard 
 the song sung by Mr. Morison, I never was 
 •so agreeably astonished — I could hardly 
 believe my senses that I bad made so good 
 3. song without knowing it." — Hogg. 
 
 Far over yon hills of the heather sae 
 green, 
 An' down by the corrie that sings to 
 the sea, 
 The bonny young Flora sat sighing 
 her lane. 
 The dew on her plaid, and the tear 
 in her e'e. 
 She look'd at a boat wi' the breezes 
 that swung, 
 Away on the wave, like a bird of 
 the main; 
 An* aye as it lessen'd she sigh'd and 
 she sung, 
 Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see 
 again! 
 Fareweel to my hero, the gallant and 
 young, 
 Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see 
 again! 
 
 The solan can sleep on the shelve of 
 the shore, 
 The cormorant roost on his rock of 
 the sea, 
 But ah! there is one whose hard fate 
 I deplore. 
 Nor house, ha', nor hame in his 
 country has he ! 
 The conflict is past and our name is 
 no more — 
 There's nought left but sorrow for 
 Scotland and me! 
 
 The target is torn from the arm of the 
 just, 
 The helmet is cleft on the brow of 
 the brave, 
 The claymore forever in darkness 
 must rust. 
 But red is the sword of the stranger 
 and slave; 
 The hoof of the horse and the foot of 
 the proud. 
 Have trod o'er the plumes on the 
 bonnet of blue; 
 Why slept the red bolt in the breast 
 of the cloud. 
 When tyranny revell'd in blood of 
 the true? 
 Fareweel, my young hero, the gallant 
 and good! 
 The crown of thy fathers is torn 
 from thy brow! 
 
 on 
 
 the 
 
 The moorcock that craws 
 brows of Ben-Connal, 
 He kens of his bed in a sweet mossy 
 hame; 
 The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs of 
 Clan-Ronald, 
 Unawed and unhunted his eyrie 
 can claim; 
 
 M'LEAN'S WELCOME. 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 " I versified this song at Meggernie Cas- 
 tle, in Glen-Lyon, from a scrap of prose 
 said to be the translation, verbatim, of a 
 Gaelic song, and to a Gaelic air, sung by 
 one of the sweetest singers and most ac- 
 complished and angelic beings of the 
 human race. But, alas! earthly happiness 
 is not always the lot of those who, in our 
 erring estimation, most deserve it. She is 
 now no more, and many a strain have I 
 poured to her memory." — Hogg.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF' SCOTLAND. 
 
 225 
 
 Come o'er the stream, Charlie, 
 Dear Charlie, brave Charlie; 
 Come o'er the stream, Charlie, 
 
 And dine with M'Lean; 
 And though you be weary, 
 We'll make your heart cheery, 
 And welcome our Charlie, 
 
 And his loyal train. 
 We'll bring down the track deer. 
 We'll bring down the black steer, 
 The lamb from the bracken, 
 
 And doe from the glen, 
 The salt sea we'll harry. 
 And bring to our Charlie 
 The cream from the bothy 
 And curd from the pen. 
 
 Come o'er the stream, Charlie, 
 Dear Charlie, brave Charlie; 
 Come o'er the sea, Charlie, 
 
 An' dine with M'Lean; 
 And you shall drink freely 
 The dews of Glen-sheerly, 
 That stream in the starlight 
 
 When kings do not ken; 
 And deep be your meed 
 Of the wine that is red, 
 To drink to your sire, 
 
 And his friend The M'Lean. 
 
 Come o'er the stream, Charlie, 
 Dear Charlie, brave Charlie; 
 Come o'er the stream, Charlie, 
 
 And dine with M'Lean; 
 If aught will invite you. 
 Or more will delight you, 
 'Tis ready, a troop of our 
 
 Highlandmen, 
 All ranged on the heather, 
 With bonnet and feather, 
 Strong arms and broad claymores, 
 
 Three hundred and ten! 
 
 There was a system of competition went 
 on there, the most delightful that 1 ever 
 engaged in. Mr Wilson and I had a 
 '(Queen's Wake' every wet day — a fair 
 set-to who should write the best poem be- 
 tween breakfast and dinner, and, if I am 
 any judge, these friendly competitions pro- 
 duced several of our best poems, if not 
 the best ever written on the same subjects 
 before. Mr. Wilson, as well as Southey 
 and Wordsworth, had all of them a way 
 of singing out their poetry in a loud 
 sonorous key, which was very impressive, 
 but perfectly ludicrous. Wilson, at that 
 period, composed all his poetry by going 
 over it in that sounding strain; and in our 
 daily competitions, although our rooms 
 were not immediately adjoining, I always 
 overheard what progress he was making. 
 When he came upon any grand idea, he 
 opened upon it full swell, with all the 
 energy of a fine fox-hound on a hot trail. 
 If I heard many of these vehement aspira- 
 tions, they weakened my hands and dis- 
 couraged my heart, and I often said to 
 myself, ' Gude faith, it's a' ower wi' me 
 for this day ! ' When we went over the 
 poems together in the evening, I was 
 always anxious to learn what parts of the 
 poem had excited the sublime breathings 
 which I had heard at a distance, but he 
 never could tell me." — Hogg. 
 
 bold 
 
 O, WEEL BEFA' THE MAIDEN 
 GAY. 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 "This song was written at Elleray, Mr. 
 Wilson's seat in Westmoreland, where a 
 number of my very best things were written. 
 
 O, WEEL befa' the maiden gay, 
 
 In cottage, bught, or pen. 
 An' weel befa' the bonnie May 
 
 That wons in yonder glen; 
 Wha lo'es the modest truth sae weel, 
 Wha's aye kind, an' aye sae leal. 
 An' pure as blooming asphodel 
 
 Amang sae mony men. 
 1 0, weel befa' the bonny thing 
 
 That wons in yonder glen! 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear the music float 
 
 Along the gloaming lee; 
 'Tis sweet to hear the blackbird's note 
 
 Come pealing frae the tree; 
 To see the lambkins lightsome race — 
 The speckled kid in wanton chase — 
 The young deer cower in lonly place, 
 
 Deep in her flowing den; 
 But sweeter far the bonny face 
 
 That smiles in yonder glen!
 
 226 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 O, had it no' been for the blush 
 
 O' maiden's virgin flame, 
 Dear beauty never had been known, 
 
 An' never had a name; 
 But aye sin' that dear thing o' blame 
 Was modell'd by an angel's frame, 
 The power o' beauty reigns supreme 
 
 O'er a' the sons o' men; 
 But deadliest far the sacred flame 
 
 Burns in a lonely glen! 
 
 There's beauty in the violet's vest— 
 
 There's hinney in the haw — 
 There's dew within the rose's breast, 
 
 The sweetest o' them a'. 
 The sun will rise an' set again, 
 An' lace wi' burning gowd the main — 
 The rainbow bend outow'r the plain, 
 
 Sae lovely to the ken; 
 But lovelier far the bonny thing 
 
 That wons in yonder glen! 
 
 THE WOMEN FOLK. 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 " The air of this song is my own. It 
 was first set to music by Heather, and 
 most beautifully set, too. It was after- 
 wards set by Dewar, whether with the 
 same accompaniments or not, I have for- 
 got. It is my own favorite humorous song 
 when forced by ladies to sing against my 
 will, which too frequently happens; and 
 notwithstanding, my wood-notes wild, it 
 will never be sung by any so well again." 
 
 O SARELY may I rue the day 
 
 I fancied first the womankind; 
 For aye sinsyne I ne'er can ha'e 
 
 Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind! 
 They ha'e plagued my heart, an' 
 pleased my e'e, 
 
 An' teased an' flatter'd me at will, 
 But aye for a' their witchery, 
 
 The pawky things I lo'e them still. 
 
 O, the women folk! O, the wo- 
 men folk! 
 But they ha'e been the wreck 
 o' me; 
 O, weary fa' the women folk; 
 For they winna let a body be! 
 
 I ha'e thought an' thought, but darena 
 tell, 
 
 I've studied them wi' a' my skill, 
 I've lo'ed them better than mysel, 
 
 I've tried again to like them ill. 
 Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue, 
 
 To comprehend what nae man can; 
 When he has done what man can do, 
 
 He'll end at last where he began. 
 
 O, the women folk! &c. 
 
 That they ha'e gentle forms an' meet, 
 
 A man wi' half a look may see; 
 An' gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet, 
 
 An' waving curls aboon the bree; 
 An' smiles as soft as the young rose- 
 bud. 
 
 An' e'en sae pawky, bright, an* 
 rare, 
 Wad lure the laverock frae the clud — 
 
 But laddie, seek to ken nae mair! 
 
 O, the women folk! &c. 
 
 Even but this night, nae farther gane, 
 
 The date is neither lost nor lang, 
 I tak ye witness, ilka ane, 
 
 How fell they fought, and fairly 
 dang. 
 Their point they've carried, right or 
 wrang, 
 
 Without a reason rhyme, or law. 
 An' forced a man to sing a sang, 
 
 That ne'er could sing a verse ava'. 
 
 O, the women folk! the women 
 folk! 
 But they ha'e been the wreck 
 o' me; 
 O, weary fa' the women folk, 
 For they winna let a body be!
 
 CELEBRATED S0NG8 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 227 
 
 BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE. 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 First published in The Border Garland, 
 a musical magazine which suspended pub- 
 lication shortly after the issue of its first 
 number. 
 
 Cam' ye by Athol, lad wi' the phila- 
 
 beg, 
 Down by the Tummel or banks o 
 the Garry, 
 Saw ye our lads wi' their bonnets and 
 white cockades, 
 Leaving their mountains to follow 
 Prince Charlie ? 
 Follow thee ! follow thee ! wha 
 wadna follow thee ? 
 Lang hast thou loved and trust- 
 ed us fairly! 
 Charlie, Charlie, who wadna fol- 
 low thee, 
 King o' the Highland hearts, 
 bonnie Prince Charlie? 
 
 I ha'e but ae son, my gallant young 
 Donald; 
 But if I had ten they should follow 
 Glengary ! 
 Health to M'Donnell and gallant Clan 
 Ronald — 
 For these are the men that will die 
 for their Charlie ! 
 
 Follow thee! follow thee! &c. 
 
 I'll to Lochiel and Appin, and kneel 
 to them, 
 Down by Lord Murray, and Roy of 
 Kildarlie; 
 Brave M'Intosh, he shall fly to the 
 f^eld with them, 
 These are the lads I can trust wi' 
 my Charlie! 
 
 Follow thee! follow thee! &c. 
 
 Down thorough the Lowlands, down 
 wi' the Whigamore! 
 Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' 
 them rarely! 
 
 Ronald and Donald, drive on, wi' the 
 broad claymore. 
 Over the necks o' the foes o' Prince 
 Charlie! 
 Follow thee! follow thee! wha 
 wadna follow thee ? 
 Lang hast thou loved and trust- 
 ed us fairly ! 
 Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna fol- 
 low thee. 
 King o' the Highland hearts 
 bonnie Prince Charlie.? 
 
 MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A 
 LASSIE YET. 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 My love she's but a lassie yet, 
 A lightsome lovely lassie yet; 
 
 It scarce wad do 
 
 To sit an' woo 
 Down by the stream sae glassy yet. 
 But there's a braw time coming yet, 
 When we may gang a-roaming yet ; 
 
 An' hint wi' glee 
 
 O' joys to be, 
 When fa's the modest gloaming yet. 
 
 She's neither proud nor saucy yet, 
 She's neither plump nor gaucy yet; 
 
 But just a jinking, 
 
 Bonnie blinking, 
 Hilty-skilty lassie yet. 
 But O, her artless smiles mair sweet 
 Than hinny or than marmalete; 
 
 An' right or wrang. 
 
 Ere it be lang, 
 I'll bring her to a parley yet. 
 
 I'm jealous o' what blessgs her, 
 The very breeze that kis'ses her, 
 
 The flowry beds 
 
 On which she treads, 
 Though wae for ane that misses her. 
 Then O to meet my lassie yet. 
 Up in yon glen sae grassy yet; 
 
 For all I see 
 
 Are nought fo me. 
 Save her that's but a lassie yet!
 
 228 
 
 CELEBRATED SONOS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 GOOD NIGHT AN' JOY BE 
 WI' YOU A'! 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 The year is wearin' to the wane, 
 
 An' day is fadin' west awa', 
 Loud raves the torrent an' the rain, 
 An' dark the cloud comes down the 
 shaw. 
 But let the tempest tout and blaw, 
 Upon his loudest winter horn. 
 Good night an' joy be wi' you a', 
 We'll maybe meet again the morn. 
 
 O we ha'e wander'd far an' wide, 
 
 O'er Scotia's land o' firth an' fell, 
 An' mony a simple flower we've cull'd. 
 
 An' twin'd them wi' the heather- 
 bell: 
 We've ranged the dingle an' the dell, 
 
 The hamlet an' the baron's ha'. 
 Now let us tak' a kind farewell, — 
 
 Good night an' joy be wi' you a'! 
 
 Ye ha'e been kind as I was keen, 
 
 An' follow'd where I led the way, 
 'Till ilka poet's lore we've seen 
 
 Of this an' mony a former day. 
 If e'er I led your steps astray, 
 
 Forgi'e your minstrel ance for a'; 
 A tear fa's wi' his parting lay — 
 
 Good night an' joy be wi' you a'! 
 
 DOCTOR MUNROE. 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 "Dear Doctor, be clever, an' fling 
 aff your beaver, 
 Come, bleed me an' blister me, 
 dinna be slow; 
 I'm sick, I'm exhausted, my prospects 
 are blasted, 
 An' a' driven heels o'er head, Doctor 
 Munroe!" 
 
 " Be patient, dear fellow, you foster 
 your fever; 
 Pray, what's the misfortune that 
 troubles you so ?" 
 "O, Doctor! I'm ruin'd, I'm ruin'd 
 for ever — 
 My lass has forsaken me, Doctor 
 Munroe! 
 
 " I meant to have married, an' tasted 
 the pleasures, 
 The sweets, the enjoyments from 
 wedlock that flow; 
 But she's ta'en another, an' broken 
 my measures, 
 An' fairly dumfounder'd me, Doctor 
 Munroe! 
 I'm fool'd, I am dover'd as dead as 
 a herring — 
 Good sir, you're a man of com- 
 passion, I know; 
 Come, bleed me to death, then, un- 
 flinching, unerring, 
 Or grant me some poison, dear 
 Doctor Munroe!" 
 
 The Doctor he flang aff his big-coat 
 an' beaver, 
 He took out his lance, an' he 
 sharpen'd it so; 
 No judge ever look'd more decided 
 or graver — 
 " I've oft done the same, sir," says 
 Doctor Munroe. 
 "For gamblers, rogues, jockeys, and 
 desperate lovers, 
 But I always make charge of a 
 hundred, or so." 
 The patient look'd pale, and cried 
 out in shrill quavers, 
 " The devil ! do you say so, sir, 
 Doctor Munroe ?" 
 
 " O yes, sir, I'm sorry there's nothing 
 more common; 
 I like it — it pays — but, ere that 
 length I go,
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 229 
 
 A man that goes mad for the love of 
 a woman 
 I sometimes can cure with a lecture, 
 or so." 
 " Why, thank you, sir; there spoke the 
 man and the friend too, 
 Death is the last reckoner with 
 friend or with foe, 
 The lecture then, first, if you please, 
 I'll attend to; 
 The other, of course, you know, 
 Doctor Munroe." 
 
 The lecture is said — How severe, 
 keen, an' cutting, 
 Of love an' of wedlock, each loss 
 an' each woe, 
 The patient got up — o'er the floor he 
 went strutting, 
 Smil'd, caper'd, an' shook hands 
 with Doctor Munroe. 
 He dresses, an' flaunts it with Bell, 
 Sue, an' Chirsty, 
 But freedom an' fun chooses not to 
 forego; 
 He still lives a bachelor, drinks when 
 he's thirsty, 
 An' sings like a lark, an' loves 
 Doctor Munroe! 
 
 GANG TO THE BRAKENS 
 Wr ME. 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 I'll sing of yon glen of red heather, 
 
 An' a dear thing that ca's it her 
 hame, 
 Wha's a' made o' love-life thegether, 
 
 Frae the tie o' the shoe to the 
 kaime, 
 Love beckons in every sweet motion, 
 
 Commanding due homage to gi'e; 
 But the shrine o' my dearest devotion 
 
 Is the bend o' her bonny e'ebree. 
 
 I fleech'd an' I pray'd the dear lassie 
 
 To gang to the brakens wi' me; 
 But though neither lordly nor saucy, 
 
 Her answer was — " Laith wad I be! 
 I neither ha'e father nor mither. 
 
 Sage counsel or caution to gi'e; 
 An' prudence has whispered me never 
 
 To gang to the brakens wi' thee." 
 
 ** Dear lassie, how can you upbraid 
 me. 
 
 An' try your ain love to beguile ? 
 For ye are ihe richest young lady 
 
 That ever gaed o'er the kirk-stile. 
 Your smile that is blither than ony. 
 
 The bend o' your cheerfu' e'ebree, 
 An' the sweet blinks o' love there sae 
 bonny, 
 
 Are five hunder thousand to me!" 
 
 She turn'd her around an' said, 
 smiling, 
 While the tear in her blue e'e shone 
 clear, 
 " You're welcome, kind sir, to your 
 mailing, 
 For, O, you have valued it dear: 
 Gae mak' out the lease, do not linger; 
 Let the parson indorse the decree, 
 An' then, for a wave of your finger, 
 I'll gang to the brakens wi' thee!" 
 
 There's joy in the bright blooming 
 features. 
 When love lurks in every young 
 line; 
 There's joy in the beauties of nature. 
 There's joy in the dance and the 
 wine: 
 But there's a delight will ne'er perish, 
 'Mang pleasures all fleeting and 
 vain, 
 And that is to love and to cherish 
 The fond little heart that's our ain!
 
 230 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 LOCK THE DOOR, LARISTON. 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 " The Elliots and Armstrongs were form- 
 erly the most numerous clans on the 
 Scottish border, and were constantly at 
 feud with their English neighbors, Hogg's 
 song is descriptive of the defeat of the 
 English in one of these border raids." — 
 Lyric Gems of Scotland. 
 
 Lock the door, Lariston, lion of 
 
 Liddisdale, 
 Lock the door, Lariston, Lowther 
 comes on, 
 
 The Armstrongs are flying, 
 Their widows are crying. 
 The Castletown's burning, and 
 
 Oliver's gone; 
 Lock the door, Lariston, — high on the 
 
 weather gleam. 
 See how the Saxon plumes bob on 
 the sky, 
 
 Yoeman and carbineer, 
 
 Billman and halberdier; 
 
 Fierce is the foray, and far is the cry. 
 
 Bewcastle brandishes high his broad 
 
 scimatar, 
 Ridley is riding his fleet-footed, grey, 
 Hidley and Howard there, 
 Wandale and Windermere, 
 Lock the door, Lariston, hold them 
 
 at bay. 
 Why dost thou smile, noble Elliot of 
 
 Lariston ? 
 Why does the joy-candle gleam in 
 thine eye ? 
 
 Thou bold Border ranger 
 Beware of thy danger — 
 Thy foes are relentless, determined, 
 and nigh. 
 
 Jock Elliot raised up his steel bonnet 
 
 and lookit, 
 His hand grasp'd the sword with a 
 nervous embrace; 
 
 " Ah, welcome, brave foemen. 
 On earth there are no men 
 More gallant to meet in the foray or 
 chaesi 
 
 Little know you of the hearts I have 
 
 hidden here. 
 Little know you of our moss-troopers' 
 might, 
 
 Lindhope and Sorby true, 
 Sundhope and Milburn too. 
 Gentle in manner, but lions in fight! 
 
 "I've Mangerton, Ogilvie, Raeburn, 
 
 and Netherby, 
 Old Sim of Whitram, and all his 
 array; 
 
 Come, all Northumberland, 
 Teesdale and Cumberland, 
 Here at the Braken Tower end shall 
 
 the fray." 
 Scowl'd the broad sun o'er the links 
 
 of green Liddisdale, 
 Red as the beacon-light tipp'd he the 
 wold; 
 
 Many a bold martial eye 
 Mirrow'd that morning sky, 
 Never more oped on his orbit of gold! 
 
 Shrill was the bugle's note, dreadful 
 
 the warrior shout, 
 Lances and halberts in splinters were 
 borne; 
 
 Halberd and hauberk then 
 Braved the claymore in vain. 
 Buckler and armlet in shivers were 
 
 shorn. 
 See how they wane, the proud files of 
 
 the Windermere, 
 Howard — ah! woe to thy hopes of the 
 day ! 
 
 Here the wide welkin rend, 
 While the Scots' shouts ascend, 
 " Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye!" 
 
 THE WEE, WEE GERMAN 
 LAIRDIE. 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 There are several versions of this 
 
 famous Jacobite song in existence but the 
 
 one here' given by Hogg is undoubtedly the 
 
 best and most popular of all. Certainly
 
 CELEBRA2ED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 231 
 
 for genuine and humorous satire it is un- 
 surpassed in the whole annals of song 
 literature. The original version was com- 
 posed about the year 1714 on the accession 
 of George I, to the British throne, but by 
 whom will never be known. Hogg set 
 the words of the present version to music, 
 and published them in his "Jacobite 
 Relics," and the song has become a 
 universal favorite everywhere. 
 
 As a good illustration of the hatred 
 entertained by every Jacobite toward the 
 then reigning family, we quote the follow- 
 ing story from Dean Ramsay's " Remini- 
 scences." " David Tulloch, tenant in 
 Drumbenan, under the second and third 
 Dukes of Gordon, had been "out" in the 
 '45 — or the fafteen or both — and was a 
 great favorite of his respective landlords. 
 One day David having attended j'oung 
 Lady Susan Gordon (afterwards Duchess 
 of Manhester), to the " Chapel "at Huntly, 
 David, preceiving that her ladyship had 
 neither hassock nor carpet to protect her 
 garments from the earthen floor, respect- 
 full}- spread his plaid for the young lady 
 to kneel upon, and the service proceeded; 
 but when the prayer for the King and the 
 Ro3-al Famil}' was commenced, David, 
 sans ceremonie, drew or rather " twitched " 
 the plaid from under the knees of the 
 astonished young lady, exclaming, not 
 sotto voce, ' The deil a ane shall pray for 
 them on my plaid!' " 
 
 Wha the deil hae we gotten for a 
 king, 
 
 But a wee, wee German lairdie ! 
 An' when we gaed to bring him hame. 
 
 He was delving in his kail-yairdie; 
 Sheughing kail, and laying leeks, 
 But the hose and but the breeks 
 Up his beggar duds he cleeks. 
 
 The wee, wee German lairdie! 
 
 And he's clapt down in our gude- 
 man's chair. 
 
 The wee, wee German lairdie! 
 And he's brought fouth o' foreign trash, 
 
 And dibbled them in his yairdie: 
 He's pu'd the rose o' English loons, 
 And brake the harp o' Irish clowns, 
 But our Scots thristle will jag his 
 thumbs 
 
 The wee, wee German lairdie. 
 
 Come up among the Highland hills, 
 
 Thou wee, wee German lairdie, 
 And see how Charlie's lang-kail thrives 
 
 That he dibbled in his yairdie: 
 And if a stock ye daur to pu'. 
 Or hand the yoking of a pleugh, 
 We'll break your sceptre o'er your 
 mou', 
 Thou wee bit German lairdie! 
 
 Our hills are steep, our glens are deep. 
 
 No fitting for a yairdie; 
 And our norlan' thristles winna pu', 
 
 For a wee, wee German lairdie! 
 And we've the trenching blades o' 
 
 weir. 
 Wad lib ye o' your German gear. 
 And pass ye 'neath the claymore's 
 sheer. 
 
 Thou feckless German lairdie! 
 
 Auld Scotland! thou'rt owre cauld a 
 hole 
 
 For nursing siccan vermin; 
 But the very dogs o' England's court 
 
 Can bark and howl in German/ 
 Then keep thy dibble in thy ain hand. 
 Thy spade, but and thy yairdie; 
 For wha the deil now claims our land 
 
 But a wee, wee German lairdie. 
 
 DONALD MACGILLAVRY. 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 Donald's gane up the hill hard and 
 
 hungry; 
 Donald comes down the hill wild and 
 
 angry ; 
 Donald will clear the gouk's nest 
 
 cleverly: 
 Here's to the king and Donald Mac- 
 
 gillavry. 
 Come like a weigh-bauk, Donald 
 
 Macgillavry, 
 Come like a weigh-bauk, Donald 
 
 Macgillavry;
 
 232 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Balance them fair, and balance them 
 
 cleverly: 
 Off wi' the counterfeit, Donald Mac- 
 
 gillavry. 
 
 Donald's run o'er the hill but his 
 tether, man, 
 
 As he were wud, or stung wi' an ether, 
 man; 
 
 When he comes back, there are some 
 will look merrily: 
 
 Here's to King James, and Donald 
 Macgillavry. 
 
 Come like a weaver Donald Mac- 
 gillavry, 
 
 Come like a weaver Donald Mac- 
 gillavry, 
 
 Pack on your back, and elwand sae 
 cleverly: 
 
 Gie him full measure, my Donald 
 Macgillavry. 
 
 Donald has foughten wi' reif and 
 roguery; 
 
 Donald has dinner'd wi' banes and 
 beggary: 
 
 Better it were for Whigs and Whig- 
 gery 
 
 Meeting the devil than Donald Mac- 
 gillavry. 
 
 Come like a tailor, Donald Mac- 
 gillavry, 
 
 Come like a tailor, Donald Mac- 
 gillavry; 
 
 Push about, in and out, thimble them 
 cleverly. 
 
 Here's to King James, and Donald 
 Macgillavry! 
 
 Donald's the callan that brooks nae 
 
 tangleness; 
 Whigging, and prigging, and a' new- 
 
 fangleness, 
 They maun be gane: he winna be 
 
 baukit, man; 
 He maun hae justice, or faith he'll 
 
 tak' it, man. 
 
 Come like a cobbler, Donald Mac- 
 gillavry, 
 
 Come like a cobbler, Donald Mac- 
 gillavry, 
 
 Beat them, and bore them, and Imgel 
 them cleverly: 
 
 Up wi' King James and Donald Mac- 
 gillavry ! 
 
 Donald was mumpit wi' mirds and 
 mockery; 
 
 Donald was blinded wi' blads o' pro- 
 perty; 
 
 Aries ran high, but makmgs were 
 naething, man: 
 
 Lord, how Donald is flyting and fret- 
 ting, man! 
 
 Come like the devil, Donald Mac- 
 gillavry, 
 
 Come like the devil, Donald Mac- 
 gillavry, 
 
 Skelp them and scaud them that pro- 
 v'd sae unbritherly: 
 
 Up wi' King James, and Donald 
 Macgillavry! 
 
 HILL OF LOCHIEL. 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 Long have I pined for thee; 
 Land of my infancy. 
 Now will I kneel on thee, 
 
 Hill of Lochiel; 
 Hill of the sturdy steer, 
 Hill of the roe and deer. 
 Hill of the streamlet clear, 
 
 I love thee well. 
 
 When in my youthful prime, 
 Corrie and crag to climb. 
 Or towering cliff sublime 
 
 Was my delight; 
 Scaling the eagle's nest, 
 Wounding the raven's breast, 
 Skimming the mountain's crest. 
 
 Gladsome and light.
 
 CELEBRATED SONOS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 333 
 
 When at the break of morn, 
 Proud o'er thy temples borne, 
 Rythed the red-deer's horn, 
 
 How my heart beat! 
 Then when with stunned leap, 
 Roll'd he adown the steep, 
 Never did hero reap 
 
 Conquest so great. 
 
 Then rose a bolder game, 
 Young Charlie Stuart came, 
 Cameron, that loyal name, 
 
 Foremost must be: 
 Hard then our warrior meed, 
 Glorious our warrior deed. 
 Still we were dom'd to bleed 
 
 By treachery. 
 
 Then did the red blood stream. 
 Then was the broadsword's gleam, 
 Quench'd in fair freedom's beam. 
 
 No more to shine. 
 Then was the morning's brow, 
 Red with the fiery glow, 
 Fell hall and hamlet low, 
 
 All that were mine. 
 
 Then was our maiden young. 
 First aye in battle strong, 
 Fir'd at her prince's wrong, 
 
 Forc'd to give way: 
 Broke was the golden cup. 
 Gone Caledonia's hope, 
 Faithful and true men drop, 
 
 Fast in the clay. 
 
 Fair in a hostile land, 
 Stretch'd on a foreign strand. 
 Oft has the tear-drop bland, 
 
 Scorch'd as it fell. 
 Once was I spurn'd from thee, 
 Long have I mourn 'd for thee, 
 Now I'm returned to thee, 
 
 Hill of Lochiel. 
 
 SOMEBODY. 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 My heart is sair, I daurna tell, 
 My heart is sair for somebody; 
 I would walk a winter's night, 
 For a sight o' somebody. 
 Och hon for somebody ! 
 
 Och hey for somebody! 
 I wad do — what wad I not. 
 For the sake o' somebody! 
 
 If somebody were come again. 
 Then somebody maun cross the main. 
 And ilka ane will get his ain. 
 And I will see my somebody. 
 Och hon, &c. 
 
 What need I kame my tresses bright 
 Or why should coal or candle-light 
 E'er shine in my bower day or night. 
 Since gane is my dear somebody? 
 
 Och hon, &c. 
 
 Oh! I hae grutten mony a day 
 For ane that's banish'd far away: 
 I canna sing, and maunna say, 
 How sair I grieve for somebody. 
 Och hon, &c. 
 
 FAREWELL TO GLEN-SHAL- 
 LOCH. 
 
 JAMES HOGG, 
 Translated from the Gaelic, 
 
 Farewell to Glen-Shalloch, 
 
 A farewell for ever! 
 Farewell to my wee cot. 
 
 That stands by the river! 
 The fall is loud-sounding. 
 
 In voices that vary. 
 And the echoes surrounding 
 
 Lament with my Mary.
 
 234 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 I saw her last night, 
 
 'Mid the rocks that enclose them, 
 With a babe at her knee 
 
 And a babe at her bosom: 
 I heard her sweet voice 
 
 In the depth of my slumber, 
 And the song that she sung 
 
 Was of sorrow and cumber. 
 
 *' Sleep sound, my sweet babe. 
 
 There is nought to alarm thee; 
 The sons of the valley 
 
 No power have to harm thee. 
 I'll sing thee to rest 
 
 In the balloch untrodden, 
 With a coronach sad 
 
 For the slain of Culloden. 
 
 " The brave were betray'd, 
 
 And the tyrant is daring 
 To trample and waste us, 
 
 Unpitying, unsparing. 
 Thy mother no voice has. 
 
 No feeling that changes, 
 No word, sign, or song, 
 
 But the lesson of vengeance. 
 
 " I'll tell thee, my son, 
 
 How our laurels are withering: 
 I'll gird on thy sword 
 
 When the clansmen are gathering; 
 I'll bid thee go forth 
 
 In the cause of true honor, 
 And never return 
 
 Till thy country hath won her. 
 
 " Our tower of devotion 
 
 Is the home of the reaver; 
 The pride of the ocean 
 
 Is fallen for ever; 
 The pine of the forest. 
 
 That time could not weaken, 
 Is trod in the dust. 
 
 And its honors are shaken. 
 
 " Rise, spirits of yore, 
 
 Ever dauntless in danger! 
 
 For the land that was yours 
 Is the land of the stranger. 
 
 O come from your caverns, 
 All bloodless and hoary, 
 
 And these fiends of the valley 
 Shall tremble before ye ! " 
 
 OLD NANNY'S SONG. 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 From The Brownie of Bodsbeek. 
 
 The kye are rowting in the lone, 
 The ewes bleat on the brae, 
 
 O, what can ail my auld gudeman. 
 He bides sae lang away! 
 
 An' aye the robin sang by the wud, 
 An' his note had a waesome fa'; 
 
 An' the corbie croupit in the clud. 
 But he durstna light ava; 
 
 Till out cam' the wee gray moudiwort 
 Frae neath' the hollow stane. 
 
 An' it howkit a grave for the auld 
 gray head, 
 For the head lay a' its lane! 
 
 But I will seek out the robin's nest. 
 An' the nest of the ouzel shy, 
 
 For the siller hair that is beddit there 
 Maun wave aboon the sky. 
 
 THE SKYLARK. 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 Bird of the wilderness, 
 Blythesome and cumberless. 
 
 Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland 
 and lea! 
 Emblem of happiness, 
 Blessed is thy dwelling-place, 
 
 Oh! to abide in the desert with thee!
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 235 
 
 Wild is thy lay and loud, 
 Far in the downy cloud; 
 Love gives it energy, love gave it 
 birth; 
 Where on the dewy wing. 
 Where art thou journeying? 
 Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on 
 earth. 
 
 O'er fell and fountain sheen, 
 
 O'er moor and mountain green, 
 O'er the red streamer that heralds 
 the day; 
 
 Over the cloudlet dim, 
 
 Over the rainbow's rim. 
 Musical cherub, hie, hie thee away! 
 
 Then when the gloaming comes. 
 Low in the heather blooms, 
 
 Sweet will thy welcome and bed of 
 love be! 
 Bird of the wilderness, 
 Bless'd is thy dwelling-place. 
 
 Oh! to abide in the desert with thee. 
 
 O ALLISTER M'ALLISTER, 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 This popular songhasnow been before the 
 public for nearly fifty years, without its 
 authorship being attributed to, or claimed 
 by anyone. 
 
 O Allister M'Allister, 
 Your chanter sets us a' astir, 
 Then to your bags and blaw wi' 
 birr, 
 We'll dance the Highland fling. 
 
 Now Allister has tuned his pipes. 
 And thrang as bumbees frae their 
 bykes. 
 
 The lads and lasses loup the dykes, 
 And gather on the green. 
 
 O Allister M'Allister, &c. 
 
 The Miller, Hab, was fidgin' fain 
 To dance the Highland fling his lane, 
 He lap as high as Elspa's wame. 
 
 The like was never seen; 
 As round about the ring he whuds, 
 And cracks his thumbs and shakes 
 
 his duds. 
 The meal flew frae his tail in cluds. 
 
 And blinded a' their een. 
 
 O Allister M'Allister, &c. 
 
 Neist rauchle-handed smiddy Jock, 
 A' blacken'd o'er wi' coom and smoke, 
 Wi' shauchlin' blear-e'ed Bess did 
 yoke. 
 
 That slaverin'-gabbit quean. 
 He shook his doublet in the wund. 
 His feet like hammers strack the grund, 
 The very moudiwarts were stunn'd. 
 
 Nor kenn'd what it could mean. 
 O Allister M'Allister, &c. 
 
 Now wanton Willie was nae blate. 
 For he got haud o' winsome Kate, 
 "Come here," quo' he, "I'll show the 
 gate 
 
 To dance the Highland fling." 
 The Highland fling he danced wi' glee, 
 And lap as he were gaun to flee; 
 Kate beck'd and bobb'd sae bonnilie, 
 
 And tript it light and clean. 
 
 O Allister M'Allister, &c. 
 
 Now Allister has done his best. 
 And weary houghs are wantin' rest. 
 Besides they sair wi' drouth were strest, 
 
 Wi' dancin' sae I ween. 
 I trou the gauntrees gat a lift. 
 And round the bicker flew like drift, 
 And Allister that very night. 
 
 Could scarcely stand his lane. 
 O Allister M'Allister, &c.
 
 236 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 FIFE, AN' A' THE LAND 
 ABOUT IT. 
 
 ALEXANDER DOUGLAS. 
 
 Alexander Douglas was born at Strath- 
 miglo, on the 17th of June 1771. He publish- 
 ed in 1S06, a small volume of poems and 
 songs which was well received by the 
 public. He died on the 21st of November, 
 1821. " Fife an' a' the land about it " has 
 always been a favorite song throughout 
 Fifeshire. 
 
 Fife, an' a' the land about it, 
 Fife, an' a' the land about it; 
 May health, an' peace, an' 
 
 plenty glad 
 Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it. 
 
 We'll raise the song on highest key, 
 Through every grove till echo shout 
 
 it; 
 The sweet enchantin' theme shall be. 
 Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it. 
 Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c. 
 
 Her braid an' lang extended vales 
 
 Are clad vvi' corn, a' wavin' yellow; 
 
 Her flocks an' herds crown a' her hills; 
 
 Her woods resound wi' music 
 
 mellow. 
 
 Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c. 
 
 Her waters pastime sweet afford 
 
 To ane an' a' wha like to angle; 
 The seats o' mony a laird an' lord. 
 Her plains, as stars the sky, be- 
 spangle. 
 Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c. 
 
 In ilka town an' village gay. 
 
 Hark! Thrift, her wheel an' loom 
 are usin'; 
 While to an' frae each port an' bay, 
 See wealthy Commerce briskly 
 cruisin'. 
 Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c. 
 
 Her maids are frugal, modest, fair. 
 As lilies by her burnies growin'; 
 An' ilka swain may here repair, 
 Whase heart wi' virt'ous love is 
 glowin'. 
 Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c. 
 
 In peace, her sons like lammies mild. 
 Are lightsome, friendly, an ' engagin' ; 
 
 In war, they're loyal, bauld, an' wild, 
 
 As lions roused, an' fiercely ragin'. 
 
 Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c. 
 
 May auld an' young ha'e meat an' claes ; 
 
 May wark an' wages aye be plenty; 
 An' may the sun to latest days 
 
 See Fife an' a' her bairnies canty. 
 
 Fife, an' a' the land about it, 
 Fife, an* a' the land about it, 
 May health, an' peace, an' 
 
 plenty glad 
 Fair Fife, an' a' the land about 
 
 it. 
 
 WHAT AILS YOU NOW. 
 
 ALEXANDER DOUGLAS. 
 
 What ails you now, my daintie Pate, 
 
 Ye winna wed an' a' that ? 
 Say, are ye fley'd, or are ye blate, 
 To tell your love an' a' that ? 
 To kiss an' clap, an' a' that ? 
 O fy for shame, an' a' that. 
 To spend your life without a wife; 
 'Tis no the gate ava that. 
 
 Ere lang you will grow auld and frail, 
 
 Your haffets white an' a' that; 
 
 An whare's the Meg, the Kate, or Nell, 
 
 Will ha'e you syne wi' a' that.? 
 
 Runkled brow an' a' that; 
 
 Wizzen'd face an' a' that; 
 
 Wi' beard sae grey, there's nane 
 
 will ha'e 
 A kiss frae you, an' a' that.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 237 
 
 O stand na up wi' where an' how, 
 
 Wi' ifs an' buts an' a' that, 
 Wi' feckless scruples not a few: 
 Pu' up your heart an' a' that. 
 Crousely crack an' a' that; 
 Come try your luck an' a' that: 
 The hiney-moon will ne'er gang 
 
 done, 
 If guidit weel an' a' that. 
 
 There's monie lass baith douce an' 
 fair, 
 Fu' sonsy, fier, an' a' that, 
 Wad suit you to a very hair, 
 Sae clever they're an' a' that; 
 Handsome, young, an' a' that, 
 Sae complaisant an' a' that; 
 Sae sweet an' braw, and gude an' 
 
 a'; 
 What ails the chield at a' that ? 
 
 Come, look about, an' wale a wife, 
 
 Like honest fouk an' a' that; 
 An' lead a cheerfu' virtuous life; 
 Ha'e plenty, peace, an' a' that; 
 A thrifty wife an' a' that, 
 An' bonnie bairns an' a' that, 
 Syne in your ha' shall pleasures a' 
 Smile ilka day an' a' that. 
 
 JOCK O' HAZELDEAN. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott was born at Edinburgh, 
 on the 15th of August, 1771. After finish- 
 ing his education at the High school of 
 his native city, he was sent for some time 
 to Kelso, where he first began collecting 
 materials for the " Minstrelsy of the Scot- 
 tish Border," which he published in 1802. 
 He was admitted a Barrister at Law in 
 1792, but never engaged to any extent in 
 his profession. Literature was always 
 his chief occupation and pleasure. In 
 1813 he produced "Waverly," the first of 
 that grand series of romances whose fame 
 has invaded every portion of the civi- 
 lized world. His poetical works, es- 
 pecially " The Lady of the Lake," " Mar- 
 
 mion" and "The Lay of the Last Min- 
 strel," are acknowledged to be equal to any 
 in the English language. His songs are 
 beautiful and spirited, and each of them 
 bears the imprint of the wonderful genius 
 who created them. Sir Walter was mar- 
 ried in 1797 to a young French lady named 
 Miss Charlotte Margaret Carpenter, who 
 possessed considerable beauty and fortune. 
 He died at Abbotsford, on the 2rst of Sep- 
 tember, 1832, and his remains were interred 
 in Dryburgh Abbey. We have not thought 
 it necessary to enter into any further de- 
 tails of his life, as they are so well known 
 to every reader of his works. He did 
 much towards elevating Scotland among 
 the nations of the earth, and his good 
 name can never die. 
 
 " Why weep ye by the tide ladye — 
 
 Why weep ye by the tide ? 
 I'll wed ye to my youngest son, 
 
 And ye sail be his bride; 
 And ye sail be his bride, ladye, 
 
 Sae comely to be seen," 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa', 
 
 For Jock o' Hazeldean. 
 
 *' Now let this wilful grief be done. 
 
 And dry that cheek sae pale; 
 Young Frank is chief of Errington, 
 
 And lord of Langley-dale; 
 His step is first in peaceful ha' 
 
 His sword in battle keen;" 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa', 
 
 For Jock o' Hazeldean. 
 
 " A chain o' gold ye sail not lack. 
 
 Nor braid to bind your hair; 
 Nor metaled hound, nor managed 
 hawk, 
 
 Nor palfrey fresh and fair; 
 And you, the foremost o' them a', 
 
 Sail ride our forest queen; " 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa', 
 
 For Jock o' Hazeldean. 
 
 The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, 
 The tapers glimmer'd fair; 
 
 The priest and bridegroom wait the 
 bride, 
 And dame and knight were there;
 
 233 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 They sought her baith by bower and 
 ha'; 
 
 The ladye was not seen! — 
 She's o'er the Border, and awa' 
 
 Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean! 
 
 HE IS GONE ON THE 
 MOUNTAIN. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 From "The Lady of the Lake." Canto 
 third. 
 
 He is gone on the mountain, 
 
 He is lost to the forest, 
 Like a summer-dried fountain, 
 
 When our need was the sorest. 
 The font re-appearing, 
 
 From the rain-drops shall borrow; 
 But to us comes no cheering, 
 
 To Duncan no morrow! 
 
 The hand of the reaper 
 
 Takes the ears that are hoary. 
 But the voice of the weeper 
 
 Wails manhood in glory. 
 The autumn winds rushing 
 
 Waft the leaves that are searest, 
 But our flower was in flushing 
 
 When blighting was nearest. 
 
 Fleet foot on the corrie, 
 
 Sage counsel in cumber, 
 Red hand in the foray, 
 
 How sound is thy slumber! 
 Like the dew on the mountain. 
 
 Like the foam on the river. 
 Like the bubble on the fountain. 
 
 Thou art gone, and for ever. 
 
 WHERE SHALL THE LOVER 
 REST? 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 From "Marmion." Canto third. 
 
 Where shall the lover rest. 
 Whom the fates sever, 
 
 From his true maiden's breast, 
 
 Parted for ever -" 
 Where, through groves deep and high, 
 
 Sounds the far billow; 
 Where early violets die. 
 
 Under the willow. 
 Eleu loro. 
 
 Soft shall be his pillow. 
 
 There through the summer day, 
 
 Cool streams are laving. 
 There while the tempests sway, 
 
 Scarce are boughs waving; 
 There thy rest shalt thou take, 
 
 Parted for ever. 
 Never again to wake, 
 
 Never, O never, 
 Eleu loro. 
 
 Never, O never. 
 
 Where shall the traitor rest. 
 
 He the deceiver. 
 Who could win maiden's breast, 
 
 Ruin, and leave her ? 
 In the lost battle. 
 
 Borne down by the flying. 
 Where mingles war's rattle, 
 
 With groans of the dying, 
 Eleu loro. 
 There shall he be lying. 
 
 Her wing shall the eagle flap 
 
 O'er the false-hearted; 
 His warm blood the wolf shall lap, 
 
 E'er life be parted; 
 Shame and dishonor sit 
 
 By his grave ever; 
 Blessing shall hallow it — 
 
 Never, O never, 
 Eleu loro. 
 
 Never, O never. 
 
 A WEARY LOT IS THINE, 
 FAIR MAID. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 From " Rokeby." Canto third. 
 " The last verse is taken from the frag- 
 ment of an old Scottish ballad, of which
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 239 
 
 I only recollected two verses when the 
 first edition of Rokeb)' was published. 
 Mr. TliDinas Sheridan kindly pointed out 
 to nie an entire copy of this beautiful 
 song, which seems to express the fortuiies 
 of some follower of the Stuart family." — 
 Scott. 
 
 '* A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, 
 
 A weary lot is thine! 
 To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 
 
 And press the rue for wine, 
 A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 
 
 A feather of the blue, 
 A doublet of the Lincoln green — 
 
 No more of me you knew, love! 
 No more of me you knew. 
 
 "This morn is merry June, I trow, 
 
 The rose is budding fain; 
 But it shall bloom in winter snow, 
 
 Ere we two meet again." 
 He turn'd his charger as he spake, 
 
 Upon the river shore; 
 He gave his bridle-reins a shake, 
 
 Said, "Adieu for evermore, my 
 love! 
 And adieu for evermore," 
 
 HAIL TO THE CHIEF. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART, 
 
 From "The Lady of the Lake." Canto 
 second. 
 
 Hail to the Chief who in triumph 
 advances! 
 Honor'd and bless'd be the ever- 
 green Pine! 
 Long may the tree, in his banner that 
 glances, 
 Flourish, the shelter and grace of 
 our line! 
 
 Heaven send it happy dew, 
 Earth lend it sap anew, 
 Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to 
 grow, 
 
 While every Highland glen 
 Sends our shout back again, 
 Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho I 
 ieroe! 
 
 Ours is no sappling, chance-sown by 
 the fountain. 
 Blooming at Beltane, in winter to 
 fade; 
 When the whirlwind has stripp'd every 
 leaf on the mountain. 
 The more shall Clan-Alpine exult 
 in her shade; 
 
 Moor'd in the rifted rock 
 Proof to the tempest shock, 
 Firmer he roots him the ruder it 
 blow; 
 
 MenteithandBreadalbane,then 
 Echo his praise again, 
 Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! 
 ieroe! 
 
 Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in 
 Glen Fruin, 
 And Bannochar's groans to our 
 slogan replied; 
 Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are 
 smoking in ruin, 
 And the best of Loch Lomond lie 
 dead on her side, 
 
 Widow and Saxon maid 
 Long shall lament our raid, 
 Think of Clan-Alpine with fear 
 and with woe; 
 Lennox and Leven-Glen 
 Shake when they hear again, 
 Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! 
 ieroe! 
 
 Row, vassals, row, for the pride of 
 the Highlands! 
 Stretch to your oars for the ever- 
 green Pine! 
 O, that the rosebud that graces yon 
 islands 
 Were wreathed in a garland around 
 him to twine ! 
 
 O that some seedling gem, 
 Worthy such noble stem,
 
 240 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Honored and bless'd in their 
 
 shadow might grow! 
 
 Loud should Clan- Alpine then 
 
 Ring from the deepmost glen, 
 
 Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! 
 
 ieroe! 
 
 ALLEN-A-DALE. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART, 
 From " Rokeby." Canto third. 
 
 Allen-a-Dale has no faggot for 
 burning, 
 
 Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turn- 
 ing, 
 
 Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the 
 spinning; 
 
 Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the 
 winning. 
 
 Come read me my riddle, come hark- 
 en my tale, 
 
 And tell me the craft of bold Allen- 
 a-Dale. 
 
 The baron of Ravensworth prances 
 
 in pride. 
 And he views his domains upon Arkin- 
 
 dale side. 
 The mere for his net, and the lamb 
 
 for his game. 
 The chase for the wild, and the park 
 
 for the tame; 
 Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer 
 
 of the vale 
 Are less free to Lord Dacre than 
 
 Allen-a-Dale. 
 
 Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight, 
 Tho' his spur be as sharp, and his 
 
 blade be as bright; 
 Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord. 
 Yet twenty tall yoemen will draw at 
 
 his word; 
 And the best of our nobles his bonnet 
 
 will veil; 
 Who at Rerecross on Stanraore meets 
 
 Allen-a-Dale. 
 
 Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come; 
 
 The mother she asked of his house- 
 hold and home; — 
 Tho' the castle of Richmond stands 
 fair on the hill, 
 
 My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows 
 gallanter still, 
 
 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its 
 crescent so pale. 
 
 And with all its bright spangles!" 
 said Allen-a-Dale. 
 
 The father was steel, and the mother 
 
 was stone. 
 They lifted the latch and bade him 
 
 be gone; 
 But loud on the morrow their wail 
 
 and their cry — 
 He had laughed on the lass with his 
 
 bonnie black eye; 
 And she fled to the forrest to hear a 
 
 love-tale. 
 And the youth it was told by was 
 
 Allen-a-Dale. 
 
 O SAY NOT, MY LOVE. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 Oh, say not, my love, with that 
 mortified air, 
 That your spring-time of pleasure 
 is flown. 
 Nor bid me to maids that are younger 
 repair. 
 For those raptures that still are 
 thine own. 
 
 Though April his temples may 
 wreathe with the vine, 
 Its tendrils in infancy curl'd, 
 'Tis the ardour of August matures us 
 the wine. 
 Whose life-blood enlivens the 
 world.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 241 
 
 Though thy form, that was fashion'd 
 as light as a fay's, 
 Has assumed a proportion more 
 round. 
 And thy glance, that was bright as a 
 falcon's at gaze, 
 Looks soberly now on the ground — 
 
 Enough, after absence to meet me 
 again, 
 Thy steps still with ecstasy move; 
 Enough, that those dear sober glances 
 retain 
 For me the kind language of love. 
 
 DONALD CAIRD. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 Sir Walter is said to have composed this 
 song during a brief recess while he was 
 engaged in some other occupation. The 
 original manuscript of it which is still 
 preserved shows it to have been written in 
 a hurried manner on the back of an old 
 letter, the last stanza being in very small 
 writing and standing apart from the others, 
 at the foot of the page, as if it had been 
 composed previous to the others. Many 
 writers have attempted to imitate "Donald 
 Caird's Come Again," but in nearlj' every 
 instance the attempt has been a failure. 
 
 Donald Caird's come again, 
 Donald Caird's come again! 
 Tell the news in brugh and glen 
 Donald Caird's come again! 
 
 Donald Caird can lilt and sing, 
 Blithely dance the Highland fling; 
 Drink till the gudeman be blind, 
 Fleech till the gudewife be kind; 
 Hoop a leglan, clout a pan, 
 Or crack a pow wi' ony man ; 
 Tell the news in brugh and glen, 
 Donald Caird's come again. 
 
 Donald Caird can wire a maukin, 
 Kens the wiles o' dun-deer staukin; 
 Leisters kipper, makes a shift 
 
 To shoot a muir-fowl i' the drift; 
 Water-bailiffs, rangers, keepers. 
 He can wauk when they are sleepers; 
 Not for bountith, or reward, 
 Daur they mell wi' Donald Caird. 
 
 Donald Caird can drink a gill, 
 Fast as hostler-wife can fill; 
 Ilka ane that sells gude liquor 
 Kens how Donald bends a bicker ; 
 When he's fou he's stout and saucy, 
 Keeps the kantle o' the causey; 
 Highland chief and Lawland laird 
 Maun gi'e way to Donald Caird. 
 
 Steek the aumrie, lock the kist, 
 Else some gear will sune be mist ; 
 Donald Caird finds orra things 
 Where Allan Gregor fand the tings: 
 Dunts o' kebbuck, taits o' woo, 
 Whiles a hen and whiles a soo; 
 Webs or duds frae hedge or yard — 
 Ware the wuddie, Donald Caird! 
 
 On Donald Caird the doom was stern, 
 Craig to tether, legs to aim: 
 But Donald Caird, wi' mickle study, 
 Caught the gift to cheat the wuddie. 
 Rings o' airn, and bolts o' steel. 
 Fell like ice frae hand and heel I 
 Watch the sheep in fauld and glen, 
 Donald Caird's come again. 
 
 O, HUSH THEE, MY BABIE. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 O, HUSH thee, my babie, thy sire was 
 
 a knight. 
 Thy mother a lady, both lovely and 
 
 bright; 
 The woods and the glens, from the 
 
 towers which we see, 
 They all are belonging, dear babie, to 
 
 thee. 
 
 O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo, 
 O ho ro, i ri ri, &c.
 
 243 
 
 CELEBRATED SONQS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 O, fear not the bugle, though loudly 
 
 It blows. 
 It calls but the warders that guard 
 
 thy repose; 
 Their bows would be bended, their 
 
 blades would be red, 
 Ere the step of a foeman draws near 
 
 to thy bed. 
 
 O ho ro, i ri ri, &c. 
 
 O, hush thee, my babie, the time soon 
 
 will come; 
 When thy sleep shall be broken by 
 
 trumpet and drum; 
 Then hush thee, my darling, take rest 
 
 while you may, 
 For strife comes with manhood, and 
 
 waking with day. 
 O ho ro, i ri ri, &c. 
 
 BLUE BONNETS OVER THE 
 BORDER. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 From "The Monastery." 
 
 March, march, Ettrick and Teviot- 
 dale. 
 Why, my lads, dinna ye march for- 
 ward in order ? 
 March, march, Eskdale and Liddes- 
 dale. 
 All the blue bonnets are over the 
 border. 
 Many a banner spread, flutters above 
 your head, 
 Many a crest that is famous in story, 
 Mount and make ready then, sons of 
 the mountain glen, 
 Fight for your Queen and the old 
 Scottish glory. 
 
 Come from the hills where your hir- 
 
 sels are grazing, 
 Come from the glen of the buck 
 
 and the roe; 
 Come to the crag where the beacon 
 
 is blazing; 
 
 Come with the buckler, the lance, 
 
 and the bow. 
 Trumpets are sounding, war-steeds 
 
 are bounding; 
 Stand to your arms and march in 
 
 good order: 
 England shall many a-day tell of the 
 
 bloody fray, 
 When the blue bonnets came over 
 
 the border. 
 
 THE MACGREGOR'S 
 GATHERING. 
 
 sir WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 This song refers to the severe treatment 
 experienced by the Macgregors when the 
 entire clan were outlawed and their lands 
 forfeited. It first appeared in Campbell's 
 " Albyn's Anthology," 1816. 
 
 The moon's on the lake, and the mist's 
 
 on the brae, 
 And the clan has a name that is 
 
 nameless by day — 
 Then gather, gather, gather, Griga- 
 
 lach! 
 
 Our signal for fight, which from 
 
 monarchs we drew, 
 Must be heard but by night, in our 
 
 vengeful halloo — 
 Then halloo, halloo, halloo, Griga- 
 
 lach! 
 
 Glenorchy's proud mountains, Cal- 
 
 chuirn and her towers, 
 Glenstrae, and Glenlyon, no longer 
 
 are ours — 
 We're landless, landless, landless, 
 
 Grigalach ! 
 
 But, doom'd and devoted by vassal 
 
 and lord, 
 Macgregor has still both his heart 
 
 and his sword — 
 Then courage, courage, courage, 
 
 Grigalach!
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS Ob' SCOTLAND. 
 
 243 
 
 If they rob us of name, and pursue us 
 with beagles, 
 
 Give their roofs to the flames, and 
 their flesh to the eagles — 
 Then vengeance, vengeance, venge- 
 ance, Grigalach! 
 
 While there's leaves in the forest, or 
 foam on the river, 
 
 Macgregor, despite them, shall flourish 
 for ever! 
 Then gather, gather, gather, Griga- 
 lach ! 
 
 Through the depths of Lock Katrine 
 the steed shall career. 
 
 O'er the peak of Ben Lomond the 
 galley shall steer. 
 
 And the rocks of Craig-Royston like 
 icicles melt, 
 
 Ere our wrongs be forgot or our 
 vengeance unfelt. 
 Then gather, gather, gather, Griga- 
 lach! 
 
 YOUNG LOCHINVAR. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 From" Marmion." Canto fifth. Found- 
 ed on an old Border Ballad called " Katha- 
 rine Janfarie." 
 
 Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of 
 
 the west; 
 Through all the wide Border his steed 
 
 was the best, 
 And save his good broadsword he 
 
 weapons had none; 
 He rode all unarmed, and he rode all 
 
 alone. 
 So faithful in love, and so dauntless 
 
 in war, 
 There never was knight like the young 
 
 Lochinvar. 
 
 He stayed not for brake, and he 
 stopped not for stone, i 
 
 He swam the Esk river where ford 
 
 there was none; 
 But ere he alighted at Netherby gate 
 The bride had consented, the gallant 
 
 came late: 
 For a laggard in love, and a dastard in 
 
 war, 
 Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave 
 
 Lochinvar. 
 
 So boldly he entered the Netherby 
 
 hall. 
 Among bridesmen and kinsmen, and 
 
 brothers and all; 
 Then spoke the bride's father, his 
 
 hand on his sword, 
 (For the poor craven bridegroom said 
 
 never a word), 
 " O come ye in peace here, or come 
 
 ye in war, 
 Or to dance at our bridal, young 
 
 Lord Lochinvar ?" 
 
 " I long wooed your daughter, my 
 
 suit you denied; 
 Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs 
 
 like its tide — 
 And now I am come, with this lost 
 
 love of mine. 
 To lead but one measure, drink one 
 
 cup of wine. 
 There are maidens in Scotland more 
 
 lovely by far, 
 That would gladly be bride to the 
 
 young Lochinvar." 
 
 The bride kissed the goblet, the 
 
 knight took it up. 
 He quaffed off the wine, and he threw 
 
 down the cup, 
 She looked down to blush, and she 
 
 looked up to sigh, 
 With a smile on her lips and a tear in 
 
 her eye. 
 He took her soft hand ere her mother 
 
 could bar, — 
 "Now tread we a measure!" said 
 
 young Lochinvar.
 
 244 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 So stately his form, and so lovely her 
 
 face, 
 That never a hall such a galliard did 
 
 grace; 
 While her mother did fret, and her 
 
 father did fume, 
 And the bridegroom stood dangling 
 
 his bonnet and plume; 
 And the bridemaidens whispered, 
 
 " 'Twere better by far 
 To have matched our fair cousin 
 
 with young Lochinvar." 
 
 One touch to her hand, and one word 
 
 in her ear. 
 When they reached the hall door, and 
 
 the charger stood near; 
 So light to the croupe the fair lady he 
 
 swung. 
 So light to the saddle before her he 
 
 sprung! — 
 '' She is won! we are gone, over bank, 
 
 bush, and scaur; 
 They'll have fleet steeds that follow," 
 
 quoth young Lochinvar. 
 
 mong 
 
 Graemes 
 
 There was mountmg 
 
 of the Netherby clan; 
 Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, 
 
 they rode and they ran ; 
 There was racing, and chasing, on 
 
 Cannobie Lee, 
 But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er 
 
 did they see. 
 So daring in love, and so dauntless 
 
 in war. 
 Have ye e'er heard of gallant like 
 
 young Lochinvar ? 
 
 My lullaby the warder's tread. 
 
 Far, far, from love and thee, Mary; 
 To-morrow eve, more stilly laid. 
 My couch may be my bloody plaid, 
 My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid! 
 It will not waken me, Mary! 
 
 I may not, dare not, fancy now 
 
 The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, 
 
 I dare not think upon thy vow, 
 
 And all it promised me, Mary. 
 No fond regret must Norman know; 
 When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, 
 His heart must be like bended bow. 
 
 His foot like arrow free, Mary. 
 
 A time will come with feeling fraught. 
 For, if I fall in battle fought. 
 Thy hapless lover's dying thought 
 
 Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. 
 And if return'd from conquer'd foes, 
 How blithely will the evening close. 
 How sweet the linnet sing repose. 
 
 To my young bride and me, Mary! 
 
 THE HEATH THIS NIGHT. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 THE CYPRESS WREATH. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 From "Rokeby." Canto fifth. 
 
 From " The Lady of the Lake, 
 third. 
 
 Canto 
 
 The heath this night must be my bed. 
 The bracken curtain for my head. 
 
 O, LADY twine no wreath for me, 
 Or twine it of the cypress-tree! 
 Too lively glow the lilies light. 
 The varnish'd holly's all too bright. 
 The mayflower and the eglantine 
 May shade a brow less sad than mine; 
 But, ladj"^, weave no wreath for me, 
 Or weave it of the cypress-tree! 
 
 Let dimpled mirth his temples twine 
 With tendrils of the laughing vine; 
 The manly oak, the pensive yew. 
 To patriot and to sage be due ; 
 The myrtle bough bids lovers live, 
 But that Matilda will not give; 
 Then, lady, twine no wreath for me, 
 Or twine it of the cypress-tree!
 
 CELEBRATED SONOS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 245 
 
 Let merry England proudly rear 
 Her blended roses, bought so dear; 
 Let Albin bind her bonnet blue 
 With heath and harebell dipp'd in 
 
 dew. 
 On favor'd Erin's crest be seen 
 The flower she loves of emerald green; 
 But, lady, twine no wreath for me. 
 Or twine it of the cypress-tree! 
 
 Strike the wild harp while maids pre- 
 pare 
 The ivy meet for minstrel's hair; 
 And, while his crown of laurel leaves, 
 With bloody hand the victor weaves, 
 Let the loud trump his triumph tell; 
 But when you hear the passing-bell, 
 Then, lady, twine a wreath for me. 
 And twine it of the cypress-tree! 
 
 Yes, twine for me the cypress bough; 
 But, O Matilda, twine not now! 
 Stay till a few brief months are past 
 And I have look'd and loved my last! 
 When villagers my shroud bestrew 
 With panzies, rosemary, and rue, — 
 Then, lady, weave a wreath for me. 
 And weave it of the cypress-tree! 
 
 ALL JOY WAS BEREFT ME. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 All joy was bereft me the day that 
 you left me. 
 And climb'd the tall vessel to sail 
 yon wide sea ; 
 O weary betide it! I wander'd beside 
 it, 
 And bann'd it for parting my Willie 
 and me. 
 
 Far o'er the wave hast thou follow'd 
 my fortune. 
 Oft fought the squadrons of France 
 and of Spain ; 
 Ae kiss of welcome's worth twenty at 
 parting, 
 Now I ha'e gotten my Willie again. 
 
 When the sky it was mirk, and the 
 winds they were wailing, 
 I sat on the beach wi' the tear in 
 my e'e. 
 And thought o' the bark where my 
 Willie was sailing, 
 And wished that the tempest could 
 a' blaw on me. 
 
 Now that thy gallant ship rides at 
 her mooring, 
 Now that my wanderer's in safety 
 at hame. 
 Music to me were the wildest winds' 
 roaring, 
 That e'er o'er Inch-Keith drove 
 the dark ocean faem. 
 
 When the lights they did blaze, and 
 the guns they did rattle. 
 And blithe was each heart for the 
 great victory. 
 In secret I wept for the dangers of 
 battle. 
 And thy glory itself was scarce 
 comfort to me. 
 
 But now shalt thou tell, while I eager- 
 ly listen. 
 Of each bold adventure, and every 
 brave scar; 
 And, trust me, I'll smile, though my 
 een they may glisten, 
 For sweet after danger's the tale of 
 the war. 
 
 And oh, how we doubt when there's 
 distance 'tween lovers, 
 When there's naething to speak to 
 the heart through the e'e, 
 How often the kindest and warmest 
 prove rovers, 
 And the love of the faithfulest ebbs 
 like the sea. 
 
 Till at times — could I help it.' — I 
 pined and I ponder'd. 
 If love could change notes like the 
 bird on the tree —
 
 246 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Now I'll never ask if thine eyes may 
 ha'e wander'd, 
 Enough, thy leal heart has been 
 constant to me. 
 
 Welcome, from sweeping o'er sea and 
 through channel, 
 Hardships and danger despising 
 for fame. 
 Furnishing story for glory's bright 
 annal, 
 Welcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie 
 and hame! 
 
 Enough, now thy story in annals of 
 glory 
 Has humbled the pride of France, 
 Holland and Spain; 
 No more shalt thou grieve me, no 
 more shalt thou leave me. 
 I never will part with my Willie 
 again. 
 
 PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 "The Pibroch of Donald the Black," 
 says Alexander Whitelaw, " is a verj' 
 ancient pibroch belonging to Clan Mac- 
 donald, and is supposed to refer to the 
 expedition of Donald Balloch, who, in 
 1431, launched from the isles with a con- 
 siderable force, invaded Lochaber, and at 
 Inverlochy defeated and put to flight the 
 Earls of Mar and Caithness, though at the 
 head of an army superior to his own." No 
 one ever had a greater love for the old airs 
 and traditionary ballad-lore of the High- 
 lands of Scotland than SirWalter Scott, but 
 this fact is so strongly portrayed in his vari- 
 ous novels, poems and songs, that it is un- 
 necessary for us to dwell on it here. The 
 charm which the bag-pipes produces on the 
 Highland soldier is also well known. It 
 can in a few moments, by its sad and plain- 
 tive notes bring the bravest to tears, or by 
 its war-like strains stir his heart and feel- 
 ings to such action that he rushes to the 
 front of the fray regardless alike of dangers 
 and death. In the dissertation prefixed to 
 Patrick McDonald's collection of High- 
 land airs we find the following passage: 
 
 "A very peculiar species o( martial music 
 was in the highest request with the High- 
 landers. It was sometimes sung accom- 
 panied with words, but more frequently 
 performed on the bag-pipes. And, in 
 spite of every change a pibroch or cruinea- 
 ckadh, though it may sound harsh to the 
 ear of a stranger, still rouses the native 
 Highlander in the same way that the sound 
 of the trumpet does the war horse. Nay, 
 it sometimes produced effects little less 
 marvellous than those recorded of ancient 
 music. At the battle of Quebec, in April. 
 1760, whilst the British troops were re- 
 treating in great confusion ; the general coni- 
 plained to a field officer of Fraser's Regi- 
 ment, of the bad behavior of his corps. 'Sir,* 
 answered he, with some warmth, 'you 
 did very wrong in forbidding the pipes 
 to play this morning; nothing encourages 
 Highlanders so much in the day of action. 
 Nay, even now they would be of use.' 
 'Let them blow like the d—1 then!' replied 
 the general, ' if it will bring back the 
 men.' And the pipers being ordered to 
 play a invonie cruineachadh , the Highland- 
 ers'who were broken, returned the moment 
 they heard the music and formed with 
 great alacrity in the rear." 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil, 
 Wake thy wild voice anew, 
 
 Summon Clan-Conuil. 
 Come away, come away. 
 
 Hark to the summons ! 
 Come in your war array, 
 
 Gentles and commons. 
 
 Come from deep glen, and 
 
 From mountain so rocky. 
 The war-pipe and pennon 
 
 Are at Innerlocky. 
 Come every hill-plaid, and 
 
 True heart that wears one; 
 Come every steel blade, and 
 
 Strong hand that bears one. 
 
 Leave untended the herd, 
 The flock without shelter; 
 
 Leave the corpse uninterr'd, 
 The bride at the alter;
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 247 
 
 Leave the deer, leave the steer, 
 
 Leave nets and barges; 
 Come with your fighting gear, 
 
 Broadswords and targes. 
 
 Come as the winds come, when 
 
 Forests are tended; 
 Come as the waves come, when 
 
 Navies are stranded: 
 Faster come, faster come, 
 
 Faster and faster. 
 Chief, vassal, page and groom, 
 
 Tenant and master. 
 
 Fast they come, fast they come; 
 
 See how they gather; 
 Wide waves the eagle plume 
 
 Blended with heather. 
 Cast your plaids, draw your blades. 
 
 Forward each man set! 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 
 
 Knell for the onset! 
 
 THE MAID OF NEIDPATH. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 O lovers' eyes are sharp to see. 
 
 And lovers' ears in hearing; 
 And love, in life's extremity, 
 
 Can lend an hour of cheering. 
 Disease had been in Mary's bower, 
 
 And slow decay from mourning, 
 Though now she sits on Neidpath's 
 tower, 
 
 To watch her love's returning. 
 
 All sunk and dim her eyes so bright. 
 
 Her form decay'd by pining, 
 'Till through her wasted hand, at 
 night. 
 
 You saw the taper shining; 
 By fits, a sultry hectic hue 
 
 Across her cheek was flying; 
 By fits, so ashy pale she grew, 
 
 Her maidens thought her dying. 
 
 Yet keenest powers to see and hear, 
 
 Seemed in her frame residing; 
 Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear, 
 
 She heard her lover's riding; 
 Ere scrace a distant form was kenn'd, 
 
 She knew, and waved to greet him; 
 And o'er the battlement did bend. 
 
 As on the wing to meet him. 
 
 He came — he pass'd — a heedless gaze, 
 
 As o'er some stranger glancing; 
 Her welcome, spoke in faltering 
 phrase. 
 Lost in his courser's prancing — 
 The castle arch, whose hollow tone 
 Returns each whisper spoken, 
 Could scarcely catch the feeble moan. 
 Which told her heart was broken. 
 
 BONNIE DUNDEE. 
 
 sir WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 To the Lords of Convention 'twas 
 
 Claverhouse spoke, 
 " Ere the king's crown go down there 
 
 are crowns to be broke, 
 So each cavalier who loves honor and 
 
 me. 
 Let him follow the bonnet of Bonnie 
 Dundee. 
 Come, fill up my cup, come, fill up 
 
 my can, 
 Come, saddle my horses, and call 
 
 out my men, 
 Come, open the West Port, and let 
 
 me gae free. 
 And it's room for the bonnets of 
 Bonnie Dundee." 
 
 Dundee he is mounted, he rides up 
 
 the street. 
 The bells are rung backward, the 
 
 drums they are beat. 
 But the Provost, douce man, said, 
 
 just e'en let him be, 
 The toun is well quit of that deil of 
 
 Dundee. 
 Come, fill up, &ZC.
 
 248 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 As he rode down the sanctified bends 
 
 of the Bow, 
 Each carlin was flyting and shaking 
 
 her pow; 
 But some young plants of grace, they 
 
 look'd couthie and slee, 
 Thinking — Luck to thy bonnet, thou 
 
 Bonnie Dundee ! 
 Come, fill up, &c. 
 
 With sour-featured saints the Grass- 
 market was panged, 
 
 As if half of the west had set tryste 
 to be hanged; 
 
 There was spite in each face, there 
 was fear in each e'e, 
 
 As they watch'd for the bonnet of 
 Bonnie Dundee. 
 Come, fill up, &c. 
 
 The cowls of Kilmarnock had spits 
 and had spears, 
 
 And lang-hafted gullies to kill cava- 
 liers; 
 
 But they shrunk to close-heads, and 
 the causeway left free. 
 
 At a toss of the bonnet of Bonnie 
 Dundee. 
 Come, fill up, &c. 
 
 He spurred to the foot of the high 
 
 castle rock. 
 And to the gay Gordon he gallantly 
 
 spoke; 
 "Let Mons Meg and her marrows 
 
 three volleys let flee, 
 For love of the bonnets of Bonnie 
 
 Dundee." 
 Come, fill up, &c. 
 
 The Gordon has asked him whither 
 
 he goes; — 
 " Wheresoever shall guide me the soul 
 
 of Montrose, 
 Your grace in short space shall have 
 
 tidings of me. 
 Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonnie 
 
 Dundee. 
 Come, fill up, &c. 
 
 " There are hills beyond Pentland, 
 
 and streams beyond Forth; 
 If there's lords in the Southland, 
 
 there's chiefs in the North, 
 There are wild dunniewassals three 
 
 thousand times three. 
 Will cry Hoigh! for the bonnets of 
 
 Bonnie Dundee. 
 Come, fill up, &c. 
 
 " Away to the hills, to the woods, to 
 
 the rocks, 
 Ere I own a usurper, I'll crouch to 
 
 the fox. 
 And tremble, false Whigs, though 
 
 triumphant ye be. 
 You have not seen the last of my 
 
 bonnet and me. 
 Come, fill up," &c. 
 
 He waved his proud arm, and the 
 
 trumpets were blown. 
 The kettle-drums clash'd, and the 
 
 horsemen rode on. 
 Till on Ravelston crags, and on 
 
 Clermiston lee. 
 Died away the wild war notes of 
 Bonnie Dundee. 
 Come, fill up my cup, come, fill up 
 
 my can. 
 Come, saddle my horses, and call 
 
 up my men, 
 Fling all your gates open, and let 
 
 me gae free, 
 Sae 't is up with the bonnets of 
 Bonnie Dundee. 
 
 ROB ROY MACGREGOR. 
 
 From the Opera of " Rob Roy," 
 
 Pardon now the bold outlaw, 
 Rob Roy Macgregor, O! 
 
 Grant him mercy, gentles a', 
 Rob Roy Macgregor, O!
 
 CELEBRATED SONQS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 249 
 
 Let your hands and hearts agree, 
 Set the Highland laddie free, 
 Make us sing wi' muckle glee, 
 Rob Roy Macgregor, O! 
 
 Long the state has doom'd his fa', 
 
 Rob Roy Macgregor, O ! 
 Still he spurn'd the hatefu' law, 
 
 Rob Roy Macgregor, O! 
 Scots can for their country die; 
 Ne'er frae Britain's foes they flee, 
 A' that's past forget — forgie, 
 
 Rob Roy Macgregor, O ! 
 
 Scotland's fear and Scotland's pride, 
 
 Rob Roy Macgregor, O! 
 Your award must now abide, 
 
 Rob Roy Macgregor, O! 
 Lang your favors ha'e been mine, 
 Favors I will ne'er resign. 
 Welcome then for auld langsyne, 
 
 Rob Roy Macgregor, O ! 
 
 A FAMOUS MAN WAS ROBIN 
 HOOD. 
 
 Altered from Wordsworth and sung in 
 the Opera of " Rob Roy." 
 
 A FAMOUS man was Robin Hood, 
 The English ballad singer's joy; 
 
 But Scotland has a chief as good, 
 She has, she has her bold Rob Roy. 
 
 A dauntless heart Macgregor shows, 
 And wondrous length and strength 
 of arm; 
 He long has quell'd his Highland foes, 
 And kept, and kept himself from 
 harm. 
 
 A famous man, &c. 
 
 His daring mood protects him still. 
 For this the robber's simple plan, 
 That they should take who have the 
 will. 
 And they, and they should keep 
 who can. 
 
 A famous man, &c. 
 
 And while Rob Roy is free to rove. 
 In summer's heat and winter's snow; 
 
 The eagle he is lord above, 
 
 And bold Rob Roy is lord below. 
 A famous man, &c. 
 
 BAILIE NICOL JARVIE. 
 
 " Sung by the late Mr. Mackay, in his 
 great character of "The Bailie" in Rob 
 Roy, as an after song, it being often his 
 habit to come to the footlights after the 
 curtain had fallen on the last scene and 
 sing it. We have heard the authorship 
 ascribed to the late William Murray, of 
 the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh." — Songs of 
 Scotland. Glasgow, 1872. 
 
 You may sing o' your Wallace and 
 brag o' your Bruce, 
 And talk o' your fechtin' Red 
 Reiver, 
 But whare will you find me a man o' 
 sic use. 
 As a thorough-bred Saut Market 
 Weaver ? 
 Let ance Nicol Jarvie come under 
 your view. 
 At hame whare the people adore 
 me, 
 Whare they made me a bailie and 
 councillor too. 
 Like my faither, the Deacon, before 
 me. 
 
 These claverin' chiels in the clachan 
 hard bye. 
 They'll no gi'e a body but hard 
 words, 
 My faith ! they shall And if again 
 they will try, 
 A het poker's as guid as their 
 braid swords; 
 It's as weel though to let that flee 
 stick to the wa'. 
 For mayhap they may chance to 
 claymore me.
 
 250 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 To let sleepin' dogs lie is the best 
 thing ava, 
 Said my faither, the Deacon, before 
 me. 
 
 My puir cousin Rab, O ! his terrible 
 wife 
 Was sae proud, that she chose to 
 disown me, 
 Fient a bodle cared she for a 
 magistrate's life, 
 My conscience! she was just gaun 
 to drown me. 
 But if ever again in her clutches I 
 pop, 
 Puir Matty may live to deplore me. 
 But were I in Glasgow, I'd stick to 
 my shop, 
 Like my faither, the Deacon, before 
 me. 
 
 Now to think o' them hangin' a bailie 
 so high. 
 To be picked at by corbies and 
 burdies! 
 But if I were at Glasgow, my con- 
 science! I'll try 
 To let their craigs feel the weight 
 o' their hurdies. 
 But stop, Nicol! stop man! na that 
 canna be, 
 For if ane wad to hame safe restore 
 ye 
 In the Saut Market safe, I'd forget 
 and forgie — 
 Like my faither, the Deacon, before 
 me. 
 
 IF DOUGHTY DEEDS MY 
 LADY PLEASE. 
 
 ROBERT GRAHAM OF GARTMORE. 
 
 First published in the Minstrelsy of the 
 Scottish Border. 
 
 If doughty deeds my lady please. 
 Right soon I'll mount my steed: 
 
 And strong his arm, and fast his seat, 
 That bares frae me the meed. 
 
 I'll wear thy colors in my cap, 
 
 Thy picture in my heart; 
 And he that bends not to thine eye. 
 Shall rue it to his smart. 
 
 Then tell me how to woo thee, love 
 
 O tell me how to woo thee ! 
 For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take 
 Though ne'er another trow me. 
 
 If gay attire delight thine eye, 
 
 I'll dight me in array; 
 I'll tend thy chamber door all night. 
 
 And squire thee all the day. 
 If sweetest sounds can win thine ear, 
 
 These sounds I'll strive to catch; 
 Thy voice I'll steel to woo thysell. 
 
 That voice that nane can match. 
 
 But if fond love thy heart can gain, 
 
 I never broke a vow; 
 Nae maiden lays her skaith to me; 
 
 I never loved but you. 
 For you alone I ride the ring, 
 
 For you I wear the blue; 
 For you alone I strive to sing — 
 
 O tell me how to woo! 
 
 JESSIE, THE FLOWER OF 
 DUNBLANE. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 As a writer of Scottish songs, Robert 
 Tannahill has won for himself a place next 
 to Burns in the hearts of his countrymen. 
 Nor can it be said that he has acquired 
 this illustrious position unworthily, for, 
 when we consider the limited education 
 he received in his youth, the humble 
 station he occupied in life, and the deep 
 melancholy amid which he passed the 
 latter years of his existence, we cannot 
 but honor and admire the genius of the 
 man who composed for Scotland the noble 
 collection of songs which Robert Tanna- 
 hill has entrusted to her keeping. Had he 
 written nothing finfer than "Jessie, the 
 Flower o' Dunblane," it alone would have 
 entitled him to rank high among the many 
 p(jets to whom his country has given birth. 
 Tannahill was born at Paisley, on the
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 251 
 
 third of June, 1774. His parents were in- 
 dustrious, but poor people. Their family 
 consisted of six sons and one daughter, 
 and it became necessary that Robert, at an 
 early age, should find employment by 
 which he would be enabled to aid in the 
 general support ot the family. He was 
 therefore apprenticed, when a mere boy, 
 to a weaver, and remained in this position 
 until he was twenty-six years of age, when 
 he left Paisley and worked for two years 
 at Bolton, in England. The chief pleasure 
 of Tannahill during the leasure hours of 
 these early years of his life, was in striv- 
 ing to educate himself and in writing 
 verses to suit certain fine old airs which 
 were then floating around the country. 
 He became acquainted at one time with R. 
 A. Smith, the musical composer, and this 
 gentleman, pleased with the writings of 
 his young friend, set a few of his songs to 
 new and appropriate airs, and they at once 
 became popular throughout Scotland. 
 Since that time they have, like the songs 
 of Burns penetrated all parts of the 
 earth, wherever the English language is 
 spoken, and to-day the hills and glens and 
 woods around Paisley have become as 
 familiar and dear to the dwellers in Aus- 
 tralia or in the great backwoods of Canada 
 as ihey are to the inhabitants of the pros- 
 perous town in the vicinity of which 
 they are situated. Such songs as " Lou- 
 don's Bonnie Woods and Braes," "The 
 Braes o' Balquhither," " O, Are ye Sleepin', 
 Maggie?" and "The Bonnie Wood of 
 Craigie-Lea" are all songs of especial 
 beauty and sweetness and charm the hearer 
 wherever they are sung, while " The Braes 
 o' Gleniffer" and "Gloomy Winter's now 
 Awa'," will ever retain a foremost place 
 among the favorite lyrical gems of Scotland. 
 
 "We'll meet Beside the Dusky Glen" 
 is also very popular with many people for 
 the happy style in which it is written, and 
 will always secure for itself a number of 
 admirers. 
 
 In 1807, Tannahill was induced to pub- 
 lish a small volume of his songs and poems. 
 The edition consisted of nine hundred 
 copies, and proved entirely inadequate for 
 the demand. Thus encouraged, he at 
 once set to work in composing a number 
 of other pieces, trusting that the Messrs. 
 Constable of Edinburgh, would readily 
 undertake the publishing of a new edition 
 of his work. But when he had complet- 
 ed his task, and forwarded the manu- 
 
 scripts to Edinburgh, he was very much 
 surprised one day shortly afterward, to 
 find them returned to him with the regrets of 
 the publishers that they had on hand much 
 more work than they could give their at- 
 tention to. This seemed to annoy him a 
 great deal; he became melancholy and 
 nervous, and often gave way to habits of 
 dissipation, which ultimately produced a 
 mild form of mental derangement, and 
 while laboring under this terrible malady, 
 on the seventeenth of May, 1810, he ter- 
 minated his own life in a small pool not 
 far from the house in which he was born. 
 His mother, of whom he had written — 
 
 " 'Twas hers to guide me through life's early day. 
 To point out virtue's path and lead the way; 
 Now, whilst her powers in frigid languor sleep, 
 'Tis mine to hand her down Life's rugged steep, 
 With all her little weaknesses to bear, 
 Attentive, kind, to sooth her every care, 
 "lis nature bids, and truest pleasure flows 
 From lessening an aged parent's woes — " 
 
 survived him for upwards of thirteen years. 
 Tannahill never married. His brother tells 
 us that Robert was at one time engaged 
 to a prepossessing young lady named 
 Mary Allan, but for some unexplained 
 reason their marriage was postponed and 
 never took place. The birthday of Tanna- 
 hill is celebrated with imposing cere- 
 monies each year in Paisley. Numerous 
 associations bearing his name have also 
 sprung into existence, and are being ac- 
 tively supported by his warmest admirers 
 throughout Great Britain and the United 
 States. A monument has been erected to 
 his memor}' in his native town, and we 
 may safely predict that this sweet singer 
 of Scottish melodies will ever receive the 
 kind appreciation to which his genius 
 entitles him. 
 
 "Jessie, The Flower o' Dunblane," 
 was published in 1808. Mr. Smith, in 
 The Harp, of Renfrewshire, says that, "The 
 song was at first composed of two stanzas, 
 the third being added subsequently." 
 " The Promethean fire," adds Mr. Smith, 
 " must have been burning but lownly, 
 when such common-place ideas could be 
 written, after the song had been so finely 
 wound up with the beautiful apostrophe 
 to the mavis, 'Sing on thou sweet mavis, 
 thy hymn to the e'ening.' " 
 
 The sun has gane down o'er the lofty 
 Benlomond,
 
 252 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 And left the red clouds to preside 
 o'er the scene, 
 While lanely I stray in the calm sum- 
 mer gloamin' 
 To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower 
 o' Dunblane. 
 How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft 
 faulding blossom. 
 And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle 
 o' green; 
 Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to 
 this bosom. 
 Is lovely young Jessie, the flower 
 o' Dunblane. 
 
 She's modest as ony and blythe as 
 she's bonny; 
 For guileless simplicity marks her 
 its ain; 
 And far be the villain, divested of 
 feeling, 
 Wha'd blight, in its bloom, the 
 sweet flower o' Dunblane. 
 Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn 
 to the e'ening, 
 Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Cal- 
 derwood glen; 
 Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless 
 and winning, 
 Is charming young Jessie, the flower 
 o' Dunblane. 
 
 How lost were my days till I met wi' 
 my Jessie, 
 The sports o' the city seem'd fool- 
 ish and vain; 
 I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my 
 dear lassie, 
 Till charm'd with sweet Jessie, the 
 flower o' Dunblane. 
 Though mine were the station o' loft- 
 iest grandeur, 
 Amidst its profusion I'd languish 
 in pain ; 
 And reckon as naething the height o' 
 its splendour, 
 If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower 
 o' Dunblane. 
 
 LOUDOUN'S BONNIE WOODS 
 AND BRAES 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL, 
 
 "Tannahill wrote this song in honor of 
 (he Earl of Moira, afterwards Marquis of 
 Hastings, and the Countess of Loudoun, 
 to whom his Lordship had been lately 
 married, when he was called abroad in 
 the service of his country." — The Scottish 
 Minstrel. 
 
 Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes, 
 
 I maun lea' them a', lassie; 
 Wha can thole when Britain's faes 
 
 Wald gi'e Britons law lassie? 
 Wha would shun the field of danger ? 
 Wha frae fame wad live a stranger.^ 
 Now when Freedom bids avenge her, 
 
 Wha would shun her ca', lassie.? 
 Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes 
 Ha'e seen our happy bridal days. 
 And gentle hope shall sooth thy waes, 
 
 When I am far awa', lassie. 
 
 " Hark! the swelling bugle sings. 
 
 Yielding joy to thee, laddie, 
 But the dolefu' bugle brings 
 
 Waefu' thoughts to me, laddie. 
 Lanely I may climb the mountain, 
 Lanely stray beside the fountain. 
 Still the weary moments countin', 
 
 Far frae love and thee, laddie. 
 O'er the gory fields of war. 
 When Vengence drives his crimson car, 
 Thou'lt maybe fa', frae me afar. 
 
 And nane to close thy e'e, laddie." 
 
 O! resume thy wonted smile! 
 
 O! suppress thy fears, lassie! 
 Glorious honor crowns the toil 
 
 That the soldier shares, lassie; 
 Heaven will shield thy faithful lover, 
 Till the vengeful strife is over. 
 Then we'll meet nae mair to sever. 
 
 Till the day we die, lassie; 
 'Midst our bonnie woods and braes. 
 We'll spend our peaceful, happy days, 
 As blythe's yon lightsome lamb that 
 plays 
 
 On Loudoun's flowery lea, lassie.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 253 
 
 THE BRAES O" BALQU- 
 HITHER. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 Let us go, lassie, go. 
 
 To the braes o' Balquhither, 
 Where the blae-berries grow 
 
 'Mang the bonnie Highland heather; 
 Where the deer and the rae, 
 
 Lightly bounding together, 
 Sport the lang simmer day 
 
 On the braes o' Balquhither. 
 
 I will twine thee a bower, 
 
 By the clear siller fountain, 
 And I'll cover it o'er 
 
 Wi' the flowers o' the mountain; 
 I will range through the wilds, 
 
 And the deep glens sae dreary, 
 And return wi' their spoils 
 
 To the bower o' my deary. 
 
 When the rude wintry win' 
 
 Idly raves round our d\velling, 
 And the roar of the linn 
 
 On the night breeze is swelling, 
 So merrily we'll sing. 
 
 As the storm rattles o'er us, 
 'Till the dear shieling ring 
 
 Wi' the light lilting chorus. 
 
 Now the simmer is in prime, 
 
 Wi' the flowers richly blooming, 
 And the wild mountain thyme, 
 
 A' the moorlands perfuming; 
 To our dear native scenes. 
 
 Let us journey together, 
 Where glad innocence reigns, 
 
 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither. 
 
 THE BRAES O' GLENIFFER. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 The Braes of GleniflFer, or, as they are 
 now called Stanley Braes are situated a 
 short distance to the South of Paisley. 
 
 Keen* blaws the wind o'er the braes 
 o' Gleniffer, 
 The auld castle turrets are covered 
 wi' snaw. 
 How changed frae the time when I 
 met wi' my lover, 
 Amang the broom bushes by Stanley 
 green shaw. 
 The wild flowers o' simmer were 
 spread a' sae bonnie, 
 The mavis sang sweet frae the green 
 birken tree; 
 But far to the camp they ha'e march'd 
 my dear Johnnie, 
 And now it is winter wi'natureandme. 
 
 Then ilk thing around us was blythe- 
 some and cheerie, 
 Then ilk thing around us was bonnie 
 and braw; 
 Now naething is heard but the wind 
 whistling drearie, 
 And naething is seen but the wide- 
 spreading snaw. 
 The trees are a' bare, and the birds 
 mute and dowie. 
 They shake the cauld drift frae 
 their wings as they flee: 
 And chirp out their plaints, seeming 
 wae for my Johnnie; 
 'Tis winter wi' them and 'tis winter 
 wi' me. 
 
 Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs along 
 the bleak mountain, 
 And shakes the dark firs on the stey 
 rocky brae. 
 While down the deep glen braAvls the 
 snaw-flooded fountain, 
 That murmur'd sae sweet to my 
 laddie and me. 
 It's no its loud roar on the wintry 
 winds swellin'. 
 It's no the cauld blast brings the 
 tear to my e'e; 
 For, O ! gin I saw but my bonnie 
 Scots callan, 
 The dark days o' winter were simmer 
 to rae.
 
 254 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 GLOOMY WINTER'S NOW 
 AVVA'. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 Written in i8oS. 
 
 Gloomy winter's now awa', 
 Saft the westlin' breezes blaw, 
 'Mong the birks o' Stanley-shaw 
 The Mavis sings fu' cheerie, O! 
 Sweet the craw-flower's early bell 
 Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell, 
 Blooming like thy bonnie sel', 
 My young, my artless dearie, O ! 
 
 Come, my lassie, let us stray 
 O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae, 
 Blythely spend the gowden day, 
 'Midst joys that never wearie, O! 
 Towering o'er the Newton woods, 
 Laverocks fan the snaw-white clouds. 
 Siller saughs, wi' downie, buds. 
 Adorn the banks sae brierie, O! 
 
 Round the sylvan fairy nooks, 
 Feath'ry braikens fringe the rocks, 
 'Neath the brae the burnie jouks, 
 And elka thing is cheerie, O! 
 Trees may bud, and birds may sing. 
 Flowers may bloom, and verdure 
 
 spring, 
 Joy to me they canna brmg. 
 Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O! 
 
 evening in .1 tavern, kept by Tom Buchan- 
 an, near the cross of Paisley. The even- 
 ing- was enlivened by song-singing; and . 
 the landlord, who was present, sung the 
 old song beginning, "There grows a 
 bonnie brier bush," which he did with 
 effect. On their way home together, Mar- 
 shall remarked that the words of the land- 
 lords song were vastly inferior to the tune, 
 and humorously suggested the following 
 burlesque parody of the first stanza: 
 
 'There's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail- 
 yard. 
 There's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail- 
 yard. 
 They were set by Charlie Marshall, 
 And pu'd by Nannie Laird, 
 Yet there's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail- 
 yard.' 
 
 He added that Tannahill would do well to 
 compose suitable words for the music. 
 The hint sufficed; the^ friends met after a 
 fortnight's interval, when the poet pro- 
 duced and read the song of ' Yon burn- 
 side.' It immediately became popular." 
 
 WE'LL MEET BESIDE THE 
 DUSKY GLEN. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 It is related that one of the happiest 
 moments of the poet's life was while he 
 stood listening one day to a poor girl at 
 work in the fields singing the first verse of 
 this song. Dr. Rogers relates the follow- 
 ing in connection with the writing of it: 
 
 "The poet and one of his particular 
 friends, Charles Marshall, had met one 
 
 We'll meet beside the dusky glen, 
 
 on yon burn-side. 
 Where the bushes form a cozie den, 
 on yon burn-side: 
 Though the broomy knowes be 
 
 green. 
 Yet there we may be seen; 
 But we'll meet — we'll meet at e'en, 
 down by yon burn-side. 
 
 I'll lead thee to the birken bower on 
 
 yon burn-side, 
 Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flower, 
 on yon burn-side: 
 There the busy prying eye 
 Ne'er disturbs the lover's joy. 
 While in other's arm they lie, down 
 by yon burn-side. 
 
 Awa' ye rude unfeelin' crew, frae yon 
 
 burn-side! 
 Those fairy scenes are no for you, by 
 yon burn-side: 
 There fancy smooths her theme. 
 By the sweetly murmurin' stream, 
 And the rock-lodged echoes skim, 
 down by yon burn-side.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 255 
 
 Now the plantin' taps are tinged wi' 
 
 gowd on yon burn-side. 
 
 And gloamin' draws her foggie shroud 
 
 o'er yon burn-side: 
 
 Far frae the noisy scene, 
 
 I'll through the fields alane; 
 
 There we'll meet, my ain dear Jean! 
 
 down by yon burn-side. 
 
 THE C O G I E. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 When poortith cauld, and sour dis- 
 dain, 
 
 Hang o'er life's vale sae fogie, 
 The sun that brightens up the scene, 
 
 Is friendship's kindly cogie. 
 
 Then, O revere the cogie, sirs, 
 The friendly, social cogie; 
 
 It gars the wheels o' life rin light, 
 Though e'er sae doilt and 
 clogie. 
 
 Let pride in fortune's chariots fly. 
 
 Sae empty, vain, and vogie; 
 The source of wit, the spring of joy, 
 
 Lies in the social cogie. 
 
 Then, O revere the cogie, sirs. 
 The independent cogie; 
 
 And never snool beneath the 
 frown 
 Of onie selfish rogie. 
 
 Poor modest worth, with heartless e'e, 
 
 Sits burkling in the bogie, 
 Till she asserts her dingity, 
 
 By virtue of the cogie. 
 
 Then, O revere the cogie, sirs. 
 The poor man's patron cogie; 
 
 It warsals care, it fights life's 
 faughts, 
 Ajnd lifts him frae the bogie. I 
 
 Gi'e freckless Spain her weak snail 
 broo, 
 
 Gi'e France her weel spic'd frogie, 
 Gi'e brither John his luncheon too, 
 
 But gi'e to us our cogie. 
 
 Then, O revere the cogie, sirs. 
 Our kind, heart-warming cogie; 
 
 We'll doubly feel the social tie, 
 When just a wee thought grogie. 
 
 In days of yore our sturdy sires. 
 
 Upon their hills sae scrogie, 
 Glow'd with true freedom's warmest 
 fires, 
 And fought to save their cogie. 
 Then, O revere the cogie, sirs. 
 
 Our brave forefathers' cogie; 
 It rous'd them up to doughty 
 deeds, 
 O'er which we'll lang be vogie. 
 
 BARROCHAN JEAN. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 " You will, no doubt, have frequently 
 observed how much some old people are 
 given to magnifying the occurrences of 
 their young days. ' Barrochan Jean ' was 
 written on hearing an old grannie, in 
 Lochwinnoch parish, relating a story some- 
 thing similar to the subject of the song; 
 perhaps I have heightened her coloring a 
 htt\e."—Tanna/ii//. 
 
 'Tis hinna ye heard, man, o' Barro- 
 chan Jean ? 
 And hinna ye heard, man, o' Barro- 
 chan Jean! 
 How death and starvation came o'er 
 the haill nation, 
 She wrought sic mischief wi' her 
 twa pawky een; 
 The lads and the lasses were dying 
 in dizzens. 
 The taen kill'd wi' love, and the 
 tither wi' spleen,
 
 ^56 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 The ploughing, the sawing, the shear- 
 ing, the mawing, 
 A' wark was forgotten for Barro- 
 chan Jean! 
 
 Frae the south and the north, o'er the 
 Tweed and the Forth, 
 Sic coming and ganging there never 
 was seen. 
 The comers were cheerie, the gangers 
 were blearie, 
 Despairing, or hoping for Barro- 
 chan Jean. 
 The carlins at hame were a' girning 
 and graning, 
 The bairns were a' greeting frae 
 morning till e'en. 
 They gat naething for crowdy, but 
 runts boil'd to sowdie. 
 For naething gat growing for Barro- 
 chan Jean. 
 
 The doctors declar'd it was past their 
 descriving, 
 The ministers said 'twas a judge- 
 ment for sin. 
 But they lookit sae blae, and their 
 hearts were sae wae, 
 I was sure they were dying for 
 Barrochon Jean. 
 The burns on the road-sides were a' 
 dry wi' their drinking. 
 Yet a' wadna sloken the drouth i' 
 their skin; 
 A' round the peat-stacks, and alangst 
 the dyke backs, 
 E'en the winds were a' sighing, 
 sweet Barrochan Jean. 
 
 The timmer ran down wi' the making 
 o' coffins, 
 Kirkyards o' their sward were a' 
 howkit fu' clean. 
 Dead lovers were packit like herring 
 in barrels, 
 Sic thousands were dying for Barro- 
 chan Jean. 
 
 But mony braw thanks to the Laird 
 o' Glen-Brodie, 
 The grass owre their graffs is now 
 bonnie and green, 
 He sta' the proud heart of our wan- 
 ton young lady, 
 And spoil'd a' the charms o' her 
 twa pawky een. 
 
 HIGHLAND LADDIE. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 Blythe was the time when he fee'd 
 
 wi' my father, O, 
 Happy were the days when we herded 
 
 thegither, O, 
 Sweet were the hours when he row'd 
 
 me in his plaidie, O, 
 And vow'd to be mine, my dear 
 
 Highland laddie, O. 
 
 But, ah! waes me! wi' their sodgering 
 sae gaudy, O, 
 
 The laird's wyl'd awa' my braw High- 
 land laddie, O, 
 
 Misty are the glens and the dark 
 hills sae cloudy, O, 
 
 That aye seem'd sae blythe wi' my 
 dear Highland laddie, O, 
 
 The blae-berry banks now are lone- 
 some and drearie, O, 
 
 Muddy are the streams that gush'd 
 down sae clearly, O, 
 
 Silent are the rocks that echoed sae 
 gladly O, _ 
 
 The wild melting strains o' my dear 
 Highland laddie, O. 
 
 He pu'd me the crawberry, ripe frae 
 
 the boggy fen, 
 He pu'd me the strawberry, red frae 
 
 the foggy glen. 
 He pu'd me the rowan frae the wild 
 
 steep sae giddy, O, 
 Sae loving and kind was my dear 
 
 Highland laddie, O.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 257 
 
 Fareweel, my ewes, and fareweel, my 
 doggie, O, 
 
 Fareweel, ye knowes, now sae cheer- 
 less and scroggie, O, 
 
 Fareweel, Glenfeoch, my mammy and 
 my daddie, O, 
 
 I will lea' you a' for my dear High- 
 land laddie, O. 
 
 THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON 
 THE BURN. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 The midges dance aboon the burn, 
 
 The dews begin to fa', 
 The pairtricks down the rushy holm, 
 
 Set up their e'ening ca'. 
 Now loud and clear the blackbird's 
 sang 
 
 Rings through the briery shaw, 
 While flitting, gay, the swallows play 
 
 Around the castle wa'. 
 
 Beneath the golden gloaming sky, 
 
 The mavis mends her lay. 
 The redbreast pours his sweetest 
 strains, 
 
 To charm the ling'ring day; 
 While weary yeldrins seem to wail 
 
 Their little nestlings torn, 
 The merry wren, frae den to den, 
 
 Gaes jinking through the thorn. 
 
 The roses fauld their silken leaves, 
 
 The foxglove shuts its bell. 
 The honeysuckle, and the birk, 
 
 Spread fragrance through the dell. 
 Let others crowd the giddy court 
 
 Of mirth and revelry, 
 The simple joys that nature yields 
 
 Are dearer far to me. 
 
 O, ARE YE SLEEPIN', 
 MAGGIE. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 "Tannahill wrote this beautiful song to 
 tlie air of an old song. ... It was origi- 
 nally furnished without the last verse, but 
 on one occasion, while entertaining his 
 friends with it, Mr. James King asked the 
 author, 'Why dinna you let the drookit 
 deevil in?' The next night the author 
 produced the concluding verse, but from 
 its wanting the poetic fervor of the first 
 verse it was never meant to be made pub- 
 lic; however it has always been printed." 
 — Lyric Gems o/ Scotland. 
 
 O, ARE ye sleepin', Maggie.-* 
 
 O, are ye sleepin', Maggie? 
 
 Let me in, for loud the linn 
 
 Is roarin' o'er the warlock craigie! 
 
 Mirk and rainy is the night. 
 No a starn in a' the carie; 
 
 Lightnings gleam athwart the lift. 
 And winds drive on wi' winter's fury. 
 O, are ye sleepin', Maggie ? &c. 
 
 Fearfu' soughs the bourtree bank. 
 The rifted wood roars wild and 
 dreary, 
 Loud the iron gate does clank. 
 
 And cry of howlets makes me eerie. 
 O, are ye sleepin', Maggie ? &c, 
 
 Aboon my breath I daurna speak. 
 For fear I rouse your waukrife 
 daddie, 
 Cauld's the blast upon my cheek, 
 O rise, rise my bonnie lady! 
 O, are ye sleepin', Maggie ? &c. 
 
 She opt the door, she let him in, 
 He cuist aside his dreepin' plaidie: 
 
 " Blaw your warst, ye rain and win', 
 Since, Maggie, now I'm in aside ye." 
 
 Now, since ye'er wakin', Maggie! 
 Now, since ye'er wakin', Maggie! 
 What care I for howlet's cry, 
 For bourtree bank, or warlock 
 craigie ?
 
 258 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 THOU BONNIE WOOD OF 
 CRAIGIE-LEA. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 Craigie-Lea is situated a short distance 
 to the north-west of Paisley. 
 
 Thou bonnie wood of Craigie-lea, 
 Thou bonnie wood of Craigie-lea, 
 
 Near thee I pass'd life's early day, 
 And won my Mary's heart in thee. 
 
 The broom, the brier, the birken bush, 
 Bloom bonnie o'er thy flowery lea, 
 
 An' a' the sweets that ane can wish 
 Frae nature's hand are strew'd on 
 thee. 
 
 Thou bonnie wood, &c. 
 
 Far ben thy dark-green planting's 
 shade. 
 
 The cushat croodles am'rously, 
 The mavis, down thy buchted glade, 
 
 Gars echo ring frae every tree. 
 
 Thou bonnie wood, &c. 
 
 Awa', ye thoughtless, murd'ring gang, 
 Wha tear the nestlings ere they flee! 
 
 They'll sing you yet a canty sang, 
 Then, O in pity let them be! 
 
 Thou bonnie wood, &c. 
 
 When winter blaws in sleety showers, 
 Frae aff the Norlan' hills sae hie. 
 
 He lightly skiffs thy bonnie bowers. 
 As laith to harm a flower in thee. 
 
 Thou bonnie wood, &c. 
 
 Though fate should drag me south 
 the line. 
 
 Or o'er the wide Atlantic sea; 
 The happy hours I'll ever min' 
 
 That I in youth ha'e spent in thee. 
 
 Thou bonnie wood, &c. 
 
 HARPER OF MULL. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 The storj' of the Harper of Mull is thus 
 abridged in Mr. P. A. Ramsay's edition of 
 Tannahill's Poems. " In the island of 
 Mull there lived a harper who was distin- 
 guished for his professional skill, and the 
 affectionate simplicity of his manners He 
 was attached to Rosie, the fairest flower 
 in the island, and soon made her his bride. 
 Not long afterwards, he set out on a visit 
 to some low-countrj' friends, accompanied 
 by his Rosie, and carrying his harp, which 
 had been his companion in all hisjourne3"s 
 for many years. Overtaken b}' the shades 
 of night, in a solitary part of the country, 
 a cold faintness fell upon Rosie, and she 
 sank, almost lifeless, into the harper's 
 arms. He hastily wrapped his plaid around 
 her shivering frame; but to no purpose. 
 Distracted, he hurried from place to place 
 in search of fuel to revive the dying embers 
 of life. None could be found. His harp 
 laj' on the grass, its neglected strings 
 vibrating to the blast. The harper loved 
 it as his own life, but he loved his Rosie 
 better than either. His nervous arms were 
 applied to its sides, and ere long it lay 
 crackling and blazing on the heath. Rosie 
 soon revived under its genial influence, 
 and resumed the journey when morning 
 began to purple the east. Passing down 
 the side of a hill, they were met by a 
 hunter, on horseback, who addressed 
 Rosie in the style of an old and familiar 
 friend. The harper, innocent liimself, and 
 unsuspicious of others, paced slowly along 
 leaving her in converse with the stranger. 
 Wondering at her delay, he turned round, 
 and beheld the faithless fair seated behind 
 the hunter on his steed, which speedily 
 bore them out of sight. The unhappy 
 harper, transfixed with astonishment, 
 gazed at them. Then, slowly turning his 
 steps homewards, he sighing exclaimed, — 
 'Fool that I was, to burn my harp for her.'" 
 
 When Rosie was faithful, how happy 
 
 was I ! 
 Still gladsome as summer the time 
 
 glided by: 
 I play'd my heart cheery, while fondly 
 
 I sang 
 Of the charms of my Rosie the winter 
 
 nights lang:
 
 CELEBRATED SONQS OF SGOTLAND. 
 
 259 
 
 But now I'm as waefu'aswaefu'canbe, 
 Come simmer, come winter, 'tis a' ane 
 
 to me. 
 For the dark gloom of falsehood sac 
 
 clouds my sad soul, 
 That cheerless for aye is the Harper 
 
 of Mull. 
 
 I wander the glens and the wild 
 
 woods alane, 
 In their deepest recesses I make my 
 
 sad mane; 
 My harp's mournful melody joins in 
 
 the strain, 
 While sadly I sing of the days that 
 
 are gane. 
 Though Rosie is faithless, she's no 
 
 the less fair, 
 And the thoughts of her beauty but 
 
 feed my despair; 
 With painful remembrance my bosom 
 
 is full, 
 And weary of life is the Harper of 
 
 Mull. 
 
 As slumb'ring I lay by the dark 
 
 mountain stream, 
 My lovely young Rosie appear'd in 
 
 my dream; 
 I thought her still kind, and I ne'er 
 
 was sae blest. 
 As in fancy I clasp'd the dear nymph 
 
 to my breast; 
 Thou false fleeting vision, too soon 
 
 thou wert o'er, 
 Thou wak'dst me to tortures un- 
 
 equall'd before; 
 But death's silent slumbers my griefs 
 
 soon shall lull, 
 And the green grass wave over the 
 
 Harper of Mull. 
 
 MARY, WHY WASTE? 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 " Mary, why thus waste thy youth- 
 time in sorrow ? 
 
 See, a' around you the flowers 
 sweetly blaw; 
 Blythe sets the sun o'er the wild cliffs 
 of Jura, 
 Blythe sings the mavis in ilka green 
 shaw." 
 " How can this heart ever mair think 
 of pleasure ? 
 Summer may smile, but delight I 
 ha'e nane; 
 Cauld in the grave lies my heart's 
 only treasure, 
 Nature seems dead since my Jamie 
 is gane. 
 
 " This 'kerchief he gave me, a true 
 lover's token, 
 Dear, dear to me was the gift for 
 his sake! 
 I wear't near my heart, but this poor 
 heart is broken, 
 Hope died with Jamie, and left it 
 to break; 
 Sighing for him, I lie down in the 
 e'ening, 
 Sighing for him, I awake in the 
 morn ; 
 Spent are my days a' in secret repining, 
 Peace to this bosom can never 
 return. 
 
 " Oft have we wander'd in sweetest 
 retirement, 
 Telling our loves 'neath the moon's 
 silent beam, 
 Sweet were our meetings of tender 
 endearment, 
 But fled are these joys like a fleet- 
 passing dream. 
 Cruel remembrance, in pity forsake 
 me, 
 Brooding o'er joys that for ever 
 are flown ! 
 Cruel remembrance, in pity forsake 
 me, 
 Flee to some bosom where grief is 
 unknown!"
 
 260 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 WITH WAEFU' HEART. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 With waefu* heart, and sorrowing e'e, 
 
 I saw my Jamie sail awa'; 
 O 'twas a fatal day to me, 
 
 That day he pass'd the Berwick 
 Law. 
 How joyless now seem'd all behind! 
 
 I lingering stray'd along the shore; 
 Dark boding fears hung on my mind 
 
 That I might never see him more. 
 
 The night came on with heavy rain, 
 Loud, fierce, and wild, the tempest 
 blew; 
 In mountains roll'd the awful main — 
 Ah, hapless maid! my fears how 
 true ! 
 The landsmen heard their drowning 
 cries! 
 The wreck was seen with dawning 
 day; 
 My love was found, and now he lies 
 Low in the isle of gloomy May. 
 
 O boatman, kindly waft me o'er! 
 The cavern'd rock shall be my 
 home; 
 'Twill ease my burden'd heart to 
 pour 
 Its sorrows o'er his grassy tomb. 
 With sweetest flowers I'll deck his 
 grave, 
 And tend them through the lang- 
 some year; 
 I'll water them ilk morn and eve. 
 With deepest sorrow's warmest 
 tear. 
 
 THE LASS O' ARRANTEENIE. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL, 
 
 Written in honor of a young lady whom 
 a friend of the author met near Ardentinny 
 one afternoon. 
 
 Far lone amang the Highland hills, 
 
 'Midst Nature's wildest grandeur, 
 By rocky dens, and woody glens, 
 
 With weary steps I wander. 
 The langsome way, the darksome day. 
 
 The mountain mist sae rainy. 
 Are nought to me when gaun to thee, 
 
 Sweet lass o' Arranteenie. 
 
 Yon mossy rosebud down the howe, 
 
 Just op'ning fresh and bonny. 
 Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel bough, 
 
 And 's scarcely seen by ony; 
 Sae sweet amidst her native hills, 
 
 Obscurely blooms my Jeanie, 
 Mair fair and gay than rosy May, 
 
 The flower o' Arranteenie. 
 
 Now, from the mountain's lofty brow, 
 
 I view the distant ocean. 
 There Av'rice guides the bounding 
 prow. 
 
 Ambition courts promotion: — 
 Let fortune pour her golden store. 
 
 Her laurell'd favors many; 
 Give me but this, my soul's first wish, 
 
 The lass o' Arranteenie. 
 
 THE FLOWER ON LEVEN 
 SIDE. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 Ye sunny braes that skirt the Clyde 
 
 Wi' summer flowers sae braw, 
 There's ae sweet flower on Leven side, 
 
 That's fairer than them a': 
 Yet aye it droops its head in wae. 
 Regardless o' the sunny ray, 
 And wastes its sweets frae day to day. 
 
 Beside the lonely shaw; 
 Wi' leaves a' steep'd in sorrow's dew, 
 Fause, cruel man, it seems to rue, 
 Wha aft the sweetest flower will pu', 
 
 Then rend its heart in twa.
 
 CELEBRATED SONOS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 261 
 
 Thou bonny flower on Leven side, 
 
 O gin thou'lt be but mine; 
 I'll tend thee wi' a lover's pride, 
 
 Wi' love that ne'er shall tine; 
 I'll take thee to my sheltering bower, 
 And shield thee frae the beating 
 
 shower, 
 Unharm'd by ought thou'lt bloom 
 secure 
 
 Frae a' the blasts that blaw: 
 Thy charms surpass the crimson dye 
 That streaks the glowing western sky, 
 But here, unshaded, soon thou'lt die, 
 
 And lone will be thy fa'. 
 
 OUR BONNIE SCOTS LADS. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 Our bonnie Scots lads, in their green 
 tartan plaids. 
 Their blue-belted bonnets, and 
 feathers sae braw, 
 Rank'd up on the green were fair to 
 be seen. 
 But my bonnie young laddie was 
 fairest of a'. 
 His cheeks were as red as the sweet 
 heather-bell. 
 Or the red western cloud looking 
 down on the snaw, 
 His lang yellow hair o'er his braid 
 shoulders fell. 
 And the een o' the lasses were fix'd 
 on him a'. 
 
 My heart sunk wi' wae on the weari- 
 fu' day, 
 When torn frae my bosom they 
 march'd him awa', 
 He bade me fareweel, he cried, " O be 
 leel," 
 And his red cheeks were wat wi' 
 the tears that did fa'. 
 
 Ah! Harry, my love, though thou 
 ne'er shoul'dst return. 
 Till life's latest hour I thy absence 
 will mourn. 
 And memory shall fade, like the leaf 
 on the tree, 
 Ere my heart spare ae thought on 
 anither but thee. 
 
 THROUGH CROCKSTON 
 CASTLE'S LANELY WA'S. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 " The ruin of Crockston Castle is situated 
 on the brow of a gentle eminence, about 
 three miles south-east of Paisley. The 
 Gnstle, in the twelfth century, was pos- 
 sessed by a Norman family, of the name of 
 Croc; it passed, in the following century, 
 by the marriage of the heiress, into a 
 younger branch of the House of Stewart, 
 who were afterwards ennobled as Earls of 
 Lennox. According to tradition, Queen 
 Mary and Lord Darnley occasionally re- 
 sided in the castle; and it is reported that 
 the unfortunate princess witnessed from 
 its walls the fall of her fortunes at the battle 
 of Langside." — The Scottish Minstrel. 
 
 Through Crockston Castle's lanely 
 wa's 
 The wintry wind howls wild and 
 dreary; 
 Though mirk the cheerless e'ening fa's, 
 Yet I ha'e vow'd to meet my Mary. 
 Yes, Mary, though the winds should 
 rave 
 Wi' jealous spite to keep me frae 
 thee, 
 The darkest stormy night I'd brave, 
 For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee. 
 
 Loud o'er Cardonald's rocky steep, 
 Rude Cartha pours in boundless 
 measure; 
 But I will ford the whirling deep. 
 That roars between me and my 
 treasure;
 
 262 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Yes, Mary, though the torrent rave, 
 Wi' jealous spite, to keep me frae 
 thee. 
 Its deepest flood I'd bauldly brave, _^ 
 For ae sweet secret moment wi' 
 thee. 
 
 The watch-dog's howling loads the 
 blast, 
 And makes the nightly wand'rer 
 eerie; 
 But when the lonesome way is past, 
 I'll to this bosom clasp my Mary! 
 Yes, Mary, though stern winter rave, 
 Wi' a' his storms, to keep me frae 
 thee, 
 The wildest dreary night I'd brave, 
 For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee. 
 
 WHEN JOHN AND ME WERE 
 MARRIED. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 When John and me were married, 
 
 Our hading was but sma'. 
 For my minnie, canker't carling, 
 
 Wou'd gi'e us nocht ava'; 
 I wair't my fee wi' canny care, 
 
 As far as it wou'd gae, 
 But weel I wat, our bridal bed 
 
 Was clean pease-strae. 
 
 Wi' working late and early, 
 
 We're come to what ye see. 
 For fortune thrave aneath our hands, 
 
 Sae eydent aye were we. 
 The lowe of love made labor light; 
 
 I'm sure ye'U find it sae. 
 When kind ye cuddle down at e'en 
 
 'Mang clean pease-strae. 
 
 The rose blows gay on cairny brae. 
 
 As weel's in birken shaw, 
 And love will lowe in cottage low, 
 
 As weel's in lofty ha'; 
 
 Sae, lassie, take the lad ye like, 
 Whate'er your minnie say, 
 
 Tho' ye should make your bridal bed 
 Of clean pease-strae. 
 
 I MARK'D A GEM OF PEARLY 
 DEW. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 "Tannahill and Smith once went on a 
 fishing excursion with some acquaintances. 
 The two friends being but tyros soon got 
 tired of lashing the water to no purpose 
 and separated for a little, each to amuse 
 himself after his own fashion. When 
 Smith rejoined the poet he was shown 
 this song written with a pencil. Tannahill 
 had been occupied observing a blade of 
 grass bending under the weight of a dew- 
 drop, and this triffling object had suggest- 
 ed the simile embodied in the song." — 
 Lyric Gems of Scotland. 
 
 I mark'd a gem of pearly dew. 
 
 While wand'ring near yoij misty 
 mountain, 
 Which bore the tender flow'r so low. 
 It dropp'd it off into the fountain. 
 So thou has wrung this gentle heart. 
 Which in its core was proud to. 
 wear thee, 
 Till drooping sick beneath thy art, 
 It, sighing, found it could not bear 
 thee. 
 
 Adieu, thou faithless fair! unkind! 
 Thy falsehood dooms that we must 
 sever; 
 Thy vows were as the passing wind. 
 That fans the flow'r, then dies for 
 ever. 
 And think not that this gentle heart. 
 Though in its core 'twas proud to 
 wear thee, 
 Shall longer droop beneath thy art; — 
 No, cruel fair, it cannot bear thee.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 263 
 
 COGGIE, THOU HEALS ME. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 Dorothy sits i' the cauld ingle neuk; 
 Her red rosy neb's like a labster 
 
 tae, 
 Wi' girning, her mou's like the gab o' 
 
 the fleuk, 
 Wi' smoking her teeth's like the 
 
 jet o' the slae. 
 And aye she sings " Weel's me! " aye 
 
 she sings " Weel's me! " 
 Coggie, thou heals me, coggie, thou 
 
 heals me; 
 Aye my best friend, when there's ony 
 
 thing ails me: 
 Ne'er shall we part till the day that 
 
 I die." 
 
 Dorothy ance was a weel tocher'd 
 
 lass, 
 Had charms like her neighbors, and 
 
 lovers enew. 
 But she spited them sae wi' her pride 
 
 and her sauce, 
 They left her for thretty lang sim- 
 mers to rue. 
 Then aye she sang " Waes me!" aye 
 
 she sang "Waes me! 
 O I'll turn crazy, O I'll turn crazy! 
 Naething in a' the wide world can 
 
 ease me, 
 De'il take the wooers — O what shall 
 
 I do!" 
 
 Dorothy, dozen'd wi' living her lane, 
 Pu'd at her rock, wi' the tear in her 
 
 e'e. 
 She thocht on the braw merry days 
 
 that were gane, 
 And coft a wee coggie forcompanie. 
 Now aye she sings "Weel's me!" aye 
 
 she sings " Weel's me! 
 •Coggie, thou heels me, coggie thou 
 
 heals me; 
 Aye my best friend, when there's ony 
 
 thing ails me: 
 N'e'er shall we part till the day that I 
 
 die." 
 
 RAB RORYSON'S BONNET. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 Ye'll a' ha'e heard tell o' Rab Rory- 
 
 son's bonnet, 
 Ye'll a' ha'e heard tell o' Rab Rory- 
 
 son's bonnet; 
 'Twas no for itsel', 'twas the head that 
 
 was in it, 
 Gar'd a' bodies talk o' Rab Roryson's 
 
 bonnet. 
 
 This bonnet, that theekit his wonder- 
 
 fu' head, 
 Was his shelter in winter, in summer 
 
 his shade; 
 And at kirk or at* market, or bridals, 
 
 I ween, 
 A braw, gaucier bonnet there never 
 
 was seen. 
 
 Wi' a round rosy tap, like a meikle 
 
 blackboyd. 
 It was slouc.h'd just a kening on 
 
 either hand side; 
 Some maintain'd it was black, some 
 
 maintain'd it was blue, 
 It had something o' baith, as a body 
 
 may trew. 
 
 But, in sooth, I assure you, for aught 
 that I saw, 
 
 Still his bonnet had naething uncom- 
 mon ava'; 
 
 Tho' the haill parish talk'd o' Rab 
 Roryson's bonnet, 
 
 'Twas a' for the marvellous head that 
 was in it. 
 
 That head — let it rest — it is now in 
 
 the mools, 
 Tho' in life a' the warld beside it 
 
 were fools; 
 Yet o' what kind o' wisdom his head 
 
 was possest, 
 Nane e'er kent but himsel', sae there's 
 
 nane that will miss't.
 
 264 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 THE BONNIE LASS O' WOOD- 
 HOUSELEE. 
 
 ROBERT ALLAN. 
 
 Robert Allan was born at Kilbarchan in 
 Renfrewshire, on the 4th of November, 
 1774. He began life as a weaver and com- 
 posed many of his best songs at his loom. 
 He emigrated to America in his 67th year, 
 and died shortly afterguards in New York. 
 
 The sun blinks sweetly on yon shaw, 
 
 But sweeter far on VVoodhouselea, 
 And dear I like his setting beam 
 
 For sake o' ane sae dear to me. 
 It was nae simmer's fairy scenes, 
 
 In a' their charming luxury, 
 But Beauty's sel' that won my heart, 
 
 The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee. 
 
 Sae winnin', was her witchin' smile, 
 
 Sae piercin' was her coal-black e'e, 
 Sae sarely wounded was my heart, 
 
 That had na wish sic ills to dree; 
 In vain I strave in beauty's chains, 
 
 I cou'd na keep my fancy free. 
 She gat my heart sae in her thrall. 
 
 The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee. 
 
 The bonnie knowes, sae yellow a', 
 
 Where aft is heard the hum of bee, 
 The meadow green, and breezy hill. 
 
 Where lambkins sport sae merrilie, 
 May charm the weary, wand'rin' 
 swain, 
 
 When e'enin' sun dips in the sea. 
 But a' my heart, baith e'en and morn, 
 
 Is wi' the lass o' Woodhouselee. 
 
 The flowers that kiss the wimplin' 
 burn, 
 
 And dew-clad gowans on the lea. 
 The water-lily on the lake. 
 
 Are but sweet emblems a' of thee; 
 And while in summer smiles they 
 bloom, 
 
 Sae lovely, and sae fair to see, 
 I'll woo their sweets, e'en for thy sake, 
 
 The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee. 
 
 THE THISTLE AND THE 
 ROSE. 
 
 ROBERT ALLAN. 
 
 There grew in bonnie Scotland 
 
 A thistle and a brier. 
 And aye they twined and clasp'd. 
 
 Like sisters, kind and dear. 
 The rose it was sae bonnie, 
 
 It could ilk bosom charm; 
 The thistle spread its thorny leaf. 
 
 To keep the rose frae harm. 
 
 A bonnie laddie tended 
 
 The rose baith ear' and late; 
 He water'd it, and fann'd it, 
 
 And wove it with his fate; 
 And the leal hearts of Scotland 
 
 Pray'd it might never fa', 
 The thistle was sae bonnie green, 
 
 The rose sae like the snaw. 
 
 But the weird sisters sat 
 
 Where Hope's fair emblems grew; 
 They drapt a drap upon the rose 
 
 O' bitter, blasting dew; 
 And aye they twined the mystic 
 thread, — 
 
 But ere their task was done, 
 The snaw-white shade it disappear'd, 
 
 And wither'd in the sun! 
 
 A bonnie laddie tended 
 
 The rose baith ear' an' late; 
 He water'd it and fann'd it, 
 
 And wove it with his fate; 
 But the thistle tap it wither'd, 
 
 Winds bore it far awa', 
 And Scotland's heart was broken, 
 
 For the rose sae like the snaw! 
 
 LIFE'S A FAUGHT. 
 
 ROBERT ALLAN. 
 
 That life's a faught there is nae 
 doubt, 
 A steep and slippery brae;
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 265 
 
 And wisdom's sel', wi' a its rules, 
 
 Will aften find it sae. 
 The truest heart that e'er was made, 
 
 May find a deadly fae, 
 And broken aiths and faithless vows 
 
 Gae lover's mickle vvae. 
 
 When poortith looks wi' sour disdain, 
 
 It frights a body sair, 
 And gars them think they ne'er will 
 meet 
 
 Delight or pleasure mair. 
 But though the heart be e'er sae sad, 
 
 And prest wi' joyless care, 
 Hope lightly steps in at the last, 
 
 To fley awa' despair. 
 
 For love o' wealth let misers toil, 
 
 And fret baith late and ear', 
 A cheerfu' heart has aye enough, 
 
 And whiles a mite to spare. 
 A leal true heart's a gift frae heaven, 
 
 A gift that is maist rare; 
 It is a treasure o' itsel', 
 
 And lightens ilka care. 
 
 Let wealth and pride exault themsel's 
 
 And boast o' what they ha'e, 
 Compar'd wi' truth and honesty, 
 
 They are nae worth a strae. 
 The honest heart keeps aye aboon, 
 
 Whate'er the world may say, 
 And laughs and turns its shafts to 
 scorn. 
 
 That ithers would dismay. 
 
 Sae let us mak' life's burden light, 
 
 And drive ilk care awa'; 
 Contentment is a dainty feast, 
 
 Although in hamely ha': 
 It gi'es a charm to ilka thing, 
 
 And mak's it look fu' braw. 
 The spendthrift and the miser herd. 
 
 It soars aboon them a'. 
 
 But there's ae thing amang the lave 
 To keep the heart in tune. 
 
 And but for that the weary spleen 
 Wad plague us late and soon. 
 
 A bonnie lass, a canty wife. 
 
 For sic is nature's law; 
 Without that charmer o' our lives, 
 
 There's scarce a charm ava. 
 
 THE CONVENANTER'S 
 LAMENT. 
 
 ROBERT ALLAN. 
 
 There's nae covenant now, lassie! 
 
 There's nae covenant now! 
 The solemn league and covenant 
 
 Are a' broken through! 
 There's nae Renwick now, lassie, 
 
 There's nae gude Cargill, 
 Nor holy Sabbath preaching, 
 
 Upon the Martyrs' Hill! 
 
 It's naething but a sword, lassie! 
 
 A bluidy, bluidy ane! 
 Waving o'er poor Scotland 
 
 For her rebellious sin. 
 Scotland's a' wrang, lassie, 
 
 Scotland's a' wrang — 
 It's neither to the hill nor glen. 
 
 Lassie, we daur gang. 
 
 The Martyrs' Hill forsaken, 
 In simmer's dusk, sae calm; 
 
 There nae gathering now, lassie, 
 To sing the e'enin' psalm! 
 
 But the martyr's grave will rise, 
 lassie, 
 Aboon the warrior's cairn; 
 
 An' the martyr soun' will sleep, 
 lassie, 
 
 Aneath the waving fern! 
 
 THE SUN IS SETTING ON 
 SWEET GLENGARRY. 
 
 ROBERT ALLAN. 
 
 The sun is setting on Sweet Glen- 
 garry, 
 The flow'rs are fair and the leaves 
 are green;
 
 266 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 O bonnie lassie, ye maun be my dearie, 
 And the rose is sweet in the dew at 
 e'en. 
 
 Doun yon glen ye never will weary, 
 The flow'rs are fair and the leaves 
 are green; 
 Bonnie lassie, ye maun be my dearie, 
 And the rose is sweet in the dew at 
 e'en. 
 
 Birds are singing f u' blythe and cheery, 
 The flow'rs are fair and the leaves 
 are green; 
 Bonnie lassie, on bank sae briery. 
 And the rose is sweet in the dew at 
 e'en. 
 
 In yonder glen there's naething to 
 fear ye, 
 The flow'rs are fair and the leaves 
 are green; 
 Ye canna be sad, ye canna be eerie. 
 And the rose is sweet in the dew at 
 e'en. 
 
 The water is wimpling by fu' clearly. 
 The flow'rs are fair and the leaves 
 are green. 
 Oh! ye sail ever be my dearie. 
 
 And the rose is sweet in the dew at 
 e'en. 
 
 LAND OF MY FATHERS. 
 
 JOHN LEYDEN. 
 
 « 
 
 John Leyden was born in 1775, at Den- 
 holm, in Roxburghshire. He was reared 
 amid humble circumstances but managed 
 to secure a good education for himself. 
 He died at Java, in 1811. 
 
 Land of my fathers! though no man- 
 grove here 
 
 O'er thy blue streams her flexile 
 
 branches rear, 
 Nor scaly palm her finger'd scions 
 
 shoot, 
 Nor luscious guava wave her yellow 
 
 fruit. 
 Nor golden apples glimmer from the 
 
 tree; 
 Land of dark heaths and mountains, 
 
 thou art free. 
 Free as his lord the peasant treads 
 
 the plain, 
 And heaps his harvest on the groan- 
 ing wain. 
 
 Proud of his laws, tenacious of his 
 
 right, 
 And vain of Scotia's old unconquer'd 
 
 might: 
 Dear native valleys! may ye long retain 
 The charter'd freedom of the mountain 
 
 swain: 
 Long, 'mid your sounding glades, in 
 
 union sweet. 
 May rural innocence and beauty 
 
 meet; 
 And still be duly heard, at twilight 
 
 calm. 
 From every cot the peasant's chanted 
 
 psalm ! 
 
 Then, Jedworth, though thy ancient 
 
 choirs shall fade. 
 And time lay bare each lofty colon- 
 nade. 
 From the damp roof the massy 
 
 sculptures die. 
 And in their vaults thy rifted arches 
 
 lie; 
 Still in these vales shall angel harps 
 
 prolong. 
 By Jed's pure stream, a sweeter 
 
 evening song 
 Than long procession, once, with 
 
 mystic zeal, 
 Pour'd to the harp and solemn organ's 
 
 peal.
 
 CELEBRATED 80NQS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 267 
 
 JENNY'S BAWBEE. 
 
 SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL, BART. 
 
 Sir Alexander Boswell, the author of 
 "Jenny's Bawbee," "Jenny Dang the 
 Weaver," and a few other equally humor 
 ous songs, was the eldest son of 
 James Boswell, the biographer of the 
 celebrated Dr. Samuel Johnson. He was 
 born on October 9, 1775, and received the 
 principal part of his education at the 
 University of Oxford. On the death of 
 his father, in 1795, he succeeded to the 
 paternal estate of Auchinleck, in Ayrshire. 
 A man of superior literary tastes and 
 talents, he contributed largely to the 
 periodicals of the day, and, in 1803 publish- 
 ed a collection of his poetical pieces under 
 the title of " Songs, Chiefly in the Scottish 
 Dialect." He was also an enthusiastic 
 admirer of our old Scottish liteiature, and 
 reprinted a number of the earliest works 
 at his own private printing press which he 
 had set up at Auchinleck. He devoted 
 considerable attention to public affairs, 
 and at one time was elected M. P. for Ayr; 
 at another time he held the honorable post 
 of Lieutenant-Colonel of the Ayrshire Yeo- 
 manry Cavalry. In 1819, he succeeded in 
 raising, by public subscription, a sufficient 
 sum of money for the purpose of erecting 
 to the memory of Burns the handsome 
 monument which to-day over-looks the 
 Doon. He received the title of Baronet, in 
 1821, as a recognition of his many services 
 in the public interest. In politics Sir 
 Alexander was a staunch Conservative, 
 and on account of some sentimental verses 
 which he had contributed to the Glasgow 
 Sentinel, on Mr. James Stuart, younger 
 of Dunearn, who was then a well-known 
 supporter of the Liberal party, he received 
 a challenge from that gentleman, which he 
 believed himself called upon to accept. 
 The opponents met on the morning of 
 March 26, 1S22, near the village of Auchter- 
 tool, in Fife, and in the duel which follow- 
 ed Sir Alexander received a wound, from 
 the effects of which he died on the follow- 
 ing day. The version here given of 
 " jenny's Bawbee " was first published by 
 Bosweil in 1803, but without the last 
 stanza, which was afterwards added, pre- 
 sumably, by the author. The idea of the 
 song, according to Allan Cunningham, 
 was suggested to Boswell by the following 
 fragment, which appears in the second 
 edition of " Herd's Collection," 1776: 
 
 " And a' that e'er my Jenny had. 
 My Jenny had, my Jenny had, 
 And a' that e'er my Jenny had 
 Was ae Bawbee. 
 
 There's your plack, and my plack. 
 And your plack, and my plack, 
 And my plack, and your plack, 
 And Jenny's bawbee. 
 
 We'll put it in the pint-stoup, 
 The pint-stoup, the pint stop, 
 We'll put it in the pint-stoup, 
 And birle, it a' three." 
 
 As a song, "Jenny's Bawbee" still 
 ranks among the most popular of our 
 national melodies. The air is very old, 
 and was formerly a favorite dancing tune 
 with the lads and lasses of Auld Scotia. 
 
 I MET four chaps yon birks amang, 
 Wi' hinging lugs and faces lang; 
 I spiered at neebour Bauldy Strang, 
 
 Wha's they I see ? 
 Quo' he, ilk cream-faced pawky chiel 
 Thought he was cunning as the deil, 
 And here they cam' awa' tae steal 
 
 Jenny's bawbee. 
 
 The first a Captain to his trade, 
 
 Wi' skull ill-lined, but back weel clad, 
 
 March'd round the barn, and by the 
 
 shed, 
 
 And papped on his knee: 
 Quo' he, " My goddess, nymph and 
 
 queen. 
 Your beauty's dazzled baith my een!" 
 But deil a beauty he had seen 
 But — Jenny's bawbee. 
 
 A Lawyer neist, wi' blatherin' gab 
 Wha speeches wove like ony wab. 
 In ilk ane's corn aye took a dab, 
 
 And a' for a fee. 
 Accounts he owed through a' the toun, 
 And tradesmen's tongues nae mair 
 
 could drown, 
 But now he thocht to clout his goun 
 Wi' Jenny's bawbee. 
 
 A Norland Laird neist trotted up, 
 Wi' bavvsand nag and siller whip,
 
 268 
 
 CELEBRATED SONOS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Cried, " There's my beast, lad, haud 
 the grup, 
 
 Or tie 't till a tree! 
 What's govvd to me? — I've walth o' 
 
 Ian'! 
 Bestow on ane o' worth yer han'! " 
 He thocht to pay what he was awn, 
 Wi' Jenny's bawbee. 
 
 Brest up just like the knave o' clubs, 
 A thing came neist (but life has rubs). 
 Foul were the roads, and fu' the dubs, 
 
 And jaupit a' was he. 
 He danced up, squinting through a 
 
 glass. 
 And grinn'd, " 'I faith, a bonnie lass!" 
 He thought to win, wi' front o' brass, 
 
 Jenny's bawbee. 
 
 She bade the Laird gae kame his wig, 
 The Sodger no to strut sae big, 
 The Lawyer no to be a prig. 
 
 The Fool, he cried, " Tehee; 
 I kenn'd that I could never fail!" 
 But she preen'd the dishclout to his 
 
 tail, 
 And soused him in the water-pail, 
 
 And kept her bawbee. 
 
 Then Johnnie cam', a lad o' sense. 
 Although he had na mony pence ; 
 And took young Jenny to the spence, 
 
 Wi' her to crack a wee. 
 Now Johnnie was a clever chiel, 
 And here his suit he press'd sae weel. 
 That Jenny's heart grew saft as jeel, 
 
 And she birled her bawbee. 
 
 JENNY DANG THE WEAVER. 
 
 SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL, BART. 
 
 " The Rev. Mr. Gardner, minister of the 
 parish of Birse, in Aberdeenshire, well 
 known for his musical talent and for his 
 wit, was one Saturday evening arranging 
 his ideas for the service of the following 
 day, in his little study, which looked into 
 the courtyard of the manse, where Mrs. 
 Gardner was engaged in the homely task 
 of ' beetling ' the potatoes for supper. To 
 
 unbend his mind a little he took up his 
 cremona, and began to step over the notes 
 of an air he had previously jotted down, 
 when suddenly an altercation arose between 
 Mrs. Gardner and Jock, the 'minister's 
 man,' an idle sort of weaver from the 
 neighboring village of Marywell, who had 
 lately been engaged as man-of-all-work 
 about the manse. ' Here Jock,' cried his 
 mistress, as he had newly come in from 
 the labors of the field, 'gae wipe the 
 minister's shoon.' ' Na,' said Jock, 'I'll 
 do nae sic thing, I cam' here to be your 
 ploughman, but no your flunky, and I'll 
 be d — d gif I wipe the minister's shoon.' 
 ' De'il confound your impudence,' said 
 the enraged Mrs. Gardner, as she sprung 
 at him with the heavy culinary instrument 
 in her hand, and giving him a hearty beat- 
 ing, compelled him to perform the menial 
 duty required. The minister, highly 
 diverted with the scene, gave the air he 
 had just completed the title of 'Jenny 
 dang the weaver.'" — The Contemporaries 
 of Burns. 
 
 At Willie's weddin' o' the green, 
 
 The lasses, bonnie witches. 
 Were busked out in aprons clean, 
 
 And snaw-white Sunday mutches; 
 Auld Mysie bade the lads tak' tent, 
 
 But Jock wad na believe her; 
 But soon the fool his folly kent, 
 
 For Jenny dang the weaver. 
 
 In ilka country dance and reel 
 
 Wi' her he wad be babbin'; 
 When she sat down, then he sat down, 
 
 And till her wad be gabin'; 
 Where'er she gaed, or butt or ben. 
 
 The coof wad never leave her, 
 Aye cacklin' like a clockin' hen, 
 
 But Jenny dang the weaver. 
 
 Quoth he, my lass, to speak my mind, 
 
 In troth I needna swither, 
 Ye've bonnie e'en, and, gif ye'er kind. 
 
 I needna court anither! 
 He humm'd and haw'd, the lass cried 
 "pheugh," 
 
 And bade the coof no deave her, 
 Syne crack'd her thumb, and lap and 
 leugh, 
 
 And dang the silly weaver.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 269 
 
 AULD GUDEMAN YE'RE A 
 DRUCKEN CARLE. 
 
 SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL, BART. 
 
 First printed in Thomson's SeUct Melo- 
 dies of Scotland, 1794- 
 
 AuLD gudeman, ye're adrucken carle, 
 
 drucken carle; 
 A' the lang day ye wink and drink, 
 
 and gape and gaunt; 
 O' sottish loons ye're the pink and 
 
 pearl, 
 I'11-far'd, doited ne'er-do-weel. 
 
 Hech, gudewife! ye'er a flyting body; 
 Will ye ha'e; but, guid be praised, the 
 
 wit ye want. 
 The puttin' cow should be aye a doddy, 
 
 aye a doddy. 
 Mak' na sic an awsome reel. 
 
 Ye're a sow, auld man: 
 Ye got fou', auld man: 
 Fye for shame, auld man; 
 To your wame, auld man: 
 Pinch'd I win, wi' spinnin' tow, 
 A plack to died your back and 
 pow. 
 It's a lie, gudewife, 
 It's your tea, gudewife, 
 Na, na, gudewife, 
 Ye spend a', gudewife. 
 Dinna fa' on me pell-mell. 
 Ye like the drap fu' weel yoursel. 
 
 Ye's rue auld gowk, your jest zr a 
 
 frolic, jest and frolic. 
 Dare ye say, goose, I ever liked to tak' 
 
 a drappy ? 
 An' 'twerena just to cure the colic, 
 
 cure the colic, 
 Deil a drap wad weet my mou'. 
 
 Troth, gudewife, an' ye wadna swither, 
 
 wadna swither. 
 Soon to tak' a cholic, when it brings 
 
 a drap o' cappy. 
 But twascore years we ha'e fought 
 
 thegither, fought thegither; 
 Time it is to gree, I trow. 
 
 I'm wrang, auld John, 
 Ower lang, auld John, 
 For nought, gude John, 
 We ha'e fought, gude John; 
 Let's help to bear ilk ither's 
 
 weight. 
 We're far ower feckless now to 
 fight. 
 Ye're richt, gude Kate; 
 The nicht, gude Kate, 
 Our cup, gude Kate, 
 We'll sup, gude Kate; 
 Thegither frae this hour we'll 
 
 draw, 
 And toom the stoup atween us 
 twa. 
 
 GOOD NIGHT AN' JOY BE 
 WI' YE A'. 
 
 SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL, BART. 
 
 "This beautiful tune," says Mr. Sten- 
 house, " has, time out of mind been played 
 at the breaking up of convivial parties in 
 Scotland." ' Burns's Farewell to the Breth- 
 ren of St. James's Lodge, Tarbolton,' is 
 sung to the same air. 
 
 "Ballad making is now as completely 
 mj' hobby as ever fortification was Uncle 
 Toby's, so I'll e'en canter it away till I 
 come to the limit of my race (God grant 
 that I may take the right side of the win- 
 ning post), and then cheerfully looking 
 back on -the honest folks with whom I 
 have been happy, I shall sa)^ or sing ' Sae 
 merry as we a' ha'e been,' and rising my 
 last looks to the whole of the human race, 
 the last words of the voice of Coila shall 
 be 'Good night, and joy be wi' j-e a'.'" — 
 Burns. 
 
 Good night, and joy be wi' ye a'. 
 
 Your harmless mirth has cheer'd 
 my heart; 
 May life's fell blasts out o'er ye blaw: 
 
 In sorrow may ye never part! 
 My spirit lives, but strength is gone, 
 
 The mountain-fires now blaze in 
 vain; 
 Remember, sons, the deeds I've done 
 
 And in your deeds I'll live again! ,
 
 270 
 
 CELEBRATED S0N08 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 When on yon muir our gallant clan 
 Frae boasting foes their banners 
 tore; 
 Wha show'd himself a better man, 
 
 Or fiercer waved the red claymore? 
 But when in peace — then mark me 
 there — 
 When through the glen the wand'rer 
 came, 
 I gave him of our lordly fare, 
 
 I gave him here a welcome hame. 
 
 The auld will speak, the young maun 
 hear; 
 
 Be cantie, but be gude and leal; 
 Your ain ills aye hae heart to bear, 
 
 Anither's aye hae heart to feel. 
 So, ere I set, I'll see ye shine; 
 
 I'll see ye triumph ere I fa'; 
 My parting breath shall boast you 
 mine — 
 
 Good night, and joy be wi' ye a'! 
 
 ARGYLE IS MY NAME. 
 
 SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL, BART. 
 
 This song was contributed by Sir Alex- 
 ander Boswell to the third volume of 
 Thomson's Collection. It is not wholly 
 original, but an improved version of form- 
 er words to the same air, which are under- 
 stood to be the composition of John 
 Campbell, the celebrated Duke of Argyle 
 and Greenwich, who died on the 4th of 
 October, 1743. — The Scottish Minstrel. 
 
 Argyle is my name, and you may 
 think it strange 
 
 To live at a court, and yet never to 
 change; 
 
 To faction or tyranny, equally foe. 
 
 The good of the land's the sole motive 
 I know. 
 
 The foes of my country and the king 
 I have faced. 
 
 In city or battle I ne'er was disgraced; 
 
 I've done what I could for my coun- 
 try's weal. 
 
 Now I'll feast upon bannocks o' bar- 
 ley meal. 
 
 Ye riots and revels of London, adieu! 
 And folly, ye foplings, I leave her to 
 
 you! 
 For Scotland, I mingled in bustle 
 
 and strife; 
 For myself I seek peace and an 
 
 innocent life: 
 I'll haste to the Highlands, and visit 
 
 each scene, 
 With Maggie, my love, in her rockley 
 
 o' green; 
 On the banks of Glenary what pleasure 
 
 I'll feel. 
 While she shares my bannock o' bar- 
 ley meal! 
 
 And if it chance Maggie should bring 
 
 me a son. 
 He shall fight for his king as his 
 
 father has done; 
 I'll hang up my sword with an old 
 
 soldier's pride — 
 O! may he be worthy to wear't on 
 
 his side. 
 I pant for the breeze of my lov'd 
 
 native place; 
 I long for the smile of each welcoming 
 
 face; 
 I'll afif to the Highlands as fast's I can 
 
 reel. 
 And feast upon bannocks o' barley 
 
 meal. 
 
 THE AULD MAN'S MEAR'S 
 DEAD. 
 
 PATRICK BIRNIE. 
 Patrick Birnie was a noted fiddler, who 
 lived about the close of the last century, in 
 Kinghorn, Fifeshire. He is said to have 
 composed both the words and the music of 
 this song. In Ramsay's elegy on Patie 
 Birnie, printed in 1721, he says : 
 
 "Your honor's father, dead and gane, 
 For him he first wad make his mane. 
 But soon his face could make ye fain. 
 
 When he did sough, 
 ' O wiltu, wiltu, do't again ?' 
 
 And gran'd and leugh.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 271 
 
 This sang he made frae his ain head. 
 And eke, ' The aiild man's mear's dead,' 
 The peats and turfs and a's to lead, 
 
 O fy upon her ! 
 A bonnie auld thing this indeed, 
 
 An't like your honor." 
 
 The auld man's mear's dead; 
 The puir body's mear's dead; 
 The auld man's mear's dead, 
 A mile aboon Dundee. 
 
 There was hay to ca', and lint to lead, 
 A hunder hotts o' muck to spread, 
 And peats and truffs and a' to lead — 
 And yet the jaud to dee! 
 
 She had the fiercie and the fleuk, 
 The wheezloch and the wanton yeuk; 
 On ilka knee she had a breuk — 
 What ail'd the beast to dee ? 
 
 She was lang-tooth'd andblench-lippit 
 Heam-hough'd and haggis-fittit, 
 Lang-neckit, chandler-chaftit, 
 And yet the jaud to dee ! 
 
 OLD AUCHTERTOOL. 
 
 ALEXANDER WILSON. 
 
 Alexander Wilson, the celebrated Amer- 
 ican Ornitholourist, was born at Paisley, 
 on the 6th of July, 1776. His poem "Watty 
 and Meg," which waspublished in 1792, has 
 been regarded as equal to many of Burns' 
 productions. He died at Philadelphia, on 
 the 23d of August, 1813. The village of 
 Aucht&rtool, is situated about five miles 
 west of the town of Kirkcaldy. 
 
 From the village of Lesly with a heart 
 
 full of glee, 
 And my pack on my shoulders, I 
 
 rambled out free. 
 Resolved that same evening, as Luna 
 
 was full, 
 To lodge ten miles distant, in old 
 
 Auchtertool. 
 
 Through many a lone cottage and 
 
 farm-house I steer'd, 
 Took their money, and off with my 
 
 budget I sheer'd ; 
 The road I explored out, without 
 
 form or rule. 
 Still asking the nearest to old 
 
 Auchtertool. 
 
 A clown I accosted, inquiring the 
 
 road. 
 He stared like an idiot, then roar'd 
 
 out, " Gude G-d ! 
 Gin ye're ga'n there for quarters, ye're 
 
 surely a fool. 
 For there's nought but starvation in 
 
 old Auchtertool. 
 
 Unminding his nonsense, my march I 
 
 pursued. 
 Till I came to a hill top, where joyful 
 
 I view'd. 
 Surrounded with mountains, and many 
 
 a white pool. 
 The small smoky village of old 
 
 Auchtertool. 
 
 At length I arrived at the edge of the 
 
 town, 
 As Phoebus behind a high mountain 
 
 went down; 
 The clouds gather'd dreary and 
 
 weather blew foul. 
 And I hugg'd myself safe now in old 
 
 Auchtertool. 
 
 An inn I inquired out, a lodging 
 
 desired, 
 But the landlady's pertness seem'd 
 
 instantly fired; 
 For she saucy replied, as she sat 
 
 carding wool, 
 "I ne'er kept sic lodgers in auld 
 
 Auchtertool." 
 
 With scorn I soon left her to live on 
 
 her pride; 
 But, asking, was told, there was none 
 else beside,
 
 272 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Except an old Weaver, who now kept 
 
 a school, 
 And these were the whole that were 
 
 in Auchtertool. 
 
 To his mansion I scamper'd, and 
 
 rapt at the door, 
 He op'd, but as soon as I dared to 
 
 implore, 
 He shut it like thunder, and utter'd 
 
 a howl, 
 That rung thro' each corner of old 
 
 Auchtertool. 
 
 Provoked now to fury, the Dominie I 
 
 curst, 
 And offer'd to cudgel the wretch, if 
 
 he durst; 
 But the door he fast bolted, tho' 
 
 Boreas blew cool, 
 And left me all friendless in old 
 
 Auchtertool. 
 
 Deprived of all shelter, through dark- 
 ness I trod. 
 
 Till I came to a ruin'd old house by 
 the road; 
 
 Here the night I will spend, and, in- 
 spired by the owl, 
 
 I'll send up some prayers for old 
 Auchtertool. 
 
 While bloody and pale, on a far 
 
 distant shore, 
 He lies to return to his Flora no more. 
 
 Ye light fleeting spirits that glide o'er 
 
 the steep, 
 O would you but waft me across the 
 
 wild deep! 
 There fearless I'd mix in the battle's 
 
 loud roar, 
 I'd die with my Connel, and leave him 
 
 no more. 
 
 DARK LOWERS THE NIGHT. 
 
 ALEXANDER WILSON. 
 
 Dark lowers the night o'er the wide 
 
 stormy main, 
 Till mild rosy morning rise cheerful 
 
 again; 
 Alas! morn returns to revisit the shore; 
 But Connel returns to his Flora no 
 
 more. 
 
 For see, on yon mountain, the dark 
 
 cloud of death, 
 O'er Connel's lone cottage, lies low on 
 
 the heath; 
 
 THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT 
 THE HOUSE. 
 
 AUTHORSHIP DISPUTED. 
 
 Burns pronounced this " one of the most 
 beautiful songs in the Scots or any other 
 language." He says, "the two lines — 
 
 ' And will I see his face again — 
 And will I hear him speak ?' 
 
 as well as the two preceding ones, are un- 
 equalled almost by anything I have ever 
 heard or read; and the lines — 
 
 ' The present moment is our ain. 
 The neist we never saw,' 
 
 are worthy of the first poet." " It is," he 
 adds, "long posterior to Ramsay's days. 
 About the year 1771 or 1772, it came first 
 on the street as a ballad; and I suppose 
 the composition of the song was not much 
 anterior to that period." 
 
 The first work in which it is to be found 
 is in " Herd's Collection," 1776. The 
 sixth stanza, however, which begins "The 
 cauld blasts o' the winter wind," and which 
 Burns admired so much, does not appear 
 in the version printed by Herd. It is said 
 to have been composed by Dr. Beattie, the 
 author of "The Minstrel." The author- 
 ship of the song has long been a matter of 
 much dispute. Many people claim that 
 it was written by Jean Adams, a school- 
 mistress, who lived at Crawford's Dyke, 
 Greenock, and who died at the Town's 
 Hospital, Glasgow, in 1765. A volume of 
 her poems was published by subscription 
 at Glasgow in 1734, but it does not con- 
 tain " There's Nae Luck About the 
 House." In fact, the only evidence ever 
 produced, tending in any way to prove that
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 273 
 
 she composed this favorite song, was the 
 testimony of a Mrs. Fullerton and some 
 of her friends who asserted that they had 
 frequently heard Jean both sing and repeat 
 the different verses, and likewise announce 
 that she was the authoress of them. The 
 authorship has also been ascribed to Wil- 
 liam Julius Mickle, the translator of the 
 Lusiad, on the grounds that a copy of it, 
 with some corrections, was found among 
 his literary papers shortly after his death, 
 and because his wife affirmed tliat he had 
 written it. It is therefore, very difficult 
 to say who in reality did write the song, 
 and we rather concur in the views express- 
 ed by George Farquhar Graham on the 
 subject. He says: "Looking at other 
 published compositions of Jean Adams in 
 1734, there is nothing to indicate her 
 power to write a song so excellent and so 
 full of simple and natural touches; but 
 quite the contrary. From all this we must 
 not take the old saying ex ungue leonem, 
 in judging of Jean Adams' claim; but 
 locking at the body of her collected works 
 say ex leone unguem. Jean Adams may 
 have seen or heard the song, and not 
 knowing the author thought there was no 
 great harm done if she claimed it as her 
 own. Instances of this kind of literary 
 plagiarism are too common. She might 
 have appropriated it as a valuable waif, 
 or stray thing, that nobody else in her 
 neighborhood could or would claim. The 
 evidence adduced, on the other hand, in 
 favor of William Julius Mickle as the 
 author of this song seems to us equally 
 defective. In his translation of the Portu- 
 guese poet Comeons, " Os Lusiadus," 
 and in his other published works, nothing 
 appears to show that he might have writ- 
 ten such a song. The evidence there is 
 all against his presumed claim. But he 
 did not claim the song, for it was not pub- 
 lished in his works during his lifetime. 
 That a strangel)' incorrect copy was found 
 among his papers is no proof that he com- 
 posed it. That Mrs. Mickle, struck with 
 paralysis, should have asserted the song 
 to have been her late husband's composi- 
 tion, is not good evidence; and besides, if 
 David Hume, the historian, is to be trust- 
 ed, Mrs. Mickle was not a person whose 
 evidence was of much consequence at any 
 time. Upon the whole, then, we humbly 
 think that neither Jean Adams nor William 
 Julius Mickle composed the song; and 
 that its real author is yet to be discovered." 
 
 And are ye sure the news is true.' 
 
 And are you sure he's weel ? 
 Is this a time to think o' wark ? 
 
 Ye jauds, fling bye your wheel. 
 Is this a time to think o' wark, 
 
 When Colin's at the door? 
 Rax me my cloak — I'll to the quay, 
 
 And see him come ashore. 
 
 For there's nae luck about the 
 house. 
 There's nae luck at a'; 
 There's little pleasure in the 
 house. 
 When our gudeman's awa'. 
 
 And gi'e to me my biggonet. 
 
 My bishop's satin gown, 
 For I maun tell the bailie's wife 
 
 That Colin's come to town. 
 My Turkey slippers maun gae on, 
 
 My hose o' pearl blue; 
 'Tis a' to please my ain gudeman. 
 
 For he's baith leal and true. 
 
 For there's nae luck, &c. 
 
 Rise up and mak' a clean fireside; 
 
 Put on the muckle pot; 
 Gi'e little Kate her button gown, 
 
 And Jock his Sunday coat; 
 And mak' their shoon as black as 
 slaes. 
 
 Their hose as white as snaw; 
 It's a' to please my ain gudeman, 
 
 For he's been lang awa'. 
 
 For there's nae luck, &c. 
 
 There's twa fat hens upon the bank, 
 
 They've fed this month and mair; 
 Mak' haste and thraw their necks 
 aboot, 
 
 That Colin weel may fare; 
 And spread the table neat and clean, 
 
 Gar ilka thing look braw; 
 For wha can tell how Colin fared. 
 
 When he was far awa'. 
 
 For there's nae luck, &c.
 
 274 
 
 CELEBRATED S0N08 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Sae true his heart, sae smooth his 
 speech, 
 
 His breath like caller air; 
 His very foot has music in't, 
 
 As he comes up the stair. 
 And will I see his face again? 
 
 And will I hear him speak ? 
 I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought — 
 
 In troth, I'm like to greet. 
 
 For there's nae luck, &c. 
 
 The cold blasts o' the winter wind, 
 
 That thirl'd through my heart. 
 They're a' blawn by, I ha'e him safe, 
 
 Till death we'll never part; 
 But what puts parting in my head ? 
 
 It may be far awa' ; 
 The present moment is our ain. 
 
 The neist we never saw, 
 
 For there's nae luck, &c. 
 
 Since Colin's weel I'm weel content, 
 
 I ha'e nae mair to crave ; 
 Could I but live to mak' him blest, 
 
 I'm blest abune the lave. 
 And will I see his face again.? 
 
 And will I hear him speak ? 
 I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought — 
 
 In troth, I'm like to greet. 
 
 For there's nae luck, &c. 
 
 TRANENT WEDDING. 
 
 PETER FORBES. 
 
 Peter Forbes was for many years a 
 gardener at Delkeith. A volume of his 
 poems was published at Edinburgh in 
 l8i2. " Broose " means a race among the 
 young farmers at a country wedding, from 
 the house where the marriage ceremony is 
 performed to the new home of the bride. 
 The winner is entitled to kiss the bride 
 and to claim the first dance with her. 
 
 It was at a wedding near Tranent, 
 Where scores an' scores on fun were 
 
 bent. 
 An' to ride the broose wi' full intent. 
 Was either nine or ten, jo! 
 
 Then aff they a' set galloping, 
 galloping, 
 
 Legs an' arms a walloping, wallop- 
 ing, 
 
 Shame take the hindmost, quo, 
 Duncan M'Callapin, 
 
 Laird o' Tullyben, jo. 
 
 The souter he was fidgin' fain, 
 An' stuck like roset till the mane. 
 Till smash like auld boots in a drain. 
 He nearly reach'd his end, jo! 
 
 Yet still they a' gade, &c. 
 
 The miller's mare flew o'er the souter, 
 An syne began to glow'r about her, 
 Cries Hab, I'll gi'e you double mouter, 
 Gin ye'll ding Tullyben, jo. 
 Then still they a' gade, &c. 
 
 Now Will the weaver rode sae kittle, 
 Ye'd thought he was a flying shuttle, 
 His doup it daddet like a bittle, 
 But wafted till the end, jo, 
 
 Yet still they a' gade, &c. 
 
 The tailor had an awkward beast. 
 It funket first an' syne did reest, 
 Then threw poor Snipe five ell at 
 least, 
 Like auld breeks, o'er the mane, jo. 
 
 Yet a' the rest gade, &c. 
 
 The blacksmith's beast was last of a'. 
 Its sides like bellowses did blaw. 
 Till he an' it got sic a fa'. 
 An' bruises nine or ten, jo. 
 An' still the lave gade, &c.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 275 
 
 Now Duncan's mare she flew like 
 
 drift, 
 
 An' aye sae fast her feet did lift, 
 
 Between ilk stenn she ga'e a rift, 
 
 Out frae her hinder end, jo. 
 
 Yet aff they a' gade, &c. 
 
 Now Duncan's mare did bang them, a', 
 To rin wi' him they maunna fa', 
 Then up his gray mare he did draw. 
 The broose it was his ain, jo. 
 
 Nae mair wi' him they'll gallop, 
 
 they'll gallop, 
 Nae mair wi' him they'll wallop, 
 
 they'll wallop, 
 Or they will chance to get som3 
 
 jallup, 
 Frae the laird o' Tullyben, jo. 
 
 THE VALE OF CLYDE. 
 
 JOHN STRUTHERS. 
 
 John Struthers was born at East Kil- 
 bride, Lanarkshire, on the iSth of July, 
 1776. His name is familiar throughout Scot 
 land in connection with " Tlie Poor Man's 
 Sabbath," a poem which he composed in 
 his twenty-eight year. During his boy- 
 hood he worked on a farm, and afterwards 
 learned the trade of a shoemaker. In 1832 
 he was appointed to the keepership of 
 Stirling's Library Glasgow, at a salary of 
 fifty pounds per annum. He was the 
 authorof numerous volumes of poetry, "A 
 History of Scotland from 1707 to 1827," 
 and editor of " The Harp of Caledonia." 
 His death occurred on the 30th July, 1853. 
 
 Admiring nature's simple charms, 
 
 1 left my humble home, 
 Awhile my country's peaceful plains 
 
 With pilgrim step to roam: 
 I mark'd the leafy summer wave 
 
 On flowing Irvine's side, 
 But richer far's the robe she wears 
 
 Within the vale of Clyde. 
 
 1 roam'd the braes of bonnie Doon, 
 
 The winding banks of Ayr, 
 Where flutters many a small bird gay, 
 
 Blooms many a flow'ret fair; 
 But dearer far to me the stem 
 
 That once was Calder's pride, 
 And blossoms now, the fairest flower. 
 
 Within the vale of Clyde. 
 
 Avaunt! thou life-repressing north! 
 
 Ye withering east winds too! 
 But come, thou all-reviving west. 
 
 Breathe soft thy genial dew ; 
 Until at length, in peaceful age, 
 
 This lovely floweret shed 
 Its last green leaf upon my tomb, 
 
 Within the vale of Clyde. 
 
 THE NIGHT IT FLEW, THE 
 GREY COCK CREW. 
 
 JOHN STRUTHERS 
 
 The following verses form a sequel to 
 Burns' famous song " O' Willie brew'd a 
 peck o' Maut." (See page 153.) 
 
 The night it flew, the grey cock crew, 
 Wi' blythesome clap o'er a' the 
 three. 
 But pleasure beam'd ilk moment new, 
 And happier still they hoped to be; 
 For they were nae fou', na, nae that 
 fou. 
 But just a drap in ilka e'e; 
 The cock might craw, the day might 
 daw, 
 They sippled aye the barley-bree. 
 
 The moon, that from her silver horn 
 
 Pour'd radience over tow'r and tree, 
 Before the fast approaching morn, 
 
 Sank far behind yon western sea. 
 Yet they were na fou, na, nae that fou. 
 
 But just a drap in ilka e'e; 
 The cock might craw, the day might 
 daw. 
 
 They sippled aye the barley-brew.
 
 276 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 And soon the govvden beams o' day 
 
 Ting'd a' the mountain taps sae hi'e, 
 And burnies sheen with bick'ring play 
 
 Awoke the morn's wild melody. 
 But aye they sat, and aye they sang, 
 
 "There's just a wee drap in our e'e; 
 And mony a day we've happy been. 
 
 And mony mae we hope to be." 
 
 The moon still fills her silver horn. 
 But ah! her beams nae mair they 
 see; 
 Nor crawing cock, nor dawning morn, 
 
 Disturbs the worm's dark revelry. 
 For they were nae fou, na, nae that 
 fou, 
 But clay-cauld death has clos'd 
 ilk e'e, 
 And waefu' now the gowden morn 
 Beams on the graves o' a' the three. 
 
 Nae mair in learning Willie toils. 
 
 Nor Allan wakes the melting lay; 
 Nor Rab, wi' fancy-witching wiles. 
 
 Beguiles the hour o' dawning day. 
 For though they were nae very fou. 
 
 That wicked wee drap in the e'e 
 Has done its turn — untimely, now 
 
 The green grass waves o'er a' the 
 three. 
 
 ON THE WILD BRAES OF 
 CALDER. 
 
 JOHN STRUTHERS. 
 
 On the wild braes of Calder, I found 
 a fair lily. 
 All drooping with dew in the breath 
 of the morn, 
 A lily more fair never bloom'd in the 
 valley. 
 Nor rose, the gay garden of art to 
 adorn. 
 Sweet, sweet was the fragrance this 
 lily diffused, 
 As blushing, all lonely, it rose on 
 the view, 
 
 But scanty its shelter, to reptiles ex- 
 posed. 
 And every chill blast from the cold 
 north that blew. 
 
 Beneath yon green hill, a small field 
 
 I had planted. 
 Where the light leafy hazel hangs over 
 
 the burn; 
 And a flower such as this, to com- 
 plete it, was wanted, 
 A flower that might mark the gay 
 
 season's return. 
 Straight home to adorn it, I bore this 
 
 fair lily. 
 Where, at morn, and at even, I have 
 
 watch'd it with care; 
 And blossoming still, it is queen of 
 
 the valley, 
 The glory of spring, and the pride 
 
 of the year. 
 
 THE MAID OF ISLAY. 
 
 REV. WILLIAM DUNBAR. 
 
 Rising o'er the heaving billow, 
 
 Evening gilds the ocean's swell, 
 While with thee on grassy pillow, 
 
 Solitude! I love to dwell. 
 Lonely to the sea breeze blowing. 
 
 Oft I chaunt my love-lorn strain. 
 To the streamlet sweetly flowing. 
 
 Murmur oft a lover's pain. 
 
 'Twas for her, the Maid of Islay, 
 
 Time flew o'er me wing'd with joy; 
 'Twas for her the cheering smile aye 
 
 Beam'd with rapture in my eye, 
 Not the tempest raving round me. 
 
 Lighting's flash or thunder's roll, 
 Not the ocean's rage could wound me, 
 
 While her image fiU'd my soul. 
 
 Farewell, days of purest pleasure. 
 Long your loss my heart shall 
 
 mourn 
 
 Farewell, hours of bliss the measure, 
 Bliss that never can return.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 277 
 
 Cheerless o'er the wild heath wander- 
 ing, 
 Cheerless o'er the wave-worn shore, 
 
 On the past with sadness pondering, 
 Hope's fair visions charm no more. 
 
 SAE WILL WE YET. 
 
 WALTER WATSON. 
 
 Waher Watson was born at Chryston, in 
 Lamarkshire, on the 29th March, 1780. In 
 his eighth year he was compelled 10 abandon 
 school and engage himself to a farmer, the 
 better to assist his father in providing 
 bread for his family which consisted of 
 two sons and four daughters. His even- 
 ings, however, he earnestly devoted to 
 study and mental improvement, and in 
 this manner acquired a considerable 
 amount of useful knowledge which other- 
 wise he would not have become possessed 
 of. In 1791, he was apprenticed to a 
 weaver, and about this time began to 
 take a great delight in writing verses on 
 simple and common subjects. He soon 
 began to be known as a poet, and in 1808 
 published his first volume of poems and 
 songs which was afterwards followed by 
 two others. These volumes received a 
 hearty welcome at the hands of the public, 
 and achieved for their author a high 
 reputation as a song writer. Watson died 
 on the 13th Sept., 1S45, and was interred in 
 his native village of Chryston, not far from 
 the house wherein he was born. He had 
 reached the 75th year of his age. 
 
 Sit ye down here, my cronies, and gi'e 
 
 us your crack, 
 Let the win' tak' the care o' this life 
 
 on its back, 
 Our hearts to dispondency we never 
 
 will submit. 
 For we've aye been provided for, and 
 
 sae will we yet. 
 
 And sae will we yet, &:c. 
 
 Let the miser delight in the hoarding 
 
 of pelf, 
 Since he has not the saul to enjoy it 
 
 himself; 
 
 Since the bounty of Providence is 
 
 new every day. 
 As we journey through life, let us live 
 
 by the way. 
 
 Let us live by the way, &c. 
 
 Then bring us a tankard o' nappy 
 
 gude ale. 
 For to comfort our hearts and enliven 
 
 the tale; 
 We'll aye be the merrier the langer 
 
 we sit. 
 For we've drank thegither mony a 
 
 time, and sae will we yet. 
 
 And sae will we yet, Sac. 
 
 Success to the farmer, and prosper 
 
 his plough, 
 Rewarding his eident toils a' the year 
 
 through I 
 Our seed time and harvest we ever 
 
 will get, 
 For we've lippen'd aye to Providence 
 
 and say will we yet. 
 
 And say will we yet, &c. 
 
 Long live the king, and happy may 
 
 he be. 
 And success to his forces by land and 
 
 by sea! 
 His enemies to triumph we never will 
 
 permit, 
 Britons aye have been victorious, and 
 
 sae will they yet. 
 
 And sae will they yet, &c. 
 
 Let the glass keep its course, and go 
 
 merrily roun', 
 For the sun has to rise, though the 
 
 moon it goes down, 
 Till the house be rinnin' roun' about, 
 
 it's time enough to flit; 
 When we fell, we aye got up again, 
 
 and say will we yet. 
 
 And sae will we yet, &c.
 
 278 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 THE BRAES O' BEDLAY. 
 
 WALTER WATSON. 
 
 The braes of Bedlay are situated a few 
 miles north of Glasgow. 
 
 When I think on the sweet smiles o' 
 
 my lassie, 
 My cares flee awa' like a thief frae 
 
 the day; 
 My heart loups licht, an' I join in a 
 
 sang 
 Amang the sweet birds on the braes o' 
 
 Bedlay. 
 How sweet the embrace, yet how 
 
 honest the wishes, 
 When luve fa's a-wooin', an' modesty 
 
 blushes, 
 Whaur Mary an' I meet amang the 
 
 green bushes 
 That screen us sae weel on the braes 
 
 o' Bedlay. 
 
 There's nane sae trig or sae fair as 
 
 my lassie, 
 An' mony a wooer she answers wi' 
 
 "Nay," 
 Wha fain wad ha'e her to lea' me alane 
 An' meet me nae mair on the braes o' 
 
 Bedlay. 
 I fearna, I carena, their braggin* o' 
 
 siller, 
 Nor a' the fine things they can think 
 
 on to tell her, 
 Nae vauntin' can buy her, nae 
 
 threatnin' can sell her. 
 It's luve leads her out to the braes o' 
 
 Bedlay. 
 
 We'll gang by the links o' the wild 
 rowin' burnie, 
 
 Whaur aft in the morning o' life I did 
 stray, 
 
 Whaur luve was united and cares 
 were beguiled 
 
 By Mary an' me on the braes of Bed- 
 lay. 
 
 Sae luvin', sae movin' I'll tell her my 
 
 story, 
 Unmix'd wi' the deeds o' ambition for 
 
 glory, 
 Whaur wide spreadin' hawthorns, sae 
 
 ancient and hoary. 
 Enrich the sweet breeze on the braes 
 
 o' Bedlay. 
 
 GLENDOCHART VALE. 
 
 RICHARD GALL. 
 
 Richard Gall is entitled to an honorable 
 place among the song writers of Scotland. 
 His songs are all of a sweet and pleasing 
 nature, and man}' of them are looked upon 
 as equal to a number of the compositions 
 of Tannahill. Gall was born at Link- 
 house, near Dunbar, in December, 1776. 
 His parents were in humble circumstances, 
 and necessity compelled them to send him 
 in his eleventh year to earn a living for 
 himself. He was apprenticed to a builder, 
 but afterwards entered into an engage- 
 ment as a printer's apprentice in the office 
 of the Edinburgh Evening Courant. He 
 began to write verses at an early age, and 
 the remarkable talent which he displayed 
 in this respect attracted the attention of 
 Burns and Hector Macneill, and they en- 
 couraged him and became his friends. His 
 life, however, was very brief. He died of 
 an abscess in the breast on May loth, iSoi, 
 in his twenty-fifth year. 
 
 As I came through Glendochart vale, 
 Whare mists o'ertap the mountains 
 
 grey, 
 A wee bit lassie met my view. 
 
 As cantily she held her way: 
 But O sic love each feature bore. 
 
 She made my saul wi' rapture glow! 
 An' aye she spake sae kind and sweet, 
 
 I couldna keep my heart in tow. 
 
 O speak na o' your courtly queans! 
 
 My wee bit lassie fools them a': 
 The little cuttie's done me skaith. 
 
 She's stown my thoughtless 
 heart awa'.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 279 
 
 Her smile was like the grey-e'ed morn, 
 Whan spreading on the mountain- 
 green; 
 Her voice saft as the mavis' sang; 
 
 An' sweet the twinkle o' her een: 
 Aboon her brow, sae bonnie brent, 
 
 Her ravan locks waved o'er her e'e; 
 An' ilka slee bewitching glance 
 Conveyed a dart o' love to me. 
 O speak na o' your courtly 
 queans, &c. 
 
 The lasses fair in Scotia's isle, 
 
 Their beauties a' what tongue can 
 tell ? 
 But o'er the fairest o' them a' 
 
 My wee bit lassie bears the b^ll. 
 O had I never mark'd her smile, 
 
 Nor seen the twinkle o' her e'e! 
 It might na been my lot the day, 
 A waefu' lade o' care to dree. 
 O speak na o' your courtly 
 queans, &c. 
 
 MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE, O. 
 
 RICHARD GALL. 
 
 "I remember when this song was ex- 
 ceedingly popular; its sweetness and ease, 
 rather than its originality and vigor, might 
 be the cause of its success. The third 
 verse contains a very beautiful picture of 
 early attachment — a sunny bank, and some 
 sweet, soft school girl, will appear to many 
 a fancy when these lines are sung." — 
 CunningAam. 
 
 Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue, 
 My only jo and dearie, O; 
 
 Thy neck is o' the siller dew 
 Upon the bank sae brierie, O. 
 
 Thy teeth are o' the ivory; 
 
 O sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee: 
 
 Nae joy, nae pleasure blinks on me, 
 My only jo and dearie, O. 
 
 The birdie sings upon the thorn 
 Its sang o' joy fu' cheerie, O, 
 Rejoicing in the simmer morn, 
 Nae care to mak' it eerie, O; 
 Ah! little kens the sangster sweet 
 Aught o' the care I ha'e to meet. 
 That gars my restless bosom beat, 
 My only jo and dearie, O. 
 
 When we were bairnies on yon brae, 
 And youth was blinkin' bonnie, O, 
 
 Aft we wad daff the lee-lang day. 
 Our joys fu' sweet and monie, O. 
 
 Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lee, 
 
 And round about the thorny tree; 
 
 Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee, 
 My only jo and dearie; O. 
 
 I ha'e a wish I canna tine, 
 
 'Mang a* the cares that grieve me, O, 
 A wish that thou wert ever mine, 
 
 And never mair to leave me, O; 
 Then I would dawt thee night, and 
 
 day, 
 Nae ither warldly care I'd ha'e, 
 Till life's warm stream forgat to play, 
 
 My only jo and dearie, O. 
 
 FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE. 
 
 RICHARD GALL. 
 
 This song was first published in " John- 
 son's Museum " and was for many )'ears 
 attributed to Burns. Even Dr. Currie in- 
 cluded it in hisedition of the poet's works. 
 
 Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure. 
 
 Scenes that former thoughts renew; 
 Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure 
 
 Now a sad and last adieu! 
 Bonnie Doon, sae sweet at gloamin', 
 
 Fare thee weel before I gang; 
 Bonnie Doon, whare, early roamin*, 
 
 First I weav'd the rustic sang.
 
 280 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Bowers adieu! whare, love decoying, 
 
 First enthrall'd this heart o' mine; 
 There the saftest sweets enjoying— 
 
 Sweets that memory near shall tine. 
 Friends sae near my bosom ever, 
 
 Ye ha'e render'd moments dear; 
 But, alas! when forced to sever, 
 
 Then the stroke, O how severe! 
 
 Friends, that parting tear preserve it, 
 
 Though 'tis doubly dear to me; 
 Could I think I did deserve it, 
 
 How much happier would I be. 
 Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure. 
 
 Scenes that former thoughts renew: 
 Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, 
 
 Now a sad and last adieu! 
 
 O wae to her cantraips ! for dumpish 
 I wander; 
 At kirk or at market there's nought 
 to be seen; 
 For she dances afore me wherever I 
 dander. 
 The Hazlewood Witch wi' the 
 bonnie black een. 
 
 THE HAZLEWOOD WITCH. 
 
 RICHARD GALL, 
 
 For mony lang year I ha'e heard frae 
 my grannie, 
 Of brownies an' bogles by yon 
 castle wa', 
 Of auld wither'd hags, that were never 
 thought cannie. 
 An' fairies that danced till they 
 heard the cock craw, 
 I leugh at her tales; an' last owk, i' 
 the gloamin', 
 I dander'd, alane, down the Hazle- 
 wood green: 
 Alas ! I was reckless, an' rue sair my 
 roaming. 
 For I met a young witch wi' twa 
 bonnie black een. 
 
 I thought o' the starns in a frosty 
 night glancing. 
 When a' the lift round them is 
 cloudless and blue: 
 I look'd again, an' my heart fell a 
 dancing; 
 When I wad ha'e spoken, she 
 glamour'd my mou'. 
 
 I WINN A GANG BACK. 
 
 RICHARD GALL. 
 
 I WINN A gang back to my mammy 
 
 again, 
 I'll never gae back to my mammy 
 
 again, 
 I've held by her apron these aught 
 
 years an' ten, 
 But I'll never gang back to my 
 
 mammy again. 
 
 I've held by her apron, &c. 
 
 Young Johnnie cam' down i' the 
 
 gloamin' to woo, 
 Wi' plaidie sae bonnie, an' bannet sae 
 
 blue: 
 "O come awa', lassie, ne'er let 
 
 mammy ken;" 
 An' I flew wi' my laddie o'er meadow 
 
 an' glen. 
 
 O come awa', lassie, &c. 
 
 He ca'd me his dawtie, his dearie, his 
 
 doo, 
 An' press'd hame his words wi' a 
 
 smack o' my mou'; 
 While I fell on his bosom, heart- 
 
 flichtered an' fain. 
 An' sigh'd out, " O Johnnie, I'll aye 
 
 be your ain!" 
 
 While I fell on his bosom, &c. 
 
 Some lasses will talk to the lads wi' 
 
 their e'e. 
 Yet hanker to tell what their hearts 
 
 really dree;
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 281 
 
 Wi' Johnnie I stood upon nae 
 
 stappin'-stane, 
 Sae I'll never gang back to my 
 
 mammy again. 
 
 Wi' Johnnie I stood, &c. 
 
 For mony lang year sin' I play'd on 
 
 the lea, 
 My mammy was kind as a mither 
 
 could be; 
 I've held by her apron these aught 
 
 years and ten, 
 But I'll never gang back to my 
 
 mammy again. 
 
 I've held by her apron, &c. 
 
 THE LOMOND BRAES. 
 
 WILLIAM CHALMERS. 
 
 William Chalmers was a native of Paisley. 
 He was born in 1779 and died in 1843. A 
 few years previous to his death he publish- 
 ed a curious pamphlet entitled "Observa- 
 tions on the Weather in Scotland, showing 
 what kinds of weather the various winds 
 produce, and what winds are most likely 
 to prevail in each month of the year." 
 
 "O, LASSIE, wilt thou go 
 
 To the Lomond wi' me ? 
 The wild thyme's in bloom, 
 And the flower's on the lea; 
 Wilt thou go, my dearest love ? 
 I will ever constant prove, 
 I'll range each hill and grove 
 On the Lomond wi' thee." 
 
 " O young men are fickle, 
 
 Not trusted to be. 
 And many a native gem 
 Shines fair on the lea: 
 
 Thou mayst see some lovely flower 
 Of a more attractive power, 
 And may take her to thy bower 
 On the Lomond wi' thee." 
 
 " The hind shall forsake 
 
 On the mountain the doe, 
 The stream of the fountain 
 Shall cease for to flow; 
 Ben-Lomond shall bend 
 His high brow to the sea, 
 Ere I take to my bower 
 
 Any flower, love, but thee." 
 
 She's taken her mantle 
 He's taken his plaid; 
 He coft her a ring, 
 And he made her his bride; 
 They're far o'er yon hills. 
 To spend their happy days, 
 And range the woody glens 
 'Mang the Lomond braes. 
 
 WILLIE WITH HIS WIG A-JEE. 
 
 WILLIAM CHALMERS. 
 
 Oh, saw ye Willie frae the west.? 
 
 Oh, saw ye Willie in his glee .•* 
 Oh, saw ye Willie frae the west ? 
 
 When he had got his wig a-jee ? 
 There's " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace 
 bled," 
 
 He towers it up in sic a key, 
 Oh, saw ye Willie hearty lad, 
 
 When he had got his wig a-jee. 
 
 To hear him sing a canty air. 
 
 He lilts it o'er sae charmingly, 
 That in a moment aff" flies care. 
 
 When Willie gets his wig a-jee, 
 Let drones croon o'er a winter night, 
 
 A fig for them, whate'er they be. 
 For I could sit till morning light, 
 
 Wi' Willie and his wig a-jee. 
 
 At kirk on Sundays, sic a change 
 Comes o'er his wig, and mou', and 
 e'e, 
 
 Sae douse — you'd think a cannon ba' 
 Wad scarce ca' Willie's wig a-jee,
 
 283 
 
 CELEBRATED S0NQ8 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 But when on Mondays he begins, 
 And rants and roars continually, 
 
 Till ilk owk's end, the very weans 
 Gang daft — when Willie's wig's a- 
 jee. 
 
 MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE 
 THING. 
 
 ROBERT JAMIESON. 
 
 Robert Jaraieson published in 1806, 
 " Popular Ballads and Songs, from Tradi- 
 tion, Manuscripts, and Scarce Editions; 
 with Translations of Similar Pieces from 
 the Ancient Danish Language, and a few- 
 originals by the Editor." He was born in 
 1780, and died in 1844. 
 
 My wife's a winsome wee thing, 
 A bonnie, blythesome wee thing, 
 My dear, my constant wee thing. 
 
 And evermair sail be; 
 It warms my heart to view her, 
 I canna choose but lo'e her. 
 And oh! weel may I trow her 
 
 How dearly she loe's me ! 
 
 For though her face sae fair be, 
 As nane could evermair be; 
 And though her wit sae rare be. 
 
 As seenil do we see; 
 Her beauty ne'er had gain'd me. 
 Her wit had ne'er enchain'd me, 
 Nor baith sae lang retained me. 
 
 But for her love to me. 
 
 When wealth and pride disown'd me, 
 A' views were dark around me, 
 And sad and laigh she found me. 
 
 As friendless worth could be; 
 When ither hope gaed frae me, 
 Her pity kind did stay me. 
 And love for love she ga'e me; 
 that's the love for me. 
 
 And, till this heart is cauld, I 
 That charm of life will hald by; 
 And, though my wife grow auld, ray 
 
 Leal love aye young will be; 
 For she's my winsome wee thing. 
 
 My canty blythesome wee thing, 
 My tender, constant wee thing, 
 
 And evermair sail be. 
 
 THE QUERN LILT. 
 
 ROBERT JAMIESON. 
 
 The cronach stills the dowie heart, 
 The jiirram stills the bairnie; 
 The music for a hungry wame 
 Is grinding o' the quernie. 
 
 And loes me o' my little quernie! 
 
 Grind the graddan, grind it: 
 We'll a' get crowdie whan it's 
 done 
 And bannocks steeves to 
 bind it. 
 
 The married man his joy may prize: 
 
 The lover prize his arles; 
 But gin the quernie gangna round. 
 
 They baith will soon be sareless. 
 Sae loes me, &c. 
 
 The whisky gars the bark o' life 
 
 Drive merrily and rarely; 
 But graddan is the ballast gars 
 
 It steady gang and fairly. 
 Then loes me, &c. 
 
 Though winter steeks the door wi* 
 d^-ift, 
 And o'er the ingle hings us; 
 Let but the little quernie gae. 
 We're blythe, whatever dings us. 
 Then loes me, &c.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 283 
 
 And how it cheers the herd at e'en, 
 And sets his heart-strings dirlin', 
 
 When, comin' frae the hungry hill, 
 He hears the quernie birlin'! 
 Then loes me, &c. 
 
 Though sturt and stride wi' young 
 and auld, 
 And flytin' butt and ben be; 
 Let but the quernie play, they'll soon 
 A' lown and fidgin'-fain be. 
 Then loes me, &c. 
 
 POLWARTH ON THE GREEN. 
 
 JOHN GRIEVE. 
 
 John Grieve, to whom the Ettric Shep- 
 herd dedicated his poem, " Mador of the 
 Moor," was born at Dunfermline, on Sep- 
 tember 12, 1781. He contributed a few 
 songs to T/ie Forest Minstrel, and will al- 
 ways be remembered for the generous aid 
 which he and his business-partner, Mr. 
 Henry Scott, extended to Hogg when he 
 was just entering upon his famous literary 
 career. "Tiiey would not suffer me," he 
 saj'S in his autobiograpliy, "to be obliged 
 to anyone but themselves for the value of 
 a farthing; and without this sure support I 
 never could have fought mj' way in Edin- 
 burgh." Grieve died at Edinburgh on 
 April 4th, 1836, and his remains were inter- 
 red in St. Mary's Churchyard at Yarrow. 
 
 'TwAS summer tide: the cushat sang 
 
 His am'rous roundelay; 
 And dews, like cluster'd diamonds, 
 hang 
 
 On flowers and leafy spray. 
 The coverlet of gloaming gray 
 
 On every thing was seen, 
 When lads and lasses took their way 
 
 To Polwarth on the Green. 
 
 The spirit-moving dance went on, 
 
 And harmless revelry 
 Of young hearts all in unison 
 
 VVi' loves's soft wicherie; 
 
 Their hall the open-daisied lea, 
 While frae the welkin sheen 
 
 The moon shone brightly on the glee 
 At Polwarth on the green. 
 
 Dark een and raven curls were there, 
 
 And cheeks of rosy hue, 
 And finer forms, without compare. 
 
 Than pencil ever drew; 
 But ane, wi' een of bonnie blue, 
 
 A' hearts confess'd the Queen, 
 And pride of grace and beauty too, 
 
 At Polwarth on the Green. 
 
 The miser holds his golden store. 
 
 And kings dominion gain; 
 While others in the battle's roar 
 
 For honor's trifles strain. 
 Away such pleasures! false and vain; 
 
 Far dearer mine have been, 
 Among the lowly rural train. 
 
 At Polwarth on the Green. 
 
 EXILE OF ULDOONAN. 
 
 JOHN GRIEVE, 
 
 Adieu to rock and to water-fall. 
 Whose echoes start among Albyn's 
 hills. 
 A long adieu Uldoonan! and all 
 Thy wild wood steeps, and thy 
 sparkling rills. 
 From the dreams the of my childhood 
 and youth I awaken, 
 And all the sweet visions that fancy 
 wove; 
 Adieu! ye lone glens, and ye braes of 
 green bracken, 
 Endeared by friendship, and hope, 
 and love. 
 
 The stranger came, and adversity's 
 wind 
 Blew cold and chill on my father's 
 hearth;
 
 284 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 I strove, but vainly, some shelter to 
 find 
 Among the fields of my father's 
 birth: 
 But my desolate spirit shall never be 
 severed 
 From the home where a sister and 
 mother once smiled, 
 Though within its bare walls lies the 
 roof-tree all shivered. 
 And mouldering rubbish is spread 
 and piled. 
 
 I hear before me the waters roar; 
 I see the galley in yonder bay, 
 All ready and trim, she beckons the 
 shore. 
 And seems to chide my longer stay. 
 Uldoonan! when lingering afar from 
 thy valley. 
 At my pilgrimage close o'er the 
 billowy brime. 
 Harps long will be strung, and new 
 voices will hail thee, 
 Without devotion and love like 
 mine. 
 
 OH! DEAR WERE THE JOYS. 
 
 JOHN FINLAY. 
 
 John Finlay was born in 1782, at Glas- 
 gow. He published in 1S08 a collection 
 of " Scottish Historical and Romantic 
 ballads " in two volumes. He died in 
 1810. 
 
 Oh! dear were the joys that are past! 
 Oh! dear were the joys that are past: 
 Inconstant thou art, as the deAv of the 
 
 morn, 
 Or a cloud of the night on the blast! 
 
 How dear was the breath of the eve, 
 When bearing thy fond faithless sigh! 
 And the moonbeam how dear that 
 
 betray'd 
 The love that illumined thine eye! 
 
 Thou vow'dst in my arms to be mine, 
 Thou swar'st by the moon's sacred 
 
 light; 
 But dark roll'd a cloud o'er the sky, 
 It hid the pale queen of the night. 
 
 Thou hast broken thy plighted faith, 
 And broken a fond lover's heart; 
 Yes! in winter the moon's fleeting ray 
 I would trust more than thee and thy 
 art! 
 
 I am wretched to think on the past — 
 Even hope now my peace cannot save! 
 Thou hast given to my rival thy hand, 
 But me thou hast doom'd to my grave. 
 
 THE BONNIE HOUSE O' 
 AIRLIE. 
 
 JOHN FINLAY. 
 
 Airlie Castle is situated in Forfarshire. 
 In 1640 it was plundered and burned to 
 the ground by the Covenanting party be- 
 cause its occupanthad refused to subscribe 
 the Covenant. 
 
 " It fell on a day, a bonnie simmer 
 day, 
 When the corn grew green and 
 early. 
 That there fell out a great dispute 
 
 Between Argyle and Airlie. 
 Argyle has raised a hunder o' his 
 men, 
 A hunder men and mairly, 
 And he's awa' by the back o' Dunkeld, 
 To plunder the bonnie house o' 
 Airlie. 
 
 The lady look'd o'er her window sae 
 hie. 
 She lookit lang and weary, 
 Till she has espied the great Argyle, 
 Come to plunder the bonnie house 
 o' Airlie.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 285 
 
 "Come doun, come doun, Lady Ogil- 
 vie," he said, 
 " Come doun, and kiss me fairly, 
 Or I swear by the sword I hold in 
 my hand, 
 I winna leave a stannin' stane in 
 Airlie." 
 
 " I wadna kiss thee, fause Argyle, 
 
 I wadna kiss thee fairly; 
 O I wadna kiss thee, fause Argyle, 
 
 Gin ye shouldna leave a stannin' 
 stane in Airlie." 
 He has ta'en her by the waist sae sma'. 
 
 Says, " Lady, where is your drury ?" 
 "Its up and its down by the bonnie 
 burn-side, 
 
 Amang the plantings o' Airlie." 
 
 They sought it up, they sought it 
 down, 
 They sought it late and early, 
 Till they found it in the bonnie 
 ploomb-tree. 
 That shines on the bowling-green 
 o' Airlie. 
 He has ta'en her by the waist sae sma', 
 
 And oh! but she grat sairly! 
 And he has set her upon a bonnie 
 knowe-tap, 
 To see the burning o' Airlie. 
 
 " Oh, I hae seven braw sons " she 
 says, 
 
 " An' I bore them a' fa' sairly, 
 An' although I had as mony mair; 
 
 I wad gie them a' to Charlie. 
 But gin my Lord had been at hame 
 
 As he is wi' King Charlie, 
 There's no a Campell in a' Argyle, 
 
 Darst hae plunder'd the bonnie 
 house o' Airlie." 
 
 THE BLACK-EED LASSIE. 
 
 CAPT. CHARLES GRAY. 
 
 Charles Gray was the author of two 
 small lyrical volumes which won for him 
 
 a considerable reputation as a poet. He 
 was born at Anstruther-wester, on the loth 
 of March, 1782, and when twenty-three 
 years of age secured a commission in the 
 Woolwich division of the Royal Marines, 
 from which he was retired on a captain's 
 full pay in 1S41 . An ardent admirer of the 
 Scottish muse, he contributed atone time 
 to the Glasgow Citizen, a series of papers 
 entitled " Cursory remarks on Scottish 
 Song," and to this source subsequent 
 writers on the same subject have acknow- 
 ledged their many obligations for informa- 
 tion unobtainable elsewhere. He died on 
 the 13th of April, 1851. Only a few of his 
 songs have become popular. 
 
 \Vi' heart sincere I love thee, Bell, 
 
 But dinna ye be saucy, O! 
 Or a' my love I winna tell 
 
 To thee my black-eed lassie, O! 
 It's no thy cheek o' rosy hue. 
 
 It's no thy little cherrie mou'; 
 It's a' because thy heart's sae true, 
 
 My bonnie black-eed lassie. 
 
 It's no the witch-glance o' thy e'e. 
 
 Though few for that surpass ye, O! 
 That makes ye aye sae dear to me. 
 
 My bonnie black-eed lassie, O! 
 It's no the whiteness o' thy skin, 
 
 It's no love's dimple on thy chin; 
 It's a' thy modest worth within, 
 
 My bonnie black-eed lassie, O ! 
 
 Ye smile sae sweet, ye look sae kind. 
 
 That a' wish to caress ye, O! 
 But, O! how I admire thy mind, 
 
 My bonnie black-eed lassie, O! 
 I've seen thy een like crystal clear. 
 
 Shine dimly through soft pity's tear; 
 These are the charms that mak thee 
 dear. 
 
 To me my black-eed lassie, O :
 
 286 
 
 CELEBRATED S0NQ8 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 MAGGIE LAUDER. 
 
 CAPT. CHARLES GRAY. 
 
 The following verses were written as a 
 sequel to the well-known song of this 
 name. (See page 4.) 
 
 The cantie Spring scarce rear'd her 
 head, 
 
 And Winter yet did blaud her, 
 When the Ranter came to Anster Fair, 
 
 And speir'd for Maggie Lauder; 
 A snug wee house in the East Green, 
 
 Its shelter kindly lent her; 
 Wi' cantie ingle, clean hearth-stane, 
 
 Meg welcomed Rob the Ranter! 
 
 Then Rob made bonnie Meg his bride, 
 
 And to the kirk they ranted; 
 He play'd the auld "East Nook o' 
 Fife;" 
 
 And merry Maggie vaunted, 
 That Hab himsel' ne'er play'd a 
 spring, 
 
 Nor blew so weel his chanter, 
 For he made Anster town to ring — 
 
 And wha's like Rob the Ranter? 
 
 For a' the talk and loud reports, 
 
 That ever gaed against her, 
 Meg proves a true and carefu' wife, 
 
 As ever was in Anster; 
 And since the marriage knot was tied, 
 
 Rob swears he couldna want her; 
 For he loves Maggie as his life 
 
 And Meg loves Rob the Ranter. 
 
 GRIM WINTER WAS 
 HOWLIN'. 
 
 CAPT. CHARLES GRAY. 
 
 Grim winter was howlin' owre muir 
 and owre mountain, 
 
 And bleak blew the wind on the wild 
 
 stormy sea; 
 The cauld frost had lock'd up each 
 
 riv'let and fountain, 
 As I took the dreich road that leads 
 
 north to Dundee. 
 Though a' round was dreary, my heart 
 
 was fu' cheerie. 
 And cantie I sung as the bird on the 
 
 tree; 
 For when the heart's light, the feet 
 
 winna soon weary, 
 Though ane should gang further than 
 
 bonnie Dundee! 
 
 Arrived at the banks o* sweet Tay's 
 
 flowin' river, 
 I look'd as it rapidly row'd to the sea; 
 And fancy, whose fond dream still 
 
 pleases me ever, 
 Beguiled the lone passage to bonnie 
 
 Dundee! 
 There glowrin' about, I saw in his 
 
 station 
 Ilk bodie as eydent as midsummer bee ; 
 When fair stood a mark, on the face 
 
 o' creation. 
 The lovely young Peggy, the pride o' 
 
 Dundee! 
 
 O! aye since the time I first saw this 
 
 sweet lassie, 
 I'm listless, I'm restless, wherever 
 
 I be; 
 I'm dowie, and donnart, and aften 
 
 ca'd saucy; 
 They kenna its a' for the lass o' 
 
 Dundee ! 
 O! lang may her guardians be virtue 
 
 and honor; 
 Though anither may wed her, yet well 
 
 may she be; 
 And blessin's in plenty be shower'd 
 
 down upon her — 
 The lovely young Peggy, the pride o' 
 
 Dundee!
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 287 
 
 CHARLIE IS MY DARLING. 
 
 CAPT. CHARLES GRAY. 
 
 O Charlie is my darling, 
 My darling, my darling; 
 
 O Charlie is my darling, 
 The young Chevalier! 
 
 When first his standard caught the eye, 
 
 His pibroch met the ear. 
 Our hearts were light, our hopes were 
 high 
 
 For the young Chevalier. 
 
 O Charlie is my darling, &c. 
 
 The plaided chiefs cam' frae afar, 
 Nae doubts their bosoms steir; 
 
 They nobly drew the sword for war 
 And the young Chevalier! 
 
 O Charlie is my darling, &c. 
 
 But he wha trusts to Fortune's smile 
 
 Has mickle cause to fear; 
 She blinket blythe but to begile 
 
 The young Chevalier! 
 
 O Charlie is my darling, &c, 
 
 O dark Culloden— fatal field! 
 
 Fell source o' mony a tear; 
 There Albyn tint her sword and 
 shield, 
 
 And the young Chevalier! 
 
 O Charlie is my darling, &c. 
 
 Now Scotland's "flowers are wede 
 away; " 
 
 Her forest trees are sere ; 
 Her Royal Oak is gane for aye, 
 
 The young Chevalier! 
 
 O Charlie is my darling, 
 My darling, my darling; 
 
 O Charlie is my darling, 
 The young Chevalier. 
 
 SCOTIA'S SONS. 
 
 DANIEL MACPHAIL. 
 
 Daniel Macphail is said to have been a 
 cabinet maker in Glasgow. He died in 
 1833. 
 
 Blythe, blythe around the nappie. 
 
 Let us join in social glee; 
 While we're here we'll ha'e a drap- 
 pie— 
 
 Scotia's sons ha'e aye been free. 
 
 Our auld forbears, when ower their 
 yill. 
 
 And cantie bickers round did ca*, 
 Forsooth they cried, anither gill! 
 
 For sweirt we are to gang awa'. 
 
 Some hearty cock wad then ha'e sung 
 An auld Scotch sonnet aff wi' glee, 
 
 Syne pledged his cogue: the chorus 
 rung, 
 Auld Scotia and her sons are free. 
 
 Thus cracks, and jokes, and sangs 
 gaed roun'. 
 Till morn the screens o* light did 
 draw: 
 Yet, dreich to rise, the carles roun' 
 Cried, Deoch an doras, then awa'! 
 
 The landlord then the nappie brings, 
 And toasts, Fu' happy a' may be, 
 
 Syne tooms the cogue: the chorus 
 rings, 
 Auld Scotia's sons shall aye be free. 
 
 Then like our dads o' auld lang syne; 
 
 Let social glee unite us a'. 
 Aye blythe to meet, our mou's to 
 weet. 
 
 But aye as sweirt to gang awa'. 
 
 THE SOCIAL CUP. 
 
 CAPT. CHARLES GRAY. 
 
 First appeared in the " Harp of Caledo- 
 nia," and subsequently in "Thomson's
 
 288 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Melodies." Joanna Baillie called 
 Captain Gray's " J0II3' Song." 
 
 it 
 
 Blythe, blythe, and merry are me, 
 Blythe are we, ane and a' 
 
 Aften ha'e we cantie been, 
 But sic a nicht we never saw. 
 
 The gloamin' saw us a' sit down, 
 And meikle mirth has been our fa'. 
 
 Then let the sang and toast gae roun' 
 Till chanticleer begins to craw: 
 
 Blythe, blythe, an' merry are we — 
 Pick and wale o' merry men; 
 
 What care we though the cock 
 may craw, 
 We're masters o' the tappit-hen! 
 
 The auld kirk bell has chappit twal; 
 
 Wha cares though she had chappit 
 twa; 
 We're licht o' heart and winna part, 
 
 Though time and tide may rin awa'! 
 
 Blythe, blythe, and merry are we — 
 Hearts that care can never ding; 
 
 Then let time pass — we'll steal his 
 glass, 
 And pu' a feather frae his wing! 
 
 Now is the witchin' time of nicht, 
 When ghaists, they say, are to be 
 seen; 
 And fays dance to the glow-worm's 
 licht 
 Wi' fairies in their gowns of green. 
 
 Blythe, blythe, and merry are we — 
 Ghaists may tak' their midnicht 
 stroll; 
 
 Witches ride on brooms astride, 
 While we sit by the witchin' bowl. 
 
 Tut! never speir how wears the morn — 
 The moon's still blinkin' i' the sky. 
 
 And, gif like her we fill our horn, 
 I dinna doubt we'll drink it dry; 
 
 Blythe, blythe, and merry are we — 
 Blythe out owre the barley bree; 
 
 And let me tell, the moon hersel' 
 Aft dips her toom horn i' the sea! 
 
 Then fill us up a social cup. 
 
 And never mind the dapple-dawn, 
 
 Just sit awhile — the sun may smile 
 And licht us a' across the lawn, 
 
 Blythe, blythe, and merry are we — 
 See, the sun is keekin' ben; 
 
 Gi'e time his glass — for months 
 may pass 
 Ere we ha'e sic a nicht again! 
 
 WE'RE A" NODDIN'. 
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 Few men have enriched the general 
 literature of Scotland to a greater extent 
 than Allan Cunningham. lie was born at 
 Blackwood in Dumfriesshire on Decem- 
 ber 7th, 17S4. From his father, whom he 
 describes as possessing " a warm heart, 
 lively fancy, benevolent humor, and pleas- 
 ant, happy wit," he inherited a taste for 
 legendary and traditional lore, which early 
 began to show itself in many excellent 
 imitations of the old ballads which he 
 composed. When he was seven years of 
 age he listened to Burns one day reading 
 aloud to the inmates of his father's cottage 
 the immortal " Tarn o' Shanter," and the 
 estimation which he then formed of the 
 genius of Burns became greater as he ad- 
 vanced in years, and enabled him, in 1834, 
 to give to the world his valuable edition 
 of the poet's works, in eight volumes, of 
 which no less than five thousand copies 
 were disposed of in a few days after its pub- 
 lication. Allan was sent in his eleventh 
 year to learn the trade of a stone mason, 
 and devoted whatever time he could spare 
 during his apprenticeship to reading and 
 mental improvement. He composed, with 
 few exceptions, the ballads and songs con- 
 tained in Cromek's " Remains of Niths- 
 dale and Galloway Song," a fraud which 
 was onl}' discovered after the work had 
 been published in 1810. In the same )'ear 
 he proceeded to London, where he en- 
 gaged himself as foreman to Francis Chan- 
 trey, the celebrated sculptor, in whose 
 employment he remained till his death. 
 In 1813 he published " Songs, chiefly in 
 the Rural Language of Scotland," which 
 was followed nine years later by "Sir 
 Marmaduke Maxwell," a poem of much
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 289 
 
 dramatic interest. Among his other valu- 
 able works may be mentioned " The Songs 
 of Scotland, Ancient and Modern, with 
 Introduction and Notes," in four volumes ; 
 "Paul Jones," a Romance in three vol- 
 umes; "The Lives of the Most Eminent 
 British Painters, Sculptors, and Archi- 
 tects." in six volumes; and the " Life of 
 Sir David Wilkie," in one volume. He 
 was also an able contributor to Black- 
 tvood's Magazine, the London Magazine, the 
 Athenceum, &c. He numbered among his 
 persona! triends Sir Walter Scott, The 
 Etirick Shepherd, Robert Southey and 
 many other illustrious men of letters. In 
 i8ix, Cunningham was married to Jane 
 Walker, of Preston Hill, near Dumfries, 
 bv whom he had four sons and one daugh- 
 ter. He died after a brief illness at 
 London, on October 29th, 1842, and his 
 remains were interred in the Kensal Green 
 Cemetery. 
 
 There are various versions and frag- 
 ments of "We're a' Noddin' " in exis- 
 tence, many of which can be traced as 
 far back as 1560. The one here given by 
 Allan Cunningham was contributed by 
 him to "Thomson's Melodies." 
 
 Our guidwife's awa', 
 
 Now's the time to woo, 
 For the lads like lasses, 
 
 And the lasses lads too. 
 The moon's beaming bright, 
 
 And the gowan's in dew, 
 And my love's by my side, 
 
 And we're a' happy now. 
 
 And we're a' noddin', 
 Nid, nid noddin', 
 
 And we're a' noddin', 
 At our house at hame. 
 
 I have a wale of loves — 
 
 Nannie rich and fair, 
 Bessie brown and bonnie, 
 
 And Kate wi' curling hair; 
 And Bell young and proud, 
 
 Wi' gold aboon her brow. 
 But my Jean has twa een 
 
 That glow'r me through and 
 through. 
 
 And we'er a' noddin', &c. 
 
 Sair she slights the lads, 
 
 Three lie like to dee, 
 Four in sorrow listed, 
 
 And five flew to the sea. 
 Nigh her chamber door 
 
 A' night they watch in dool, 
 Ae kind word frae my love 
 
 Would charm frae yule to yule. 
 
 And we're a' noddin', «&c. 
 
 Our gudevvife's come hame, 
 
 Now mute maun I woo; 
 My true love's bright glances 
 
 Shine a the chamber through; 
 O, sweet is her voice. 
 
 When she sings at her wark. 
 Sweet the touch of her hand, 
 
 And her vows in the dark. 
 And we're a' noddin', &c; 
 
 JOHN GRUMLIE. 
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 Adapted from the old poem, "The 
 Wife of Auchtermuchty," This is one of 
 the songs which Allan Cunningham used 
 to assert was a favorite among the peasan- 
 try of Nithsdale. 
 
 John Grumlie swore by the light o' 
 the moon, 
 
 And the green leaves on the tree. 
 That he could do more work in a day 
 
 Than his wife could do in three. 
 His wife rose up in the morning 
 
 Wi' cares and troubles enow — 
 John Grumlie bide at hame, John, 
 
 And I'll go haud the plow. 
 
 First ye maun dress your children fair, 
 
 And put them a' in their gear; 
 And ye maun turn the malt, John, 
 
 Or else ye'U spoil the beer; 
 And ye maun reel the tweel, John, 
 
 That I span yesterday; 
 And ye maun ca' in the hens, John, 
 
 Else they'll all lay away.
 
 290 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 O he did dress his children fair, 
 
 And put them a' in their gear; 
 But he forgot to turn the malt, 
 
 And so he spoil'd the beer: 
 And he sang loud as he reeled the 
 tweel 
 
 That his wife span yesterday; 
 But he forgot to put up the hens, 
 
 And the hens all layed away. 
 
 The hawket crummie loot down nae 
 milk; 
 He kirned, nor butter gat; 
 And a' gade wrang, and nought gade 
 right; 
 He danced with rage, and grat; 
 Then up he ran to the head o' the 
 knowe 
 Wi' mony a wave and shout — 
 She heard him as she heard him not. 
 And steered the stots about. 
 
 John Grumlie's wife cam hame at 
 e'en, 
 A weary wife and sad. 
 And burst into a laughter loud, 
 
 And laughed as she'd been mad: 
 While John Grumlie swore by the 
 light o' the moon 
 And the green leaves on the tree. 
 If my wife should na win a penny a 
 day. 
 She's aye have her will for me. 
 
 A WET SHEET AND A FLOW- 
 ING SEA. 
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 A WET sheet and a flowing sea, 
 
 A wind that follows fast, 
 And fills the white and rustling sail, 
 
 And bends the gallant mast. 
 And bends the gallant mast, my boys. 
 
 While like the eagle free, 
 Away the good ship flies, and leaves 
 
 Old England on the lee. 
 
 O for a soft and gentle wind! 
 
 I heard a fair one cry; 
 But give to me the swelling breeze. 
 
 And white waves heaving high: 
 The white waves heaving high, my 
 lads, 
 
 The good ship tight and free — 
 The world of waters is our home. 
 
 And merry men are we. 
 
 There's tempest in yon horned moon, 
 
 And lightening in yon cloud; 
 And hark the music, mariners! 
 
 The wind is piping loud. 
 The wind is piping, loud, ray boys, 
 
 The lightening flashes free — 
 While the hollow oak our palace is, 
 
 Our heritage the sea. 
 
 THERE DWALT A MAN. 
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 " I owe whatever is curious and humor- 
 ous of this ancient song to the kindness of 
 Sir Walter Scott, from whose recitation I 
 wrote it. Whatever is new and dull must 
 be attributed to me, since I ventured to 
 alter the last lines of the second verse, and 
 to add the third." — Cunningham. 
 
 There dwalt a man into the west, 
 
 And O but he was cruel. 
 For on his bridle night at e'en 
 
 He gat up and grat for gruel. 
 They brought to hiin a gude sheep 
 head, 
 
 A napkin and a towel: 
 Gar tak' thae whim-whams far frae me, 
 
 And bring to me my gruel. 
 
 But there's nae meal in a' the house, 
 
 What will we do, my jewel ? 
 Get up the powk and shake it out, 
 
 I winna want my gruel. 
 But there's nae milk in a' the house, 
 
 Nor yet a spunk o' fuel; 
 Gae warm it in the light o' the moon, 
 
 I winna want my gruel.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 291 
 
 O lake-a-day for my first wife, 
 
 Wha was baith white and rosie, 
 She cheer'd me aye at e'ening fa' 
 
 VVi' something warm and cozie; 
 Farewell to pleasant draps o' drink, 
 
 To butter brose and gruel; 
 And farewell to my first sweet wife, 
 
 My cannie Nancy Newell. 
 
 IT'S HAME, AND IT'S HAME. 
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, 
 
 Sir Walter Scott, in the introduction to 
 "The Fortunes of Nigel," speaks in the 
 most laudatory terms of this song. It was 
 first published in Cromek's I^cmaitts. 
 
 It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain 
 
 wad I be, 
 An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain 
 
 countrie! 
 When the flower is i' the bud, and 
 
 the leaf is on the tree, 
 The lark shall sing me hame in my 
 
 ain countrie. 
 It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain 
 
 wad I be. 
 An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain 
 
 countriel 
 
 The green leaf o' loyalty's beginning 
 
 for to fa'. 
 The bonnie white rose it is withering 
 
 an a'; 
 But I'll water 't wi' the blude of 
 
 usurping tyrannie, 
 An' green it will grow in my ain 
 
 countrie. 
 It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain 
 
 wad I be, 
 An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain 
 
 countrie! 
 
 There's naught now frae ruin my 
 
 countrie to save, 
 But the keys o' kind Heaven to open 
 
 the grave, 
 
 That a' the noble martyrs who died 
 
 for loyaltie. 
 May rise again and fight for their ain 
 
 countrie. 
 It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain 
 
 wad I be. 
 And it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain 
 
 countrie! 
 
 The great now are gane, a' who 
 
 ventured to save, 
 The new grass is springing on the tap 
 
 o' their grave; 
 But the sun through the mirk blinks 
 
 blithe in my e'e: 
 " I'll shine on ye yet in your ain 
 
 countrie." 
 It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain 
 
 wad I be, 
 An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain 
 
 countrie! 
 
 THE LOVELY LASS OF 
 
 INVERNESS. 
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 First published in Cromek's Remains. 
 
 There lived a lass in Inverness, 
 
 She was the pride of a' the town; 
 Blythe as the lark on gowan-tap. 
 
 When frae the nest but newly flown. 
 At kirk she won the auld folks' love. 
 
 At dance she was the young men's 
 een; 
 She was the blythest aye o' the blythe, 
 
 At wooster-trystes or Hallowe'en. 
 
 As I came in by Inverness, 
 
 The simmer sun was sinking down; 
 Oh, there I saw the weel-faur'd lass. 
 
 And she was greeting through the 
 town :
 
 292 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 The grey hair'd men were a' i' the 
 streets, 
 
 And auld dames crying (sad to see!) 
 " The flower o' the lads of Inverness 
 
 Lie dead upon Culloden-lee!" 
 
 She tore her haffet-links of gowd, 
 
 And dighted aye her comely e'e; 
 " My father's head's on Carlisle wall, 
 
 At Preston sleep my brethren three! 
 I thought my heart could haud nae 
 mair, 
 
 Nae tears could ever blin' my e'e; 
 But the fa' o' ane has burst my heart, 
 
 A dearer ane there couldna be! 
 
 " He trysted me o' love yestreen, 
 
 Of love-tokens he gave me three; 
 But he's faulded i' the arms o' weir. 
 
 Oh, ne'er again to think o' me! 
 The forest flowers shall be my bed. 
 
 My food shall be the wild berrie, 
 The fa' o' the leaf shall cover me 
 cauld, 
 
 And wauken'd again I winna be." 
 
 Oh weep, oh weep, ye Scottish dames. 
 
 Weep till ye blin' a mither's e'e; 
 Nae reeking ha' in fifty miles, 
 
 But naked corses, sad to see. 
 Oh spring is blythesome to the year, 
 
 Trees sprout, flowers spring, and 
 birds sing hie; 
 But oh! what spring can raise them up, 
 
 That lie on dread Culloden-lee ? 
 
 The hand o' God hung heavy here. 
 
 And lightly touch'd foul tyrannie; 
 It struck the righteous to the ground. 
 
 And lifted the destroyer hie. 
 " But there's a day," quo' my God in 
 prayer, 
 
 " When righteousness shall bear the 
 gree; 
 I'll rake the wicked low i' the dust. 
 
 And wauken, in bliss, the gude 
 
 man see 
 
 THOU HAST SWORN BY THY 
 GOD, MY JEANIE. 
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 Thou hast sworn by thy God, my 
 Jeanie, 
 
 By that pretty white hand o' thine, 
 And by a' the lowing stars in heaven, 
 
 That thou would aye be mine; 
 And I ha'e sworn by my God, my 
 Jeanie, 
 
 And by that kind heart o' thine, 
 By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven, 
 
 That thou would aye be mine. 
 
 Then foul fa' the hands that loose sic 
 bands. 
 And the heart that would part sic 
 love; 
 But there's nae hand can loose ray 
 band 
 But the finger o' God above. 
 Though the wee, wee cot maun be 
 my bield. 
 And my claithing e'er sae mean, 
 I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' 
 love. 
 Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean. 
 
 Her white arm wad be a pillow for 
 me, 
 Fu' safter than the down; 
 And love wad winnow owre us his 
 kind, kind wings, 
 And sweetly I'll sleep, an' soun'. 
 Come here to me, thou lass o' my 
 love. 
 Come here and kneel wi' me; 
 The morn is fu' o' the presence o* 
 God, 
 And I canna pray without thee 
 
 The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the 
 beds o' new flowers, 
 The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie; 
 Ourgudeman leans owre his kale-yard 
 dyke. 
 And a blythe auld bodie is he.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 293 
 
 when the 
 
 The Beuk maun be ta'en 
 carle comes hame, 
 Wi' the holie psalmodie, 
 And thou maun speak o' me to thy 
 God, 
 And I will speak o' thee. 
 
 BONNIE MARY HALLIDAY. 
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 Bonnie Mary Halliday, 
 
 Turn again, I call you ; 
 If you go to the dewy wood, 
 
 Sorrow will befall you. 
 
 The ring-dove from the dewy wood 
 Is wailing sore and calling; 
 
 An' Annan water, 'tween its banks, 
 Is foaming far and falling. 
 
 Gentle Mary Halliday, 
 
 Come, my bonnie lady — 
 Upon the river's woody bank 
 
 My steed is saddled ready. 
 
 And for thy haughty kinsman's threats 
 My faith shall never falter — 
 
 The bridal banquet's ready made. 
 The priest is at the alter. 
 
 Gentle Mary Halliday, 
 
 The towers of merry Preston 
 
 Have bridal candles gleaming bright — 
 So busk thee, love, and hasten. 
 
 Come busk thee, love, and bowne 
 
 thee 
 Through Tindal and green Mouswal ; 
 Come, be the grace and be the charm 
 To the proud Towers of ^lochusel. 
 
 Bonnie Mary Halliday, 
 
 Turn again, I tell you; 
 For wit, and grace, and loveliness, 
 
 What maidens may excel you.? 
 
 Though Annan has its beauteous 
 dames. 
 
 And Corrie many a fair one, 
 We canna want thee from our sight, 
 
 Thou lovely and thou rare one. 
 
 Bonnie Mary Halliday, 
 
 When the cittern's sounding, 
 
 We'll miss thy lightsome lily foot 
 Amang the blythe lads bounding. 
 
 The summer sun shall freezeour veins, 
 The winter moon shall warm us, 
 
 Ere the like of thee shall come again 
 To cheer us and to charm us. 
 
 THE WANTON WIFE. 
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 NiTH. trembling to the reaper's sang, 
 
 Warm glitter'd in the harvest sun, 
 And murmured down the lanesome 
 glen, 
 Where a wife of wanton wit did 
 won. 
 Her tongue wagged wi' unhaly wit, 
 Unstent by kirk or gospel bann. 
 An' aye she wished the kirkyard 
 inools 
 Green growing o'er her auld gude- 
 man. 
 
 Her auld gudeman drapped in at e'en, 
 Wi' harvest heuk — sair toil'd was 
 he; 
 Sma' was his cog and cauld his kail, 
 
 Yet anger never raised his e'e; 
 He bless'd the little, and was blythe. 
 While spak' the dame, wi' clamor- 
 ous tongue, 
 O sorrow clap your auld beld pow, 
 And dance wi' ye to the mools, 
 gudeman!
 
 294 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 He hang his bonnet on the pin, 
 
 And down he lay, his dool to drie; 
 While she sat singing in the neuk, 
 
 And tasting at the barley bree. 
 The lark, 'mid morning's siller gray, 
 
 That wont to cheer him warkward 
 gaun. 
 Next morning missed amang the dew 
 
 The blithe and dainty auld gude- 
 man. 
 
 The third morn's dew on flower and 
 tree 
 'Gan glorious in the sun to glow. 
 When sung the wanton wife to mark 
 His feet gang foremost o'er the 
 knowe. 
 The first flight o' the winter's rime 
 That on the kirkyard sward had 
 faun, 
 The wanton wife skiff"ed aff his grave, 
 A-kirking vji her new gudeman. 
 
 A dainty dame I wat was she, 
 
 High brent and burnished was her 
 brow, 
 *Mang lint-locks curling; and her lips 
 
 Twin daisies dawned through honey 
 dew: 
 And light and loesome in the dance, 
 
 When ha' was het, or kirn was won; 
 Her brests twa drifts o' purest snaw. 
 
 In cauld December's bosom faun. 
 
 But lang ere winter's winds blew by, 
 
 She skirled in her lonesome bow ; 
 Her new gudeman, wi' hazle rung, 
 
 Began to kame her wanton pow. 
 Her hearth was slokent out wi' care, 
 
 Toom grew her kist and cauld her 
 pan, 
 And dreigh and dowie waxed the 
 night. 
 
 Ere Beltane, wi' her new gudeman. 
 
 She dreary sits 'tween naked wa's, 
 Her cheek ne'er dimpled into mirth; 
 
 Half-happit, haurling out o' doors. 
 And hunger-haunted at her hearth. 
 
 And see the tears fa' frae her een, 
 Warm happin' down her haffits wan; 
 
 But guess her bitterness of saul 
 In sorrow for her auld gudeman! 
 
 I'LL GAR YE BE FAIN. 
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 " Both the tune and the words of the 
 song, 'I'll gar ye be fain to follow me,' 
 are old. We give the version of it as alter- 
 ed and enlarged by Allan Cunningham. 
 Most readers will remember the use made 
 of this song in the historical novel of ' Old 
 Mortalit}',' when Jenny Dennison obtains 
 access for her mistress and herself to 
 the imprisoned Morton, through means 
 of her influence over Tam Haliday, the 
 soldier on guard, and her characteristic 
 female strategy. The passage is worth 
 quoting. It will be observed that Sir 
 Walter does not keep strictly to the words 
 of the song. — ' Haliday, with his carabine 
 on his arm, walked up and down the gal- 
 lery, occassionally solacing himself with 
 a draught of ale, a huge flagon of which 
 stood upon the table at one end of the 
 apartment, and at other times humming 
 the lively Scottish air, 
 
 ' Between St. Johnstone and bonnie Dundee, 
 I'll gar ye be fain to follow me.' 
 
 Jenny Dennison cautioned her mistress to 
 let her take her own way. ' I can manage 
 the trooper weel enough,' she said, 'for as 
 rough as he is — I ken their nature weel; 
 but ye manna say a single word.' She 
 accordingly opened the door of the gallery 
 just as the sentinel had turned his back 
 from it, and taking up the tune which he 
 hummed, she sung in a coquettish tone of 
 rustic raillery, 
 
 ' If I were to follow a poor sodger lad. 
 My friends wad be angry, my niinnie be mad: 
 A laird or a lord they were fitter for me. 
 S.ie I'll never be fain to follow thee ' — 
 
 ' A f.iir challenge, by jove,' cried the senti- 
 nel turning round; 'but it's not easy to 
 bany the soldier with his bandoleers;' — 
 then taking up the song where the damsel 
 had stopt, 
 
 ' To follow me ye weel may be glad, 
 
 A sluire of my supper, a share of my bed; 
 
 'I'o tlio sound of the drum to range fearless and free, 
 
 I'll gar ye be fain to follow me.' —
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 295 
 
 'Come my pretty lass and kiss me for 
 my song,' S>!.c".—Blatki£s Book of Scot- 
 tish Song. 
 
 As late by a sodger I happen'd to pass, 
 I heard him courting a bonnie young 
 
 lass: 
 My hinnie, my life, my dearest, 
 
 quo' he, 
 I'll make ye be fain to follow me. 
 Gin I were to follow a poor sodger lad, 
 Ilk ane o' our maidens would think I 
 
 was mad; 
 For battles I never shall long to see, 
 Nor shall I be tain to follow thee. 
 
 come wi' me, and I'll make you 
 
 glad, 
 Wi' part o' my supper, and part o' 
 
 my bed; 
 A kiss by land, and a kiss by sea, 
 
 1 think ye'll be fain to follow me. 
 O' care or sorrow no sodgers know. 
 In mirth we march, and in joy we go, 
 Frae sweet St. Johnstone to bonnie 
 
 Dundee, 
 Wha wadna be fain to follow me ? 
 
 What heart but leaps when it lists the 
 
 fife ? 
 Ilk tuck o' the drum's a lease o' life — 
 We reign on earth, we rule on sea; 
 A queen might be fain to follow me. 
 Her locks were brown, her eyes were 
 
 blue, 
 Her looks were blythe,her words were 
 
 few — 
 The lads o' Dumfries stood staring 
 
 dumb, 
 When sweet Jenny Primrose follow'd 
 
 the drum. 
 
 TAK' IT, MAN, TAK' IT. 
 
 DAVID WEBSTER. 
 
 David Webster was a weaver for many 
 years in Paisley, rie was born at Dun- 
 
 blane on the 25th of September, 1789, and 
 was destined by his parents lor the Church. 
 He began to write verses when very young 
 and in 1S35 published a volume of poems 
 and songs, with the title of " Original 
 Scottish Rhymes." He is said to have 
 lived rather a dissolute and unhappy life, 
 being more frequent!}- to be found at the 
 Paisley Tavern than at his loom. "Tak' 
 It, Man, Tak' It" and "Donald Gunn" 
 are his two best contributions to the Muse. 
 He died on the 22d of January, 1S37. 
 
 When I was a miller in Fife, 
 
 Losh! I thought that the sound o' 
 the happer 
 Said, Tak' hame a wee flow to your 
 wife, 
 To help to be brose to your supper. 
 Then my conscience was narrow and 
 pure, 
 But someway by random it racket; 
 For I lifted twa neivefu' or mair, 
 While the happer said, Tak' it, man, 
 tak' it. 
 
 Hey for the mill and the kill. 
 The garland and gear for my 
 cogie, 
 Hey for the whisky and yill, 
 That washes the dust frae my 
 craigie. 
 
 Although it's been lang in repute 
 For rogues to mak' rich bv de- 
 ceiving, 
 Yet I see that it does not weel suit 
 Honest men to begin to the thiev- 
 ing; 
 For my heart it gaed dunt ui)on dunt, 
 Oh! I thought ilka dunt it wouL 
 crack it; 
 Sae I flang frae my neive what was in't 
 Still the happer said, Tak' it, man, 
 tak' it. 
 
 Hey for the mill, &c. 
 
 A man that's been bred to the plough 
 Might be deaved wi' its clamorous 
 clapper;
 
 296 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Yet there's few but would suffer the 
 sough 
 After kenning what's said by the 
 happen 
 I whiles thought it scoff'd me to scorn, 
 Saying, Shame, is your conscience 
 no checkit? 
 But when I grew dry for a horn. 
 It changed aye to Tak' it, man, 
 tak' it. 
 
 Hey for the mill, &c. 
 
 The smugglers whiles came wi* their 
 pocks, 
 'Cause they kent that I liked a 
 bicker; 
 Sae I bartered whiles wi' the gowks, 
 Ga'e them grain for a soup o' their 
 liquor. 
 I had lang been accustom'd to drink. 
 And aye when I purposed to quat it. 
 That thing wi' its clappertie clink 
 Said aye to me, Tak' it, man, tak' it. 
 
 Hey for the mill, &c. 
 
 But the warst thing I did in my life, 
 Nae doubt but ye'll think I was 
 wrang o't. 
 Oh! I tauld a bit bodie in Fife, 
 A' my tale, and he made a bit 
 sang o't; 
 I have aye had a voice a' my days, 
 But for singing I ne'er got the 
 knack o't; 
 Yet I tried whiles just thinking to 
 please 
 The greedy wi' Tak' it, man, tak' it. 
 
 Hey for the mill, &c. 
 
 Now, miller and a' as I am, 
 
 This far I can see through the 
 
 matter, 
 
 There's men mair notorious to fame, 
 
 Mair greedy than me or the mutur! 
 
 For 'twad seem that the hale race o' 
 
 men, 
 
 Or wi' safety the half we may mak' it, 
 
 Had some speaking happer within. 
 That said to them, Taki it, man, 
 tak' it. 
 
 Hey for the mill, &c. 
 
 DONALD GUNN. 
 
 DAVID WEBSTER. 
 
 Heard ye e'er o' Donald Gunn, 
 
 Ance sae duddy, dowf, and needy, 
 Now a laird in yonder toun, 
 Callous-hearted, proud and greedy. 
 
 Up the glen aboon the linn, 
 
 Donald met wi' Maggie Miller, 
 Wooed the lass amang the whins. 
 
 Because she had the word o' siller; 
 Meg was neither trig nor braw. 
 
 Had mae fauts than ane laid till her; 
 Donald looket ower them a', 
 
 A' his thought was on the siller. 
 
 Heard ye e'er, &c. 
 
 Donald grew baith braid and braw, 
 
 Ceased to bore the whinstone 
 quarry, 
 Maggie's siller pays for a', 
 
 Breeks instead o' duddy barrie: 
 Though he's ignorant as a stirk, 
 
 Though he's doure as ony donkey; 
 Yet, by accidental jirk, 
 
 Donald rides before a flunkey. 
 Heard ye e'er, &c. 
 
 Clachan bairnies roar wi' fright, 
 
 Clachan dogs tak' to their trotters; 
 Clachan wives the pathway dicht 
 
 To tranquillise his thraward features 
 Gangrel bodies in the street 
 
 Beck and bow to make him civil, 
 Tenant bodies in his debt, 
 
 Shun him as thfey'd shun the devil. 
 
 Heard ye e'er, &c. 
 
 Few gangs trigger to the fair, 
 
 Few gangs to the kirk sae gaucie, — 
 
 Few wi' Donald can compare 
 To keep the cantel o' the causie:
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 297 
 
 In his breast a bladd o' stane, 
 Neith his hat a box o' brochan, 
 
 In his nieve a wally cane, 
 
 Thus the tyrant rules the clachan, 
 
 Heard ye e'er, &c. 
 
 THE KAIL-BROSE OF AULD 
 SCOTLAND. 
 
 WILLIAM BROWN. 
 
 William Brown was the editor of the 
 Edinburgh Weekly Jourtuil, at one time a 
 popularand flourishing Conservative news- 
 paper. He was the son of an Aberdeen 
 minister, and his brother Alexander was 
 for many years Provost of Aberdeen. He 
 died in 1809. 
 
 When our gutchers of auld made a 
 
 troke wi' the laird 
 For a wee bit of grund to be a kail- 
 yard, 
 It was to the brose that they had their 
 regard. 
 
 O, the kail-brose of auld 
 
 Scotland; 
 And oh the Scottish kail-brose. 
 
 Then our sodgers were steel frae the 
 heel to the nose, 
 
 Wi' the plaid an' the kilt, the clay- 
 more and the hose; 
 
 An' the bag o' oatmeal at their backs 
 to be brose. 
 
 O, the kail-brose, &c. 
 
 At our annual elections for Bailies 
 
 and Mayor, 
 Nae kick-shaws o' puddins or tarts 
 
 were seen there; 
 But a dish o' gude brose was the 
 
 favorite fare. 
 
 O, the kail-brose, &c. 
 
 There was hotch-potch an' haggis, a 
 
 feast for a lord, 
 An' sheep heads the fattest our hills 
 
 could afford; 
 
 But a dish o' gude brose was the king 
 o' the board. 
 
 O, the kail-brose, &c. 
 
 Whar then were our bucks, an' our 
 
 bloods, an' our beaux, 
 Wi' their lang-leggit breeks an' their 
 
 short-leggit hose ? 
 The dw/il a breek did we wear wheri 
 
 we'd brose. 
 
 O, the kail-brose, &c. 
 
 Our baby bit lassies buskit up to be 
 
 shows. 
 Their white-washen cheeks they wad 
 
 blush like the rose, 
 Could they see how their grandmithers 
 
 thrave upo' brose. 
 
 O, the kail-brose, &c. 
 
 Nae born coupers then sought to 
 
 gather a pose 
 By grindin' aff puir bodies' faces the 
 
 nose; 
 But man, wife, and wean, they got 
 
 wamefu's o' brose. 
 
 O, the kail-brose, &c. 
 
 But now that the Thistle is joined to 
 
 the Rose, 
 An' Scotchmen an' Englishmen nae 
 
 mair at blows. 
 We've lost a great deal o* our relish 
 for brose. 
 
 Alas ! the kail-brose of auld 
 
 Scotland; 
 Alas! the Scottish kail-brose. 
 
 Yet gi'e but a Scotchman a cogue o' 
 
 kail-brose, 
 A jorum o' whisky, an' prime weel 
 
 his nose, 
 Wi' the French, wi' the Dons, wi' the 
 
 Devil he'll close. 
 
 O, the kail-brose of auld 
 
 Scotland; 
 An' oh, the Scottish kail-brose.
 
 298 
 
 CELEB BATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 THE KAIL-BROSE OF AULD 
 SCOTLAND. 
 
 MODERN VERSION. 
 
 "Ascribed," says Dr. Robert Chambers 
 "to Sheriff, an Aberdeen poet." 
 
 When our ancient forefathers agreed 
 
 wi' the laird 
 For a wee piece o' grund, to be a 
 
 kail-yard, 
 It was to the brose that they paid 
 their regard; 
 
 O ! the kail-brose o' auld 
 
 Scotland, 
 And O ! the auld Scottish 
 kail-brose. 
 
 When Fergus, the first of our kings, I 
 
 suppose. 
 At the head of his nobles had van- 
 
 quish'd our foes, 
 Just before they began they'd been 
 
 feasting on brose ; 
 O! the kail-brose, &c. 
 
 Our sodgers were drest in their kilts 
 
 and short hose, 
 Wi' their bonnets and belts, which 
 
 their dress did compose, 
 And a ba? of oatmeal on their backs 
 
 to be brose; 
 
 O! the kail-brose, &c. 
 
 At our annual elections for bailies or 
 
 mayor, 
 Nae kick-shaws, or puddings, or tarts, 
 
 were seen there; 
 But a cog o* gude brose was the 
 
 favorite fare; 
 
 O! the kail-brose, &c. 
 
 But when we remember the English, 
 
 our foes. 
 Our ancestors beat them with very 
 
 few blows; 
 John Bull oft cried, O! let us rin — 
 
 they've got brose! 
 
 O ! the kail-brose, &c. 
 
 But, now that the Thistle is joined to 
 
 the Rose, 
 And the English nae langer are 
 
 counted our foes, 
 We've lost a great deal of our relish 
 
 for brose; 
 O, the kail-brose &c. 
 
 Yet each true-hearted Scotsman, by 
 
 nature jocose, 
 Likes always to feast on a cogue o' 
 
 guid brose: 
 And, thanks be to Heaven, we've 
 plenty of those; 
 
 O ! the kail-brose of auld 
 
 Scotland, 
 And O ! the auld Scottish 
 kail-brose ! 
 
 BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE 
 FOLK. 
 
 ALEXANDER RODGER. 
 
 To lovers of Scottish songs the name of 
 Alexander Rodger is familiar as that of the 
 author of " Behave Yoursel' Before Folk," 
 " My Gudeman says Aye to Me," and 
 " Robin Tamson's Smiddy." He was 
 bornat East Calder, near Edinburgh, on the 
 sixteenth of July, 1784. In his twelfth 
 year he was apprenticed to a silversmith 
 in Edinburgh, but on his father emigrating 
 to Hamburg, in 1797, he was left in charge 
 of some friends who resided at Glasgow, 
 and by whom he was persuaded to exchange 
 his trade of a silversmith to that of a 
 weaver. He became, in early life, a 
 republican of very extreme views, and 
 suffered a short term of inprisonment in 
 1819 on account of some revolutionary 
 articles which he contributed to a news- 
 paper then in existence. In 1836 he was 
 appointed subeditor of the Reformers' 
 Gazette, and held this position until his 
 death, which occurred on the twenty-sixth 
 of September, 1846. His remains were in- 
 terred in the Necropolis of Glasgow, where 
 a handsome monument has since been 
 erected to his memory by his fellow- 
 citizens.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 299 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 Behave yoursel' before folk; 
 Whate'er ye do, when out of view, 
 Be cautious aye before folk. 
 
 Consider, lad, how folk will crack, 
 And what a great affair they'll mak' 
 O' naething but a simple smack. 
 That's gi'en or ta'en before folk. 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 Behave yoursel' before folk; 
 Norgi'e the tongue o'auld or young 
 Occasion to come o'er folk. 
 
 It's no through hatred o' a kiss, 
 That I sae plainly tell you this; 
 But, losh! I tak' it sair amiss 
 To be sae teazed before folk. 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 Behave yoursel' before folk; 
 When we're our lane ye may tak' 
 ane, 
 But fient a ane before folk. 
 
 I'm sure wi' you I've been as free 
 As ony modest lass should be; 
 But yet it doesna do to see 
 Sic freedom used before folk. 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 Behave yoursel' before folk; 
 I'll ne'er submit again to it — 
 So mind you that — before folk. 
 
 Ye tell me that my face is fair; 
 It may be sae — I dinna care — 
 But ne'er again gar't blush sae sair 
 As ye ha'e done before folk. 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 Behave yoursel' before folk; 
 Nor heat my cheeks with your mad 
 freaks. 
 But aye be douce before folk. 
 
 Ye tell me that my lips are sweet. 
 Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit; 
 At ony rate, it's hardly meet 
 
 To pree their sweets before folk. 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 Behave yoursel' before folk; 
 Gin that's the case, there's time, and 
 place, 
 But surely no before folk. 
 
 But, gin you really do insist 
 That I slaould suffer to be kiss'd, 
 Gae, get a license frae the priest, 
 And mak' me yours before folk. 
 Behave yoursel' before folk. 
 Behave yoursel' before folk; 
 And when we're ane, baith fiesh 
 and bane, 
 Ye may tak' ten — before folk. 
 
 THE ANSWER. 
 
 Can I behave, can I behave, 
 Can I behave before folk, 
 When, wily elf, your sleeky self 
 Gars me gang gyte before folk ? 
 
 In a' you do, in a' ye say, 
 Ye've sic a pawkie coaxing way, 
 That my poor wits ye lead astray, 
 An' ding me doilt before folk! 
 Can I behave, can I behave, 
 Can I behave before folk, 
 While ye ensnare, can I forbear 
 To kiss you, though before folk? 
 
 Can I behold that dimpling cheek, 
 Whar love 'mang sunny smiles might 
 
 beek, 
 Yet, howlet-like, my e'elids steek. 
 An' shun sic light, before folk? 
 Can I behave, can I behave, 
 Can I behave before folk. 
 When ilka smile becomes a wile, 
 Enticing me — before folk? 
 
 That lip, like Eve's forbidden fruit. 
 Sweet, plump, an' ripe, sae tempts me 
 
 to't, 
 That I maun pree't, though I should 
 rue't. 
 Ay, twenty times — before folk!
 
 300 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Can I behave, can I behave, 
 Can I behave before folk, 
 When temptingly it offers me 
 So rich a treat— before folk? 
 
 That govvden hair sae sunny bright; 
 That shapely neck o' snawy white; 
 That tongue, even when it tries to flyte, 
 Provokes me till't before folk! 
 Can I behave, can I behave. 
 Can I behave before folk. 
 When ilka charm, young, fresh an' 
 
 warm, 
 Cries,"kissmenow"— before folk? 
 
 An' O! that pawkie, rowin' e'e, 
 Sae roguishly it blinks on me, 
 I canna, for my saul, let be, 
 Frae kissing you before folk! 
 Can I behave, can I behave. 
 Can I behave before folk. 
 When ilka glint conveys a hint 
 To tak' a smack — before folk ? 
 
 Ye own, that were we baith our lane, 
 Ye wadna grudge to grant me ane; 
 Weel, gin there be nae harm in't then. 
 What harm is in't before folk ? 
 Can I behave, can I behave, 
 Can I behave before folk. 
 Sly hypocrite! an anchorite 
 
 Could scarce desist — before folk! 
 
 But after a' that has been said, 
 Since ye are willing to be wed. 
 We'll ha'e a "blythesome bridal" made. 
 When ye'll be mine before folk! 
 Then I'll behave, then I'll behave. 
 Then I'll behave before folk; 
 For whereas then, ye'll aft get " ten," 
 It winna be before folk! 
 
 MY 
 
 GUDEMAN SAYS 
 TO ME. 
 
 AYE 
 
 ALEXANDER RODGER. 
 
 The first four lines form the chorus of 
 an old song. 
 
 My gudeman says aye to me. 
 Says aye to me, says aye to me; 
 My gudeman says aye to me. 
 
 Come cuddle in my bosie! 
 Though wearin' auld, he's blyther still 
 Than mony a swankie youthfu' chiel, 
 And a' his aim's to see me weel, 
 
 And keep me snug and cozie. 
 
 For though my cheeks, where roses 
 
 grew, 
 Ha'e tint their lively glowing hue. 
 My Johnnie's just as kind and true 
 
 As if I still were rosy. 
 Our weel-won gear he never drank, 
 He never lived aboon his rank. 
 Yet wi' a neebor blythe and frank, 
 
 He could be as jocose aye. 
 
 We ha'e a hame, gude halesome cheer, 
 Contentment, peace, a conscience 
 
 clear. 
 And rosy bairns to us mair dear, 
 
 Than treasures o' Potosi: 
 Their minds are form'd in virtue's 
 
 school, 
 Their fau'ts are check'd wi' temper 
 
 cool, 
 For my gudeman mak's this his rule, 
 To keep frae hasty blows aye. 
 
 It ne'er was siller gart us wed. 
 Youth, health, and love, were a' we 
 
 had, 
 Possess'd o' these we toil'd fu' glad, 
 
 To shun want's bitter throes aye; 
 We've had our cares, we've had our 
 
 toils, 
 We've had our bits o' troubles whiles. 
 Yet, what o' that ? my Johnnie's smiles 
 
 Shed joy o'er a' our woes aye. 
 
 Wi' mutual aid we've trudged through 
 
 life, 
 A kind gudeman, a cheerfu' wife; 
 And on we'll jog, unvexed by strife, 
 Towards our journey's close, aye!
 
 CELEBRATED SCNGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 801 
 
 And when we've stretch'd upon our 
 
 bier, 
 Oh may our souls, sae faithfu' here. 
 Together spring to yonder sphere. 
 Where love's pure river flows aye. 
 
 IT'S NO THAT THOU'RT 
 BONNIE. 
 
 ALEXANDER RODGER. 
 
 It's no that thou'rt bonnie, it's no 
 
 that thou'rt braw, 
 It's no that thy skin has the whiteness 
 
 o' snaw, 
 It's no that thy form is perfection 
 
 itsel', 
 That male's my heart feel what my 
 
 tongue canna tell: 
 But oh! its the soul beaming out frae 
 
 thine e'e, 
 That male's thee sae dear and sae 
 
 lovely to me. 
 
 It's pleasant to look on that mild 
 
 blushing face, 
 Sae sweetly adorn'd wi' ilk feminine 
 
 grace, 
 It's joyous to gaze on these tresses 
 
 sae bright, 
 O'ershading a forehead sae smooth 
 
 and sae white; 
 But to dwell on the glances that dart 
 
 frae thine e'e, 
 O Jeanie! it's evendown rapture to 
 
 me. 
 
 That form may be wasted by lingering 
 
 decay, 
 The bloom of that cheek may be 
 
 wither'd away. 
 Those gay gowden ringlets that yield 
 
 such delight. 
 By the cauld breath o' time may be 
 
 changed into white; 
 
 But the soul's fervid flashes that 
 
 brighten thine e'e. 
 Are the offspring o' heaven, and never 
 
 can die. 
 
 Let me plough the rough ocean, nor 
 ev'r touch the shore. 
 
 Let me freeze on the coast of the 
 bleak Labradore, 
 
 Let me pant 'neath the glare of the 
 vertical sun. 
 
 Where no trees spread their branches, 
 nor streams ever run; 
 
 Even there, my dear Jeanie, still 
 happy I'd be, 
 
 If bless'd wi' the light o' thy heaven- 
 ly e'e. 
 
 ROBIN TAMSON'S SMIDDY. 
 
 ALEXANDER RODGER. 
 
 Without doubt one of the most humor- 
 our Scottish Songs in existence. It has 
 become decidedly popular, all over the 
 world. 
 
 My mither men't my auld breeks. 
 
 An' wow! but they were duddy, 
 And sent me to get Mally shod 
 
 At Robin Tamson's smiddy; 
 The smiddy stands beside the burn 
 
 That wimples through the clachan, 
 I never yet gae by the door, 
 
 But aye I fa' a-laughin'. 
 
 For Robin was a walthy carle. 
 
 An' had ae bonnie dochter. 
 Yet ne'er wad let her tak' a man. 
 
 Though mony lads had sought her; 
 And what think ye o' my exploit? — 
 
 The time our mare was shoeing, 
 I slippit up beside the lass, 
 
 An' briskly fell a-wooing. 
 
 An' aye she e'ed my auld breeks, 
 The time that we sat crackin'. 
 
 Quo' I, my lass, ne'er mind the clouts, 
 I've new anes for the makin';
 
 803 
 
 CELEBRATED SONQS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 But gin ye'll just come hame wi' me, 
 An' lea' the carle, your father, _ 
 
 Ye'se get my breeks to keep in trim, 
 Mysel', an' a' thegither. 
 
 'Deed, lad, quo' she, your offer's fair, 
 
 I really think I'll tak' it, 
 Sae, gang awa', get out the mare. 
 
 We'll baith slip on the Vjack o't; 
 For gin I wait my father's time, 
 
 I'll wait till I be fifty; 
 But na; — I'll marry in my prime, 
 
 An' mak' a wife most thrifty. 
 
 Wow! Robin was an angry man. 
 
 At tyning o' his dochter; 
 Through a' the kintra-side he ran. 
 
 An' far an' near he sought her; 
 But when he cam' to our fire-end, 
 
 An' fand us baith thegither, 
 Quo' I, gudeman, I've ta'en your 
 bairn, 
 
 An' ye may tak' my mither. 
 
 Auld Robin girn'd an' sheuk his pow, 
 
 Guid sooth! quo' he, you're merry, 
 But I'll just tak' ye at your word, 
 
 An' end this hurry-burry; 
 So Robin an' our auld gudewife 
 
 Agreed to creep thegither; 
 Now, I ha'e Robin Tamson's pet, 
 
 An' Robin has my mither. 
 
 THE PEASANT'S FIRESIDE. 
 
 ALEXANDER RODGER. 
 
 How happy lives the peasant by his 
 
 ain fireside, 
 Wha weel employs the present, by his 
 
 ain fireside; 
 Wi' his wifie blythe and free, and his 
 
 bairnie on his knee. 
 Smiling fu' o' sportive glee, by his 
 
 ain fireside I 
 
 Nae cares o' state disturb him, by his 
 
 ain fireside; 
 Nae foolish fashion curb him, by his 
 
 ain fireside; 
 In his elbow-chair reclined, he can 
 
 freely speak his mind, 
 To his bosom-mate sae kind, by his 
 
 ain fireside. 
 
 When his bonnie bairns increase, 
 
 around his ain fireside. 
 What health, content, and peace 
 
 surround his ain fireside, 
 A' day he gladly toils, and at night 
 
 delighted smiles 
 At their harmless pranks and wiles, 
 
 about his ain fireside; 
 And while they grow apace, about his 
 
 ain fireside, 
 In beauty, strength, and grace, about 
 
 his ain fireside, 
 Wi' virtuous precepts kind, by a sage 
 
 example join'd, 
 He informs ilk youthfu' mind, about 
 
 his ain fireside. 
 
 When the shivering orphan pool 
 
 draws near his ain fireside. 
 And seeks the friendly door, that 
 
 guards his ain fireside. 
 She's welcomed to a seat, bidden 
 
 warm her little feet, 
 While she's kindly made to eat, by 
 
 his ain fireside. 
 When youthfu' vigor fails him, by his 
 
 ain fireside, 
 And hoary age assails him, by his ain 
 
 fireside, 
 With joy he back surveys all his 
 
 scenes of bygone days. 
 As he trod in wisdom's ways, by his 
 
 ain fireside. 
 
 And when grim death draws near him, 
 
 by his ain fireside. 
 What cause has he to fear him, by his 
 
 ain fireside ?
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 303 
 
 With a bosom-cheering hope, he takes 
 
 Heaven for his prop, 
 Then calmly down does drop, by his 
 
 ain fireside. 
 Oh! may that lot be ours, by our ain 
 
 fireside; 
 Then glad will fly the hours, by our 
 
 ain fireside; 
 
 THE LASSES A' LEUGH. 
 
 The first stanza is by Robert Tannahill, 
 the others are by Alexander Rodger. 
 
 The lasses a' leugh, and the carlin 
 
 flate. 
 But Maggie was sitting fu' ourie and 
 
 blate, 
 The auld silly gawkie, she couldna 
 
 contain, 
 How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen; 
 
 Kiss'd yestreen; kiss'd yestreen, 
 How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen; 
 She blethered it round to her fae an' 
 
 her freen, 
 How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen. 
 
 She loosed the white napkin frae 
 
 'bout her dun neck, 
 An' cried, The big sorrow tak' lang 
 
 Geordie Fleck! 
 D'ye see what a scart I gat frae a 
 
 preen. 
 By his tousling an' kissing at me 
 
 yestreen; 
 At me yestreen, at me yestreen. 
 By his tousling an' kissing at me yes- 
 treen; 
 I canna conceive what the fallow 
 
 could mean. 
 By his kissing sae meikle at me 
 
 yestreen. 
 
 Then she pu'd up her sleeve an' shaw- 
 
 ed a blue mark. 
 Quo' she I gat that frae young Davy 
 
 our clerk, 
 But the creature had surely forgat 
 
 himsel' clean. 
 When he nipt me sae hard for a kiss 
 
 yestreen; 
 For a kiss yestreen, for a kiss yes- 
 treen, 
 When he nipt me sae hard for a kiss 
 
 yestreen; 
 I wonder what kepit my nails frae 
 
 his een. 
 When he nipt me sae hard for a 
 
 kiss yestreen. 
 
 Then she held up her cheek, an' cried. 
 Foul fa' the laird. 
 
 Just leuk what I gat with his black 
 birsie beard. 
 
 The vile filthy body! was e'er the like 
 seen ? 
 
 To rub me sae sair for a kiss yes- 
 treen; 
 For a kiss yestreen, for a kiss yes- 
 treen; 
 
 To rub me sae sair for a kiss yestreen, 
 
 I'm sure that nae woman o' judge- 
 ment need green 
 To be rubbit, like me, for a kiss 
 yestreen. 
 
 Syne she tald what grand offers she 
 
 aften had had, 
 But wad she tak' a man? — na, she 
 
 wasna sae mad; 
 For the hale o' the sex she cared na 
 
 a preen. 
 An' she hated the way she was kiss'd 
 
 yestreen; 
 Kiss'd yestreen, kiss'd yestreen, 
 She hated the way she was kiss'd 
 
 yestreen; 
 'Twas a mercy that naething mair 
 
 serious had been. 
 For it's dangerous whiles to be kiss- 
 ed at e'en.
 
 304 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 THE NE'ER-DO-WEEL. 
 
 The first stanza is by Robert Tannahill, 
 the others are by Alexander Rodger. 
 
 Come hame to your lingels, ye ne'er- 
 do-weel loon, 
 You're the king o' the dyvours, the 
 
 talk o' the town, 
 Sae soon as the Munonday morning 
 
 comes in, 
 Your wearifu' daidling again maun 
 
 begin. 
 Gudewife, you're a skillet, your 
 
 tongue's just a bell, 
 To the peace o' gude fallows it rings 
 
 the death-knell. 
 But clack till ye deafen auld Barna- 
 
 by's mill, 
 The souter shall aye ha'e his Munon- 
 
 day's yill. 
 
 Come hame to your lap-stane, come 
 
 hame to your last. 
 It's a bonnie affair that your family 
 
 maun fast, 
 While you and your crew here a-guz- 
 
 zling maun sit, 
 Ye daised drunken gude-for nocht 
 
 heir of the pit; 
 Just leuk, how I'm gaun without 
 
 stocking or shoe, 
 Your bairns a' in tatters, an' fother- 
 
 less too. 
 An' yet, quite content, like a sot, 
 
 ye'll sit still. 
 Till your kyte's like to crack, wi' 
 
 your Munonday's yill. 
 
 I tell you gudewife, gin you haud na 
 your clack, 
 
 I'll lend you a reestle wi' this owre 
 your back; 
 
 Maun we be abused an' affronted by 
 you, 
 
 Wi' siccan foul names as "loon,' 
 "dyvour," an' "crew.'" 
 
 Come hame to your lingels, this in- 
 stant come hame. 
 
 Or I'll redden your face, gin ye've yet 
 ony shame, 
 
 For I'll bring a' the bairns, an' we'll 
 just ha'e our fill, 
 
 As weel as yoursel', o' your Munon- 
 day's yill. 
 
 Gin that be the gate o't sirs, come, 
 
 let us stir. 
 What need we sit here to be pestered 
 
 by her.-* 
 For she'll plague an' affront us as far 
 
 as she can; 
 Did ever a woman sae bother a man? 
 Frae yill house to yill house she'll 
 
 after us rin. 
 An' raise the hale town wi' her yelpin' 
 
 and din; 
 Come, ca' the gudewife, bid her bring 
 
 in her bill, 
 I see I maun quat takin' Munonday's 
 
 yill. 
 
 MARY'S DREAM. 
 
 JOHN LOWE. 
 
 This exquisite song was composed about 
 the year 1776, Its author, John Lowe, 
 was a young man wlio had through his 
 own exertions acquired an education that 
 enabled him to fulfil the duties of a private 
 tutur in a gentleman's family. This gentle- 
 man, we are told, was the happy possessor 
 of two very accomplished and pretty 
 daughters, the eldest of whom was en- 
 gaged to be married to a sea captain. The 
 wedding day had been fixed, the guests 
 invited, and all had been made ready to 
 give the gallant captain a grand old time 
 welcome home, after a long voyage he had 
 been absent on, when word was suddenly 
 brought to the expectant bride that his 
 ship had encountered a terrible gale and 
 had gone down with nearly every soul on 
 board. The captain must have stood by 
 his ship to the last, as he was never after- 
 wards heard of except in the imagination 
 of Lowe. This unfortunate occurrence 
 gave such a sudden shock to the young 
 lady, that she lay for many days in a 
 stupor between life and death, and al- 
 though time somewhat restored lier both
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 305 
 
 in body and mind, she never afterwards 
 could be induced to participate in the 
 pleasures of society. It was at this time 
 that the sensitive feelings of Lowe gave 
 vent to the verses entitled "Mary's 
 Dream," the poem on which his repu- 
 tation as a poet whoU}' lasts, and which 
 without doubt is one of the most pathetic 
 pieces in the whole realm of poesy. It 
 at once brought him into closer compan- 
 ionship with each member of the famil)', 
 and very soon he became a suitor for the 
 hand of the youngest lady. Upon his 
 making, however, a declaration of his love 
 to her he was not a little disappointed to 
 have his proposals rejected, and taking 
 this to heart he at once resigned his posi- 
 tion and immigrated to this country. 
 Here he opened a school in Fredericks- 
 burg, Va. , but this not proving successful, 
 he gave it up and returned to Scotland. 
 He afterwards took orders in the Church 
 of England, but he was never fortunate or 
 even happy in after life. He died in 1798, 
 at the age of forty-eight. 
 
 The moon had climb'd the highest 
 hill 
 
 Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 
 And from the eastern summit shed 
 
 Her silver light on tower and tree, 
 When Mary laid her down to sleep, 
 
 Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea; 
 When soft and low a voice was heard, 
 
 " Sweet Mary, weep no more for 
 me! " 
 
 She from her pillow gently raised 
 
 Her head to ask who there might be, 
 And saw young Sandy shivering stand. 
 
 With visage pale, and hollow e'e. 
 "O, Mary dear, cold is my clay; 
 
 It lies beneath a stormy sea. 
 Far, far from thee I sleep in death. 
 
 So, Mary, weep no more for me! 
 
 ** Three stormy nights and stormy 
 days 
 
 We tossed upon the raging main; 
 And long we strove our bark to save, 
 
 But all our striving was in vain. 
 
 Even then, when horrow chilled my 
 blood. 
 My heart was filled with love for 
 thee: 
 The storm is past, and I at rest. 
 So, Mary, weep no more for me! 
 
 "O maiden dear, thyself prepare; 
 
 We soon shall meet upon that shore 
 Where love is free from doubt and 
 care. 
 
 And thou and I shall part no more! " 
 Loud crowed the cock, the shadow 
 fled: 
 
 No more of Sandy could she see. 
 But soft the passing spirit said, 
 
 "Sweet Mary, weep no more for 
 
 me 
 
 t " 
 
 MARY'S DREAM. 
 
 ORIGINAL WORDS. 
 
 The lovely moon had climbed the 
 hill, 
 
 Where eagles big aboon the Dee, 
 And like the looks of a lovely dame, 
 
 Brought joy to every body's e'e; 
 A' but sweet Mary, deep in sleep. 
 
 Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea — 
 A voice drapt saftly on her ear, 
 
 " Sweet Mary, weep nae mair for 
 me!" 
 
 She lifted up her waukening een, 
 
 To see from whence the voice 
 might be. 
 And there she saw her Sandy stand, 
 
 Pale, bending on his hollow e'e! 
 "O Mary dear, lament nae mair, 
 
 I'm in death's thraws below the sea; 
 Thy weeping makes me sad in bliss, 
 
 Sae, Mary, weep nae mair for me! 
 
 " The wind slept when we left the bay, 
 But soon it waked and raised the 
 main,
 
 306 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 And God he bore us down the deep— 
 Who strave wi' him, but strave in 
 
 vain 
 
 He stretch'd his arm, and took me up, 
 Tho' laith I was to gang but thee: 
 
 I look frae heaven aboon the storm; 
 Sae, Mary, weep nae mair for me! 
 
 " Tak' aff thae bride sheets frae thy 
 bed, 
 Which thou hast faulded down 
 for me; 
 Unrobe thee of thy earthly stole — 
 I'll meet wi' thee in heaven hie."_ 
 Three times the grey cock flapt its 
 wing, _ ^ 
 
 To mark the morning lift it s e e. 
 And thrice the passing spirit said, 
 "Sweet Mary, weep nae mair 
 for me!" 
 
 A COGIE O' YILL. 
 
 ANDREW SHERIFF. 
 
 Andrew Sheriff was the author of a 
 Scottish Pastoral, entitled, "Jamie and 
 Bess," which was published at Aberdeen, 
 in 17S7. Burns in his third Northern Tour, 
 refers to him as "a little decrepit bod}' 
 with some ability." He was editor of the 
 Aberdeen Chronicle for a number of years. 
 
 A COGIE o' yill. 
 And a pickle aitmeal, 
 And a dainty wee drappie o' whisky 
 Was our forefathers' dose. 
 For to sweel down their brose, 
 And keep them aye cheery and frisky. 
 Then hey for the whisky, and hey 
 
 for the meal, 
 And hey for the cogie, and hey 
 
 for the yill. 
 Gin ye steer a' thegither they'll 
 
 do unco weel. 
 To keep a chiel cheery and brisk 
 aye. 
 
 When I see our Scots lads, 
 Wi' their kilts and cockauds, 
 That sae aften ha'e lounder'd our foes, 
 man; 
 I think to mysel'. 
 On the meal and the yill, 
 And the fruits o' our Scottish kail- 
 brose, man. 
 Then hey, &c. 
 
 When our brave Highland blades, 
 Wi' their claymores and plaids. 
 In the field drove like sheep a' our 
 foes, man; 
 Their courage and pow'r — 
 Spring frae this to be sure. 
 They're the noble effects o' the brose, 
 man. 
 
 Then hey, &c. 
 
 But your spyndle-shank'd sparks, 
 Wha so ill fill their sarks, 
 Your pale-visaged milksops and bea 
 man; 
 I think when I see them, 
 'Twere kindness to gi'e them — 
 A cogie o' yill or o' brose, man. 
 Then hey, &c. 
 
 What John Bull despises. 
 
 Our better sense prizes, 
 He denies eatin' blanter ava, man; 
 
 But by eatin' o' blanter. 
 
 His mare's grown, I'll warrant her. 
 The manliest brute o' the twa, man. 
 Then hey, &c. 
 
 ILKA BLADE O' GRASS GETS 
 ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW. 
 
 JOHN YOUNGER. 
 
 John Younger is better known through- 
 out Scotland as the author of a prize essay 
 on the Sabbath, than as a songwriter. He 
 published at one time a poem, entitled, 
 "Thoughts as They Rise," which com- 
 manded a very extensive sale for a year or
 
 CELEBRATED S0NQ8 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 307 
 
 two, but which is now almost forgotten. 
 He was the son of a shoemaker, and was 
 born near Ancruin, in Roxburgshire, on 
 the 5th of July, 1785. Before he had reach- 
 ed his tenth year he was busy at work as a 
 shoemaker's apprentice, consequently his 
 educatkjn must have been of a very lim- 
 ited nature. He managed, however, to 
 save enough money during his apprentice- 
 ship to enable him to begin business on 
 his own account when he was twenty-five 
 years of age. During the latter portion of 
 his life he was postmaster for the village 
 of St. Boswell's. His death occurred on 
 the 19th of July, i860. 
 
 •»■ 
 
 Oh, dinna be sae sair cast down, 
 
 My ain sweet bairnies dear, 
 Whatever storms in life may blaw, 
 
 Take nae sic heart o' fear. 
 Though life's been aye a checker'd 
 scene 
 
 Since Eve's first apple grew, 
 Nae blade o' grass has been forgot, 
 
 O' its ain drap o' dew. 
 
 The bonnie flowers o' Paradise, 
 
 And a' that's bloom'd sinsyne, 
 By bank an' brae an' lover's bower, 
 
 Adown the course o' time, 
 Or 'neath the gardener's fostering 
 hand 
 
 Their annual bloom renew, 
 Ilk blade o' grass has had as weel 
 
 Its ain sweet drap o' dew. 
 
 The oaks and cedars of the earth 
 
 May toss their arms in air. 
 Or bend beneath the sweeping blast 
 
 That strips the forest bare; 
 The flower enfolds while storms 
 o'erpass. 
 
 Till sunshine spreads anew, 
 And sips, as does ilk blade o' grass, 
 
 Its lucent drap o' dew. 
 
 The great may loll in world's wealth 
 And a' the pomp o' state, 
 
 While labor, bent wi' eident cares, 
 Maun toil baith air and late. 
 
 The poor may gae to bed distrest, 
 
 With nae relief in view, 
 And rising like ilk blade o' grass, 
 
 Shine with the pearl o' dew. 
 
 Oh, what a gentle hand is His 
 
 That deeds the lilies fair. 
 And o' the meanest thing in life 
 
 Takes mair than mother's care! 
 Can ye no' put your trust in Him, 
 
 With heart resign'd and true, 
 Wha ne'er forgets to gie the grass. 
 
 Ilk blade its drap o' dew. 
 
 THE STANDARD ON THE 
 BRAES O' xMAR. 
 
 ALEXANDER LAING. 
 
 Alexander Laing was the author of a 
 number of well-known songs. He was 
 born at Brechin on the 14th of May, 1787, 
 and in early life engaged in the business 
 of a flax-dresser. By industrj' and care 
 he accumulated a large fortune which 
 enabled him to retire from business a few 
 years before his death. He published in 
 1S46 a collection of his songs and poems 
 under the title of " Wayside Flowers," of 
 which a second edition appeared in 1S50. 
 He also contributed largely to " The Harp 
 of Caledonia." " The Book of Scottish 
 Song " and " Whistle Binkie," His death 
 took place at Brechin, on the 14th of 
 October, 1S57. 
 
 The standard on the braes o' Mar, 
 
 Is up and streaming rarely; 
 The gathering pipe on Loch-na-gar, 
 Is sounding lang and sairly. 
 
 The Highlandmen 
 
 Frae hill and glen, 
 
 In martial hue, 
 
 With bonnets blue. 
 
 With belted plaids 
 
 And burnish'd blades, 
 Are coming late and early.
 
 308 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Wha wadna join our noble chief, 
 
 The Drummond and Glengarry, 
 Macgregor, Murray, Rollo, Keith, 
 Panmure, and gallant Harry ? 
 Macdonald's men, 
 Clan-Ranald's men, 
 Mackenzie's men, 
 Macgillavry's men, 
 Strathallan's men, 
 The Lowlan' men. 
 Of Callander and Airly, 
 
 Fy! Donald, up and let's awa', 
 
 We canna langer parley, 
 When Jamie's back is at the wa', 
 The lad we lo'e sae dearly. 
 We'll go — we'll go 
 And meet the foe 
 And fling the plaid. 
 And swing the blade, 
 And forward dash, 
 And hack and slash — 
 And fleg the German Carlie. 
 
 I WADNA GI'E MY AIN WIFE. 
 
 ALEXANDER LAING. 
 
 I WADNA gi'e my ain wife 
 
 For ony wife I see; 
 For, oh! my dainty ain wife, 
 
 She's aye sae dear to me. 
 A bonnier yet I've never seen, 
 
 A better canna be; 
 I wadna gi'e my ain wife 
 
 For ony wife I see. 
 
 Though beauty is a fadin' flower, 
 
 As fadin' as it's fair, 
 It looks fu' well in ony wife, 
 
 An' mine has a' her share. 
 She ance was ca'd a bonnie lass — 
 
 She's bonnie aye to me; 
 I wadna gi'e my ain wife 
 
 For ony wife I see. 
 
 Oh, couthy is my ingle-cheek. 
 
 An' cheery is my Jean; 
 I never see her angry look. 
 
 Nor hear her word on ana. 
 She's gude wi' a' the neebors roun', 
 
 An' aye gude wi' me; 
 I wadna gi'e my ain wife 
 
 For ony wife I see. 
 
 But oh, her looks sae kindly, 
 
 They melt my heart outright. 
 When owre the baby at her breast 
 
 She hangs wi' fond delight. 
 She looks intil its bonnie face 
 
 An' syne looks to me; 
 I wadna gi'e my ain wife 
 
 For ony wife I see. 
 
 TO THINK O' THEE, 
 
 JOHN BURTT. 
 
 O LASSIE I lo'e dearest, 
 Mair fair to me than fairest, 
 Mair rare to me than rarest; 
 
 How sweet to think o' thee! 
 When blythe the blue e'ed dawnin' 
 Steals saftly o'er the lawnin'. 
 And furls night's sable awnin', 
 
 I love to think o' thee. 
 
 An' while the honied dew-drap 
 Still trembles at the flower-tap, 
 The fairest bud I pu't up. 
 
 An' kiss't for sake o' thee; 
 An' when by stream, or fountain, 
 In glen, or on the mountain. 
 The lingering moments counting, 
 
 I pause an' think o' thee. 
 
 When the sun's red-rays are streamin'. 
 Warm on the meadow beamin'. 
 Or o'er the loch wild gleamin', 
 
 My heart is fu' o' thee. 
 An' tardy-footed gloamin'. 
 Out o'er the hills slow comin', 
 Still finds me lanely roamin'. 
 
 And thinkin' still o' thee.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 309 
 
 When soughs the distant billow, 
 An' night blasts shake the willow, 
 Stretch'd on my lanely pillow 
 
 My dreams are a' o' thee. 
 Then think when frien's caress thee, 
 O think when cares distress thee, 
 O think when pleasures bless thee, 
 
 O' him that thinks o' thee! 
 
 ADVICE TO THE LASSIES. 
 
 JOHN BURTT. 
 
 Lassies, lookna sourly meek. 
 
 But laugh an' love in youth's gay 
 morn; 
 If ance the bloom forsake your cheek, 
 Fareweel your heuks, the hairst is 
 shorn. 
 
 The secret favor that you meet. 
 
 Or the favor ye return, 
 If vainly ye let ithers see't, 
 
 Fareweel your heuks, the hairst is 
 shorn. 
 
 Wi' care the tender moments grip, 
 When your cautious lovers burn; 
 
 But if you let that moment slip, 
 Fareweel your heuks, the hairst is 
 shorn. 
 
 Be on your guard wi' Sir or Laird; 
 
 A' ties but that o' marriage spurn; 
 For if you grant what they may want, 
 
 Fareweel your heuks, the hairst is 
 shorn. 
 
 The lad that's wi' your siller ta'en. 
 Reject his vows wi' honest scorn; 
 
 For ance the glitterin' ore's his ain, 
 Fareweel your heuks, the hairst is 
 shorn. 
 
 Widows rest you as ye are — 
 
 Nae lover now dare crook his horn; 
 
 But mak' him master o' you gear — 
 Fareweel your heuks, the hairst is 
 shorn. 
 
 Lassies that nae lads ha'e got, 
 But live in garrets lane and lorn, 
 
 Let ilk be carefu' o' her cat — 
 
 Ne'er think o' heuks — your haist 
 is shorn. 
 
 WAES ME FOR PRINCE 
 CHARLIE. 
 
 WILLIAM GLEN. 
 
 There are very few Jacobite songs which 
 equal in tenderness or appeal more directly 
 to our feelings than " Waes me for Prince 
 Charlie." The subject and the time to 
 which the song refers are sufficient to en- 
 gage the sympathy of every patriotic Scots- 
 man, for it at once recalls the terrible dan- 
 gers and privations through which Prince 
 Charles passed before he made his escape 
 to France, after the defeat of his army at 
 the battle of CuUoden. " For upwards of 
 five months," says Dr. Robert Chambers, 
 in his History of the Rebellion of 1745-6, 
 "he had skulked as a proscribed fugitive 
 through the mountains and seas of the 
 West Highlands, often in the most immi- 
 nent danger of being taken, and generally 
 exposed to severe personal hardships. The 
 narrowness of his own escapes is shown 
 strikingly in the circumstance of many 
 persons being taken immediately after hav- 
 ing contributed to his safety. The reader 
 must have already accorded all due praise 
 to the people, who b}' their kindness and 
 fidelity, had been the chief means of work- 
 ing out his deliverance. Scarcely any 
 gentleman to whom he applied for pro- 
 tection, or to aid in effecting his move- 
 ments, refused to peril their own safety on 
 his account; hundreds, many of whom were 
 in the hublest walk of life, had been en- 
 trusted with the secret, yet, if we overlook 
 the beggar boj- in South Uist, and the dubi- 
 ous case of Barrisdale, none had attempted 
 to give him up to his enemies. Thirty 
 thousand pounds had been offered in vain 
 for the life of one human being, in a coun- 
 try where the sum would have purchased 
 a princely estate." 
 
 "Waes me for Prince Charlie" has 
 always been an exceedingly popular song. 
 It has captivated the hearts of all classes. 
 Even Royalty has been charmed by its 
 touching sentiments, as the followinganec- 
 dote, related by Alex. Whitelaw, will show:
 
 310 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 "During a late visit of her Majesty, the 
 Queen to the North, this song received a 
 mark of royal favor which would have 
 sweetened, had he been alive, poor Glen's 
 bitter cup of life. While at Taymouth 
 Castle, the Marquis of Breadalbane had 
 engaged Mr. Wilson, the celebrated vocal- 
 ist, to sing before Her Majesty. A list of 
 the songs Mr. Wilson was in the habit of 
 singing was submitted to the Queen, that 
 she might signify her pleasure as to those 
 she would wish to hear, when Her Majesty 
 immediatel}' fixed upon the following: 
 ' Lochaber no More,' ' The Flowers of the 
 Forest,' 'The Lass o' Gowrie,' 'John 
 Anderson, my Jo, John,' 'Cam' ye by 
 Athol ?' and 'The Laird o' Cockpen.' The 
 present song was not in Mr. Wilson's list, 
 but Her Majesty herself asked if he could 
 sing 'Waes me for Prince Charlie," which 
 fortunate!}' he was able to do. The selec- 
 tion of songs which the Queen made dis- 
 plays eminently her sound taste and good 
 feeling. A better, or one more varied, 
 both as regards music and words, taking 
 the number of pieces into account, could 
 not easily be formed." 
 
 William Glen the author of " Waes me 
 for Prince Charlie," was born at Glasgow 
 on November 14th, 17S9. He was in busi- 
 ness for many years in his native city as a 
 manufacturer, and met with one or two 
 severe losses in trade at different times, 
 which tinged the latter years of his life 
 with much unhappiness. He was elected 
 one of the managers of the "Glasgow 
 Merchant's House " and a director of the 
 "Chamber of Commerce." In 1815 he 
 published a volume of his musings, with 
 the title, "Poems: Chiefly Lyrical." He 
 died in December, 1826. 
 
 A WEE bird cam' to our ha' door, 
 
 He warbled sweet and clearly, 
 An' aye the owercome o' his sang 
 
 Was, " Waesme for Prince Charlie!" 
 Oh, when I heard the bonnie soun'. 
 
 The tears cam drappin' rarely; 
 1 took my bannet aff my head. 
 
 For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie. 
 
 Quo' I, " My bird, my bonnie, bonnie 
 
 bird, 
 Is that a song ye borrow ? 
 Or is't some words ye've learnt by rote, 
 
 Or a lilt o' dule an' sorrow ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, no, no! " the wee bird sang, 
 
 " I've flown sin' mornin' early. 
 But sic a day o' wind an' rain! — 
 
 Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie! 
 
 " On hills that are by right his ain 
 
 He roves a lanely stranger; 
 On every side he's pressed by want — 
 
 On every side by danger. 
 Yestreen I met him in a glen. 
 
 My heart maist burstit fairly. 
 For sadly changed indeed was he — 
 
 Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie ! 
 
 "Dark night cam* on, the tempest 
 roar'd 
 
 Loud o'er the hills an' valleys: 
 An' whare was't that your Prince lay 
 doun, 
 
 Whase hame should been a palace ? 
 He row'd him in a Highland plaid. 
 
 Which cover'd him but sparely. 
 An' slept beneath a bush o' broom — 
 
 Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie !" 
 
 But now the bird saw some red-coats, 
 An' he shook his wings wi' anger: 
 
 " Oh! this is no a land for me, 
 I'll tarry here nae langer." 
 
 A while he hover'd on the wing. 
 Ere he departed fairly; 
 
 But weel I mind the fareweel strain 
 'Twas, "Waes me for Prince Charlie!" 
 
 THE BATTLE OF VITTORIA. 
 
 WILLIAM GLEN. 
 
 Said to have been composed in honor of 
 the 71st, or Glasgow regiment of light 
 infantry, who took a leading part in this 
 famous battle. 
 
 Sing a' ye bards, wi' loud acclaim, 
 High glory gi'e to gallant Graham, 
 Heap laurels on our marshal's fame 
 Wha conquer'd at Vittoria.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 311 
 
 Triumphant freedom smiled on Spain, 
 An' raised her stately form again, 
 Whan the British lion shook his rnane 
 On the mountains of Vittoria. 
 
 Let blustering Suchet crousely crack. 
 Let Joseph rin the the coward's track, 
 An' Jourdan wish his baton back 
 
 He left upon Vittoria. 
 If e'er they meet their worthy king, 
 Let them dance roun" him in a ring, 
 An' some ScQts piper play the spring 
 
 He blew them at Vittoria. 
 
 Gi'e truth and honor to the Dane, 
 Gi'e German's monarch heart and 
 
 brain, 
 But aye in sic a cause as Spain 
 
 Gi'e Britain a Vittoria. 
 The English Rose was ne'er sae red, 
 The Shamrock waved where glory led. 
 An' the Scottish Thistle rear'd its head 
 
 In joy upon Vittoria. 
 
 Loud was the battle's stormy swell, 
 Whare thousands fought and mony 
 
 fell; 
 But the Glasgow heroes bore the bell 
 
 At the battle of Vittoria. 
 The Paris maids may ban them a', 
 Their lads are maistly w^ede awa', 
 An' cauld an' pale as wreaths o' snaw 
 
 They lie upon Vittoria. 
 
 Wi' quakin' heart and tremblin' knees 
 The Eagle standard-bearer flees. 
 While the " meteor flag " floats to the 
 breeze, 
 An' wantons on Vittoria. 
 Britannia's glory there was shown, 
 By the undaunted Wellington, 
 An' the tyrant trembled on his throne, 
 "Whan hearin' o' Vittoria. 
 
 Peace to the spirits o' the brave, 
 Let a' their trophies for them wave, 
 An' green be our Cadogan's grave, 
 Upon they field, Vittoria ! 
 
 There let eternal laurels bloom, 
 While maidens mourn his early doom, 
 An' deck his lowly honor 'd tomb 
 Wi' roses on Vittoria. 
 
 Ye Caledonian war-])ipes play, 
 Barossa heard your Highlan' lay. 
 An' the gallant Scot show'd there 
 that day, 
 
 A prelude to Vittoria. 
 Shout to the heroes — swell ilk voice, 
 To them wha made poor Spain rejoice, 
 Shout Wellington an' Lynedoch, boys. 
 
 Barossa an' Vittoria! 
 
 BLINK OVER THE BURN, 
 SWEET BETTY. 
 
 WILLIAM GLEN. 
 
 " Blink O'er the Burn, Sweet Betty" is 
 the title of a very old song, of which 
 there are various fragments in existence. 
 
 Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 
 
 Blink over the burn to me; 
 Blink over the burn sweet Bettj'-, 
 
 An' I'll gang alang wi' thee; 
 Though father and mither forbade it, 
 
 Forbidden I wadna be; 
 Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 
 
 An' I'll gang alang wi' thee. 
 
 The cheek o' my love's like the rose- 
 bud, 
 
 Blushing red wi' the mornin' dew, 
 Her hair's o' the loveliest auburn. 
 
 Her ee's o' the bonniest blue; 
 Her lips are like threads o' the scarlet. 
 
 Disclosing a pearly row; 
 Her high swelling, love heaving bosom 
 
 Is white as the mountain snow. 
 
 But it is na her beauty that hands me, 
 A glitterin' chain winna lang bind; 
 
 'Tis her heavenly seraph-like sweet- 
 ness. 
 An' the graces adornin' her mind;
 
 313 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 She's dear to my soul as the sunbeam 
 
 Is dear to the summer's morn, 
 An' she says, though her father for- 
 bade it, 
 She'll ne'er break the vows she has 
 sworn. 
 
 Her father's a canker'd auld carle, 
 
 He swears he will ne'er gi'e consent; 
 Such carle should never get daughters, 
 
 Unless they can mak' them content; 
 But she says, though her father for- 
 bade it, 
 
 Forbidden she winna be; 
 Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 
 
 An' I'll gang alang wi' thee. 
 
 LUCY'S FLITTIN'. 
 
 WILLIAM LAIDLAW. 
 
 William Laidlaw the author of this 
 beautiful song, was born at Blackhouse, 
 Yarrow, in 17S0. He became the amanuen- 
 sis and trusted companion of Sir Walter 
 Scott, and assisted him greatly by aiding 
 him in procuring materials for his 
 " Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." He 
 possessed a wonderful memory, replete 
 with information and incidents relating to 
 Scottish history, ballads and songs. He 
 was theauthor of various poems and songs, 
 many of which, by their beauty and fancy, 
 prove him to have been a favorite with the 
 muses. He died in 1S45. 
 
 " Lucy's Flittin' " is admired very much 
 by all genuine lovers of Scottish song for 
 its sweet simplicity and purity of language. 
 Lucy, an innocent orphan girl, is leaving 
 the house in the glen where she had been 
 at service during the summer, and the 
 tears start to her eyes as she begins to 
 realize that she is now parting with her 
 old master and the many neighbors who 
 have been so friendly to her since the day 
 when she first came among them. As she 
 passed down the glen she meets one who 
 had evidently become something more 
 than a friend to her, and who is now so 
 grieved at this separation that he can only 
 hold out his hand to her and say, " Fare 
 ye weel, Lucy;" and is then compelled to 
 run indoors to hide the emotion with 
 
 which he is struggling, and which tells its 
 own story so plainly. So Lucy resumes 
 her journey promising herself to love him 
 and cherish the bonnie blue ribbon he 
 gave her, and listening the while to the 
 little birds, whose songs all seem to end in 
 the same sad refrain of " Fare ye weel, 
 Lucy." She cannot help wondering why 
 her poor heart seems to be breaking, or 
 why she should wish to become any 
 greater or better than what she really is, 
 if she was not born to be any better, and 
 moralizing thus, she reaches a turn in the 
 glen which hides from her view the old 
 house with its surroundings. She stays 
 for a moment to say good bye to them all, 
 and is rewarded by seeing again her faith- 
 ful lover who is now gazing fondly after 
 her. Nor does she ever see him again, 
 for soon afterward we are told she was 
 laid in her cold grave, and poor Jamie is 
 left to mourn her loss. The subject is 
 certainly a very simple one, but the com- 
 position as a whole is a very sweet and 
 pathetic little piece of poetical fiction. 
 One must, however, be familiar with the 
 Scottish language to thoroughly appreciate 
 its beaut3\ The last stanza is said to have 
 been written by James Hogg. He fre- 
 quently asserted that he alone was re- 
 sponsible for the death of poor Lucy. 
 
 'TwAS when the wan leaf frae the birk 
 tree was fa'in, 
 And Martinmas dowie had wound 
 up the year. 
 That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' 
 her a' in't. 
 And left her old master and neebors 
 sae dear; 
 For Lucy had served in the glen a' 
 the simmer; 
 She cam' there afore the flower 
 bloomed on the pea; 
 An orphan was she, and they had 
 been kind till her. 
 Sure that was the thing brocht the 
 tear to her e'e. 
 
 She gaed by the stable where Jamie 
 was stannin'; 
 Richt sair was his kind heart the 
 flittin' to see;
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 313 
 
 "Fare ye weel, Lucy," quo' Jamie, 
 and ran in; 
 The gatherin' tears trickled fast 
 frae his e'e. 
 As down the burn side she gaed slow 
 wi' the flittin', 
 "Fare ye weel, Lucy," was ilka 
 bird's sang; 
 She heard the craw sayin't, high on 
 the tree sittin'; 
 And robin was chirpin't the brown 
 leaves amang. 
 
 Oh, what is't that puts my puir heart 
 in a flutter ? 
 And what gars the tears come sae 
 fast to my e'e ? 
 If I wasna ettled to be ony better, 
 Then what gars me wish ony better 
 to be? 
 I'm just like a lammie that loses its 
 mither; 
 Nae mither or friend the puir 
 lammie can see; 
 I fear I ha'e tint my puir heart 
 a'thegither, 
 Nae wonder the tears fa' sae fast 
 frae my e'e. 
 
 Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd 
 up the ribbon, 
 The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie 
 ga'e me; 
 Yestereen, when he ga'e me't and saw 
 I was stabbin', 
 I'll never forget the wae blink o' 
 his e'e. 
 Though now he said naething but 
 Fare ye weel, Lucy, 
 It made me I neither could speak, 
 hear nor see; 
 He could na say mair but just Fare 
 ye weel, Lucy, 
 Yet that will I mind till the day 
 that I dee. 
 
 The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew 
 when it's droukit; 
 
 The hare likes the brake and the, 
 braird on the lea; 
 But Lucy likes Jamie — she turn'd and 
 she look'it, 
 She thocht the dear place she wad 
 never mair see. 
 Ah, weel may young Jamie gang 
 dowie, and cheerless; 
 And weel may he greet on the 
 banks o' the burn; 
 For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle 
 and peerless. 
 Lies cauld in her grave, and will 
 never return! 
 
 ALAKE FOR THE LASSIE. 
 
 WILLIAM LAIDLAW. 
 
 Alake for the lassie! she's no right 
 
 at a', 
 That lo'es a dear laddie, an' he far 
 
 awa'; 
 But the lassie has muckle mair cause 
 
 to complain. 
 That lo'es a dear lad, when she's no 
 
 lo'ed again. 
 
 The fair was just comin', my heart it 
 
 grew fain 
 To see my dear laddie, to see him 
 
 again; 
 My heart it grew fain, an' lap light 
 
 at the thought 
 Of milkin' the ewes my dear Jamie 
 
 wad bught. 
 
 The bonnie gray morn scarce had 
 
 open'd her e'e, 
 When we set to the gate a' wi' nae 
 
 little glee; 
 I was blythe, but my mind oft misga'e 
 
 me right sair, 
 For I hadna seen Jamie for five 
 
 months an' mair. 
 
 r the hirin' right soon my dear Jamie 
 I saw,
 
 314 
 
 CELEBRATED S0NQ8 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 I saw nae ane like him, sae bonnie 
 
 and braw; 
 I watch'd an' baid near him, his 
 
 motion to see. 
 In hopes aye to catch a kind glance 
 
 o' his e'e. 
 
 He never wad see me in ony ae place: 
 At length I gaed up an' just smiled 
 
 in his face, 
 I wonder aye yet my heart brackna 
 
 in twa — 
 He just said, " How are ye ?" and 
 
 steppit awa'. 
 
 My neeber lads strave to entice me 
 
 awa'; 
 They roos'd me, an' hecht me ilk 
 
 thing that was braw; 
 But I hatit them a', an' I hatit the 
 
 fair, 
 For Jamie's behaviour had wounded 
 
 me sair. 
 
 His heart was sae leal, and his manners 
 
 sae kind! 
 He's someway gane wrang, he may 
 
 alter his mind; 
 An' sud he do sae, he's be welcome 
 
 to me; 
 I'm sure I can never like ony but he. 
 
 HER BONNIE BLACK E'E. 
 
 WILLIAM LAIDLAW. 
 
 On the banks o' the burn while I 
 pensively wander. 
 The mavis sings sweetly, unheeded 
 by me; 
 I thinic on my lassie, her gentle mild 
 nature, 
 I think on the smile o' her bonnie 
 black e'e. 
 
 When heavy the rain fa's, and loud 
 loud the win' blaws, 
 An' simmer's gay cleedin' drives 
 fast frae the tree ; 
 
 I heedna the win' nor the rain when 
 I think on 
 The kind lovely smile o' my lassie's 
 black e'e. 
 
 When swift as the hawk, in the 
 stormy November, 
 The cauld norlan' win' ca's the 
 drift owre the lea; 
 Though bidin' its blast on the side o' 
 the mountain, 
 I think on the smile o' her bonnie 
 black e'e. 
 
 When braw at a weddin' I see the fine 
 lasses, 
 Tho' a' neat an' bonnie, they're 
 naething to me! 
 I sigh an' sit dowie, regardless what 
 passes. 
 When I miss the smile o' her bonnie 
 black e'e. 
 
 When thin twinklin' starnies announce 
 the gray gloamin', 
 When a' round the ingle's sae 
 cheerie to see; 
 Then music delightfu', saft on the 
 heart stealin', 
 Minds me o' the smile o' her bonnie 
 black e'e. 
 
 When jokin', an' laughin', the lave 
 they are merry, 
 Tho' absent my heart like the lave 
 I maun be; 
 Sometimes I laugh wi' them, but I oft 
 turn dowie, 
 An' think on the smile o' my lassie's 
 black e'e. 
 
 Her lovely fair form frae my mind's 
 awa' never, 
 She's dearer than a' this hale warld 
 to rr^e; 
 An' this is my wish, May I leave it, if 
 ever 
 She row on anither her love-beam- 
 ing e'e.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 315 
 
 GLOOMY FEBER'VVAR. 
 
 DR. PATRICK BUCHAN. 
 
 The first verse is by Robert Tannahill. 
 Patrick Buchan, the celebrated ballad 
 collector was born at Peterhead, in 1790. 
 He began life as a printer and in 1S19 
 compiled the " Annals of Peterhead," a 
 small volume which he printed on a press 
 of his own construction. In 1824 he 
 astonished his friends and brought himself 
 into public notice by publishing a treatise 
 in which he endeavored to prove that 
 animals were possessed of souls. He was 
 one of Sir Walter Scott's warmest friends 
 and frequently passed many days with him 
 at Abbotsford. He died at London on 
 the 19th of September, 1854. 
 
 Thou cauld gloomy Feber'war, 
 
 Oh! gin thou wert awa'! 
 I'm wae to hear thy soughin' winds, 
 
 I'm wae to see thy snaw; 
 For my bonnie braw young Hieland- 
 man, 
 
 The lad I lo'e sae dear, 
 Has vow'd to come and see me, 
 
 In the spring time o' the year. 
 
 A silken bam' he gae me. 
 
 To bin' my gowden hair; 
 A siller brooch and tartan plaid, 
 
 A' for his sake to wear: 
 And oh! my heart was like to break, 
 
 (For partin' sorrows sair,) 
 As he vow'd to come and see me, 
 
 In the spring time o' the year. 
 
 Aft, aft as gloaming dims the sky, 
 
 I wander out alane, 
 Whare buds the bonnie yellow whins, 
 
 Around the trystin' stane: 
 'Twas there he press'd me to his heart, 
 
 And kiss'd awa' the tear. 
 As he vow'd to come and see me, 
 
 In the spring time o' the year. 
 
 Ye gentle breezes saftly blaw, 
 And deed anew the wuds: 
 
 Ye lav'rocks lilt your cheery sangs, 
 Amang the fleecy cluds; 
 
 Till Feber'war and a' his train, 
 
 Affrighted disappear — 
 I'll hailwi' you theblythesorae change, 
 
 The spring time o' the year. 
 
 SONG OF THE SCOTTISH 
 EXILE. 
 
 DAVID VEDDER. 
 
 David Vedder was for many years a 
 valuable contributor to Chambers' Edin- 
 burgh Journal, The Christian Herald, 
 Constable's Edinburgh Magazine, etc. 
 His principal songs, however, appeared 
 in Blackie's " Book of Scottish Song," 
 and " Whistlebinkie." He was born in 
 the parish of Burness, Orkney, in 1790. 
 Having become a sailor at an early age he 
 rapidly rose through the different grades 
 of his profession, until, when still a young 
 man, he was promoted captain of a vessel 
 and made several successful voyages to 
 Greenland. In 1826 he published a 
 volume of poems entitled "The Covenant- 
 er's Communion and other Poems," which 
 was soon followed by "Arcadian Sketches " 
 He died at Edinburgh on the nth of 
 February, 1854. 
 
 Oh! the sunny peaches glow, 
 
 And the grapes in clusters blush; 
 And the cooling silver streams 
 
 From their sylvan fountains rush; 
 There is music in the grove. 
 
 And there's fragrance on the gale; 
 But there's nought so dear to me 
 
 As my own Highland vale. 
 
 Oh! the queen-like virgin rose. 
 
 Of the dew and sunlight born. 
 And the azure violet, 
 
 Spread their beauties to the morn ; 
 So does the hyacinth. 
 
 And the lily pure and pale ; 
 But I love the daisy best 
 
 In my own Highland vale. 
 
 Hark! hark! those thrilling notes! 
 
 'Tis the nightingale complains ; 
 Oh! the soul of music breathes 
 
 In those more than plaintive strains
 
 316 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 But they're not so dear to me 
 As the murmur of the rill. 
 
 And the bleating of the lambs 
 On my own Highland hill. 
 
 Oh! the flow'rets fair may glow, 
 
 And the juicy fruits may blush, 
 And the beauteous birds may sing, 
 
 And the crystal streamlets rush; 
 And the verdant meads may smile, 
 
 And the cloudless sun may beam, 
 But there's nought beneath the skies 
 
 Like my own Highland home. 
 
 PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD. 
 
 DAVID VEDDER. 
 
 Farewell to thee Scotland, thy 
 verdure is blighted. 
 Thy daisies are steeped in the blood 
 of the brave; 
 And L who thy wrongs with the 
 sword would have righted, 
 Am tossed like a fugitive serf on 
 the wave! 
 Impelled to the pursuit, by gold and 
 by vengence, 
 My foemen are swift as the storm- 
 driven rack ; 
 From the fierce brutal tribes, they've 
 selected their engines, 
 The beagles and blood-hounds are 
 scenting my track. 
 
 Farewell to thee, Scotland, thy hills 
 
 are receding, 
 So beagles and blood-hounds can 
 
 track as they may; 
 But my heart to its centre is wounded 
 
 and bleeding. 
 For thousands who fell on Cul- 
 
 loden's dark day. 
 The hill fox's howl, and the lone 
 
 widow's wailings, 
 
 Commingle at midnight, 'midst 
 tempest and rain; 
 And the red mountain streamlets by 
 smouldering sheilings. 
 Brawl hoarsely and fiercely the 
 dirge of the slain. 
 
 The chieftains and heroes who follow- 
 ed my banner 
 Are pining in dungeons, and bleach- 
 ing on walls; 
 Or, stripped of their all, saving con- 
 science and honor. 
 The grass growing rank on their 
 hearths and their halls. 
 Farewell to thee, Scotland, thy 
 loftiest mountain 
 Is fading and blending with ocean 
 and sky, 
 I groam — for my tears are dried up at 
 the fountain — 
 A wanderer I've lived, and an exile 
 I'll die. 
 
 KATE DALRYMPLE. 
 
 WILLIAM WATT. 
 
 William Watt was born at West Linton, 
 Peeblesshire, in 1792, and died in April, 
 1859. To trade he was a weaver. The 
 closing period of his life was chequered by 
 misfortune and domestic bereavement. 
 
 In a wee cot-house far across the muir, 
 Where the peesweeps, plovers, and 
 
 whaups cry dreary. 
 There lived an auld maid for mony 
 
 lang years. 
 Wham ne'er a wooer did e'er ca' 
 
 his dearie. 
 A lanely lass was Kate Dalrymple, 
 A thrifty queen was Kate Dalrymple; 
 Nae music, exceptin' the clear burnie's 
 
 wimple, 
 Was heard round the dwellin' o' Kate 
 
 Dalrymple.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 317 
 
 Her face had a smack' o' the grue- 
 some and grim, 
 Whilk did f rae the fash o' a' wooers 
 
 defend her; 
 Her lang Roman nose nearly met wi' 
 
 her chin, 
 That brang folk in min' o' the auld 
 
 witch o' Endor. 
 A weagle in her walk had Kate 
 
 Dalrymple, 
 sneevil in her talk had Kate 
 
 Dalrymple; 
 And mony cornelian and cairngorn 
 
 pimple 
 Did bleeze on the dun face o' Kate 
 
 Dalrymple. 
 
 She span tarry woo' the hale winter 
 
 through. 
 For Kate ne'er was lazy, but eident 
 
 and thrifty; 
 She wrocht 'mang the peats, coil'd 
 
 the hay, shore the corn. 
 And supported hersel' by her ain 
 
 hard shift aye. 
 But ne'er a lover cam' to Kate Dal- 
 rymple, 
 For beauty and tocher wanted Kate 
 
 Dalrymple; 
 Unheeded was she by baith gentle 
 
 and simple, 
 A blank in the warld seemed puir 
 
 Kate Dalrymple. 
 
 But mony are the ups and downs in life, 
 Aft the dice-box o' fate's jumbled 
 
 a' tapsalterrie; 
 Sae Kate fell heiress to a friend's hale 
 
 estate, 
 And nae langer for lovers had she 
 
 cause to weary. 
 The squire cam' a-wooing o' Kate 
 
 Dalrymple, 
 The priest scrapin', booin', fan' out 
 
 Kate Dalrymple; 
 And on ilk wooer's face was seen 
 
 love's smiling dimple. 
 And noo she's nae mair Kate — but 
 
 Miss Dalrymple. 
 
 Her auld cuttystool, that she used at 
 
 her wheel. 
 Is flung by for the saft gilded sofa 
 
 sae gaudy; 
 And noo she's array'd in her silks and 
 
 brocade, 
 And can rank noo for ruffs and 
 
 muffs wi' ony lady. 
 Still an unco fash to Kate Dalrymple, 
 Was dressing and party clash to Kate 
 
 Dalrymple; 
 She thocht a half-marrow, bred in line 
 
 mair simple, 
 Wad be a far fitter match for Kate 
 
 Dalrymple, 
 
 She aftentimes thocht, when she 
 
 dwelt by hersel', 
 She could wed Willie Speedystool 
 
 the sarkin weaver; 
 And now to the wabster she the 
 
 secret did tell, 
 And for love or for int'rest. Will 
 
 did kindly receive her. 
 He flang by his heddles for Kate 
 
 Dalrymple, 
 He burnt a' his treddles doun for 
 
 Kate Dalrymple; 
 Though his right e'e doth skellie, and 
 
 his lang leg doth limp ill, 
 He's wedded to and bedded noo wi' 
 
 Kate Dalrymple. 
 
 THE EWE-BUCHTING'S 
 BONNIE. 
 
 THOMAS PRINGLE. 
 
 The first stanza of this excellent song 
 was composed b)' Lady Grizell Baillie, the 
 authoress of "Were Na my heart licht I 
 wad dee." Thomas Pringle says that he 
 transcribed it from a portion of a letter in 
 the handwriting of Lady Baillie, addressed 
 to her brother Patrick, who was at the 
 time an exile in Holland. Pringle was 
 born at Blaiklaw, in Teviotdale, on Jan- 
 uary 5th, 1789, and was educated at the
 
 318 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 grammar school at Kelso. In 1808 he was 
 appointed one of the clerks at the Regis- 
 ter House in Edinburgh, and while there 
 he wrote a poem entitled "The Mirror," 
 which attracted much attention from the 
 public, and was the means of introducing 
 him to Sir Walter Scott and James Hogg. 
 In 1817 he started the Edinburgh Monthly 
 Magazine, but owing to some misunder- 
 standing with the publishers it was short- 
 ly afterwards discontinued. He then be- 
 came the editor of Constable's Edinburgh 
 Magazine and Literary Miscellany and 
 conducted at the same time, a semi-week- 
 ly newspaper called the Star. In 1820 he 
 emigrated to South Africa, and was ap- 
 pointed keeper of the Government Library 
 at Cape Town. This position he held till 
 1826, when he returned to London and be- 
 came the Secretary to the Anti-Slavery 
 Society. He died on December 5, 1834, 
 and was interred in the Bunhili Field 
 Cemetery, where a tombstone has since 
 been erected to his memory. 
 
 O THE ewe-buchting's bonnie baith 
 
 e'ening and morn, 
 When our blythe shepherds play on 
 
 the bog-reed and horn; 
 While we're milking they're lilting 
 
 baith pleasant and clear; 
 But my heart's like to break when I 
 
 think' on my dear; 
 O the shepherds take pleasure to blow 
 
 on the horn, 
 To raise up their flocks o' sheep soon 
 
 i' the morn: 
 On the bonnie green banks they feed 
 
 pleasant and free — 
 But alas! my dear heart, all my sigh- 
 
 ing's for thee! 
 
 O the sheep herding's lightsome 
 amang the green braes 
 
 Where Cayle wimples clear 'neath the 
 white-blossomed slaes, 
 
 Where the wild-thyme and meadow- 
 queen scent the saft gale, 
 
 And the cushat croods lonesomely 
 down in the dale. 
 
 There the lintwhite and mavis sing 
 sweet frae the thorn, 
 
 And blythe lilts the laverock aboon 
 
 the green corn. 
 And a' things rejoice in the simmer's 
 
 glad prime — 
 But my heart's wi' my love in the far 
 
 foreign clime! 
 
 O the hay-making's pleasant, in bright 
 
 sunny June — 
 The hay-time is cheery when hearts 
 
 are in tune; 
 But while others are joking and laugh- 
 ing sae free, 
 There's a pang at my heart and a 
 
 tear i' my e'e. 
 At e'en i' the gloaming adown by the 
 
 burn, 
 Fu' dowie, and wae, aft I daunder and 
 
 mourn; 
 Amang the lang broom I sit greeting 
 
 alane, 
 And sigh for my dear and the days 
 
 that are gane. 
 
 O the days o' our youtheid were heart- 
 some and gay. 
 When we herded thegither by sweet 
 
 Gaitshaw brae, 
 When we plaited the rushes and pu'd 
 
 the witch-bells 
 By the Cayles ferny howms and on 
 
 Hounam's green fells. 
 But young Sandy bood gang to the 
 
 wars wi' the laird, 
 To win honor and gowd — (gif his life 
 
 it be spared!) 
 Ah! little care I for wealth, favor or 
 
 fame. 
 Gin I had my dear shepherd but 
 
 safely at hame! 
 
 Then round our wee cot though gruff 
 
 winter could roar, 
 And poortith glowr in like a wolf at 
 
 the door; 
 Though our toom purse had barely 
 
 twa boddles to clink 
 And a barley-meal scone were the 
 
 best on our bink;
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 319 
 
 Yet, he wie his hirsel, and I wi' my 
 
 wheel, 
 Through the howe o' the year we wad 
 
 fen unco weel; 
 Till the lintwhite, and laverock, and 
 
 lambs bleating fain. 
 Brought back the blythe time o' ewe- 
 
 buchting again. 
 
 A FAREWELL SONG. 
 
 THOMAS PRINGLE. 
 
 Our native land — our native vale — 
 
 A long and last adeiu! 
 Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale, 
 
 And Cheviot mountains blue. 
 
 Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds. 
 And streams renown'd in song — 
 
 Farewell ye braes and blossom'd 
 meads. 
 Our hearts have lov'd so long. 
 
 Farewell the blythesome broomy 
 knowes, 
 
 Where thyme and harebells grow — 
 Farewell, the hoary, haunted, howes, 
 
 O'erhung with birk and sloe. 
 
 The mossy cave and mouldering tower 
 That skirt our native dell — 
 
 The martyr's grave, and lover's bower, 
 We bid a sad farewell ! 
 
 Home of our love! our father's home! 
 
 Land of the brave and free! 
 The sail is flapping on the foam 
 
 That bears us far from thee! 
 
 We seek a wild and distant shore, 
 Beyond the western main — 
 
 We leave thee to return no more, 
 Nor view thy cliffs again! 
 
 Our native land — our native vale — 
 
 A long and last adieu! 
 Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale, 
 
 And Scotland's mountains blue ! 
 
 I'LL BID MY HEART BE 
 STILL. 
 
 THOMAS PRINGLE. 
 
 I'll bid my heart be still, 
 
 And check each struggling sigh; 
 
 And there's none e'er shall know 
 
 My soul's cherished woe. 
 
 When the first tears of sorrow are 
 dry. 
 
 They bid me cease to weep, 
 
 For glory gilds his name; 
 Ah! 't is therefore I mourn, 
 He ne'er can return 
 
 To enjoy the bright noon of his 
 fame. 
 
 While minstrels wake the lay. 
 For peace and freedom won, 
 
 Like my lost lovers knell, 
 
 The tones seem to swell, 
 
 And I hear but his dirge alone. 
 
 My cheek has lost its hue, 
 My eye grows faint and dim, 
 
 But 'tis sweeter to fade 
 
 In grief's gloomy shade, 
 
 Than to bloom for another than 
 him. 
 
 KELVIN GROVE, 
 
 THOMAS LYLE. 
 
 " Kelvin Grove " was first published in 
 the Harp, of Renfrewshire, about 1820, 
 and at once became exceedingly popular. 
 The authorship was at first erroneously 
 ascribed to Mr. John Sim, but satisfactory 
 proofs were afterwards made public show- 
 ing conclusively that it was the composi- 
 tion of Thomas Lyle. " In support of 
 his claim," says Alexander Whitelaw, 
 " Mr. Lyle stated that he was in the habit 
 of corresponding with Mr. Sim during the 
 publication of the Harp, of Renfrewshire — 
 that he sent him the song of ' Kelvin 
 Grove,' with another song, to be published
 
 320 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 anonymously in the work — that Mr. Sim 
 having transcribed them both, they were 
 found among his papers after his departure 
 and naturally enough supposed to be his 
 own. So satisfactorily did Mr. Lyle es- 
 tablish his claim, that Mr. Purdie, music- 
 seller, Edinburgh, was induced to become 
 the purchaser of the copyright from him, 
 although he had previously bargained for 
 the copyright with Mr. Sim's executors for 
 a few pounds." 
 
 Thomas Lyle was born at Paisley in 1792. 
 He received a first-class education and 
 graduated with honors as a surgeon from 
 the Glasgow University. In 1827 he col- 
 lected together and published a small vol- 
 ume of ancient ballads and songs with 
 notes, &c., and to this little work the lovers 
 of Scottish song are much indebted for a 
 great deal of information which is at once 
 both interesting and valuable. He died at 
 Glasgow in 1859. 
 
 Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie 
 
 lassie, O! 
 Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie 
 lassie, O! 
 Where the rose in all her pride 
 Paints the hollow dingle side, 
 Where the midnight fairies glide, 
 bonnie lassie, O ! 
 
 Let us wander by the mill, bonnie 
 
 lassie, O ! 
 To the cove beside the rill, bonnie 
 lassie, O! 
 Where the glens rebound the call. 
 Of the roaring water's fall. 
 Through the mountain's rocky hall, 
 bonnie lassie, O ! 
 
 O Kelvin banks are fair, bonnie lassie, 
 
 O! 
 
 When in summer we are there, bonnie 
 
 lassie, O! 
 There the May pink's crimson 
 
 plume 
 Throws a soft but sweet perfume 
 Round the yellow banks of broom, 
 
 bonnie lassie, O! 
 
 Though I dare not call thee mine, 
 
 bonnie lassie, O! 
 As the smile of fortune's thine, bonnie 
 lassie, O! 
 Yet with fortune on my side 
 I could stay thy father's pride, 
 And win thee for my bride, bonnie 
 lassie, O! 
 
 But the frowns of fortune lower, 
 
 bonnie lassie, O ! 
 On thy lover at this hour, bonnie 
 lassie, O! 
 Ere yon golden orb of day 
 Wake the warblers on the spray, 
 From this land I must away, bonnie 
 lassie, O! 
 
 Then farewell to Kelvin grove, bonnie 
 
 lassie, O! ■ 
 And adieu to all I love, bonnie 
 lassie, O! 
 To the river winding clear. 
 To the fragrant-scented breer, 
 Even to thee of all most dear, bonnie 
 lassie, O! 
 
 When upon a foreign shore, bonnie 
 
 lassie, O! 
 Should I fall midst battle's roar, 
 bonnie lassie, O ! 
 Then, Helen ! shouldst thou hear 
 Of thy lover on his bier, 
 To his memory shed a tear, bonnie 
 lassie, O! 
 
 DUNOON. 
 
 THOMAS LYLE. 
 
 "The glow worm, on mild summer even- 
 ings, especially after a shower of rain, is 
 to be found in great abundance among the 
 long grass and moss between Dunoon and 
 the Holy-Loch, where the surrounding 
 scenery renders this singular insect doubly 
 interesting. The female is larger than the 
 male, and emits a beautiful light (apparent- 
 ly phosphorescent, but not really so), for
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 321 
 
 the purpose of attracting the male; this 
 issues from the four last rings of the 
 abdomen; the male has a power of emit- 
 ting a feeble light but very disproportion- 
 ate to that of the female. Two or three of 
 these insects inclosed in a glass vase will 
 give a light sufficient to enable a person to 
 read in the darkest night. There are fifty- 
 two species of this insect scattered over 
 the four quarters of the globe, of which 
 two only are found in our own country, 
 viz., the glow-worm and the fire-fly. — Lyle. 
 
 See the glow-worm lits her fairy lamp, 
 
 From a beam of the rising moon; 
 On the heathy shore at evening fall, 
 
 'Twixt Holy Loch and dark 
 Dunoon; 
 Her fairy lamp's pale silvery glare, 
 
 From the dew-clad moorland flower, 
 Invite my wandering footsteps there, 
 
 At the lonely twilight hour. 
 
 When the distant beacon's revolving 
 light 
 Bids my lone steps seek the shore, 
 There the rush of the flow-tide's 
 rippling wave 
 Meets the dash of the fisher's oar; 
 And the dim-seen steamboat's hollow 
 sound, 
 As she seaward tracks her way; 
 All else are asleep in the still calm 
 night. 
 And robed in the misty gray. 
 
 When the glow-worm lits her elfin 
 lamp. 
 And the night breeze sweeps the 
 hill; 
 It's sweet, on thy rock-bound shores, 
 Dunoon, 
 To wander at fancy's will. 
 Eliza I with thee, in this solitude. 
 Life's care's would i)ass away, 
 Like the fleecy clouds over gray 
 Kilmun, 
 At the wake of early day. 
 
 MY DEAR LITTLE LASSIE. 
 
 REV. JAMES NICHOL. 
 
 The Rev. James Nichol was born at 
 Innerleithen, in Peebleshire, on the 28th of 
 September, 1769. He was minister of 
 Traquair, for many years. In 1805. he 
 published two volumes of poems, chiefly 
 in the Scottish dialect. He was also a 
 valuable contributor to the Edinburgh 
 Encyclopaedia, &c. Hia death occurred, 
 after a brief illness, on the 5th of Novem- 
 ber, 1819. 
 
 My dear little lassie, why what's a' the 
 matter.!* 
 My heart it gangs pittypat — winna 
 lie still; 
 I've waited, and waited, an' a' to grow 
 better. 
 Yet, lassie, believe me, I'm aye 
 growing iil 
 My heads's turn'd quite dizzy, an' aft, 
 when I'm speaking, 
 I sigh, an' am breathless, an' fearfu' 
 to speak; 
 I gaze aye for something I fain wad 
 be seeking. 
 Yet, lassie, I kennaweel what I wad 
 seek. 
 
 Thy praise, bonnie lassie, I ever could 
 hear of, 
 And yet when to ruse ye the neebor 
 lads try. 
 Though it's a' true they tell ye, yet 
 never sae far off, 
 I could see 'em ilk ane, an' I canna 
 tell why. 
 
 When we tedded the hayfield, I raked 
 ilka rig o't, 
 And never grew weary the lang 
 simmer day; 
 The rucks that ye wrought at were 
 easiest biggit. 
 And I fand sweeter scented aroun' 
 ye the hay. 
 
 In har'st, when the kirn-supper joys 
 mak' us cheerie.
 
 822 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 'Mang the lave of the lasses I pried 
 yere sweet mou'; 
 Dear save us! how queer I felt whan 
 I cam' near ye, 
 My breast thrill'd in rapture, I 
 couldna tell how. 
 When we dance at the gloamin' it's 
 you I aye pitch on. 
 And gin you gang by me how dowie 
 I be; 
 There's something, dear lassie, about 
 ye bewitching, 
 That tells me my happiness centres 
 in thee. 
 
 If for a heart that glows for thee, 
 Thou wilt thy heart resign, lassie, 
 
 Then come my Nancy, come to me — 
 That glowing heart is mine, lassie. 
 
 Where Quair rins sweet amang the 
 flowers, 
 
 Down by yon woody glen, lassie, 
 My cottage stands — it shall be yours, 
 
 Gin ye will be my ain, lassie. 
 
 WHERE QUAIR RINS SWEET. 
 
 REV. JAMES NICHOL. 
 
 Where Quair rins sweet amang the 
 flowers, 
 
 Down by yon woody glen, lassie. 
 My cottage stands — it shall be yours. 
 
 Gin ye will be my ain, lassie. 
 
 I'll watch ye wi' a lover's care, 
 And wi' a lover's e'e, lassie; 
 
 I'll weary heaven wi' mony a prayer, 
 And ilka prayer for thee lassie. 
 
 'Tis true I ha'e na mickle gear; 
 
 My stock it's unco sma, lassie ; 
 Nae fine-spun foreign claes I wear. 
 
 Nor servants tend my ca', lassie. 
 
 But had I heir'd the British crown, 
 And thou o' low degree, lassie, 
 
 A rustic lad I wad ha'e grown. 
 
 Or shared that crown wi' thee, lassie. 
 
 Whenever absent frae thy sight, 
 Nae pleasure smiles on me, lassie, 
 
 I climb the mountain's towering height 
 And cast a look to thee, lassie. 
 
 I blame the blast blaws on thv cheek; 
 
 The flower that decks thy hair, lassie. 
 The gales that steal thy breath sae 
 sweet, 
 
 My love and envy share, lassie. 
 
 HALUCKET MEG. 
 
 rev. JAMES NICHOL. 
 
 Meg, muckin' at Geordie's byre, 
 
 Wrought as gin her judgment was 
 wrang: 
 ilk daud o' the scartle strake fire. 
 
 While, loud as a lavrock, she sang! 
 Her Geordie had promised to marrie. 
 
 An' Meg, a sworn fae to despair, 
 Not dreamin' the job could miscarrie, 
 
 Already seem'd mistress an' mair! 
 
 My neebors, she sang, aften jeer me. 
 
 An' ca' me, daft, hahicket Meg, 
 An' say, they expect soon to hear me 
 
 I' the kirk, for my fun, get a fleg! 
 An' now, 'bout my marriage they 
 clatter. 
 
 An' Geordie, poor fallow! they ca' 
 An' auld doitet hav'rel! — Nae matter, 
 
 He'll keep me aye brankin' an' braw ! 
 
 I grant ye, his face is kenspeckle. 
 
 That the white o' his e'e is turn'd 
 out, 
 That his black beard is rough as a 
 heckle, 
 
 That his mou to his lug's rax'd about; 
 But they needna let on that he's crazie. 
 
 His pike-staff" wuU ne'er let him fa'; 
 Nor that his hair's white as a daisie. 
 
 For, fient a hair has he ava!
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 323 
 
 But a weel-pltnish'd mailin has 
 Geordie, 
 
 An' routh o' glide goud in his kist, 
 An' if siller comes at my wordie, 
 
 His beauty, I never wull miss't! 
 Daft gouks, wha catch fire like tinder, 
 
 Think love-raptures ever will burn I 
 Eat wi' pooriith, hearts het as a cinder, 
 
 Wull can Id as an iceshogle turn! 
 
 There'll just be ae bar to my pleasure! 
 
 A bar that's aft fill'd me wi' fear, 
 He's sic a hard, ne'er-be-gawn miser, 
 
 He likes his saul less than his gear! 
 But though I now flatter his failin', 
 
 An' swear nought wi' goud can com- 
 pare, 
 Gude sooth! it sail soon get a scailin', 
 
 His bags sail be mouldie nae mair? 
 
 I dream 't that I rode in a chariot, 
 
 A flunkie ahint me in green; 
 While Geordie cried out, he was 
 harriet, 
 An' the saut teer was blindin' his 
 een; 
 But though 'gainst my spendin' he 
 swear aye, 
 I'll ha'e frae him what ser's my 
 turn; 
 Let him slip awa' when he grows 
 wearie, 
 Shame fa' me ! gin lang I wad mourn ! 
 
 But Geordie, while Meg was haran- 
 
 Was cloutin' his breeks i' the banks, 
 An' when a' his failins she brang in, 
 
 His Strang, hazel pike-staff he taks: 
 Designin' to rax her a lounder. 
 
 He chanced on the lather to shift, 
 An' down frae the banks, flat's a 
 flounder, 
 
 Flew, like a shot-starn frae the lift! 
 
 But Meg, wi' the sight, was quite 
 haster'd, 
 An' nae doubt, was bannin' ill luck; 
 
 While the face o' poor Geordie was 
 plaster'd, 
 And his mou' was fill'd fu' wi' the 
 muck! 
 Confound ye! cried Geordie, an' spat 
 out 
 The glaur that adown his beard ran; 
 Preserve us! quo' Meg, as she gat out 
 The door, — an' thus lost a gudeman ! 
 
 BLAW SAFTLY, YE BREEZES. 
 
 REV. JAMES NICHOL, 
 
 Blaw saftly, ye breezes, ye streams, 
 
 smoothly murmur, 
 Ye sweet-scented blossoms, deck 
 
 every green tree; 
 'Mong your wild-scatter'd flow'rets 
 
 aft wanders my charmer. 
 The sweet lovely lass wi' the black 
 
 rollin' e'e. 
 But round me let nature and wilder- 
 ness seem. 
 Blast each flow'ret that catches the 
 
 sun's early beam, 
 For pensive I ponder, and languishin' 
 
 wander, 
 Far frae the sweet rosebud on Quair's 
 
 windin' stream! 
 
 Why, Heaven, wring my heart wi' the 
 
 hard heart o' anguish .'' 
 Why torture my bosom 'tween hope 
 
 and despair ? 
 When absent frae Nancy, I ever 
 
 maun languish! 
 That dear angel smile, shall it charm 
 
 me nae mair ? 
 Since here life's a desert, an' pleasure's 
 
 a dream, 
 Bear me swift to those banks which 
 
 are ever my theme, 
 Where, mild as the mornin' at simmer's 
 
 returnin', 
 Blooms the sweet lovely rosebud on 
 
 Quair's windin' stream.
 
 S24 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND 
 
 GET UP, GUDEWIFE. 
 
 From Ritson's Scots songs published in 
 1794, and quoted from a manuscript of 
 the time of Charles I, in the British 
 Museum. 
 
 Get up, gudewife, don on your claise, 
 
 And to the market mak' you boune: 
 'Tis lang time sin' your neebors rase; 
 
 They're weel nigh gotten into the 
 toune. 
 
 See ye don on your better goune, 
 And gar the lasse big on the fyre. 
 
 Dame, do not look as ye wad 
 frowne, 
 But doe the thing whilk I desyre. 
 
 I spier what haste ye hae, gudeman! 
 
 Your mother staid till ye war born; 
 Wad ye be at the tother can, 
 
 To scoure your throat sae sune this 
 morn ? 
 
 Gude faith, I haud it but a scorne. 
 That ye suld with my rising mell; 
 
 For when ye have baith said and 
 sworne, 
 I'll do but what I like mysel'. 
 
 Gudewife, we maun needs have a care, 
 Sae lang's we wonne in neebor's 
 rawe, 
 C neeborheid to tak' a share, 
 
 And rise up when the cock does 
 
 crawe; 
 For I have heard an auld said 
 sawe, 
 " They that rise last big on the fyre," 
 What wind or weather so ever blaw, 
 Dame, do the thing whilk I desyre. 
 
 Nay, what do ye talk of neeborheid ? 
 
 Gif I lig in my bed till noone, 
 By nae man's shins I bake my breid. 
 
 And ye need not reck what I have 
 done. 
 
 Nay, look to the clooting o' your 
 shoone, 
 And with my rising do not mell: 
 
 For, gin ye lig baith sheets abune, 
 .I'll do but what I will mysel'. 
 
 Gudewife, ye maun needs tak' a care 
 
 To save the geare that we ha'e won: 
 Or lye awa baith plow and car. 
 
 And hang up Ring when a' is done. 
 
 Then may our bairns a-begging run, 
 To seek their mister in the myre. 
 
 Sae fair a thread as we ha'e won! 
 Dame, do the thing whilk I require. 
 
 Gudeman, ye may weel a-begging 
 gang, 
 
 Ye seem sae weel to bear the pocke; 
 Ye may as weel gang sune as syne. 
 
 To seek your meat amang gude 
 folke. 
 
 In ilka house ye'U get a locke, 
 When ye come whar your gossips dwell. 
 
 Nay, lo you luik sae like a gowke, 
 I'll do but what I list mysel'. 
 
 Gudewife, you promised, when we 
 were wed. 
 
 That ye wad me truely obey; 
 Mess John can witness what you said. 
 
 And I'll go fetch him in this day; 
 
 And, gif that haly man Avill say, 
 Ye's do the thing that I desyre. 
 
 Then sail we sune end up this fray, 
 And ye sail do what I require. 
 
 I nowther care for John nor Jack — 
 
 I'll tak' my pleasure at my ease; 
 I care not what you say a placke — 
 
 Ye may go fetch him gin ye please. 
 
 And, gin ye want ane of a mease. 
 Ye mav e'en gae fetch the deil frae 
 helle; 
 
 I wad you wad let your japin cease, 
 For I'll do but what I like mysel'. 
 
 Well, sin' it will nae better bee, 
 
 I'll tak' my share, or a' be gane: 
 The warst card in my hand sail flee. 
 And i' faith, I wait I can shifte for 
 
 ane. 
 I'll sell the plow, and lay to wadd 
 the waine,
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 325 
 
 And the greatest spender sail beare 
 
 the bell: 
 And then, when all the gudes are 
 
 gane, 
 Dame, do the thing ye list yoursel'. 
 
 MY AULD MAN. 
 From Ritson's Scots songs, 1794. 
 
 In the land of Fife their lived a 
 wicked wife, 
 And in the town of Cupar then, 
 Who sorely did lament, and made her 
 complaint. 
 Oh when will ye die, my auld man ? 
 
 In cam her cousin Kate, when it was 
 growing late. 
 She said. What's guid for an old 
 man ? 
 O wheit-breid and wine, and a kinnen 
 new slain; 
 That's guid for an auld man. 
 
 Cam ye in to jeer, or cam ye in to scorn, 
 
 And what for cam ye in ? 
 For bear-bread and water, I'm sure 
 is much better — 
 
 It's ower guid for an auld man. 
 
 Now the auld man's deid, and, with- 
 out remeid, 
 Into his cauld grave he's gane: 
 Lie still wi' my blessing! of thee I 
 ha'e nae missing; 
 I'll ne'er mourn for an auld man. 
 
 Within a little mair than three- 
 quarters of a year. 
 She was married to a young man 
 then, 
 Who drank at the wine, and tippled 
 at the beer. 
 And spent mair gear than he wan. 
 
 O black grew her brows, and howe 
 grew her een, 
 
 And cauld grew her pat and her pan : 
 And now she sighs, and aye she says, 
 
 I wish I had my silly auld man! 
 
 WOO'D AND MARRIED 
 AND A' 
 
 MRS. SCOTT OF DUMBARTONSHIRE. 
 
 The following version of this song was 
 published in Cromek's " Select Scottish 
 Songs." It was written about the year 
 1810, and has since gained considerable 
 celebrity, probably from the fact that it is 
 written with so much of the genuine spirit 
 of the original version. 
 
 The grass had nae freedom o' growin' 
 
 As lang as she wasna awa'. 
 Nor in the toun could there be stowin' 
 
 For wooers that wanted to ca'. 
 Sic boxin', sic brawlin', sic dancin',. 
 
 Sic bowin' and shakin' a paw; 
 The toun was for ever in brulyies; 
 
 But now the lassie's awa'. 
 
 Wooed, and married, and a'. 
 Married, and wooed, and a'; 
 
 The dandalie toast of the parish. 
 She's wooed, and she's car- 
 ried awa'. 
 
 But had he a' kenn'd her as I did. 
 
 His wooin' it wad ha'e been sma': 
 She kens neither bakin', nor brewin'. 
 
 Nor cardin', nor spinnin' ava; 
 But a' her skill lies in her buskin': 
 
 And, O, if her braws were awa'. 
 She sune wad wear out o' fashion. 
 
 And knit up her buggers wi' straw. 
 
 But yesterday I gaed to see her, 
 
 And, O, she was bonnie and braw; 
 She cried on her gudeman to gi'e her 
 
 An ell o' red ribbon or twa. 
 He took, and he set down beside her 
 
 A wheel and a reel for to ca'; 
 She cried. Was he that way to guide 
 her? 
 
 And out at the door and awa'. 
 
 The first road she gaed was her mither, 
 Wha said Lassie, how gaes a' ? 
 
 Quo' she, Was it for nae ither 
 That I was married awa'.
 
 326 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 But to be set down to a wheelie, 
 
 And at it forever to ca' ? 
 And syne to hae't reel'd by a chieldie 
 
 That's everly crying to draw. 
 
 Her mither said till her, Hech, lassie! 
 
 He's wisest, I fear, o' the twa; 
 There'll be little to put in the tassie, 
 
 Gif ye be so backward to draw; 
 For now ye should work like a tiger, 
 
 And at it baith wallop and ca', 
 Sae lang's ye ha'e youdith and vigor, 
 
 And weanies and debt keep awa', 
 
 Sae swift away hame to your haddin'. 
 
 The mair fule ye e'er came awa'; 
 Ye maunna be ilka day gaddin', 
 
 Nor gang sae white-finger'd and 
 braw; 
 For now wi' a neebor ye're yokit. 
 
 And wi' him should cannilie draw; 
 Or else ye deserve to be knockit — 
 
 So that's an answer for a'. 
 
 Young Luckie thus fand hersel' 
 mither'd. 
 And wished she had ne'er come 
 awa'; 
 At length wi' hersel' she consider'd, 
 That hameward 'twas better to 
 draw ; 
 And e'en tak' a chance o' the landin'. 
 
 However that matters might fa': 
 Folk maunna on freits aye be standin' 
 That's wooed, and married, and a'' 
 
 THE OLD SCOTTISH BROAD- 
 SWORDS. 
 
 JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. 
 
 John Gibson Lockhart, the eminent 
 author, and son-in-law of Sir Walter Scott, 
 was born in the Manse of Cambusnethan, 
 Countv of Lanark, on June I2th, 1794. He 
 was educated at the Glasgow University, 
 and in 1816 became an advocate. The prac- 
 tice of law, however, becoming distasteful 
 to him he turned his attention to literature, 
 and soon became a successful contributor 
 
 to Blackwood's Magazine. The first work 
 which he ventured on publishing, viz., 
 " Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk," became 
 at once widely popular, and has since had 
 an enormous sale. In 1S18, Lockhart re- 
 ceived an introduction to Sir Walter Scott, 
 and five years later became united in 
 marriage to the poet's eldest daughter 
 Sophia. She is described as " a lady who 
 possessed much of the conversational 
 talent, the unaffected good humor, and 
 liveliness of her father. " Her death occur- 
 red at London, on May 17th, 1837. In 
 1826, Lockhart became the editor of the 
 Quarterly Review, and in 1834 he was 
 honored by the degree of D. C. L. being 
 conferred upon him. From this period 
 down to his death his contributions to the 
 literature of Great Britain are many, and 
 embrace a variety of subjects. His most 
 valuable works are the following: " Mem- 
 oirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, 
 Bart.," in seven volumes; "Life of Robert 
 Burns;" "Life of Napoleon Bonaparte;" 
 "Valerius, a Tale of Ancient Rome;" 
 " Adam Blair," a Scotch story; " Reginald 
 Dalton," a novel; and his famous transla- 
 tions from the ' Spanish Ballads." In 
 1853 Lockhart was compelled to resign his 
 position as editor of the Quarterly Review 
 on account of ill health With a view of 
 obtaining rest and quiet he proceeded to 
 Italy, but finding after a few months stay 
 there that he was still in impaired health, 
 he returned home, and after a brief sta}"^ at 
 London, he was conveyed to Abbotsford, 
 where he died on November 25. 1854. His 
 remains were interred in Dr3-burgh Abbey, 
 very near to the spot where sleeps in peace 
 the illustrious author of "Waverly." 
 Lockhart composed a number of patriotic 
 songs, among them !'The Old Scottish 
 Broadswords," for the special use of the 
 Midlothian Yeomanry, of which he was a 
 member. 
 
 Now there's peace on the shore, now 
 there's calm on the sea. 
 
 Fill a glass to the heroes whose 
 swords kept us free, 
 
 Right descendants of Wallace, Mont- 
 rose, and Dundee. 
 
 Oh, the broadswords of old Scot- 
 land! 
 
 And oh! the old Scottish broad- 
 swords.
 
 CELEBRATED SON OS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 327 
 
 Old Sir Ralph Abercromby, the good 
 
 and the brave, 
 Let him flee from our board, let him 
 
 sleep with the slave, 
 Whose libation comes slow while we 
 
 honor his grave. 
 
 Oh, the broadswords, &c. 
 
 Though he died not like him amid 
 
 victory's roar, 
 Though disaster and gloom wove his 
 
 shroud on the shore; 
 Not the less we remember the spirit 
 
 of Moore. 
 
 Oh, the broadswords, &c. 
 
 Yea, a place with the fallen the living 
 
 shall claim. 
 We'll entwine in one wreath every 
 
 glorious name. 
 The Gorden, the Ramsay, the Hope, 
 
 and the Graham. 
 
 All the broadswords, &c. 
 
 Count the rocks of the Spey, count 
 the groves of the Forth — 
 
 Count the stars in the clear, cloudless 
 heaven of the north: 
 
 Then go blazon their numbers, their 
 names and their worth. 
 All the broadswords, &c. 
 
 The highest in splendor, the humblest 
 
 in place. 
 Stand united in glory, as kindred in 
 
 race ; 
 For the private is brother in blood to 
 
 his Grace. 
 
 Oh, the broadswords, &c. 
 
 Then sacred to each and to all let 
 
 it be, 
 Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords 
 
 kept us free, 
 Right descendants of Wallace, Mont- 
 rose, and Dundee. 
 
 Oh, the broadswords of old 
 
 Scotland ! 
 And oh ! the old Scottish 
 broadswords. 
 
 CAPTAIN PATON'S LAMENT. 
 
 JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. 
 
 Captain Paton was for many years one of 
 the best known characters in Glasgow. 
 He was the son of a physician in that city, 
 and was born in 1739. At a comparatively 
 early age he obtained a commission as a 
 Captain in a regiment which had been 
 raised for the Dutch Government, and spent 
 some years with it in active service. On 
 his return to Scotland he took up his resi- 
 dence in a house opposite the Old Ex- 
 change, beside the Cross in Glasgow. The 
 following further particulars in relation to 
 him we take from Dr. Strang's " Glasgow 
 and its Clubs." "Every sunshine day, 
 and sometimes even amid shower and 
 storm, about the close of the past and 
 commencement of the present century, 
 was the worthy captain in the Dutch ser- 
 vice seen parading ilia plainstanes, opposite 
 his own residence in the Trongate, donned 
 in a suit of snuff-colored brown or 'genty 
 drab,' his long spare limbs encased in blue 
 striped stockings, with shoes and buckles, 
 and sporting ruffles of the finest cambric 
 at his wrists, while adown his back hung 
 a long queue, and on his head was perch- 
 ed a small three-cocked hat, which, with a 
 politesse tout a fait Francais, he invariably 
 took off when saluting a friend. Captain 
 Paton, while a denizen of the camp, had 
 studied well the noble art of fence, and 
 was looked upon as a most accomplished 
 swordsman, which might easily be dis- 
 covered from his happy but threatening 
 manner of holding his cane, when sally- 
 ing from his own domicile towards the 
 coffee-room, which lie usually entered 
 about two o'clock, to study the news of 
 the day in the pages of the Courier. The 
 gallant captain frequently indulged, like 
 Othello, in speaking 
 
 ' Of moving incidents by flood and field. 
 Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly 
 breach.' 
 
 and of his own brave doings on the tented 
 field 'at Minden and at Detlingen,' parti- 
 cularly when seated around a bowl of his 
 favorite cold punch, made with limes from 
 his own estate in Trinidad, and with water 
 newly drawn from the Westport well." 
 Captain Paton died at Glasgow on the 
 30th of July, 1S07, having reached the age of 
 sixty-eight. His remains were not interr- 
 ed in the Ram's-horn Kirk, however, as 
 Lockhart has it, but in the High Church 
 burying ground.
 
 328 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Touch once more a sober measure, 
 
 And let punch and tears be shed, 
 For a prince of good old fellows. 
 
 That, alack-a-day! is dead. 
 For a prince of worthy fellows, 
 
 And a pretty man also. 
 That has left the Saltmarket 
 
 In sorrow, grief, and woe — 
 
 Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of 
 
 Captain Paton no mo'e! 
 
 His waisitcoat, coat, and breeches. 
 
 Were all cut off the same web. 
 Of a beautiful snuff-color, 
 
 Or a modest genty drab; 
 The blue stripe in his stocking 
 
 Round his neat slim leg did go, 
 And his ruffles of the cambric fine 
 
 They were whiter than the snow — 
 Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of 
 
 Captain Paton no mo'e! 
 
 His hair was curled in order, 
 
 At the rising of the sun, 
 In comely rows and buckles smart 
 
 That about his ears did run; 
 And before there was a toupee, 
 
 That some inches up did grow, 
 And behind there was a long queue 
 
 That did o'er his shoulders flow — 
 Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of 
 
 Captain Paton no mo'e! 
 
 And whenever we foregathered 
 
 He took off his wee three-cockit, 
 And he proffered you his snuff-box, 
 
 W.hich he drew from his side 
 pocket, 
 And on Burdett or Bonaparte 
 
 He would make a remark or so, 
 And then along the plainstones 
 
 Like a provost he would go — 
 Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of 
 
 Captain Paton no mo'e! 
 
 In dirty days he picked well 
 His footsteps with his rattan. 
 Oh! you ne'er could see the least 
 speck 
 On the shoes of Captain Paton: 
 
 And on entering the coffee-room 
 About two, all men did know, 
 They would see him with his 
 Courier 
 In the middle of the row — 
 Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of 
 Captain Paton no mo'e! 
 
 Now then upon a Sunday 
 
 He invited me to dine. 
 On a herring and a mutton-chop 
 
 Which his maid dressed very fine; 
 There was also a little Malmsay 
 
 And a bottle of Bordeaux, 
 Which between me and the Captain 
 
 Passed nimbly to and fro — 
 Oh! I shall n'er take pot-luck with 
 
 Captain Paton no mo'e! 
 
 Or if a bowl was mentioned, 
 
 The Captain he would ring, 
 And bid Nelly rin to the West-port, 
 
 And a stoup of water bring: 
 Then would he mix the genuine 
 stuff 
 
 As they made it long ago, 
 With limes that on his property 
 
 In Trinidad did grow — 
 Oh! we ne'er shall taste the like of 
 
 Captain Paton's punch no mo'e! 
 
 And then all the time he would 
 
 discourse 
 So sensible and courteous, 
 Perhaps talking of last sermon 
 
 He had heard from Dr. Porteous; 
 Of some little bit of scandal 
 
 About Mrs. So and So, 
 Which he scarce could credit, hav- 
 ing heard 
 The con but not the />ro — 
 Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of 
 Captain Paton no mo'e! 
 
 Or when the candles were brought 
 forth, 
 
 And the night was fairly setting in, 
 He would tell some fine old stories 
 
 About Minden-field or Dettingen
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 32» 
 
 How he fought with a French Major, 
 
 And despatched him at a blow, 
 While his blood ran out like water 
 On the soft grass below — 
 Oh! we ne'er shall hear the like of 
 Captain Paton no mo'e! 
 
 But at last the Captain sickened, 
 
 And grew worse from day to day, 
 And all missed him in the coffee- 
 room 
 From which now he stayed away; 
 On Sabbaths, too, the Wynd Kirk 
 
 Made a melancholy show, 
 All for wanting of the presence 
 Of our venerable beau — 
 Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of 
 Captain Paton no mo'e! 
 
 And in spite of all that Cleghorn 
 
 And Corkindale could do, 
 It was plain, from twenty symptoms, 
 
 That death was in his view; 
 So the Captain made his test'ment 
 And submitted to his foe, 
 And we laid him by the Ram's-horn- 
 kirk 
 'Tis the way we all must go — 
 Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of 
 Captain Paton no mo'e! 
 
 Join all in chorus, jolly boys. 
 
 And let punch and tears be shed 
 For this prince of good old fellows, 
 
 That, alack-a-day! is dead; 
 For this prince of worthy fellows. 
 
 And a pretty man also, 
 That has left the Saltmarket 
 
 In sorrow, grief, and woe! 
 For it ne'er shall see the like of 
 Captain Paton no mo'e! 
 
 JEANIE MORRISON. 
 
 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 
 
 William Motherwell was born in Glas- 
 gow on the 13th of October, 1797. From 
 
 the time he was able to read, he evinced 
 a decided preference and taste for poetry, 
 and in 1819 became the editor of The 
 Harp, of Renfrewshire. In the same year 
 he was appointed sherifT clerk deputy of 
 Renfrew — a position which he held for six- 
 teen years. He was an enthusiastic anti- 
 quarian and devoted many of his leisure 
 hours to the early history of Scottish liter- 
 ature — particularly poetry. In 1827 he 
 edited and published a collection of Scottish 
 ballads, with an historical introduction to 
 the same, which at once set aside a number 
 of popular but erroneous statements and 
 beliefs which had prevailed in connecliork 
 with many of those interesting relics of a 
 by-gone age. He established a magazine 
 in Paisley, to which he contributed a 
 number of his finest songs, but which has 
 long since ceased to exist. While busily 
 engaged in collecting materials for a life 
 of the poet Tannahill, he died suddenly in 
 a fit of apoplexy at the age of thirty-eight. 
 He was greatly beloved by a large circle of 
 friends for his superior talents, lastes and 
 qualities. A collected edition of his poems 
 was published shortly after his death, and 
 the warm acknowledgment it received 
 from the public showed the respect in 
 which the author had been held by all 
 classes. 
 
 There are very few Scottish songs of 
 modern date that can equal "Jeanie 
 Morrison " in tenderness and feeling. 
 The heroine was a real schoolmate of 
 Motherwell's, whose beauty and childish 
 companionship left so indelible an im- 
 pression on his young heart that he retained 
 his love for her during all the future years 
 of his existence. They never met, however, 
 after separating in childhood. 
 
 I've wander'd east, I've wander'd 
 west 
 
 Through mony a weary way; 
 But never, never, can forget 
 
 The luve o' life's young day! 
 The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en. 
 
 May weel be black gin Yule; 
 But blacker fa' awaits the heart 
 
 Where first fond luve grows cule. 
 
 O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 The thochts o' bygane years
 
 330 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Still fling their shadows owre my 
 path, 
 And blind my e'en wi' tears. 
 They blind my e'en wi' saut, saut 
 tears, 
 And sair and sick I pine. 
 As memory idly summons up 
 The blythe blinks o' langsyne. 
 
 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 
 
 'Twas then we twa did part; 
 Sweet time — sad time ! twa bairns at 
 schule, 
 
 Twa bairns, and but ae heart !_ 
 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, 
 
 To leir ilk ither lear; 
 And tones, and looks, and smiles were 
 shed, 
 
 Remember'd ever mair. 
 
 I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet. 
 
 When sitting on that bink, 
 Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in 
 loof, 
 
 What our wee heads could think! 
 When baith bent doun owre ae braid 
 page 
 
 Wi' ae buik on our knee, 
 Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 
 
 My lesson was in thee. 
 
 Oh mind ye how we hung our heads' 
 
 How cheeks brent red wi' shame, 
 When'er the schule-weans, laughin', 
 said. 
 
 We cleek'd thegither hame ? 
 And mind ye o' the Saturdays, 
 
 (The schule then skail't at noon), 
 When we ran aff to speel the braes — 
 
 The broomy braes o' June ? 
 
 My head rins round and round about, 
 
 My heart flows like a sea. 
 As ane by ane the thochts rush back 
 
 O' schule time and o' thee. 
 Oh, mornin' life I Oh, mornin' luve! 
 
 Oh, lichtsome days and lang. 
 When hinnied hopes around our hearts 
 
 Like simmer blossoms sprang! 
 
 O mind ye, luve, how aft we left 
 
 The deavin' dinsome toun, 
 To wander by the green burnside, 
 
 And hear its waters croon; 
 The simmer leaves hung o'er our 
 heads, 
 
 The flowers burst round our feet, 
 And in the gloamin' o' the wood, 
 
 The throssil whusslit sweet. 
 
 The throssil whusslit in the wood. 
 
 The burn sang to the trees, 
 And we, with Nature's heart in tune, 
 
 Concerted harmonies; 
 And on the knowe abune the burn, 
 
 For hours thegither sat 
 In the silentness o' joy, till baith 
 
 Wi' very gladness grat! 
 
 Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 Tears trinkled down your cheek, 
 
 Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 
 Had ony power to speak! 
 
 That was a time, a blessed time. 
 When hearts were fresh and young. 
 
 When freely gush'd all feelings forth. 
 
 Unsyllabled- 
 
 -unsung: 
 
 I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Gin I ha'e been to thee 
 As closely twaned wi' earliest thochts 
 
 As ye ha'e been to me! 
 Oh! tell me gin their music fills 
 
 Thine ear as it does mine; 
 Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows grit 
 
 Wi' dreamings o' langsyne? 
 
 I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, 
 
 I've borne a weary lot; 
 But in my wanderings, far or near, 
 
 Ye never were forgot. 
 The fount that first burst frae this 
 heart, 
 
 Still travels on its way; 
 And channels deeper as it rins 
 
 The luve o' life's young day. 
 
 O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 Since we were sinder'd young,
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 331 
 
 I've never seen your face, nor heard 
 The music o' your tongue; 
 
 But I could hug all wretchedness, 
 And happy could I dee, 
 
 Did I but ken your heart still dream'd 
 O' bygane days and me! 
 
 HIE GERMANIE. 
 
 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 
 
 Oh wae be to the orders that march'd 
 
 my luve awa', 
 And wae be to the cruel cause that 
 
 gars my tears doun fa'! 
 Oh wae be to the bluidy wars in Hie 
 
 Germanie, 
 For they ha'e ta'en my luve, and left 
 
 a broken heart to me. 
 
 The drums beat in the mornin' afore 
 
 the screich o' day, 
 And the wee wee fifes piped loud and 
 
 shrill, while yet the morn was grey; 
 The bonnie flags were a' unfurl'd, a 
 
 gallant sight to see. 
 But waes me for my sodger lad that 
 
 march'd to Germanie. 
 
 Oh, lang, lang is the travel to the 
 
 bonnie Pier o' Leith, 
 Oh dreich it is to gang on foot wi' 
 
 the snaw drift in the teeth! 
 And oh, the cauld wind froze the 
 
 tear that gather'd in my e'e. 
 When I gaed there to see my luve 
 
 embark for Germanie. 
 
 I looked owre the braid blue sea, sae 
 
 lang as could be seen 
 Ae wee bit sail upon the ship, that my 
 
 sodger lad was in; 
 But the wind was blawin' sair and snell, 
 
 and the ship sail'd speedilie. 
 And the waves and cruel wars ha'e 
 
 twinn'd my winsome luve frae me. 
 
 I never think o' dancin', and I downa 
 
 try to sing. 
 But a' the day I spier what news kind 
 
 neibor bodies bring; 
 I sometimes knit a stocking, if knittin' 
 
 it may be, 
 Syne for every loop that I cast on, 
 
 I'm sure to let doun three. 
 
 My father says I'm in a pet, my mither 
 
 jeers at me, 
 And bans me for a dautit wean, in 
 
 dorts for aye to be; 
 But little weet they o' the cause that 
 
 drumles sae my e'e; 
 Oh they ha'e nae winsome luve like 
 
 mine in the wars o' Germanie! 
 
 smimer gioamm , 
 
 WEARIE'S WELL, 
 
 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 
 
 In a saft 
 
 In yon dowie dell, 
 It was there we twa first met 
 
 By Wearie's cauld well. 
 We sat on the brume bank 
 
 And look'd in the burn. 
 But sidelang we look'd on 
 
 Ilk ither in turn. 
 
 The corn-craik was chirming 
 
 His sad eerie cry, 
 And the wee stars were dreaming 
 
 Their path through the sky. 
 The burn babbled freely 
 
 Its luve to each flower. 
 But we heard and we saw nought 
 
 In that blessed hour. 
 
 We heard and we saw nought 
 
 Above or around: 
 We felt that our love lived, 
 
 And loathed idle sound. 
 I gazed on your sweet face 
 
 Till tears flll'd mine e'e, 
 And they drapt on your wee loof- 
 
 A warld's wealth to me!
 
 382 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Now the winter snaw's fa'ing 
 
 On bare holm and lee; 
 And the cauld wind is strippin' 
 
 Ilk leaf aff the tree. 
 But the snaw fa's not faster, 
 
 Nor leaf disna part 
 Sae sune frae the bough, as 
 
 Faith fades in your heart. 
 
 Ye've waled out anither 
 
 Your bridegroom to be; 
 But can his heart luve sae 
 
 As mine luvit thee? 
 Ye'll get biggings and mailins, 
 
 And monie braw claes, 
 But they a' winna buy back 
 
 The peace o' past days. 
 
 Fareweel, and for ever! 
 
 My first luve and last; 
 May thy joys be to come, 
 
 Mine live in the past. 
 In sorrow and sadness, 
 
 This hour fa's on me, 
 But light, as thy love, may 
 
 It fleet over thee. 
 
 THE BLOOM HATH FLED. 
 
 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 
 
 The bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary, 
 As spring's rath blossoms die, 
 
 And sadness hath o'ershadow'd now 
 Thy once bright eye; 
 
 But, look on me, the prints of grief 
 Still deeper lie. 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Thy lips are pale and mute, Mary, 
 
 Thy step is sad and slow, 
 The morn of gladness hath gone by 
 
 Thou erst did know; 
 I, too, am changed like thee, and weep 
 
 For very woe. 
 Farewell! 
 
 It seems as 'twere but yesterday 
 
 We were the happiest twain. 
 When murmur'd sighs and joyous 
 tears, 
 Dropping like rain. 
 Discoursed my love, and told how 
 loved 
 I was again. 
 Farewell! 
 
 'Twas not in cold and measur'd phrase 
 We gave our passion name: 
 
 Scorning such tedious eloquence, 
 Our hearts fond flame 
 
 And long imprisoned feelings fast 
 In deep sobs came. 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Would that our love had been the 
 love 
 That merest worldlings know. 
 When passion's draught to our doom'd 
 lips 
 Turns utter woe, 
 And our poor dream of happiness 
 Vanishes so! 
 Farewell ! 
 
 But in the wreck of all our hopes, 
 There's yet some touch of bliss. 
 
 Since fate robs not our wretchedness 
 Of this last kiss: 
 
 Despair, and love, and madness, meet 
 In this, in this. 
 Farewell! 
 
 A STEED ! A STEED! 
 
 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 
 
 A Steed! a steed of matchless speede! 
 
 A sword of metal keene! 
 All else to noble heartes is drosse — 
 
 All else on earth is meane. 
 The neighyinge of the war-horse 
 prowde. 
 
 The rowlinge of the drum.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 333 
 
 The clangor of the trumpet lowde — 
 Be soundes from heaven that come. 
 
 And, oh! the thundering presse of 
 knightes, 
 Whenas their war-cries swelle, 
 
 May tole from heaven an angel bright, 
 And rouse a fiend from hell. 
 
 Then mounte ! then mounte ! brave 
 gallants all, 
 
 And don your helmes amaine! 
 Deathe's couriers, fame and honor, 
 call 
 
 Us to the fielde againe. 
 No shrewish tears shall fill our eye 
 
 When the sword-hilt's in our hand; 
 Heart-whole we'll parte, and no whit 
 sighe 
 
 For the fayrest of the land. 
 Let piping swaine, and craven wight, 
 
 Thus weepe and puling crye; 
 Our businesse is like men to fighte. 
 
 And hero-like to die! 
 
 THE EXILE'S SONG. 
 
 ROBERT GILFILLAN. 
 
 Robert GilfiHan was a native of Dunfer- 
 line. He was born on the 7th of July, 1798, 
 and in his thirteenth year was sent to learn 
 the trade of a cooper. This occupation, 
 however, not proving very congenial to 
 him, he entered into an engagement, 
 •in his twenty-third year, as a clerk with a 
 wine merchant, in whose service he re- 
 mained for upwards of nineteen years. 
 He afterward became Collector of Poor's 
 Rates in Leith. Gifted with a talent for 
 verse making, which he inherited from his 
 mother, he contributed at various times a 
 number of beautiful lyrical pieces to the 
 periodicals of the day, which at once be- 
 came popular. He published a volume of 
 these in 1831, entitled "Original Songs," 
 which has since passed through three ex- 
 tensive editions. Gilfillan died on the 4th 
 of December, 1850, in his tifty-second year. 
 
 Oh ! why left I my hame, 
 
 Why did I cross the deep? 
 Oh ! why left I the land 
 
 Where my forefathers sleep? 
 I sigh for Scotia's shore, 
 
 And I gaze across the sea ; 
 But I canna get a blink 
 
 O, my ain countrie ! 
 
 The palm-tree waveth high, 
 
 And fair the myrtle springs, 
 And to the Indian maid 
 
 The bulbul sweetly sings ; 
 But I dinna see the broom 
 
 Wi' its tassels on the lea. 
 Nor hear the lintie's sang 
 
 O, my ain countrie ! 
 
 Oh, here no Sabbath bell 
 Awakes the Sabbath morn, 
 
 Nor song of reapers heard 
 Amang the yellow corn ; 
 
 For the tyrant's voice is here, 
 And the wail of slaverie. 
 
 But the sun of freedom shines 
 In ray ain countrie ! 
 
 There's a hope for every woe, 
 
 And a balm for every pain. 
 But the first joys o' our heart 
 
 Come never back again ! 
 There's a track upon the deep, 
 
 And a path across the sea. 
 But the weary ne'er return 
 
 To their ain countrie ! 
 
 MANOR BRAES. 
 
 ROBERT GILFILLAN. 
 
 Where Manor stream rins blythe an' 
 
 clear, 
 And Castlehill's white wa's appear, 
 I spent ae day, aboon a" days, 
 By Manor stream, 'mang Manor braes.
 
 334 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLANl 
 
 The purple heath was just in bloom, 
 And bonnie waved the upland broom, 
 The flocks on flowery braes lay still, 
 Or, heedless wandered at their will. 
 
 'Twas there, 'mid Nature's calm re- 
 pose. 
 Where Manor clearest, saftest flows, 
 I met a maiden fair to see, 
 Wi' modest look and bashfu' e'e : 
 Her beauty to the mind did bring 
 A morn where summer blends wi' 
 
 spring. 
 So bright, so pure, so calm, so fair, 
 'Twas bliss to look — to linger there ! 
 
 Ilk word cam' frae her bosom warm, 
 Wi' love to win and sense to charm. 
 So much of nature, nought of art, 
 She'll live enthroned within my heart! 
 Aboon her head the laverock sang. 
 And 'neath her feet the wild-flowers 
 
 sprang ; 
 Oh! let me dwell where beauty strays, 
 By Manor stream an' Manor braes. 
 
 I speir'd gif ane sae young and fair 
 Knew aught of love, wi' a' its care.? 
 She said her heart frae love was free. 
 But aye she blu^h'd wi' downcast e'e. 
 The parting cam' as partings come, 
 Wi' looks that speak, though tongues 
 
 be dumb ; 
 Yet I'll return ere many days. 
 To live an' love 'mang Manor braes. 
 
 If folk wad but sing when they're 
 
 gaun to flyte. 
 Less envy ye'd see, less anger and 
 
 spite; 
 What saftens doun strife, and mak's 
 
 love mair Strang, 
 Like a canty sang, like a canty sang ? 
 
 Like a canty sang, &c. 
 
 If lads wad but sing when they gang 
 
 to woo, 
 They'd come na aye hame wi' thoum 
 
 i' their mou'; 
 The chiel that wi' lasses wad be fu* 
 
 thrang, 
 Suld learn to lilt to them a canty 
 
 sang. 
 
 A canty sang, &c. 
 
 When fools become quarrelsome owre 
 
 their ale, 
 I'se gi'e ye a cure whilk never will 
 
 fail,— 
 When their tongues get short an' 
 
 their arms get lang, 
 Aye drown the din wi' a canty sang! 
 
 A canty sang, &c, 
 
 I downa bide strife, though fond o' a 
 
 spree. 
 Your sair wordy bodies are no for me: 
 A wee dribble punch, gif it just be 
 
 Strang, 
 Is a' my delight, an' a canty sang! 
 
 A canty sang, O, a canty sang, 
 Will naebody gi'e us a canty sang.? 
 There's naething keeps nights frae 
 
 turning owre lang 
 Like a canty sang, like a canty sang. 
 
 A CANTY SANG. 
 
 ROBERT G1LFILL.\N. 
 
 A CANTY sang, O, a canty sang, 
 Will naebody gi'e us a canty sang ? 
 There's naething keeps nights frae 
 
 turning owre lang 
 Like a canty sang, like a canty sang. 
 
 JANET AND ME. 
 
 ROBERT GILFILLAN. 
 
 O, WHA are sae happy as me and my 
 Janet ? 
 O, wha are sae happy as Janet and 
 me }
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 335 
 
 We're baith turning auld, and our 
 walth is soon tauld, 
 But contentment ye'U find in our 
 cottage sae wee. 
 She spins the lang day when I'm out 
 wi' the owsen, 
 She croons i' the house while I sing 
 at the plough; 
 And aye her blythe smile welcomes 
 me frae my toil, 
 As up the lang glen I come wearied, 
 I trow! 
 
 When I'm at a beuk she is mending 
 the cleading, 
 She's darning the stockings when 
 I sole the shoon; 
 Our cracks keep us cheery — we work 
 till we're weary; 
 And syne we sup sowans when ance 
 we are done. 
 She's baking a scone while I'm smok- 
 ing my cutty, 
 While I'm i' the stable she's milk- 
 ing the kye; 
 I envy not kings when the gloaming 
 time brings 
 The canty fireside to my Janet 
 and I! 
 
 Aboon our auld heads we've a decent 
 clay bigging, 
 That keeps out the cauld when the 
 simmer's awa*; 
 We've twa wads o' linen, o' Janet's 
 ain spinning, 
 As thick as dog-lugs, and as white 
 as the snaw! 
 We've a kebbuck or twa, and some 
 meal i' the girnel; 
 Yon sow is our ain that plays grunt 
 at the door; 
 An' something, I've guess 'd, 's in yon 
 auld painted kist. 
 That Janet, fell bodie, "s laid up to 
 the fore! 
 
 Nae doubt, we have haen our ain 
 sorrows and troubles, 
 Aften times pouches toom, and 
 hearts fu' o' care; 
 But still, wi' our crosses, our sorrows 
 and losses, 
 Contentment, be thankit, has aye 
 been our share; 
 I've an auld rusty sword, that was left 
 by my father, 
 Whilk ne'er shall be drawn till our 
 king has a fae; 
 We ha'e friends ane or twa, that aft 
 gi'e us a ca'. 
 To laugh when we're happy, or 
 grieve when we're wae. 
 
 The laird may ha'e gowd mair than 
 schoolmen can reckon, 
 An' flunkies to watch ilka glance o' 
 his e'e; 
 His lady, aye braw, may sit in her 
 ha', 
 But are they mair happy than Janet 
 and me ? 
 A' ye wha ne'er kent the straight road 
 to be happy, 
 Wha are na content wi' the lot that 
 ye dree. 
 Come down to the dwellin' of whilk 
 I've been telling, 
 Ye'se learn it by looking at Janet 
 an' me! 
 
 THERE LIVES A YOUNG 
 LASSIE. 
 
 JOHN IMLAH. 
 
 Although John Imlah was the author of 
 several volumes of poems and songs only 
 a few of his lyrical compositions have be- 
 come popular. He was born at Aberdeen 
 on the 15th of November. 1799, and is said 
 to have composed snatches of song from
 
 CELEBRATED 80N08 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 tiis early boyhood. He was sent to learn 
 the trade of a piano-forte maker and after 
 .finishing his apprenticeship proceeded to 
 London v/here he procured a situation 
 with Messrs. Bradford, the celebrated 
 piano-forte manufacturers. He was a con- 
 stant contributor for many years to the 
 Edinburgh Literary Journal and many of 
 his finest pieces were given a place in 
 Macleod's National Melodies. He died on 
 the gth of January, 1846. 
 
 There lives a young lassie 
 
 Far down yon lang glen; 
 How I lo'e that lassie 
 
 There's nae ane can ken! 
 Oh! a saint's faith may vary, 
 
 But faithful I'll be; 
 For weel I lo'e Mary, 
 
 An' Mary lo'es me. 
 
 Red, red as the rowan 
 
 Her smiling wee mou'; 
 An' white as the gowan 
 
 Her breast and her brow! 
 Wi' a foot o' a fairy 
 
 She links o'er the lea; 
 O! weel I lo'e Mary, 
 
 An' Mary lo'es me! 
 
 She sings sweet as onie 
 
 Wee bird of the air, 
 And she's blithe as she's bonnie, 
 
 She's guid as she's fair; 
 Like a lammie sae airy 
 
 And artless is she, 
 O! weel I lo'e Mary, 
 
 An' Mary lo'es me! 
 
 Where yon tall forest timmer, 
 
 An' lowly broom bower, 
 To the sunshine o' simmer 
 
 Spread verdure an' flower; 
 There, when night clouds the cary. 
 
 Beside her I'll be; 
 For weel I lo'e Mary, 
 
 An' Mary lo'es me. 
 
 OH ! GIN I WERE WHERE 
 GADIE RINS. 
 
 JOHN IMLAY. 
 
 Oh ! gin I were where Gadie rins. 
 Where Gadie rins, where Gadie 
 
 rins — 
 Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins 
 By the foot o' Bennachie ! 
 
 I've roam'd by Tweed, I've roam'd 
 
 by Tay, 
 By Border Nith, and Highland Spey, 
 But dearer far to me than they 
 The braes o' Bennachie. 
 
 When blade and blossoms sprout in 
 
 spring. 
 And bid the burdies wag the wing, 
 They blythely bob, and soar, and 
 
 sing 
 
 By the foot o' Bennachie. 
 
 When simmer deeds the varied scene 
 Wi' licht o' gow'dand leaves o' green, 
 I fain would be where aft I've been 
 At the foot o' Bennachie. 
 
 When autumn's yellow sheaf is shorn, 
 And barn-yards stored wi' stooks o' 
 
 corn, 
 'Tis blythe to toom the clyack horn 
 At the foot o' Bennachie. 
 
 When winter winds blaw sharp and 
 
 shrill 
 O'er icy burn and sheeted hill, 
 The ingle neuk is gleesome still 
 At the foot o' Bennachie. 
 
 Though few to welcome me remain. 
 Though a' I loved be dead and gane, 
 I'll back, though I should live alane, 
 To the foot o' Bennachie. 
 
 Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins, 
 Where Gadie rins, where Gadie 
 
 rins — 
 Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins 
 By the foot o' Bennachie.
 
 CELEBRATED SONOS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 337 
 
 FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND. 
 
 JOHN IMLAY. 
 
 Loved land of my kindred, farewell — 
 and for ever! 
 Oh! what can relief to the bosom 
 impart; 
 When fated with each fond endear- 
 ment to sever, 
 And hope its sweet sunshine with- 
 holds from the heart ! 
 Farewell, thou fair land! which till 
 life's pulse shall perish. 
 Though doom'd to forego, I shall 
 never forget; 
 Wherever I wander, for thee will I 
 cherish 
 The dearest regard and the deepest 
 regret. 
 
 Farewell, ye great Grampians, cloud- 
 robed and crested! 
 Like your mists in the sunbeam ye 
 melt in my sight; 
 Yourpeaks are theking-eagle's thrones 
 — where have rested 
 The snow-falls of ages — eternally 
 white. 
 Ah! never again shall the falls of your 
 fountains 
 Their wild murmur'd music awake 
 on mine ear; 
 No more the lake's lustre that mirrors 
 your mountains, 
 I'll pore on with pleasure — deep, 
 lonely, yet dear. 
 
 Yet — yet Caledonia ! when slumber 
 comes o'er me. 
 Oh! oft will I dream of thee, far, 
 far away; 
 But vain are the visions that rapture 
 restore me, 
 To waken and weep at the dawn of 
 the day. 
 Ere gone the last glimpse, faint and 
 far o'er the ocean. 
 Where yet my heart dwells — where 
 it ever shall dwell, 
 
 While tongue, sigh, and tear, speak 
 my spirit's emotion, 
 My country — my kindred — farewell, 
 oh, farewell! 
 
 A' BODY'S LIKE TO BE MAR- 
 RIED BUT ME. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Appeared in The Scots Magazine, July, 
 1802. 
 
 As Jenny sat down wi' her wheel by 
 
 the fire, 
 And thought o' the time that was fast 
 
 fleein' by'er. 
 She said to hersel' wi' a heavy hoch 
 
 hie, 
 Oh! a' body's like to be married 
 
 but me. 
 
 My youthfu' companions are a* worn 
 
 awa', 
 And though I've had wooers mysel* 
 
 ane or twa, 
 Yet a lad to my mind I ne'er could 
 
 yet see. 
 Oh! a' body's like to be married 
 
 but me. 
 
 There's Lowrie, the lawyer, would 
 
 ha'e me fu' fain 
 Who has baith a house an' a yard o' 
 
 his ain: 
 But before I'd gang to it I rather wad 
 
 die, 
 A wee stumpin' body! he'll never get 
 
 me. 
 
 There's Dickey, my cousin, frae Lun- 
 
 nun cam' down. 
 Wi' fine yellow buskins that dazzled 
 
 the town; 
 But, puir deevil, he got ne'er a blink 
 
 o' my e'e. 
 Oh! a* body's like to be married 
 
 but me.
 
 S88 
 
 CELEBRATED S0NO8 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 But I saw a lad by yon saughie burn 
 
 side, 
 Wha weel wad deserve ony queen for 
 
 his bride, 
 Gin I had my will soon his ain I 
 
 would be, 
 Oh! a' body's like to be married 
 
 but me. 
 
 I gied him a look, as a kind lassie 
 
 should, 
 My frien's, if they kenn'd it, would 
 
 surely run wud; 
 For tho' bonnie and guid, he's no 
 
 worth a bawbee, 
 Oh! a' body's like to be married 
 
 but me. 
 
 'Tis liard to tak' shelter behint a 
 
 laigh dyke, 
 'Tis hard for to tak' ane we never can 
 
 like, 
 'Tis hard for to leave ane we fain 
 
 wad be wi'. 
 Yet it's harder that a' should be 
 
 married but me. 
 
 A GUID NEW YEAR TO ANE 
 
 AN' A'. 
 
 p. LIVINGSTONE. 
 
 A guid New Year to ane an' a', 
 
 An' mony may ye see 
 An' during a' the years to come, 
 
 O happy may ye be. 
 An' may ye ne'er hae cause to mourn. 
 
 To sigh, or shed a tear. 
 To ane an' a', baith great an' sma' 
 
 A hearty guid New Year. 
 A guid New Year, &c. 
 
 Oh time flies fast, he winna wait, 
 My friend, for you or me; 
 
 He works his wonders day by day, 
 And onward still doth flee. 
 
 O wha can tell when ilka ane, 
 
 I see sae happy here. 
 Will meet again an' merry be, 
 
 Anither guid New Year ? 
 A guid New Year, &c. 
 
 We twa hae baith been happy lang, 
 
 We ran about the braes; 
 In yon wee cot beneath the tree. 
 
 We spent our early days. 
 We ran about the burnie's side. 
 
 The spot will aye be dear : 
 An' those that used to meet us there 
 
 We'll think on mony a year. 
 
 A guid New Year, &c. 
 
 Now let us hope our years may be. 
 
 As guid as they hae been ; 
 And trust we ne'er again may see 
 
 The sorrows we hae seen. 
 And let us wish that ane an' a', 
 
 Our friends baith far an' near, 
 May aye enjoy in times to come 
 
 A hearty guid New Year. 
 
 A guid New Year, &c. 
 
 BE KIND TO AULD GRANNIE 
 
 ARCHIBALD MACKAY. 
 
 Archibald Mackay was born in Kilmar- 
 nock, in 1801. He published several 
 editions of his poems, and was the author 
 of an excellent History of Kilmarnock. 
 
 Be kind to auld Grannie, for noo she 
 
 is frail, 
 As a time-shatter'd tree bending low 
 
 in the gale, 
 When ye were wee bairnies, tot, totting 
 
 about. 
 She watch'd ye when in, and she 
 
 watch'd ye when out ; 
 An' aye when ye chanc'd in your 
 
 daffin and fun. 
 To dunt your wee heids on the cold 
 
 staney grun',
 
 CELEBRATED S0N08 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 339 
 
 Sheliftedyeup,an'shekissedyefu'fain, 
 Till a' your bit cares were forgotten 
 again. 
 
 Then, be kind to auld Grannie, 
 
 for noo she is frail, 
 As a time-shattered tree bend- 
 ing low in the gale. 
 
 When first in your breast rose that 
 
 feeling divine, 
 That's waked by the tales an' the 
 
 sangs o' langsyne, 
 Wi' her auld-warl crack she wad 
 
 pleasure inspire. 
 In the lang winter nichts as she sat 
 
 by the fire ; 
 Or melt your young hearts wi' some 
 
 sweet Scottish lay, 
 Like " The Floo'rs o' the Forest," or 
 
 "Auld Robin Gray." 
 Though eerie the win' blew around 
 
 ha' an' cot, 
 Grim winter an' a' its wild blasts were 
 
 forgot. 
 
 Then, be kind to auld Grannie, 
 for noo she is frail, 
 
 Like atime-shatter'd tree bend- 
 ing low in the gale. 
 
 An' mind, though the blythe day o' 
 
 youth noo is yours, 
 Time will wither its joys, as wild 
 
 winter the floo'rs ; 
 An' your step that's noo licht as the 
 
 bound o' the roe, 
 Wi' cheerless auld age may be feeble 
 
 and slow ; 
 An' the friends o' your youth to the 
 
 grave may be gane. 
 An' ye on its brink be tott'rin' alane; 
 O, think how consoling some friend 
 
 would be then, 
 When the gloaming o' life comes like 
 
 mist ower the glen. 
 
 Then, be kind to old Grannie, 
 for noo she is frail, 
 
 Like a time-shatter'd tree bend- 
 ing low in the gale. 
 
 OUR AULD SCOTS SANGS. 
 
 ARCHIBALD MACKAY. 
 
 Oh, weel I lo'e our auld Scots sangs, 
 
 The mournfu' and the gay; 
 They charm'd me by a mither's knee, 
 
 In bairnhood's happy day: 
 And even yet, though owre my pow 
 
 The snaws of age are flung, 
 The bluid loups joyfu' in my veins 
 
 Whene'er I hear them sung. 
 
 They bring the fond smile to the cheek. 
 
 Or tear-drap to the e'e ; 
 They bring to mind auld cronies kind, 
 
 Wha sung them aft wi' glee. 
 We seem again to hear the voice 
 
 Of mony a lang-lost frien'; 
 We seem again to grip the hand 
 
 That lang in dust has been. 
 
 And, oh, how true our auld Scots sangs 
 
 When nature they portray ! 
 We think we hear the wee bit burn 
 
 Gaun bickering doun the brae ; 
 We see the spot, though far awa'; 
 
 Where first life's breath we drew, 
 And a' the gowden scenes of youth 
 
 Seem rising to the view. 
 
 And dear I lo'e the wild war strains 
 
 Our langsyne minstrels sung — 
 They rouse wi' patriotic fires 
 
 The hearts of auld and young ; 
 And even the dowie dirge that wails 
 
 Some brave but ruin'd band, 
 Inspires us wi' a warmer love 
 
 For hame and fatherland. 
 
 Yes, leese me on our auld Scots sangs, 
 
 The sangs of love and glee. 
 The sangs that tell of glorious deeds 
 
 That made auld Scotland free. 
 What though they sprung frae simple 
 bards, 
 
 Wha kent nae rules of art ? 
 They ever, ever yield a charm 
 
 That lingers round the heart.
 
 840 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 MARY OF ARGYLE. 
 
 C. JEFFREYS. 
 
 I HAVE heard the mavis singing 
 
 His love song to the morn, 
 I have seen the dewdrop clinging 
 
 To the rose just newly born ; 
 But a sweeter song has cheered me, 
 
 At the evening's gentle close, 
 And I've seen an eye still brighter 
 
 Than the dewdrop on the rose ; 
 *Twas thy voice, my gentle Mary, 
 
 And thine artless, winning smile, 
 That made this world an Eden, 
 
 Bonnie Mary of Argyle ! 
 
 Tho' thy voice may lose its sweetness, 
 
 And thine eye its brightness too, 
 Tho' thy step may lack its fleetne&s, 
 
 And thy hair its sunny hue ; 
 Still to me wilt thou be dearer 
 
 Than all the world can own, 
 I have loved thee for thy beauty, 
 
 But not for that alone ; 
 I have watch'd thy heart, dear Mary, 
 
 And its goodness was the wile, 
 That has made thee mine forever, 
 
 Bonnie Mary of Argyle. 
 
 BONNIE AGGIE LANG. 
 
 JAMES MACDONALD. 
 
 James Macdonald was born in the 
 parish of Fintry, Stirlingshire, in 1807. He 
 was educated with a view of entering the 
 ministry at the University of Glasgow, but 
 abandoned the study of Theology in early 
 life on account of ill health and became a 
 school teacher. Unsuccessful in his 
 choice of a profession, he latterly became 
 a proof-reader in a large printing establish- 
 ment in Glasgow. Two different collec- 
 tions of hymns, which he composed for 
 the use of Sunday-schools, have gained 
 for him a certain degree of popularity in 
 Scotland. He died at Catrine, in Ayr- 
 shire, on the 27th of May, 1848. 
 
 Or ere we part, my heart leaps hie to 
 
 sing ae bonnie sang, 
 About my ain sweet lady-love, my 
 
 darling Aggie Lang; 
 It is na that her cheeks are like the 
 
 blooming damask rose. 
 It is na that her brow is white as 
 
 stainless Alpine snows. 
 It is na that her locks are black as ony 
 
 raven's wing, 
 Nor is't her e'e o' winning glee that 
 
 mak's me fondly sing. 
 
 But, oh! her heart, a bonnie well, that 
 
 gushes fresh an' free 
 O' maiden love, and happiness, and a' 
 
 that sweet can be; 
 Though saft the sang o' simmer winds, 
 
 the warb'ing o' the stream, 
 The carolling o' joyous birds, the 
 
 murmur o' a dream, 
 I'd rather hear a gentle word frae 
 
 Aggie's angel tongue, 
 For weel I ken her heart is mine — 
 
 the fountain whar it sprung. 
 
 Yestreen I met her in a glen about 
 
 the gloamin' hour; 
 The moon was risen o'er the trees, 
 
 the dew begemm'd ilk flower. 
 The weary wind was hush'd asleep, 
 
 an' no a sough cam' nigh, 
 E'en frae the waukrife stream that 
 
 ran in silver glintin' by; 
 I press'd her milk-white han' in mine 
 
 — she smiled as angels smile, 
 But ah! frae me her tale o' love this 
 
 warld maunna wile. 
 
 I saw the silver light o' heaven fa' on 
 
 her bonnie brow. 
 An' glitter on the honey-blabs upon 
 
 her cherry mou'; 
 I saw the lily moonbeams steal the 
 
 redness o' the rose. 
 An' sleep upon her downy check in 
 
 beautiful repose.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 341 
 
 The moon rose high, the stream gaed 
 by, but aye she smiled on me, 
 
 An' what she wadna breathe in words 
 she tauld it wi' her e'e. 
 
 I've sat within a palace hall amid the 
 
 grand an' gay, 
 I've listen'd to the carnival o' merry 
 
 birds in May, 
 I've been in joyous companies, the 
 
 wale o' mirth an' glee, 
 An' danced in nature's fairy bowers 
 
 by mountain, lake and lea; 
 But never has this heart o' mine 
 
 career'd in purer pride, 
 As in that moonlit glen an' bower, wi' 
 
 Aggie by my side. 
 
 THE SCOTTISH BLUE BELLS. 
 
 CHARLES D. SILLERY. 
 
 Let the proud Indian boast of his 
 jessamine bowers, 
 His pasture of perfume, and rose- 
 cover'd dells; 
 While humbly I sing of those wild 
 little flowers — 
 The blue-bells of Scotland, the 
 Scottish blue-bells. 
 
 Wave, wave your dark plumes, ye 
 proud sons of the mountain. 
 For brave is the chieftain your 
 prowess who quells, 
 And dreadful your wrath as the foam- 
 fiashing fountain, 
 That calms its wild waves 'mid the 
 Scottish blue-bells. 
 
 Then strike the loud harp to the land 
 of the river, 
 The mountain, the valley, with all 
 their wild spells. 
 And shout in the chorus for ever and 
 ever — 
 The blue-bells of Scotland, the 
 Scottish blue-bells. 
 
 Sublime are your hills when the young 
 day is beaming. 
 And green are your groves with 
 their cool crystal wells, 
 And bright are your broadswords, like 
 morning dews gleaming 
 On blue-bells of Scotland, on 
 Scottish blue-bells. 
 
 Awake! ye light fairies that trip o'er 
 the heather. 
 Ye mermaids, arise from your 
 coralline cells — 
 Come forth with your chorus, all 
 chanting together — 
 The blue-bells of Scotland, the 
 Scottish blue-bells. 
 
 Then strike the loud harp to the land 
 of the river. 
 The mountain, the valley, with all 
 their wild spells, 
 And shout in the chorus, for ever and 
 ever — 
 The blue-bells of Scotland, the 
 Scottish blue-bells. 
 
 OLD SCOTLAND I LOVE 
 THEE. 
 
 ANDREW PARK. 
 
 Andrew Park was a native of Renfrew. 
 He was born on the 7th of March, 1807, 
 and was educated at the Glasgow Univers- 
 ity. His principal poem, " Silent Love," 
 has achieved a remarkable degree of pop- 
 ularity both at home and abroad. He died 
 at Glasgow on the 27th of December, 1863, 
 and was interred in the Paisley Cemetery. 
 
 Old Scotland, I love thee ! thou'rt 
 dearer to me 
 
 Than all lands that are girt by the 
 wide-rolling sea; 
 
 Though asleep not in sunshine, like 
 islands afar. 
 
 Yet thou'rt gallant in love, and trium- 
 phant in war.'
 
 342 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Thy cloud-cover'd hills that look up 
 
 from the seas, 
 Wave sternly their wild woods aloft 
 
 in the breeze; 
 Where flies the bold eagle in freedom 
 
 on high, 
 Through regions of cloud in its wild 
 
 native sky! 
 For old Scotland, I love thee! &c. 
 
 O name not the land where the olive- 
 tree grows, 
 
 Nor the land of the shamrock, nor 
 land of the rose; 
 
 But show me the thistle that waves 
 his proud head 
 
 O'er heroes whose blood for their 
 country was shed. 
 For old Scotland, I love thee! &c. 
 
 Then tell me of bards and of warriors 
 
 bold. 
 Who wielded their brands in the 
 
 battles of old, 
 Who conquer'd and died for their 
 
 loved native land, 
 With its maidens so fair, and its 
 
 mountains so grand! 
 For old Scotland, I love thee! &c. 
 
 HURRAH FOR THE HIGH- 
 LANDS. 
 
 ANDREW PARK. 
 
 Hurrah for the Highlands! the stern 
 Scottish Highlands, 
 
 The home of the clansman, the brave, 
 and the free; 
 
 Where the clouds love to rest, on the 
 mountain's rough breast. 
 
 Ere they journey afar o'er the island- 
 less sea. 
 
 'Tis there where the cataract sings to 
 
 the breeze, 
 As it dashes in foam like a spirit of 
 
 light; 
 
 And 'tis there the bold fisherman 
 
 bounds o'er the seas 
 In his fleet, tiny bark, through the 
 
 perilous night. 
 Then hurrah for the Highlands! &c. 
 
 'Tis the land of deep shadow, of sun- 
 shine, and shower. 
 
 Where the hurricane revels in mad- 
 ness on high; 
 
 For there it has might that can war 
 with its power, 
 
 In the wild dizzy clifi"s that are 
 cleaving the sky. 
 Then hurrah for the Highlands! &c. 
 
 I have trod merry England, and dwelt 
 
 on its charms; 
 I have wander'd through Erin, that 
 
 gem of the sea ; 
 But the Highlands alone the true 
 
 Scottish heart warms — 
 For her heather is blooming, her 
 
 eagles are free! 
 Then hurrah for the Highlands! &c. 
 
 MY WEE, WEE WIFE. 
 
 ALEXANDER HUME. 
 
 Alexander Hume was born at Kelso, in 
 1809. He received a good common Eng- 
 lish education, and in 1827 obtained a 
 position as head bookkeeper in a brewer's 
 office. In early life he connected himself 
 with a literary and scientific association in 
 London, the leading members of which 
 conducted and published a monthly maga- 
 zine, and to this publication he soon be- 
 came a successful contributor. He died 
 at Northhampton, England, in 1851, leav- 
 ing a family of six children and very many 
 personal friends to mourn his loss, a 
 complete edition of his works was publish- 
 ed at London in 1845. The majority of 
 his songs are of a pathetic and affectionate 
 nature, and a few of them have obtained a 
 permanent place nmonp the standard songs 
 of his country.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 343 
 
 My wee wife dwells in yonder cot, 
 
 My bonnie bairnies three; 
 Oh, happy is the husband's lot 
 
 Wi' bairnies on his knee. 
 My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife, 
 
 My bonnie bairnies three; 
 How bright is day, how sweet is life, 
 
 When love lights up the e'e. 
 
 The king o'er me may wear a crown, 
 
 Have millions bow the knee. 
 But lacks he love to share his throne, 
 
 How poor a king is he! 
 My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife, 
 
 My bonnie bairnies three, 
 Let kings ha'e thrones, 'mang world's 
 strife 
 
 Your hearts are thrones to me. 
 
 I've felt oppression's galling chain, 
 
 I've shed the tear of care, 
 But feeling aye lost a' its pain. 
 
 When my wee wife was near. 
 My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife. 
 
 My bonnie bairnies three. 
 The chains we wear are sweet to 
 bear, 
 
 How sad could we go free! 
 
 OH! YEARS HAE COME. 
 
 ALEXANDER HUME. 
 
 Oh! years ha'e come, and years ha'e 
 
 gane. 
 Sin' first I sought the warld alane, 
 Sin' first I mused wi' heart sae fain 
 
 On the hills o' Caledonia. 
 But oh! behold the present gloom — 
 My early friends are in the tomb. 
 And nourish now the heather bloom 
 On the hills o' Caledonia. 
 
 Mv father's name, my father's lot, 
 Is now a tale that's heeded not, 
 Or sang unsung, if no forgot 
 
 On the hills o' Caledonia. 
 
 O' our great ha' there's left nae stane — 
 A' swept away, like snaw lang gane; 
 Weeds flourish o'er the auld domain 
 On the hills o' Caledonia. 
 
 The Ti'ot's banks are bare and high. 
 The stream rins sma' an' mournfu' by, 
 Like some sad heart maist grutten dry 
 
 On the hills o' Caledonia. 
 The wee birds sing no frae the tree. 
 The wild flowers bloom no on the lea, 
 As if the kind things pitied me 
 
 On the hills o' Caledonia. 
 
 But friends can live, though cold they 
 
 lie, 
 An' mock the mourner's tear an' sigh, 
 When we forget them, then they die 
 
 On the hills o' Caledonia, 
 An' howsoever changed the scene. 
 While mem'ry and my feeling's green, 
 Still green to my auld heart an' een 
 Are the hills o' Caledonia. 
 
 "DINNA YE HEAR IT?" 
 
 ALEXANDER m'lAGGAN. 
 
 Alexander M'Laggan was born at Bridg- 
 end, Perth, on the 3d of April, 1811, and 
 died at Edinburgh, in 1S79. He was to 
 trade a plumber, but latterl}' he devoted 
 himself almost exclusively to literary pur- 
 suits. 
 
 'Mid the thunder of battle, the groans 
 of the dying, 
 The wail of weak women, the shouts 
 of brave men, 
 A poor Highland maiden sat sobbing 
 and sighing, 
 As she longed for the peace of her 
 dear native glen. 
 But there came a glad voice to the 
 ear of her heart. 
 The foes of Auld Scotland for ever 
 will fear it;
 
 344 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 "We are saved! — we are saved!" cried 
 
 the brave Highland maid, 
 
 " 'Tis the Highlanders' slogan! O, 
 
 dinna ye hear it?" 
 
 Dinnaye hear it? dinna ye hear it? 
 
 High o'er the battle's din, dinna 
 
 ye hear it? 
 High o'er the battle's din hail it 
 
 and cheer it! 
 " 'Tis the Highlanders' slogan! O, 
 dinna ye hear it? 
 
 A moment the tempest of battle was 
 hush'd, 
 But no tidings of help did that 
 moment reveal: 
 Again to their shot-shattered ramparts 
 they rush'd — 
 Again roar'd the cannon, again 
 flash'd the steel ! 
 Still the Highland maid cried, " Let 
 us welcome the brave! 
 The death-mists are thick, but their 
 claymores will clear it! 
 The war-pipes are pealing ' The 
 Campbells are coming!' 
 They are charging and cheering! 
 O, dinna ye hear it!" 
 
 Dinna ye hear it? dinna ye 
 hear it? &c. 
 
 Ye heroes of Lucknow, fame crovvns 
 you with glory; 
 Love welcome's you home with glad 
 songs in your praise; 
 And brave Jessie Brown with her soul 
 stirring story, 
 Forever will live in the Highlanders' 
 lays. 
 Long life to our Queen, and the hearts 
 who defend her! 
 Success to our flag ! and when 
 danger is near it, 
 May our pipes be heard playing "The 
 Cambells are coming!" 
 And an angel voice crying, " O, 
 
 dinna ye hear it?" 
 Dinna ye hear it? dinna ye hear it? 
 
 High o'er the battle's din, dinna 
 
 ye hear it! 
 High o'er the battle's din, hail it 
 
 and cheer it! 
 "'Tis the Highlanders' slogan! O, 
 dinna ye hear it!" 
 
 BONNIE MARY HAY. 
 
 ARCHIBALD CRAWFORD. 
 
 Bonnie Mary Hay, I will lo'e thee yet, 
 For thy eye is the slae, thy hair is the 
 
 jet; 
 The snaw is thy skin, and the rose is 
 
 thy cheek ; 
 O! bonnie Mary Hay, I will lo'e thee 
 
 yet. 
 
 Bonnie Mary Hay, will you gang wi' 
 
 me. 
 When the sun's in the west, to the 
 
 hawthorn-tree ; 
 To the hawthorn-tree, the bonnie 
 
 berry-den, 
 And Fll tell you Mary, how I lo'e you 
 
 then ? 
 
 Bonnie Mary Hay, it's haliday to me, 
 When thou art couthie, kind and free; 
 There's nae clouds in the lift, nor 
 
 storms in the sky, 
 My bonnie Mary Hay, when thou art 
 
 nigh. 
 
 Bonnie Mary Hay, thou maunna say 
 me nay. 
 
 But come to the bovver by the haw- 
 thorn brae ; 
 
 But come to the bower, and I'll tell 
 you a' what's true, 
 
 How, Mary, I can ne'er lo'e ane but 
 you.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 345 
 
 SCOTLAND, I HAVE NO HOME 
 BUT THEE! 
 
 ARCHIBALD CRAWFORD. 
 
 Scotland, thy mountains, thy valleys 
 and fountains, 
 Are famous in story — the birth- 
 place of song ; 
 Thy daughters the fairest, the sweet- 
 est, the rarest, 
 Well may thy pilgrims long for their 
 home. 
 
 Trace the whole world o'er, find me 
 a fairer shore, 
 The grave of my fathers! the land 
 of the free ! 
 Joy to the rising race ! Heaven send 
 them ev'ry grace ; 
 Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no 
 honie but thee ! 
 
 Glow on, ye Southern skies, where 
 fruits wear richer dyes 
 To pamper the bigot, assassin, and 
 slave; 
 Scotland, to thee I'll twine, with all 
 thy varied clime. 
 For the fruits that thou bearest are 
 true hearts and brave. 
 
 Trace the whole world o'er, find me 
 a fairer shore, 
 The grave of my fathers! the land 
 of the free! 
 Joy to the rising race! Heaven send 
 them ev'ry grace; 
 Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no 
 home but thee! 
 
 MEMORIES DEAR. 
 
 Aft, aft hae I pondered on scenes o' 
 my childhood, 
 The days ance sae happy, oh, come 
 back again! 
 
 When I pu'd the wild daisies that 
 spangled the greenwood. 
 And gied them a\ya' to my wee 
 lovers then. 
 I'd hide frae my playmates 'mang 
 trees and keep keekin', 
 And laughin' and jumpin' wi' inno- 
 cent glee — 
 And when I was wearied wi' hidin' 
 and seekin', 
 Fa' asleep and then waken, and 
 chase the wild bee. 
 
 Oh! memories dear. 
 
 Oh, weel hae I mind o' the sweet 
 sunny rambles 
 Far down by the green banks, dear 
 streams to me noo, 
 Sair jaggin' my wee hands wi' puin' 
 the brambles, 
 And gatherin' them in till my 
 daidle was fu'; 
 How I'd stay out a-roamin' till late 
 i' the gloamin', 
 Returnin' when diamonds jewelled 
 the sky; 
 My mither then kissed me, looked 
 upward and blessed me, 
 And said there were heaven's lichts 
 beamin' on high. 
 
 Oh! memories dear. 
 
 Oh! since then sic tossin' on life's 
 stormy ocean, 
 Wi' hope for my beacon as onward 
 I toiled— 
 A vision cam' o'er me when spirits 
 were droopin', 
 My mither seemed near me and 
 blest her ain child. 
 Hopes lamp brightened up wi' the 
 sweet recollection 
 O' that mither's blessin' I lo'ed 
 weel to earn; 
 .\ye stamped on my heart is that 
 purest affection. 
 My mither's words — " Bless ye! God 
 prosper my bairn." 
 
 Oh! memories dear.
 
 346 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 THE SCOTTISH WIDOW'S 
 LAMENT. 
 
 THOMAS SMIBERT. 
 
 Thomas Smibert was born in Peebles, 
 on the 8th of February, 1810. He became 
 a popular contributor to Chamber's Edin- 
 burgh Journal, and, in 1842, was appointed 
 sub-editor of The Scotsman. His principal 
 prose work, viz.: " Clans of the Highlands 
 of Scotland," is an exceedingl)' valuable 
 book on the subject of which it treats. He 
 died at Edinburgh, on the i6th of January, 
 1854. 
 
 Afore the Lammas tide 
 
 Had dun'd the birken-tree, 
 In a' our water side 
 
 Nae wife was bless'd like me. 
 A kind guderaan, and twa 
 
 Sweet bairns were 'round me here, 
 But they're a' ta'en awa' 
 
 Sin' the fa' o' the year. 
 
 Sair trouble cam' our gate, 
 
 And made me, when it cam', 
 A bird without a mate, 
 
 A ewe without a lamb. 
 Our hay was yet to maw, 
 
 And our corn was to shear, 
 When they a' dwined awa' 
 
 In the fa' o' the year. 
 
 I downa look a-field, 
 
 For aye I trow I see 
 The form that was a bield 
 
 To my wee bairns and me; 
 But wind, and weet, and snaw. 
 
 They never mair can fear, 
 Sin' they a' got the ca' 
 
 In the fa' o' the year. 
 
 Aft on the hill at e'ens, 
 
 I see him 'mang the ferns — 
 The lover o' my teens. 
 
 The faither o' my bairns; 
 For there his plaid I saw, 
 
 As gloamin' aye drew near, 
 But my a's now awa' 
 
 Sin' the fa' o' the year. 
 
 Our bonnie rigs theirsel' 
 
 Reca' my waes to mind; 
 Our puir dumb beasties tell 
 
 O' a* that I ha'e tyned; 
 For wha our wheat will saw. 
 
 And wha our sheep will shear, 
 Sin' my a' gaed awa' 
 
 In the fa' o' the year. 
 
 My hearth is growing cauld, 
 
 And will be caulder still, 
 And sair, sair in the fauld 
 
 Will be the winter's chill; 
 For peats were yet to ca', 
 
 Our sheep they were to smear, 
 When my a' pass'd awa' 
 
 In the fa' o' the year. 
 
 I ettle whiles to spin, 
 
 But wee, wee patterin' feet 
 Come rinnin' out and in, 
 
 And then I just maun greet; 
 I ken it's fancy a' 
 
 And faster rows the tear, 
 That my a' dwined awa' 
 
 In the fa' o' the year. 
 
 Be kind, O Heaven abune! 
 
 To ane sae wae and lane, 
 And tak' her hamewards sune 
 
 In pity o' her maen 
 Lang ere the March winds blaw, 
 
 May she, far, far frae here, 
 Meet them a' that's awa' 
 
 Sin' the fa' o' the year. 
 
 HAME IS AYE HAMELY. 
 
 ROBERT L. MALONE. 
 
 Robert L. Malone was born at Anstruther 
 in Fife, in 1812. He published a volume 
 of poetry in 1845 entitled "The Sailor's 
 Dream and other Poems." His death 
 took place at Greenock on the 5th of July, 
 1S50.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 847 
 
 Oh! hame is aye hamely still, though 
 
 poor at times it be, 
 An' ye winna find a place like hame 
 
 in lands beyond the sea; 
 Though ye may wander east an' west, 
 
 in quest o' wealth or fame, 
 There's aye a pulse within the heart 
 
 beats hame, hame, hame! 
 Oh! there's aye a pulse within the 
 heart beats hame, hame, hame! 
 
 There's gowd in gopens got, they say, 
 
 on India's sunny strand, 
 Then wha would bear to linger here 
 
 in this bleak, barren land ? 
 I'll hie me owre the heaving wave, 
 
 and win myself a name, 
 And in a palace or a grave forget my 
 
 Hieland hame. 
 
 'Twas thus resolved the peasant boy, 
 
 and left his native stream, 
 And Fortune crown'd his every wish, 
 
 beyond his fondest dream; 
 His good sword won him wealth and 
 
 power, and loud and loud acclaim; 
 But could not banish from his thoughts 
 
 his dear-loved mountain hame. 
 
 No! the peasant's heart within the 
 
 peer beat true to nature still, 
 For on his vision oft would rise the 
 
 cottage on the hill; 
 And young companions, long forgot, 
 
 would join him in the game. 
 As erst in life's young morning, around 
 
 his Hieland hame. 
 
 Oh! in the Brahmin, mild and grey, 
 
 his father's face he saw; 
 He thought upon his mother's tears 
 
 the day he gaed awa': 
 And her he loved — his Hieland girl 
 
 — there's magic in the name — 
 They a' combine to wile him back to 
 
 his far Hieland home. 
 
 He sigh'd for kindred hearts again, 
 
 and left the sunny lands, 
 And where his father's cottage stood, 
 
 a stately palace stands; 
 And with his grandchild on his knee 
 
 — the old man's heart on flame — 
 'Tis thus he trains his darling boy to 
 
 cherish thoughts of hame. 
 
 Oh ! hame is aye hamely, dear, though 
 
 poor at times it be — 
 Ye winna find a spot like hame in 
 
 lands beyond the sea; 
 Oh! ye may wander east or west, in 
 
 quest o' wealth or fame, 
 But there's aye a pulse within the 
 
 heart beats hame, hame, hame. 
 Oh! there's aye a pulse within the 
 heart beats hame, hame, hame. 
 
 THE THISTLE OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 ROBERT L. MALONE. 
 
 Though fair blooms the rose in gay 
 Anglia's bowers. 
 And green be thy emblem, thou 
 gem of the sea, 
 The greenest, the sweetest, the fairest 
 of flowers, 
 Is the thistle — the thistle of Scot- 
 land, for me ! 
 
 Far lovelier flowers glow, the wood- 
 lands adorning, 
 And breathing perfume over moor- 
 land and lea, 
 But there breathes not a bud on the 
 freshness of morning 
 Like the thistle — the thistle of Scot- 
 land, for me! 
 
 What scenes o' langsyne even thy 
 name can awaken, 
 Thou badge of the fearless, the fair, 
 and the free.
 
 348 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 And the tenderest chords of the spirit 
 are shaken; 
 The thistle— the thistle of Scotland, 
 for thee ! 
 
 Still'd be my harp, and forgotten its 
 numbers, 
 And cold as the grave my affections 
 must be, 
 Ere thy name fail to waken my soul 
 from her slumbers; 
 The thistle— the thistle of Scotland 
 for me! 
 
 On the fields of their fame, while 
 proud laurels she gathers, 
 Caledonia plants, wi' the tear in 
 her e'e. 
 Thy soft downy seeds on the graves 
 of our fathers; 
 The thistle— the thistle of Scotland 
 for me! 
 
 NAEBODY KENS YE. 
 
 ROBERT L. MALONE. 
 
 Are ye doin' ought weel, are ye 
 thrivin' my man ? 
 Be thankfu' to Fortune, for a' that 
 she sen's ye; 
 Ye'll hae plenty o' frien's aye to offer 
 their han', 
 When ye needna their countenance 
 a' body kens ye. 
 
 A' body kens ye, &c. 
 
 But wait ye a wee, till the tide tak's 
 a turn. 
 An' awa' wi' the ebb drift the favors 
 she lends ye, 
 Cauld friendshij) will ihen leave ye 
 lanely to mourn; 
 When ye need a' their friendship, 
 then naebody kens ye. 
 
 Naebody kens ye, &c. 
 
 The crony wha stuck like a burr to 
 your side. 
 An' vowed wi' his heart's dearest 
 bluid to befriend ye, 
 A five guinea note, man, will part ye 
 as wide 
 As if oceans and deserts were lyin' 
 between ye. 
 
 Naebody kens ye, &c. 
 
 It's the siller that does't man, the 
 siller, the siller. 
 It's the siller that break's ye, an' 
 mak's ye, an' men's ye; 
 When your pockets are toom, an' nae 
 wab i' the loom. 
 Then tak' ye my word for't, there's 
 naebody kens ye. 
 
 Naebody kens ye, &c. 
 
 But think nae I mean that a' mankind 
 are sae. 
 It's the iDUtterfiy frien's that mis- 
 fortune should fear aye, 
 There are friends worth the name, 
 Guid sen' they were mae, 
 Wha, the caulder the blast, aye the 
 closer draw near ye. 
 
 They bodies ken ye, &c. 
 
 The frien's wha can tell us our fau'ts 
 to our face, 
 But aye frae our faes in our absence 
 defen's us, 
 Leeze me on sic hearts! o' life's pack 
 he's the ace, 
 Wha scorns to disown us, when nae- 
 body kens us. 
 
 They bodies ken ye, &c. 
 
 JEANIE'S LAMENT. 
 peter still. 
 
 I never thocht to thole the waes 
 It's been my lot to dree; 
 
 I never thocht to sigh sae sad 
 When first I sigh'dfor thee.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 549 
 
 I thocht your heart was like mine ain, 
 
 As true as true could be; 
 I couldna think there was a stain 
 
 In ane sae dear to me. 
 
 When first amang the dewy flowers, 
 
 Aside yon siller stream, 
 My lowin' heart was press'd to yours, 
 
 Nae purer did they seem; 
 Nae purer seem'd the draps o' dew, 
 
 The flowers on whilk they hung, 
 Than seem'd the heart 1 felt in you 
 
 As to that heart I clung. 
 
 But I was young an' thochtless then. 
 
 An' easy to beguile. 
 My mither's warnin's had nae weight 
 
 ''Bout man's deceitfu' smile. 
 But noo, alas ! when she is dead, 
 
 I've shed the sad, saut tear. 
 And hung my heavy, heavy head 
 
 Aboon my father's bier! 
 
 They saw their earthly hope betray'd, 
 
 They saw their Jeanie fade; 
 They couldna thole the heavy stroke. 
 
 An' baith are lowly laid! 
 Oh, Jamie! but thy name again 
 
 Shall ne'er be breathed by me. 
 For, speechless through yon gow'ny 
 glen, 
 
 I'll wander till I die. 
 
 THE KISS AHINT THE DOOR. 
 
 THCfMAS C. LATTO. 
 
 Thomas C. Latto, the author of this 
 humorous and favorite sohlj, was born at 
 Kingsbarns, Fifeshire, on the ist of Decem- 
 ber, 1818. He was educated at St. Andrew's 
 Universit}', and, in 1S3S, became assistant 
 to Mr. John Hunter, W. S., Edinburgh, 
 afterwards Auditor of the Court of Ses- 
 sion. He also acted for some years as 
 private secretar\- to the late Prof. Aytoun. 
 In 1852, Latto entered into business on his 
 own account as a commission agent, in 
 Glasgow, but this occupation not proving 
 congenial to his tastes he relinquished it 
 and set sail for New York. Here he has 
 since been engaged in various literary and 
 
 mercantile pursuits. He was a well-known 
 contributor to "Whistle Binkie,""The 
 Book of Scottisii Song," and many of his 
 pieces have adorned the pages of Black- 
 wood's Magazine. 
 
 There's meikle bliss in ae fond kiss, 
 Whyles mair than in a score; 
 
 But wae betak' the stowin smack 
 I took ahint the door. 
 
 O laddie, whisht! for sic a fricht 
 
 I ne'er was in afore; 
 Fu' brawly did my mither hear 
 
 The kiss ahint the door. 
 The wa's are thick — ye needna fear; 
 
 But, gin they jeer and mock, 
 I'll swear it was a startit cork, 
 
 Or wyte the rusty lock. 
 
 There's meikle bliss, &c. 
 
 We stappit ben, while Maggie's face 
 
 Was like a lowin' coal; 
 An' as for me, I could ha'e creept 
 
 Into a mouse's hole. 
 The mither look't — saff's how she 
 look't!— 
 
 Thae mither's are a bore, 
 An' gleg as ony cat to hear 
 
 A kiss ahint the door. 
 
 There's meikle bliss, &ic. 
 
 The douce gudeman, tho' he was there, 
 
 As weel micht been in Rome, 
 For by the fire he fuffed his pipe, 
 
 An' never fasht his thumb; 
 But, titterin' in a corner, stood 
 
 The gawky sisters four — 
 A winter's nicht for me they micht 
 
 Ha'e stood ahint the door. 
 
 There's meikle bliss, &c. 
 
 "How daur ye tak' sic freedoms here.?" 
 
 The bauld gudewife began; 
 Wi' that a foursome yell gat up — 
 
 I to my heels and ran. 
 A besom whiskit by my lug. 
 
 And dishclouts half-a-score; 
 Catch me again, tho' fidgin' fain, 
 
 At kissin 'hint the door. 
 
 There's meikle bliss, &c.
 
 350 
 
 CELEBRATED S0NQ8 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 WHEN WE WERE AT THE 
 SCHULE. 
 
 THOMAS C. LATTO. 
 
 This humorous and deservedly popular 
 song was written by Mr Latto in early 
 life. It appeared in Blackie's " Book of 
 Scottish Song," without the author's name 
 being attached to it, but in the index of 
 authors it is properly credited to him. 
 Some twenty years ago an article appeared 
 in the New York Weekly Dispatch, claim- 
 ing that the song was written by a John 
 Paterson, whose widow was then living in 
 Grand street. It seems that this party had 
 been in the habit of singing it for many 
 years as one of his own productions; but 
 the matter having been brought to the 
 notice of Mr. Latto he had no difl5culty in 
 proving that Paterson was laboring under 
 a hallucination. We have Mr. Latto's 
 authority for stating that he is the author 
 of the song. 
 
 The laddies plague me for a sang, 
 
 I e'en maun play the fule, 
 I'll sing them ane aboot the days 
 
 When we were at the schule. 
 Though now the frosty pow is seen 
 
 Whaur ance wav'd gowden hair; 
 An' mony a blythsome heart is cauld 
 
 Sin' first we sported there. 
 
 When we were at the schule, my 
 frien', 
 
 When we were at the schule; 
 An' O, sac merry pranks we play'd 
 
 When we were at the schule. 
 
 Yet muckle Jock is to the fore 
 
 That used our lugs to pu', 
 An' Rob the pest, an' Sugar Pouch, 
 
 An' canny Davie Dow. 
 O do ye mind the maister's hat, 
 
 Sae auld, sae bare an' brown, 
 We carried to the burnie's side 
 
 An' sent it soomin' down? 
 When we, &c. 
 
 We thocht how clever a' was plann'd, 
 When, whatna voice was that? 
 
 A head is raised aboon the hedge, 
 "I'll thank ye for my hat!" 
 
 O weel I mind our hingin' lugs, 
 Our het an' tinglin' paws, 
 
 O weel I mind his awfu' look, 
 An' weel I mind the taws! 
 
 When we, &c. 
 
 O do ye mind at countin' time. 
 
 How watchfu' he has lain. 
 To catch us steal frae ithers' slates 
 
 An' jot it on our ain? 
 An' how we fear'd at writin' hour, 
 
 His glunches an' his glooms. 
 How mony times a day he said. 
 
 Our fingers a' were thooms? 
 When we, &c. 
 
 I'll ne'er forget the day ye stood, 
 
 ('Twas manfu' like,) yoursel', 
 An' took the pawmies an' the shame 
 
 To save wee Johnnie Bell; 
 The maister fand it out belyve, 
 
 He took ye on his knee. 
 An' as he gaz'd into your face, 
 
 The tear was in his e'e. 
 
 When we, &c. 
 
 But mind ye lad, yon afternoon 
 
 How fleet ye skipp'd awa'. 
 For ye had crack't auld Jenny's pane 
 
 When playin' at the ba'. 
 Nae pennies had we; Jenny grat; 
 
 It cut us to the core; 
 Ye took ye're mither's hen at nicht 
 
 And left it her door. 
 When we, &c. 
 
 An' sic a steer his granny made, 
 
 When talepyet Jamie Rae 
 We dookit roarin' at the pump. 
 
 Syne row'd him down the brae. 
 But how the very maister leuch 
 
 When leein' saddler Wat, 
 Cam' in an' threep't that cripple Tam 
 
 Had chas'd an' kill'd his cat. 
 When we, &c.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 361 
 
 Ah, laddies, ye may wink awa', 
 
 Truth maunna aye be tauld, 
 I fear the schules o' modern days 
 
 Are just sic like's the auld. 
 An' are na we but laddies yet, 
 
 An' get the name o' men? 
 How sweet at ane's fireside to live 
 
 The happy days again; 
 
 When we were at the schule, my 
 frien', 
 
 When we were at the schule. 
 An' fling the snawba's ower again 
 
 We flang when at the schule. 
 
 THE BONNIE BLIND LASSIE 
 THAT SITS r THE SUN. 
 
 THOMAS C. LATTO. 
 
 This little gem was first published in 
 Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song." 
 
 O hark to the strain that sae sweetly 
 
 is ringin', 
 And echoing clearly o'er lake and o'er 
 
 lea, 
 Like some fairy bird in the wilderness 
 
 singin', 
 It thrills to my heart, yet nae minstrel 
 
 I see, 
 Round yonder rock knittin', a dear 
 
 child is sittin', 
 Sae toilin' in her pitifu' pittance is won, 
 Hersel' tho' we see nae, 'tis mitherless 
 
 Jeanie, — 
 The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' the 
 
 sun. 
 
 Five years syne come autumn she cam, 
 
 wi' her mither, 
 A sodger's puir widow, sair wasted an' 
 
 gane; 
 As brown fell the leaves, sae wi' them 
 
 did she wither 
 And left the sweet child on the wide 
 
 world her lane. 
 
 She left Jeanie weepin', in His holy 
 
 keepin' 
 Wha shelters the lamb frae the cauld 
 
 wintry win', 
 We had little siller, yet a' were gude 
 
 till her, 
 The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' the 
 
 sun. 
 
 An' blythe now an' cheerfu' frae 
 
 mornin' to e'enin' 
 She sits thro' the simmer, an' gladdens 
 
 ilk ear, 
 Baith auld and young daut her, sae 
 
 gentle and winnin'. 
 To a' the folks round, the wee lassie 
 
 is dear. 
 Braw leddies caress her, wi' bounties 
 
 would press her. 
 The modest bit darlin' their notice 
 
 would shun. 
 For though she has naething, proud 
 
 hearted this wee thing, 
 The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' 
 
 the sun. 
 
 OUR AIN WIFE. 
 
 THOMAS C. LATTO. 
 
 First published in TheLadies Ownjournal, 
 Edinburgh. 
 
 O there's nae wife like our ain wife 
 
 in a' the Borristoun, 
 There's nae dame like our ain dame 
 
 for mony miles aroun'; 
 She is a wee bit bodie an' I'm a 
 
 muckle man, 
 But the feck o' a' the gear we hae my 
 
 wee bit wifie wan. 
 
 She aye had sic an eydent gait, while 
 
 ithers sat she ran, 
 While ithers gossip't on the stair, she 
 
 took her wheel an span. 
 Fu' bonny were the sheets an' shinin' 
 
 were the claes 
 She saw wi' joy set out to bleach upon 
 
 the gow'ny braes.
 
 352 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 A waefu' house wad ours be gin 
 
 Maggie were awa', 
 For a' the helpless bairnies ablacken't 
 
 coal to blaw; 
 What could we do without her ? we 
 
 could na move a fit; 
 We've muckle to be thankfu' for; she 
 
 clouts our duddies yet. 
 
 She's haen her times o' trouble, mair 
 
 maybe than her share, 
 A weary, weary, widdle, an' ithers' lade 
 
 to bear; 
 But her heart is unco big an' she 
 
 never will gie in, 
 While there's a turn o' wark to do, 
 
 she'll see the housie clean. 
 
 O bairnies! ye are thochtless whyles, 
 
 ye dinna ken her fecht; 
 The little shouther shouldna bear the 
 
 heaviest o' the wecht; 
 Your hands should wait upon her sae 
 
 to help her a' you can, 
 For she is a wee bit bodie, tho' I'm a 
 
 muckle man. 
 
 O there's nae wife like our ain wife 
 
 in a' the Borristoun, 
 There's nae dame like our ain dame 
 
 for mony miles aroun'. 
 An' maybe yet we'll see her sit, a 
 
 leddy in the Ian', 
 A wee bit smilin' bodie beside her 
 
 muckle man. 
 
 WE NEVER MISS THE WATER 
 TILL THE WELL RINS DRY. 
 
 THOMAS C. LATTO. 
 
 Written for this work at the special re- 
 quest of the editor. 
 
 Be lookin' out for fell auld age in 
 
 sunny days o' youth. 
 Keep rain draps that ye dinna need 
 
 ere comes the Autumn drouth. 
 
 Let aye some pennies ye can spare be 
 
 cannily laid by; 
 " We never miss the water till the well 
 
 rins dry." 
 
 The wee bit stockin' fittie, that has 
 
 its private neuk, 
 Comes just as handy in the end as 
 
 weel-lined pocket beuk; 
 Tak' tent an' no be wasterfu', the 
 
 wir>ter's drawing nigh; 
 " We never miss the water till the well 
 
 rins dry " 
 
 But be na parsimonious, I canna 
 
 thole the coof, 
 Wha sees the beggar at his door an' 
 
 doubles up his loof, 
 O dinna let him gang his wa's wi' 
 
 mutter'd bitter cry; 
 " We never miss the water till the well 
 
 rins dry." 
 
 There's plenty gude within this warld 
 
 fu' quietly to be done, 
 Wark needfu' to be hurried through 
 
 an' mair to be begun. 
 But Charity maun hae the means nor 
 
 Pity lack supply; 
 " We never miss the water till the well 
 
 i-ins dry." 
 
 There's just ae water I wad hint that 
 
 ne'er shortcoming knows 
 The mair ye drink o't, aye the mair 
 
 your pitcher over-flows. 
 The Water o' the Well o' Life; come 
 
 drink your fill an try; 
 It's brim is gurgling ever bright; its 
 
 fount is never dry. 
 
 ORDE BRAES. 
 
 ROBERT NICOLL. 
 
 Among the many excellent song writers 
 which Scotland produced shortly after the 
 death of Burns, there is none more worthy
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 353 
 
 of mention than Robert NicoU, the author 
 of "Ord6 Braes." He was born at Little 
 Tulliebeltane, Perthshire, on the 7th of 
 January, 1814, and in early life gave great 
 promise of winning for himself a promin- 
 ent place among the lyrical poets of his 
 country. He attended the parish school 
 for a few years, but the greatest portion of 
 his education he derived from his mother — 
 a worthy and shrewd Scottish woman. Fond 
 of reading ballads, novels and songs, he 
 contributed a number of the latter to the 
 local newspapers before he was fifteen 
 years of age, and in his nineteenth year 
 produced a novel of considerable length, 
 which was published in the Edinburgh 
 Magazine and attracted a good deal of 
 attention at the time. In 1834, he estab- 
 lished a reading club in Dundee, but 
 this did not prove as successful an 
 enterprise as he had anticipated, and he 
 soon withdrew from the management of it. 
 In 1835, he published a small volume of 
 poems and lyrics, and a year later was 
 highly gratified on receiving an appoint- 
 ment as editor-in-chief of the Leeds Times. 
 During his short connection with this news- 
 paper, he introduced many improvements 
 in the general management of it, and 
 brought it up to a standard of excellence 
 which it had not previously attained. Fail- 
 ing health, however, soon compelled him 
 to resign his post, and he returned to Edin- 
 burgh, where he died in December, 1837, 
 at the earl}' age of twenty-four. 
 
 His remains were interred in the church- 
 yard of North Leith, flear Edinburgh, and 
 a monument was shortly afterward erected 
 to his memory on the spot which he had 
 made famous, the Ord6 Braes. Many of 
 his songs have become decidedly popular, 
 not only in Scotland, but in other parts 
 of the world. 
 
 There's nae hame like the hame o' 
 youth, 
 
 Nae ither spot sae fair; 
 Nae ither faces look sae kind 
 
 As the smilin' faces there. 
 An' I hae sat by mony streams, 
 
 Hae travell'd mony ways; 
 But the fairest spot on the earth to me 
 
 Is on bonnie Orde Braes. 
 
 An ell-lang wee thing then I ran 
 Wi' the ither neebor bairns, 
 
 To pu' the hazel's shining nuts, 
 An' to wander 'niong the ferns; 
 
 An' to feast on the bramble-berries 
 brown 
 
 An' gather glossy slaes. 
 
 By the birnies' side, an' aye sinsyne 
 I ha'e loved sweet Ord^ Braes. 
 
 The memories o' my father's hame 
 
 An' its kindly dwellers a', 
 O' the friends I loved wi' a young 
 heart's love 
 Ere care that heart could thraw. 
 Are twined wi' the stane so' the silver 
 burn, 
 An' its fairy crooks an' bays, 
 That onward sang 'neath the gouden 
 broom 
 Upon bonnie Ord^ Braes. 
 
 Aince in a day there were happy hames 
 
 By the bonnie Orde's side; 
 Nane ken how meikle peace an' love 
 
 In a straw-roof'd cot can bide. 
 But the hames are gane, and the hand 
 o' time 
 
 The roofless wa's doth rage; 
 Laneness an' sweetness hand in hand 
 
 Sang ower the Orde Braes. 
 
 Oh! an' the sun were shinin' now. 
 
 An' oh! an' I were there, 
 Wi' twa, three friends o' auld lang syne 
 
 My wanderin' joy to share ! 
 For though on the hearth o' my bairn- 
 hood's hame 
 
 The flock o' the hills doth graze. 
 Some kind hearts live to love me yet, 
 
 Upon bonnie Orde Braes. 
 
 BONNIE BESSIE LEE. 
 
 ROBERT NICOLL. 
 
 Bonnie Bessie Lee had a face fu' o' 
 smiles, 
 And mirth round her ripe lip was 
 aye dancing slee ;
 
 854 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 And light was the footfa', and winsome 
 the wiles, 
 O' the flower o' the parochin, our 
 ain Bessie Lee! 
 Wi' the bairns she would rin, and the 
 school laddies paik, 
 And o'er the broomy braes like a 
 fairy would flee, 
 Till auld hearts grew young again wi' 
 love for her sake — 
 There was life in the blythe blink 
 o' bonnie Bessie Lee ! 
 
 She grat wi' the wayfu', and laughed 
 wi' the glad, 
 And light as the wind 'mang the 
 dancers was she; 
 And a tongue that could jeer too, the 
 little limmer had, 
 Whilk keepit aye her ain side for 
 bonnie Bessie Lee ! 
 She could sing like the lintwhite that 
 sports 'mang the whins. 
 An' sweet was her note as the bloom 
 to the bee — 
 It has aft thrilled my heart whaur our 
 wee burnie rins, 
 Where a' thing grew fairer wi' bon- 
 nie Bessie Lee. 
 
 And she whiles had a sweetheart, and 
 sometimes had twa, 
 A limmer o' a lassie; but atween 
 you and me, 
 Her warm wee bit heartie she ne'er 
 threw awa', 
 Though mony a ane had sought it 
 frae bonnie Bessie Lee. 
 But ten years had gane since I gazed 
 on her last — 
 For ten years had parted my auld 
 hame and me — 
 And I said to mysel', as her mither's 
 door I passed, 
 Will I ever get anither kiss frae 
 bonnie Bessie Lee? 
 
 But Time changes a' thing — the ill- 
 natured loon! 
 
 Were it ever sae rightly, he'll no let 
 it be; 
 And I rubbit at my een, and I thought 
 I would swoon. 
 How the carle had come roun' about 
 our ain Bessie Lee ! 
 The wee laughling lassie was a gude 
 wife grown auld, 
 Twa weans at her apron, and ane 
 on her knee, 
 She was douce too, and wise-like — 
 and wisdom's sae cauld; 
 I would rather hae the ither ane 
 than this Bessie Lee. 
 
 THE BONNIE ROWAN BUSH. 
 
 ROBERT NICOLL. 
 
 The bonnie rowan bush 
 
 In yon lane glen. 
 Where the burnie clear doth gush, 
 
 In yon lane glen; 
 My head is white and auld. 
 An' my bluid is thin an' cauld ; 
 But I lo'e the bonnie rowan bush 
 
 In yon lane glen. 
 
 My Jeanie first I met 
 
 In yon lane glen. 
 When the grass wi' dew was wet 
 
 In yon lane glen; 
 The moon was shining sweet, 
 An' our hearts wi' love did beat, 
 By the bonnie, bonnie rowan bush 
 
 In yon lane glen. 
 
 Oh! she promised to be mine, 
 
 In yon lane glen. 
 Her heart she did resign, 
 
 In yon lane glen; 
 An' mony a happy day 
 Did o'er us pass away, 
 Beside the bonnie rowan bush 
 
 In yon lane glen.
 
 CELEBRATED SON08 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 355 
 
 Sax bonnie bairns had we 
 
 In yon lane glen — 
 Lads an' lassies young an' spree, 
 
 In yon lane glen; 
 An' a blyther family 
 Than ours there cou'dnabe, 
 Beside the bonnie rowan bush 
 
 In yon lane glen. 
 
 Now my auld wife's gane awa' 
 
 Frae yon lane glen, 
 An' though summer sweet doth fa' 
 
 On yon lane glen — 
 To me its beauty's gane, 
 For, alake! I sit alane 
 Beside the bonnie rowan bush 
 
 In yon lane glen. 
 
 THE MUIR O' GORSE AN' 
 BROOM. 
 
 ROBERT NICOLL. 
 
 I wiNNA bide in your castle ha's, 
 
 Nor yet in your lofty towers; 
 My heart is sick o' your gloomy hame, 
 
 An' sick o' your darksome bowers; 
 An' oh! I wish I were far awa' 
 
 Frae their grandeur an' their gloom, 
 Where the freeborn lintie sings its sang 
 
 On the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom. 
 
 Sae weel as I like the healthfu' gale 
 
 That blaws fu' kindly there. 
 An' the heather brown, an' the wild 
 blue-bell 
 
 That wave on the muirland bare; 
 An' the singing birds, an' the humming 
 bees, 
 
 An' the little lochs that toom 
 Their gushing burns to the distant sea 
 
 O'er the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom. 
 
 Oh! if I had a dwallin' there, 
 Biggit laigh by a burnie's side. 
 
 Where ae aik tree, in the summer time, 
 Wi' its leaves that hame might hide, 
 
 Oh! I wad rejoice frae day to day, 
 As blythe as a young bridegroom; 
 
 For dearer than palaces to me 
 Is the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom ! 
 
 In a lanely cot on a muirland wild. 
 
 My mither nurtured me; 
 O' the meek wild flowers I playmates 
 made, 
 
 An' my hame wi' the wandering 
 bee. 
 An' oh! if I were far awa' 
 
 Frae your grandeur an' your gloom, 
 Wi* them again, an' the bladden gale, 
 
 On the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom. 
 
 THE BONNIE HIELAND 
 HILLS. 
 
 ROBERT NICOLL. 
 
 Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills, 
 Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills, 
 The bonnie hills o' Scotland O! 
 The bonnie Hieland hills. 
 
 There are lands on the earth where 
 the vine ever blooms. 
 
 Where the air that is breathed the 
 sweet orange perfumes; 
 
 But mair dear is the blast the lane 
 shepherd that chills 
 
 As it wantons along o'er our ain Hie- 
 land hills. 
 
 Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills. 
 
 There are rich garden lands wi' their 
 
 skies ever fair: 
 But o' riches or beauty we mak' na 
 
 our care; 
 Wherever we wander ae vision aye 
 
 fills 
 Our hearts to the burstin' — our ain 
 
 Hieland hills. 
 
 Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.
 
 356 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 In our lone and deep valleys fair 
 
 maidens there are, 
 Though born in the midst o' the 
 
 elements' war; 
 fO sweet are the damsels that sing by 
 
 our rills, 
 As they dash to the sea frae our ain 
 
 Hieland hills. 
 
 Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills. 
 
 On the moss-cover'd rock wi' their 
 
 broadswords in hand. 
 To fight for fair freedom, their sons 
 
 ever stand; 
 A storm-nursed bold spirit each warm 
 
 bosom fills, 
 "That guards frae a' danger our ain 
 
 Hieland hills. 
 
 Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills, 
 
 Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills; 
 
 The bonnie hills o' Scotland O! 
 
 The bonnie Hieland hills. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF STIRLING 
 BRIDGE. 
 
 WILLIAM SINCLAIR. 
 
 William Sinclair was born at Edinburgh 
 ■4n 1811. He was apprenticed to a book- 
 seller, but afterwards accepted a situation 
 in the Custom House at Liverpool. He 
 ibegan at an early age to contribute songs 
 .and poems to the newspapers and various 
 popular magazines. In 1843 he published 
 '" Poems of the Fanc\- and the Affections" 
 3. work which has had a very large sale. 
 
 To Scotland's ancient realm 
 
 Proud Edward's armies came, 
 To sap our freedom, and o'erwhelm 
 Our martial force in shame: 
 ■^* It shall not be!" brave Wallace cried; 
 " It shall not be!" his chiefs replied; 
 " By the name our fathers gave her, 
 Our steel shall drink the crimson 
 
 stream, 
 We'll all her dearest rights redeem — 
 Our own broadswords shall save 
 her!" 
 
 With hopes of triumph flush'd, 
 The squadrons hurried o'er 
 Thy bridge, Kildean, and heaving 
 rush'd 
 Like wild waves to the shore: 
 " They come — they come!" was the 
 
 gallant cry; 
 "They come — they come!" was the 
 loud reply; 
 " O strength, thou gracious Giver ! 
 By Love and Freedom's stainless faith, 
 We'll dare the darkest night of death — 
 We'll drive them back for ever!" 
 
 All o'er the waving broom. 
 
 In chivalry and grace, 
 Shone England's radiant spear and 
 plume. 
 By Stirling's rocky base; 
 And, stretching far beneath the view, 
 Proud Cressingham! thy banners flew, 
 
 When, like a torrent rushing, 
 O God! from right and left the flame 
 Of Scottish swords like lightning 
 came, 
 Great Edward's legions crushing! 
 
 High praise, ye gallant band. 
 
 Who, in the face of day. 
 With a daring heart and a fearless 
 hand, 
 Have cast your chains away ! 
 The foeman fell on ever side — 
 In crimson hues the Forth was dyed — 
 
 Bedew'd with blood the heather 
 While cries triumphal shook the air — 
 " Thus shall they do, thus shall they 
 dare, 
 Wherever Scotsmen gather!" 
 
 Though years like shadows fleet 
 
 O'er the dial-stone of Time, 
 Thy pulse, O Freedom! still shall 
 beat 
 With the throb of manhood's 
 prime! 
 Still shall the valor, love, and truth,
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 85T 
 
 That shone on Scotland's early youth, 
 From Scotland ne'er dissever; 
 
 The Shamrock, Rose, and Thistle 
 stern 
 
 Shall wave around her Wallace cairn, 
 And bless the brave for ever! 
 
 BONNIE STRATHNAVER. 
 
 PROF. JOHN STUART BLACKIE. 
 
 John Stuart Blackie, late Professor of 
 Greek, in the University of Edinburgh, was 
 born at Glasgow in 1809. He was educated 
 at Aberdeen and Edinburgh and afterward 
 studied at Gottingen, Berlin, and Rome. 
 In 1834 he published an English version 
 of " Goethe's Faust"; in 1850 a translation 
 of the .^schylus in two volumes; in 1857 
 " Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece 
 with other Poems;" in 1861 "Lyrical 
 Poems " also " Musa Burschicosa, a book 
 of songs for students and University men ;" 
 in 1866 a translation of the Iliad in ballad 
 measure; in 1S70 a volume of war songs of 
 the German's; and in 1874 " Horae Hell- 
 enicae," being a collection of essays and 
 discussions on important points of Greek 
 Philology and Antiquity In 1852 he was 
 elected to the chair of Greek in the Edin- 
 burgh University and thanks to his persev- 
 erance and Scottish patriotism was the 
 means in 1876 of founding a chair of 
 Celtic Literature in the same University. 
 He is a most enthusiastic admirer of 
 Scottish songs. 
 
 Bonnie Strathnaver ! Sutherland's 
 
 pride ! 
 With thy stream softly flowing and 
 
 mead spreading wide, 
 Bonnie Strathnaver! where now are 
 
 the men 
 That peopled with gladness thy green- 
 mantled glen ? 
 Bonnie Stratnaver where now are 
 the men i 
 
 That peopled with gladness thy 
 green-mantled glen? 
 
 Bonnie Strathnaver! 
 
 Bonnie Strathnaver ! Sutherland's- 
 
 pride! 
 Sweet is the breath of the birks or^ 
 
 thy side; 
 But where is the blue smoke that 
 
 curl'd from thy glen. 
 When thy lone hills were dappled 
 
 with dwellings of men.' 
 
 Bonnie Strathnaver! 
 
 Bonnie Strathnaver! O fearful to tell 
 Are the harsh deeds once done on thy 
 
 bonnie green dell! 
 When to rocks of the storm-brewing 
 
 ocean were driven 
 The men on thy green turfy walks 
 
 who had thriven. 
 
 Bonnie Strathnaver! 
 
 When the strong-sinew'd lad and the 
 
 light-tripping maid, 
 Look'd their last on the hills where 
 
 their infancy stray 'd; 
 When the grey drooping sire, and the 
 
 old hirpling dame. 
 Were chased from their hearths by the 
 
 fierce spreading flame. 
 
 Bonnie Strathnaverl 
 
 Bonnie Strathnaver ! Sutherland's; 
 
 pride! 
 Wide is the ruin that spreads on thy 
 
 side! 
 The bramble now climbs o'er the old 
 
 ruin'd wall, 
 And the green fern is rank in the 
 
 tenantless hall 
 
 Of Bonnie Strathnaver! 
 
 Bonnie Strathnaver ! Sutherland's 
 
 pride! 
 Vain are the tears that I weep on thy 
 
 side ; 
 The praise of the bard is the meed of 
 
 the glen, 
 But where is the charm that can bring 
 
 back the men 
 
 To Bonnie Strathnaver?
 
 358 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 HAIL, LAND OF MY FATHERS! 
 
 PROF. JOHN STUART BLACKIE. 
 
 Hail, land of ray fathers! I stand on 
 
 thy shore, 
 'Neath the broad fronted bluffs of thy 
 
 granite once more; 
 Old Scotland, my mother, the rugged, 
 
 the bare, 
 That reared me with breath of the 
 
 strong mountain air. 
 No more shall I roam where soft 
 
 indolence lies 
 'Neath the cloudless repose of the 
 
 featureless skies. 
 But where the white mist sweeps the 
 
 red furrow'd scaur, 
 I will fight with the storm and grow 
 
 strong by the war! 
 
 What boots all the blaze of the sky 
 
 and the billow. 
 Where manhood must rot on inglorious 
 
 pillow? 
 'Tis the blossom that blooms from the 
 
 taint of the grave 
 'Tis the glitter that gildeth the bonds 
 
 of the slave. 
 But Scotland, stern mother, for struggle 
 
 and toil 
 Thou trainest thy children on hard, 
 
 rocky soil; 
 And thy stiff-purposed heroes go 
 
 conquering forth. 
 With the strength that is bred by the 
 
 blasts of the north. 
 
 Hail, Scotland, my mother ! and 
 
 welcome the day 
 When again I shall brush the bright 
 
 dew from the brae, 
 And light as a bird, give my foot to 
 
 the heather, 
 My hand to my staff, and my face to 
 
 the weather. 
 Then climb to the peak where the 
 
 ptarmigan flies, 
 
 Or stand by the linn where the salmon 
 
 will rise. 
 And vow never more with blind 
 
 venture to roam 
 From the strong land that bore me — 
 
 my own Scottish home. 
 
 ILKA BLADE O' GRASS KEPS 
 ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW. 
 
 JAMES BALLANTINE. 
 
 James Ballantine wasborn in Edinburgh 
 on the nth of June, 1808, and died there 
 on the i8th of December, 1877. He was 
 the head of the eminent firm who executed 
 the stained glass windows for the Houses 
 of Parliament. Many of his songs made 
 their first appearance in " The Gaberlun- 
 zie's Wallet," and "Whistle Binkie." 
 
 Confide ye aye in Providence, for 
 
 Providence is kind, 
 An' bear ye a' life's changes wi' a 
 
 calm an' tranquil mind; 
 Though press'd an' hemm'd on every 
 
 side, hae faith an'ye'll win through 
 For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain 
 
 drap o' dew. 
 
 Gin reft frae friends, or cross'd in love, 
 
 as whiles nae doubt ye've been. 
 Grief lies deep-hidden in your heart, 
 
 or tears flow from your een, 
 Believe it for the best, and trow there's 
 
 good in store for you, 
 For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain 
 
 drap o' dew. 
 
 In lang, lang days o' simmer when the 
 
 clear and cloudless sky 
 Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to Nature 
 
 parched and dry. 
 The genial nigh't wi' balmy breath, 
 
 gars verdure spring anew, 
 An' ilka blade o' grass keps its ain 
 
 drap o' dew.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 859 
 
 Sae lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we 
 
 should feel ower proud and hie, 
 An' in our pride forget to wipe the 
 
 tear frae poortith's e'e, 
 Some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, 
 
 we ken na whence or hoo, 
 But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain 
 
 drap o' dew. 
 
 NAEBODY'S BAIRN. 
 
 JAMES BALLANTINE. 
 
 She was Naebody's bairn, she was 
 
 Naebody's bairn, 
 She had mickle to thole, she had 
 
 mickle to learn, 
 Afore a kind word or a look she could 
 
 earn, 
 For naebody cared about Naebody's 
 
 bairn. 
 
 Though faither or mither ne'er own'd 
 her ava, 
 
 Though rear'd by the fremmit for fee 
 unco sma'. 
 
 She grew in the shade like a young 
 lady-fern, 
 
 For Nature was bounteous to Nae- 
 body's bairn. 
 
 Though toited by some, and though 
 lightlied by mair. 
 
 She never compleened, though her 
 young heart was sair, 
 
 And warm virgin tears that might 
 melted cauld airn 
 
 Whiles glist in the blue e'e o' Nae- 
 body's bairn. 
 
 Though nane cheer'd her childhood, 
 an' nane hail'd her birth, 
 
 Heaven sent her an angel to gladden 
 the earth; 
 
 And when the earth doom'd her in 
 laigh nook to dern. 
 
 Heaven couldna but tak' again Nae- 
 body's bairn. 
 
 She cam smiling sweetly as young 
 
 mornin' daw, 
 Like lown simmer gloamin' she faded 
 
 awa, 
 And lo! how serenely that lone e'en- 
 
 ing starn 
 Shines on the greensward that haps 
 
 Naebody's bairn! 
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR. 
 
 JAMES BALLANTINE. 
 
 This song has gained for itself a well 
 merited popularity all over the world. 
 
 The bonnie, bonnie bairn sits pokin' 
 
 in the ase, 
 Glowerin' in the fire wi' his wee round 
 
 face; 
 Laughin' at the fuffin' lowe — what 
 
 sees he there ? 
 Hal the young dreamer's biggin' 
 
 castles in the air! 
 
 His wee chubby face, an' his towzy 
 
 curly pow, 
 Are laughin' an' noddin' to the 
 
 dancin' lowe; 
 He'll brown his rosy cheeks, and 
 
 singe his sunny hair, 
 Glowerin' at the imps wi' their castles 
 
 in the air. 
 
 He sees muckle castles towerin' to 
 
 the moon, 
 He sees little sodgers puin' them a' 
 
 doun; 
 Warlds whomlin' up an' doun, blazin' 
 
 wi' a flare, 
 Losh! how he loups, as they glimmer 
 
 in the air.
 
 860 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 For a' sae sage he looks, what can the 
 
 laddie ken ? 
 He's thinkin' upon naething, like 
 
 mony mighty men; 
 A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' 
 
 thing mak's us stare, — 
 There are mair folks than him biggin' 
 
 castles in the air. 
 
 Sic a night in winter may weel mak'' 
 
 him cauld; 
 His chin upon his buffy hand will 
 
 soon mak' him auld; 
 His brow is brent sae braid, oh, pray 
 
 that Daddy Care, 
 Wad let the wean alane wi' his castles 
 
 in the air. 
 
 He'll glower at the fire, an' he'll keek 
 
 at the light; 
 But mony sparkling stars are swallow'd 
 
 up by night; 
 Aulder een than his are glamour'd by 
 
 a glare, 
 Hearts are broken — heads are turn'd 
 
 — wi' castles in the air. 
 
 fate of my Prince, and so shall every man 
 over whom nature or fortune hath given 
 me any power." In the ballad of " Tran- 
 ent Muir," Mr. Skirving says: 
 
 " The great Lochiel, as I heard tell. 
 
 Led Camerons on in cluds, man; 
 The morning fair, and clear the air, 
 
 They loos'd wi' devlish thuds, man. 
 Down guns they threw, and swords they drew. 
 
 And soon did chace them aff, man; 
 On Seaton Crafts they buff'd their chafts. 
 
 And gar'd them rin like daft, man." 
 
 Lochiel was wounded at CuUoden, but 
 eifected his escape to France, where he 
 was appointed to the command of a regi- 
 ment in the French service. He died in 
 1748." — Lyric Gems of Scotland. 
 
 THE MARCH OF THE 
 CAMERON MEN. 
 
 MARY MAXWELL CAMPBELL. 
 
 " I composed this song when very young, 
 after traveling from morning to night 
 through Highland scenery with a member 
 of the family of Lochiel." — Note by the 
 A utheress. 
 
 "Donald Cameron, of Lochiel, chief of 
 the clan Cameron, was descended from 
 ancestors distinguished no less for their 
 personal prowess than their social virtues. 
 He is still fondly remembered in the High- 
 lands as "the gentle Lochiel." On the 
 Prince's landing, Lochiel used many argu- 
 ments to induce him to return to France, 
 and there await a more favorable opportu- 
 nity for the intended enterprise; but find- 
 ing Charles determined to "put all to the 
 hazard," he cried, "Then I will share the 
 
 There's many a man of the Cameron 
 clan 
 That has foUow'd his chief to the 
 field; 
 He has sworn to support him, or die 
 by his side, 
 For a Cameron never can yield. 
 
 I hear the pibroch sounding, 
 sounding, 
 Deep o'er the mountain and 
 glen. 
 While light-springing footsteps 
 are trampling the heath, 
 'Tis the march of the Came- 
 ron Men. 
 
 Oh proudly they walk, but each 
 Cameron knows 
 He may tread on the heather no 
 more; 
 But boldly he follows his chief to the 
 field, 
 Where his laurels were gather'd 
 before. 
 I hear the pibroch sounding, &c. 
 
 The moon has arisen, it shines on that 
 
 path 
 
 Now trod by the gallant and true — 
 
 High, high are their hopes, for their 
 
 chieftain has said 
 
 That whatever men dare, they can do. 
 
 I hear the pibroch sounding, &c.
 
 CELEB HA TED S0NO8 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 861 
 
 LAMENT FOR GLENCOE. 
 
 MARY MAXWELL CAMPBELL. 
 
 Ye loyal Macdonalds, awaken ! 
 awaken! 
 Why sleep ye so soundly in face of 
 the foe! 
 The clouds pass away, and the 
 morning is breaking; 
 But when will awaken the Sons of 
 Glencoe? 
 They lay down to rest with their 
 thoughts on the morrow, 
 Nor dreamt that life's visions were 
 melting like snow; 
 But daylight has dawn'd in the silence 
 of sorrow, 
 And ne'er shall awaken the Sons of 
 Glencoe. 
 
 Oh! dark was the moment thatbrought 
 to our shealing 
 The black-hearted foe with his 
 treacherous smile, 
 We gave him our food with a brother's 
 own feeling; 
 For then we believed there was 
 truth in Argyle. 
 The winds howl a warning, the red 
 lightning flashes. 
 We heap up our faggots a welcome 
 to show; 
 But traitor's are brooding on death 
 near the ashes 
 Now cold on the hearths of the 
 Sons of Glencoe. 
 
 My clansmen, strike boldly — let none 
 of ye count on 
 The mercy of cowards who wrought 
 us such woe; 
 The wail of their spirits, when heard 
 on the mountain. 
 Must surely awaken the Sons of 
 Glencoe. 
 
 Ah! cruel as adders, ye stung them 
 while sleei)ing; 
 But vengeance shall track ye 
 wherever ye go, 
 Our loved ones lie murder'd ; no 
 sorrow nor weeping. 
 Shall ever awaken the Sons of 
 Glencoe. 
 
 THE WELLS O' WEARIE. 
 
 ALEXANDER A. RITCHIE. 
 
 Alexander A. Ritchie was born at Edin- 
 burgh, in 1816. He was apprenticed to a 
 sign painter, but soon became distin- 
 guished for his skill as an artist. Many 
 of his paintings were exhibited at the 
 annual exhibitions of the Scottish Acad- 
 emy, in Edinburgh, where they com- 
 manded universal praise and admiration. 
 He was the author of a number of lyrical 
 pieces, but the present song is the only 
 one which has attained any degree of pop- 
 ularity. He died in 1850. 
 
 Sweetly shines the sun on auld 
 Edinbro' toun, 
 And mak's her look young and 
 cheerie; 
 Yet I maun awa' to spend the afternoon 
 At the lanesome Wells o' Wearie. 
 
 And you maun gang wi' me, my 
 winsome Mary Grieve, 
 There's nought in the world to 
 fear ye; 
 For I ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she 
 has gi'en ye leave 
 To gang to the Wells o' Wearie. 
 
 Oh, the sun winna blink in thy bonnie 
 blue een, 
 Nor tinge the white brow o' my 
 dearie; 
 For I'll shade a bower wi' rashes lang 
 
 and green 
 I By the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.
 
 363 
 
 CELEBRATED SONOS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 But, Mary, my love, beware ye dinna 
 glower 
 At your form in the water so clearly, 
 Or the fairy will change you into a 
 wee, wee flower, 
 And you'll grow by the Wells o' 
 Wearie. 
 
 Yestreen as I wander'd there a' alane, 
 I felt unco douf and drearie, 
 
 For wanting my Mary, a' around me 
 was but pain 
 At the lanesome Wells o' Wearie. 
 
 Let fortune or fame their minions 
 deceive, 
 Let fate look gruesome and eerie; 
 True glory and wealth are mine wi' 
 Mary Grieve, 
 When we meet by the Wells o' 
 Wearie. 
 
 Then gang wi' me, my bonnie Mary 
 Grieve, 
 Nae danger will daur to come near 
 ye ; 
 For I ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she 
 has gi'en ye leave 
 To gang to the Wells o' Wearie. 
 
 ROBIN ADAIR. 
 
 ROBERT D. JAMIESON. 
 
 The version of Robin Adair, commenc- 
 ing, "What's this dull town to me?" is an 
 Irish song, consequently we do not insert 
 it in this collection. The following version 
 is a prettier song in all respects. Mr. Colin 
 Brown says of the air: — "It is impossible 
 to conceive how any combination of nine 
 separate measures of music of three tones 
 each, or only thirty-four notes in all, could 
 be more replete with the very soul of 
 melody. It belongs to a class of gems 
 which bear the impress of remote antiquity. 
 Few of such peerless beauty can be found 
 in music, so simple in construction, and 
 so full of power and pathos." 
 
 Art thou for ever gane, 
 
 Robin Adair? 
 
 While I am left alane, 
 
 Robin Adair. 
 
 Can I believe thou art 
 
 Torn from my aching heart; 
 
 How can I bide the smart, 
 Robin Adair? 
 
 Still is thy bosom now, 
 
 Robin Adair; 
 
 Cauld is thy manly brov/, 
 Robin Adair. 
 
 Wintry this world to me, 
 
 Pleasure it canna gie — 
 
 I am bereft o' thee, 
 
 Robin Adair. 
 
 But true love canna dee, 
 
 Robin Adair. 
 Sweet thocht to comfort me, 
 
 Robin Adair. 
 Soon shall we meet again. 
 Where joys that never wane. 
 Shall banish ilka pain, 
 
 Robin Adair. 
 
 ROW WEEL, MY BOATIE, ROW 
 
 WEEL. 
 
 "This fine song, founded on an old 
 Gaelic story, first appeared in "The 
 Wanderer," a periodical published in Glas- 
 gow in 1818. The author was Walter 
 Weir, a house painter. It is sometimes 
 called ' Ellen Boideachd,' or ' Ellen the 
 beautiful.' The music, by Smith, has 
 been greatly admired." — Lyric Gems of 
 Scotlatid. 
 
 Row weel, my boatie, row weel, 
 Row weel, my merry men a', 
 
 For there's dool and there's wae in 
 Glenfiorich's bowers, 
 And there's grief in my father's ha'. 
 
 And the skiff it danc'd light on the 
 merry wee waves. 
 And it flew ower the water sae blue,
 
 CELEBBATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 363 
 
 And the wind it blew light, and the 
 moon it shone bright, 
 But the boatie ne'er reached Al- 
 landhu. 
 
 Ohon! for fair Ellen, ohon! 
 
 Ohon! for the pride of Strathcoe — 
 In the deep, deep sea, in the salt, salt 
 bree. 
 
 Lord Reoch, thy Ellen lies low. 
 
 THE LASSIE'S WARDROBE. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Taken from Chambers's Journal, No. 175. 
 It is there said to have been written by an 
 old unmarried lady as a kind ot burlesque 
 on her own habits and history. 
 
 A LASS lived down by yon burn-braes, 
 And she was weel provided wi' claes; 
 She had three mutches a' but twa, 
 And nae bonnie lad wadtak'her awa'. 
 Tak' her awa', tak' her awa', 
 Nae bonnie lad wad tak' her awa' ; 
 She had three mutches, a' but twa, 
 And nae bonnie lad wad tak' her 
 awa'. 
 
 She had a gown, it was just at the 
 
 making, 
 It wanted the forebreadth, it wanted 
 
 the backing; 
 It wanted the sleeves, the lining and a'. 
 And nae bonnie lad wad tak' her awa'. 
 Tak' her awa', &c. 
 
 She had twa stockings, they were at 
 
 the knitting. 
 They wanted the legs, they wanted the 
 
 fitting, 
 They wanted the heids, the heels, 
 
 and a', 
 And nae bonnie lad wad tak' her 
 
 awa'. 
 
 Tak' her awa', 5:c. 
 
 She had a shawl, it was just like a 
 
 riddle. 
 It wadna been the waur o' the threid 
 
 and the needle; 
 For the middle was holed, and the 
 
 border awa', 
 And nae bonnie lad wad tak' her awa'. 
 
 Tak' her awa', &c. 
 
 She had a pouch to haud her siller, 
 Wi' it she thocht to catch the miller; 
 But she tint the pouch, the siller, 
 
 and a', 
 And nae bonnie lad wad tak' her awa'. 
 
 Tak' her awa', &c. 
 
 She had a kist to haud her claes. 
 It might ha'e ser'd her a' her days; 
 But, like a gowk, she gied it awa', 
 And nae bonnie lad wad tak' her awa'. 
 
 Tak' her awa', &c. 
 
 Sae now she lives in a wee bit garret, 
 Without a friend but a cat and a 
 
 parrot; 
 For her father is dead, and her mither, 
 
 and a', 
 And nae bonnie lad has ta'en her awa'. 
 
 Ta'en her awa', &c. 
 
 And what can she do but live her lane. 
 Sin' a' her hopes o' marriage are gane; 
 For she's auld, she's bald, she's 
 
 wrinkled, and a', 
 And nae bonnie lad will tak' her awa'. 
 Tak' her awa', &c. 
 
 Now listen, fair damsels, to my lays. 
 Ye wha are vain about your claes; 
 For if ye're no guid as weel as braw, 
 O nae bonnie lad will tak' ye awa'. 
 
 Tak' ye awa', tak' ye awa', 
 Nae bonnie lad will tak' ye awa', 
 If ye're no guid as well as braw, 
 O nae bonnie lad will tak' ye awa'.
 
 864 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 THE LAND OF THE BRIGHT 
 BLOOMING HEATHER. 
 
 HUGH MACDONALD. 
 
 Hugh Macdonald was born at Glasgow 
 on the 4th of April, 1S17. His parents 
 were poor but industrious people who 
 endeavored to give their son an education 
 that woula fit him for the duties of life. 
 After leaving school he strove hard to in- 
 crease the limited amount of learning which 
 he had acquired, and when quite young 
 began contributing poems to the local 
 newspapers. In 1S4S, he became sub- 
 editor of the Glasgow Citizen, and in 1855 
 accepted the post of Editor-in-Chief of the 
 Glasgow Times. His prose writings, viz.: 
 " Rambles around Glasgow " and " Days 
 at the Coast," are well known throughout 
 Scotland and have had a large circulation. 
 He died in i860, leaving a widow and five 
 children. A collected edition of his songs 
 and poems was published soon after his 
 death, from the proceeds of which his 
 family were enabled to live comfortably. 
 
 Here's a health to the land of the 
 mountain and glen, 
 To the land of the lake and the river, 
 Where the wild thistle grows in her 
 rude, rocky den. 
 Proud Freedom's stern emblem for 
 ever. 
 The land of the claymore, the kilt, 
 and the plaid. 
 The bagpipe, the bonnet, and 
 feather; 
 Let's join heart and hand, all upstand- 
 ing in pride, 
 Here's the land of the bright bloom- 
 ing heather. 
 
 Here's a health to the land of the hero 
 
 and bard. 
 The birth-place of Ossian and 
 
 Wallace; 
 The land of bright mem'ries, of brave 
 
 hearts who dared 
 Gory death in each cause Freedom 
 
 hallows. 
 The land of the eagle, the oak, and 
 
 the pine, 
 
 Where the free storms of heaven do 
 gather; 
 Let's join heart and hand, all upstand- 
 ing in pride. 
 
 Here's the land of the bright bloom- 
 ing heather. 
 
 Here's a health to the land of the 
 bannock and brose. 
 The land of the sheep's-head and 
 haggis; 
 Of warm hearts to friends, and cauld 
 steel to foes. 
 When to battle they venture to 
 drag us; 
 The land of braw lassies and leal- 
 hearted men. 
 Where beauty and worth twine to- 
 gether; 
 Let's join heart and hand, all upstand- 
 in pride. 
 Here's the land of the bright bloom- 
 ing heather. 
 
 Here's a health to the land where we 
 first saw the light. 
 The home of our kindred and lovers, 
 Whose sod yet shall screen us in 
 death's gloomy night, 
 As now many loved ones it covers; 
 May virtue and freedom stand firm by 
 her side, 
 Each dark weed that stains her 
 soon wither; 
 Then join heart and hand, all upstand- 
 ing in pride, 
 Here's the land of the bright bloom- 
 ing heather. 
 
 BONNIE GREENLAW. 
 
 HUGH MACDONALD. 
 
 Oh! the cauld breath o' winter, sae 
 
 bitter and keen, 
 Has stown frae the woodlands their 
 
 mantles o' green;
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLANL. 
 
 365 
 
 Nae wee bird sings sweetly, nae flower 
 
 blossoms braw; 
 A' nature's grown cheerless at bonnie 
 
 Greenlaw. 
 
 But 'tisna the sang o' the mavis we 
 
 mourn, 
 Nor the wee droopin' harebell sae 
 
 withered and torn — 
 There's a form and a face, there's a 
 
 sweet smile awa', 
 That once gladdeu'd winter at bonnie 
 
 Greenlaw. 
 
 Short syne seems the time when in 
 
 simmer's nicht gloom, 
 Wi' laughin' and daffin', we pu'd the 
 
 lawbloom. 
 We scawr'd the wee lambs o'er the 
 
 fresh dewy lea, 
 While jinkin' in joy round the auld, 
 
 saughen tree. 
 
 When the bright sun o' harv'st slippit 
 
 down to his bed. 
 We soucht the row'n tree for his 
 
 berries sae red; 
 While the short hours o' gladness sped 
 
 smilin' awa', 
 Undimm'd by a' care frae the woods 
 
 o' Greenlaw. 
 
 When the sweet spring returns, and 
 
 cauld winter is gone, 
 The primrose and gowans we'll 
 
 welcome again; 
 But there's ae flower, I ween, we 
 
 lo'ed better than a' 
 That we'll ne'er meet again 'mangthe 
 
 woods o' Greenlaw. 
 
 THE WEE PRIMROSE. 
 
 HUGH MACDONALD. 
 
 On a green mossy bank, 
 'Neath a bonnie birk tree. 
 
 By a burnie that danced 
 To its ain voice o' glee, 
 
 A sweet yellow primrose 
 On March ope'd her een, 
 
 Like wee starnies o' gowd 
 In a bricht chid o' green. 
 
 O sweet sang the merle 
 
 In the hour o' her birth, 
 An' the lark tauld his joy 
 
 Frae the lift to the earth; 
 While the wud-mouse peeped out 
 
 Frae a grey-lickened stane. 
 To welcome the flower 
 
 That bids winter begane. 
 
 Though March whusslit keen 
 
 Through the cauld drapeless wud, 
 The bonnie birk tree 
 
 'Gan to smile an' to bud; 
 Sayin' summer is near, 
 
 Since the primrose is come, 
 I'll don my green kirtle, 
 
 An' welcome her home. 
 
 The wee robin cam' there 
 
 Wi' his sere-breasted bride, 
 And they biggit their nest 
 
 At the primrose's side; 
 An' sweet frae the birk tree 
 
 He sang air an' late 
 To sooth the wee heart 
 
 O' his sweet clokin' mate. 
 
 THE LASS I SAW YESTREEN. 
 
 HUGH MACDONALD. 
 
 The weary sun to rest has gane 
 
 O'er ocean's breast of blue, 
 And gloamin' comes wi' dewy wings. 
 
 And starnies on her brow; 
 The merle amang the listenin' woods 
 
 His partin' sang has gi'en, 
 And scented silence turns my heart 
 
 To ane I saw yestreen. 
 
 Oh! sweet's yon pale wee primrose 
 flower, 
 Gemm'd wi' her beads of dew.
 
 866 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 And sweet yon blue-eed violet, 
 The breckan keekin' through; 
 
 But, oh! they're cauld unto the heart, 
 And dimsome to the een, 
 
 Beside the bonnie blushin' flower — 
 The lass I saw yestreen. 
 
 Let ithers pu' the lily fair 
 
 Frae aff her droopin' stem, 
 Or frae the sweetly-scented brier 
 
 Her blushing diadem. 
 The bonnie flower that I wad pu' 
 
 Is peerless a' I ween, 
 Amang the sweets that summer wears 
 
 Around her kirtle green. 
 
 The gilded joys were never mine 
 
 That wealth's gay minions feel, 
 Nor mine their pomp and pride of 
 heart 
 
 Wha rank's high turrets speel; 
 Yet, Fortune, there's a friendly hand, 
 
 Your frowns are a' forgi'en, 
 Gin ye'll entwine her heart wi' mine 
 
 Wha charm'd my e'e yestreen! 
 
 O'ercome with love and sweet suprise, 
 
 Entranced I stood awhile, 
 Then fondly clasp'd, in warm embrace, 
 
 The lassie o' Carmyle, 
 
 The lassie o' Carmyle, &c. 
 
 Yon sweet wee gowan on the bank 
 
 Wi' her could ne'er compare; 
 The primrose pale, the violet's blue, 
 
 Were ne'er so sweet and fair. 
 I told my love wi' artless tongue, 
 
 Wi' heart unstain'd by guile; 
 She blush'd, she smiled, but noo she's 
 mine. 
 
 The lassie o' Carmyle, 
 
 The lassie o' Carmyle, &c. 
 
 Unheeded now, ambition scales 
 
 The slipp'ry hill of fame; 
 Unenvied now, pale av'rice gains 
 
 Blind fortune's fickle game. 
 For what are rank or fame to me 
 
 Compared wi' her sweet smile ? 
 My heart's first treasure still shall be 
 
 The lassie o' Carmyle, 
 
 The lassie o' Carmyle, &c. 
 
 THE LASSIE O' CARMYLE. 
 
 HUGH MACDONALD. 
 
 'TwAS on a bonnie simmer morn, 
 
 The fields were wet wi' dew, 
 And Clutha's banks were clad wi' 
 flowers 
 Of fairest form and hue; 
 The wild birds sang their sweetest 
 notes, 
 Blythe Phoebus ceased to smile. 
 As wand'ring forth I chanced to meet 
 The lassie o' Carmyle, 
 
 The lassie o' Carmyle, &c. 
 
 Her glowing cheek outrivall'd far 
 The rosebud's sweetest hue; 
 
 Her hair was like the raven's wing. 
 Her eyes a lovely blue. 
 
 THE DUSKY HOUR. 
 
 HUGH MACDONALD. 
 
 Oh! dear to me's the dusky hour 
 
 That weeps o'er parting day, 
 That shuts the daisy's gowden e'e, 
 
 And stills the throstle's lay; 
 That wins the laverock frae the lift 
 
 Into his bed of green. 
 And brings me blythe o'er bank and 
 brae 
 
 To meet my bonnie Jean. 
 
 Then saft the rustling e'ening winds 
 Gang wand'ring through the gloam, 
 
 Sweet wafting on their dewy wings 
 Each slumb'ring flower's perfume.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 367 
 
 They breathe a tale of blossoms rare, 
 That blush in dells unseen, 
 
 And mind me of my bosom flower, 
 My lowly blooming Jean. 
 
 I've gazed upon the beauteous forms 
 
 That Fancy loves to trace — 
 The brightest gems that art can boast 
 
 Of loveliness and grace; 
 But, oh! they want the witching power 
 
 That thrills my heart at e'en. 
 When love lichts up the gloamin' hour 
 
 Wi' glances of my Jean. 
 
 The laverock 'mang the blushing 
 clouds 
 
 May woo the wak'ning day, 
 The lintie lilt to list'ning noon 
 
 A lightsome loving lay; 
 Give me the hour that gems the 
 flower, 
 
 And opes the starnies een — 
 The trysted hour that brings to me 
 
 My winsome blooming Jean. 
 
 MY HEATHER HILLS. 
 
 JOHN BALLANTINE. 
 
 GLADSOME is the sea wi' its heaving 
 
 tide. 
 And bonnie are the plains in their 
 
 simmer pride; 
 But the sea wi' its tide, and the plains 
 
 wi' their rills. 
 Are nae half sae dear, as my heather 
 
 hills. 
 
 1 can heedless look on the siller sea, 
 I may tentless muse on the flow'ry lea; 
 But my heart wi' a nameless rapture 
 
 thrills 
 When I gaze on the cliffs o' my heather 
 hills\ 
 
 Then hurrah, hurrah, for my heather 
 
 hills. 
 Where the bonnie thistle waves to 
 
 the sweet blue bells, 
 
 And the wild mountain floods 
 heave their crests to the clouds, 
 
 Syne foam down the steeps o' my 
 heather hills. 
 
 O! aft in my roving youthfu' days, 
 I've nestled and row'd on their sunny 
 
 braes; 
 And pouket the bloom and the sweet 
 
 harebells 
 Aff the bonnie broomy knowes o' my 
 
 heather hills- 
 I hae berried the nest o' the wild 
 
 muircock, 
 I hae clamber'd the steeps o' the 
 
 raven's rock, 
 I hae courted my love in their rocky 
 
 fells. 
 And won a sweet bride on my heather 
 
 hills. 
 
 Then hurrah, &c. 
 
 I cling to their braes like the bud to 
 
 the thorn. 
 For 'mang their heather knowlets sae 
 
 free was I born; 
 And the harae o' my youth is my lov'd 
 
 hame still, 
 'Neath the kindly shade o' a heather 
 
 hill. 
 And when nature fails, row'd in my 
 
 plaid, 
 I'll lay me down on a heather bed; 
 And patiently wait till kind heaven 
 
 wills 
 To waft me awa' frae my heather hills. 
 Then hurrah, &c. 
 
 THE PROOF O' THE PUDDIN'S 
 THE PREEIN' O'T. 
 
 DAVID TAYLOR. 
 
 Young Maggie looks weel, neither 
 
 foolish nor vain, 
 But love keeps folk whiles frae the 
 
 seein' o't;
 
 868 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 I'll ken better after I mak' her my ain, 
 For the proof o' the puddin's the 
 
 preein' o't. 
 We think lassies at first gentle, modest 
 
 and kind, 
 Like goddesses lovely, exalted in mind; 
 But will we think sae, when in wedlock 
 
 we're joined? 
 The proof o' the puddin's the preein' 
 
 o't. 
 
 I maun tak' the lassie for better for 
 
 waur, 
 My fortune nana need try the spaein' 
 
 o't; 
 For wha can pry into futurity far? _ 
 The proof o' the puddin's the preein' 
 
 o't. 
 I'll study to please her as weel as I can, 
 An' gi'e her my siller to wair when 
 
 it's wan; 
 I think she will follow economy's plan, 
 But the proof o' the puddin's the 
 
 preein' o't. 
 
 She says what is best, aye to do she 
 
 will try, 
 But what if she's tryin' the leein' o't? 
 Hooever, I'll come to the truth by 
 
 and by, 
 For the proof o' the puddin's the 
 
 preein' o't. 
 But takin' a wife is a serious joke. 
 It's something like buying a pig in a 
 
 poke ; 
 She may be a guid ane, she may be a 
 
 mock. 
 The proof o' the puddin's the preein' 
 
 o't. 
 
 MY AIN GUDEMAN. 
 
 DAVID TAYLOR. 
 
 O DEAR, dear me 
 Is my ain gudeman. 
 
 For kindly, frank, and free, 
 Is my ain gudeman. 
 
 An' though thretty years hae fled 
 An' five sin' we were wed, 
 Nae bitter word I've had 
 Wi' my ain gudeman. 
 
 I've had seven bonnie bairns 
 
 To my ain gudeman, 
 An' I've nursed them i' their turns 
 
 For my ain gudeman. 
 An' ane did early dee. 
 But the lave frae skaith are free, 
 An' a blessin' they're to me 
 An' my ain gudeman. 
 
 I cheerie clamb the hill 
 
 Wi' my ain gudeman, 
 An' if it's Heaven's will 
 
 Wi' my ain gudeman. 
 In life's calm afternoon 
 I wad toddle cannie doun. 
 Syne at the foot sleep soun 
 Wi' my ain gudeman. 
 
 IF MY DEAR WIFE. 
 
 From Maidmenfs North Country Garland, 
 1824. 
 
 If my dear wife should chance to gang, 
 
 Wi' me, to Edinburgh toun, 
 Into a shop I will her tak'. 
 
 And buy her a new goun. 
 But if my dear wife should hain the 
 charge, 
 
 As I expect she will, 
 And if she says, The auld will do, 
 
 Bymy word she shall ha'e her will. 
 
 If my dear wife should wish to gang, 
 
 To see a neebor or friend, 
 A horse or a chair I will provide, 
 
 And a servant to attend. 
 But if my dear wife shall hain the 
 charge, 
 
 As I expect she will, 
 And if she says, I'll walk on foot. 
 
 By my word she shall ha'e her will.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 869 
 
 If ray dear wife shall bring me a son, 
 
 As I expect she will, 
 Cake and wine I will provide, 
 
 And a nurse to nurse the child. 
 But if my dear wife shall hain the 
 charge, 
 
 As I expect she will. 
 And if she says, She'll nurs't hersel', 
 
 By my word she shall ha'e her will 
 
 I'LL GAR OUR GUDEMAN 
 TROW. 
 
 AN OLD SONG. FROM C. K. SHARPE's 
 BALLAD BOOK, 1824, 
 
 I'll gar our gudeman trow 
 
 I'll sell the ladle, 
 If he winna buy to me 
 
 A bonnie side-saddle. 
 To ride to kirk and bridal, 
 
 And round about the town; 
 Stand about, ye fisher jauds, 
 
 And gi'e my gown room! 
 
 I'll gar our gudeman trow 
 
 I'll tak' the fling-strings, 
 If he winna buy to me 
 
 Twal bonnie gowd rings; 
 Ane for ilka finger. 
 
 And twa for ilka thoom; 
 Stand about, ye fisher jauds, 
 
 And gi'e my gown room! 
 
 I'll gar our gudeman trow 
 
 That I'm gaun to die, 
 If he winna fee to me 
 
 Valets twa or three, 
 To bear my train up frae the dirt, 
 
 And ush me through the town; 
 Stand about, ye fisher jauds, 
 
 And gi'e my gown room! 
 
 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 FROM C. K. SHARPE's BALLAD BOOK. 
 
 "These two verses, which are in a style 
 wonderfully tender and chaste for their age, 
 were written by a Mr. Douglas, of Finland, 
 on Annie, one of the four daughters of Sir 
 Robert Laurie, first Baronet of Maxwelton, 
 by his second wife, who was a daughter of 
 Riddel, of Minto. As Sir Robert was cre- 
 ated Baronet in the year 1685, it is probable 
 that the verses were composed about the end 
 of the seventeenth or the beginning of the 
 eighteenth centur}'. It is painful to record, 
 that, notwithstanding the ardent and chiv- 
 alrous affection displayed by Mr. Douglas 
 in his poem, he did not obtain the heroine 
 for a wife; she was married to Mr. Fergu- 
 son, of Craigdarroch." — Chambers. 
 
 Maxwelton banks are bonnie, 
 
 Where early fa's the dew; 
 Where me and Annie Laurie 
 
 Made up the promise true; 
 Made up the promise true, 
 
 And never forget will I; 
 And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 
 I'll lay me down and die. 
 
 She's backit like the peacock, 
 
 She's breistit like the swan, 
 She's jimp about the middle, 
 
 Her waist ye weel micht span; 
 Her waist ye weel micht span, 
 
 And she has a rolling eye; 
 And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 
 I'll lay me down and die. 
 
 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 MODERN VERSION. 
 
 Maxwelton braes are bonnie, 
 
 Where early fa's the dew, 
 And it's there that Annie Laurie 
 
 Gied me her promise true ; 
 Gied me her promise true, 
 
 Which ne'er forgot will be; 
 And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 
 I'd lay me clown and dee.
 
 870 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Her brow is like the snaw-drift, 
 
 Her throat is like the swan, 
 Her face it is the fairest 
 
 That e'er the sun shone on; 
 That e'er the sun shone on. 
 
 And dark blue is her e'e; 
 And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 
 I'd lay me down and dee. 
 
 Like dew on the gowan lying, 
 
 Is the fa' o' her fairy feet, _ 
 And like winds in summer sighing. 
 
 Her voice is low and sweet; 
 Her voice is low and sweet, 
 
 And she is a' the world to me; 
 And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 
 I'd lay me down and dee. 
 
 JENNY'S BAWBEE. 
 
 Dr. Robert Chambers, in his collection 
 of "Scottish Songs," published in 1S27, 
 gives the following version of " Jenny's 
 Bawbee," which is said to have been the 
 composition of a clergyman in Galloway, 
 and, so far as we can learn, the name of 
 the author has never been made public. 
 
 When gloamin' o'er the welkin steals, 
 And brings the ploughman frae the 
 
 fiel's, 
 Oh, Jenny's cot, amang the shiels, 
 
 Is aye the hame to me. 
 To meet wi' her my heart is fain, 
 And partmg gi'es me meikle pain; _ 
 A queen and throne I would disdain 
 
 For Jenay's ae bawbee. 
 
 Tho' braws she has na mony feck, 
 Nae riches to command respec*, 
 Her rosy lip and lily neck 
 
 Mair pleasure gi'e to me. 
 I see her beauties, prize them a', 
 Wi' heart as pure as new-blawn snaw; 
 I'd prize her cot before a ha', 
 
 Wi' Jenny's ae bawbee. 
 
 Nae daisy, wi' its lovely form, 
 Nor dewdrop shining frae the corn, 
 Nor echo frae the distant horn. 
 
 Is half sae sweet to me! 
 And if the lassie were my ain. 
 For her I'd toil through wind and rain, 
 And gowd and siller I would gain 
 
 Wi' Jenny's ae bawbee. 
 
 O SING TO ME THE AULD 
 SCOTS SANGS. 
 
 REV. GEO. W. BETHUNE. 
 
 O SING to me the auld Scots sangs 
 
 I' the braid Scottish tongue, 
 The sangs my faither wished to hear 
 
 The sangs my mither sung. 
 When she sat beside my cradle, 
 
 Or croon'd me on her knee; 
 An' I wadna sleep, she sang sae sweet 
 
 The auld Scots sangs to me. 
 
 Sing ony o' the auld Scots sangs. 
 
 The blithesome or the sad, 
 They mak me smile when I am wae, 
 
 And greet when I am glad; 
 My heart gaes back to auld Scotland, 
 
 The saut tear dims my e'e, 
 And the Scots blood leaps in a' my 
 veins. 
 
 As ye sing thae sangs to me. 
 
 Sing on, sing mair o' thae auld sangs, 
 
 For ilka ane can tell 
 O' joy or sorrow o' the past. 
 
 Where mem'ry loves to dwell; 
 Tho' hair grow grey, and limbs grow 
 auld. 
 
 Until the day I dee 
 I'll bless the Scottish tongue that 
 sings 
 
 The auld Scots sangs to me.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 371 
 
 WE'RE A' NODDIN. 
 
 From " Blackie's Book of Scottish 
 Songs." The following verses have fre- 
 quently been pronounced the best version 
 of "We're a' Noddin'." The name of the 
 author is unknown: 
 
 GuDE e'en to ye, Kimmer, 
 And are ye alane ? 
 
 come and see how blythe are we, 
 For Jamie he's cam' hame. 
 
 And O, but he's been lang awa', 
 
 And O, my heart was sair 
 As I sobbed out a lang farewell — 
 
 Maybe to meet nae mair, 
 
 Noo we're a' noddin', &c. 
 
 O, sair ha'e I fought. 
 
 Ear' and late did I toil. 
 My bairnies for to feed and deed — 
 
 My comfort was their smile; 
 When I thocht on Jamie far awa', 
 • An' o' his love sae fain, 
 A bodin' thrill cam' through my heart, 
 
 We'd maybe meet again. 
 
 Noo we're a' noddin', &c. 
 
 When he knockit at the door 
 
 I thocht I kent the rap. 
 And little Katie cried, 
 
 " My daddie he's cam' back." 
 A stoun gaed through my anxious 
 breast 
 
 As thochtfully I sat, 
 
 1 raise, I gazed, fell in his arms. 
 And bursted out and grat. 
 
 Noo we're a' noddin', &c. 
 
 SWEET JESSIE O' THE DELL. 
 
 WILLIAM CAMERON. 
 
 William Cameron was born in the Parish 
 of Dunipace, Stirlingshire, on December 3, 
 1801. He was for some time Schoolmas- 
 ter at Armadale, near Bathgate: from there 
 he removed to Glasgow where he engaged 
 in mercantile pursuits for upwards of twen- 
 ty-five years. He died at Glasgow in 1S77. 
 
 O BRIGHT the beaming queen o' night 
 
 Shines in yon flow'ry vale, 
 And softly sheds her silver light 
 O'er mountain, path, and dale. 
 Short is the way, when light's the 
 heart 
 That's bound in love's soft spell; 
 Sae I'll awa' to Armadale, 
 To Jessie o' the Dell, 
 To Jessie o' the Dell, 
 
 Sweet Jessie o' the Dell, 
 
 The bonnie lass o' Armadale, 
 
 Sweet Jessie o' the Dell. 
 
 We've pu'd the primrose on the braes 
 
 Beside my Jessie's cot. 
 We've gather'd nuts, we've gather'd 
 slaes. 
 
 In that sweet rural spot. 
 The wee short hours danced merrily, 
 
 Like lambkins on the fell; 
 As if they join'd in joy wi' me 
 
 And Jessie o' the Dell. 
 
 There's nane to me wi' her can vie, 
 
 I'll love her till I dee; 
 For she's sae sweet and bonnie aye. 
 
 And kind as kind can be. 
 This night in mutual kind embrace. 
 
 Oh, wha our joys may tell; 
 Then I'll awa to Armadale, 
 
 To Jessie o' the Dell. 
 
 MEET ME ON THE GOWAN 
 LEA. 
 
 WILLIAM CAMERON. 
 
 Meet me on the gowan lea, 
 Bonnie Mary, sweetest Mary; 
 
 Meet me on the gowan lea, 
 My ain, my artless Mary. 
 
 Before the sun sinks in the west, 
 And nature a' ha'e gane to rest,
 
 372 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 There to my fond, my faithful breast, 
 Oh let me clasp my Mary. 
 Meet me, &c. 
 
 The gladsome lark o'er moor and fell, 
 The Untie in the bosky dell, 
 
 Nae blyther than your bonnie sel', 
 My ain, my artless Mary. 
 Meet me, &c. 
 
 We'll join our love notes to the breeze 
 That sighs in whispers through the 
 trees, 
 And a' that twa fond hearts can please 
 Will be our sang, dear Mary. 
 Meet me, «Scc. 
 
 There ye shall sing the sun to rest. 
 
 While to my faithfu' bosom prest; 
 Then wha sae happy, wha sae blest, 
 As me and my dear Mary. 
 Meet me on the gowan lea, 
 
 Bonnie Mary, sweetest Mary; 
 Meet me on the gowan lea, 
 My ain, my artless Mary. 
 
 O bide, dear Willie, here the night, 
 
 O bide till morning here — 
 Your faither he'll see a' things right, 
 
 And ye'U ha'e nocht to fear. 
 Sae dark's the lift, nae moon is there, 
 
 The rain in torrents pours — 
 Ah! see the lightnin's dreadfu' glare, 
 
 Hear how the thunder roars. 
 O dinna cross, &c. 
 
 Awa' he rode, nae kindness could 
 
 His wild resolve o'erturn; 
 He plunged into the foaming flood, 
 
 But never cross'd the burn. 
 And noo, though ten lang years ha'e 
 past 
 
 Since that wild storm blew by. 
 Ah! still the maniac hears the blast, 
 
 And still the crazy cry. 
 O dinna cross, «Src. 
 
 O DINNA CROSS THE BURN, 
 WILLIE. 
 
 WILLIAM CAMERON. 
 
 O DINNA cross the burn, Willie, 
 Willie dinna cross the burn; 
 
 For big's the spate and loud it roars, 
 O dinna cross the burn. 
 
 Your folks a' ken you're here the night, 
 
 And sair they would me blame; 
 Sae bide wi' me till mornin' light, 
 
 Indeed ye're no gaun hame. 
 Ha'e ye nae care about yoursel', 
 
 To brave that fearfu' storm? 
 Some twa three hours a tale may tell 
 
 We noo can hardly form. 
 
 O dinna cross, &c. 
 
 O'^ Wr THE TARTAN. 
 
 HUGH AINSLIE. 
 
 Can you lo'e, my dear lassie, 
 
 The hills wild and free; 
 Whar' the sang o' the shepherd 
 
 Gars a' ring wi' glee ? 
 Or the steep rocky glens, 
 
 Where the wild falcons bide ? 
 Then on wi' the tartan, 
 
 And, fy, let us ride! 
 
 Can ye lo'e the knowes, lassie. 
 
 That ne'er war in rigs! 
 Or the bonnie loune lee. 
 
 Where the sweet robin bigs ? 
 Or the sang o' the lintie, 
 
 Whan wooin' his bride ? 
 Then on wi' the tartan. 
 
 And, fy, let us ride! 
 
 Can ye lo'e the burn, lassie. 
 That loups amang linns ?
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 873 
 
 Or the bonnie green howmes, 
 Where it cannilie rins, 
 
 Wi' a cantie bit housie, 
 Sae snug by its side ? 
 
 Then on wi' the tartan, 
 And, fy, let us ride ! 
 
 THE ROVER O' LOCHRYAN. 
 
 HUGH AINSLIE. 
 
 The Rover o' Lochryan, he's gane, 
 
 Wi' his merry men sae brave; 
 Their hearts are o' the steel, an' a 
 better keel 
 Ne'erbowl'd owre the back o' a wave. 
 It's no' when the loch lies dead in his 
 trough 
 When naething disturbs it ava; 
 But the rack and the ride o' the rest- 
 less tide, 
 Or the splash o' the grey sea-maw. 
 
 It's no when the yawl an' the light 
 skiffs crawl 
 Owre the breast o' the siller sea; 
 That I look to the west for the bark I 
 lo'e best, 
 An' the rover that's dear to me; 
 But when that the clud lays its cheek 
 to the flud. 
 An' the sea lays its shouther to the 
 shore; 
 When the win' sings high, and the sea- 
 whaups cry, 
 As they rise frae the whitening roar. 
 
 It's then that I look to the thickening 
 rook. 
 
 An' watch by the midnight tide; 
 I ken the wind brings my rover hame, 
 
 An' the sea that he glories to ride. 
 Oh, merry he sits 'mang his jovial 
 crew, 
 
 Wi' the helm heft in his hand, 
 An' he sings aloud to his boys in blue, 
 
 As his ee's upon Galloway's land. 
 
 " Unstent and slack each reef an' tack^ 
 Gae her sail, boys, while it may sit; 
 She has roar'd through a heavier sea 
 afore, 
 An' she'll roar through a heavier yet. 
 When landsmen sleep, or wake an' 
 creep. 
 In the tempest's angry moan. 
 We dash through the drift, and sing 
 to the lift 
 O' the v/ave that heaves us on." 
 
 DOWIE IN THE HINT O' 
 HAIRST. 
 
 HUGH AINSLIE. 
 
 It's dowie in the hint o' hairst, 
 
 At the wa'-gang o' the swallow. 
 When the wind grows cauld, and the 
 burns grow bauld, 
 And the wuds are hingin' yellow; 
 But oh, it's dowier far to see 
 The wa'-gango' her the heart gangs wi'. 
 The dead-set o' a shinin' e'e — 
 That darkens the weary warld on thee. 
 
 There was mickle love atween us twa — 
 
 Oh, twa could ne'er be fonder; 
 And the thing on yird was never made. 
 
 That could ha'e gart us sunder. 
 But the way of Heaven's aboon a' ken. 
 And we maun bear what it likes to 
 
 sen' — 
 It's comfort, though, to weary men. 
 That the warst o' this warld's waes 
 maun en'. 
 
 There's mony things that come and 
 gae, 
 Just kent, and just forgotten; 
 And the flowers that busk a bonnie 
 brae, 
 Gin anither year lie rotten.
 
 374 
 
 CELEBRATED SONQS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 But the last look o' that lovely e'e, 
 And the dying grip she ga'e to me, 
 They're settled like eternitie — 
 Oh, Mary! that I were wi' thee. 
 
 SCOTLAND YET. 
 
 REV. HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 
 
 Henry Scott Riddell will always be 
 kindly 'remembered by his countrymen 
 everywhere, for the many sweet and patri- 
 oticlyrics which he added to the national 
 minstrelsy of Scotland. He Avas born at 
 Sorbie, in Dumfriesshire on the 23d of Sep- 
 tember, 1798, and although his family were 
 in comfortable circumstances, yet his early 
 education was very deficient and consisted 
 principally in what he managed to teach 
 himself while acting the part of a cowherd 
 or shepherd's boy among the hills and 
 glens. "According to my ability," he says, 
 " I studied while wandering among the 
 mountains, and at intervals, adopting my 
 knee for my desk, wrote down the results 
 of my musing." He soon acquired a taste 
 for ballad and song literature, and while 
 studying these also began to develop a 
 talent for verse making. This talent he 
 eagerly strove to cultivate, and, as the fol- 
 lowing incident, which he relates, will 
 show, it soon brought him prominently 
 before the notice of his neighbors, and 
 gained for him a local reputation as a poet: 
 "I usually carried a lot ot these writings 
 in my hat, and by and by, unlike most 
 other young authors, I got a publisher un- 
 sought for. This was the wind, which, on 
 a wild day, swept my hat from my head, 
 and, scattering its contents asunder from 
 (heir fold, sent them away over hill and 
 dale like a flock of wild fowl. I recovered 
 somewhere they had hailed in bieldy places; 
 others of them went further, and fell into 
 other hands, and particularly into those of 
 a neighbor who a short while previously, 
 had played an unmanly part relating to a 
 sheep and the march that ran between us. 
 He found his unworthy proceeding boldly 
 discussed in an epistle which, I dare say, 
 no other carrier would ever have conveyed 
 to him but the unblushing mountain blast. 
 He complained to others, whom he found 
 more or less involved in his own predica- 
 
 ment, and the thing went disagreeably 
 abroad. My master, through good taste 
 and feeling was vexed, as I understood, 
 that I should have done anything that gave 
 ground for accusation, though he did not 
 mention the subject to myself ; but my 
 father, some days after the mischief had 
 commenced, came to me upon the hill, and 
 not in very good humor, disapproved of my 
 imprudent conduct. As for the conse- 
 quences of this untoward event, it proved 
 the means of revealing what I had hitherto 
 concealed — procuring forme a sort of local 
 popularity little to be envied. I made the 
 best improvement of it, as I then thought, 
 that lay in my power — by writing a satire 
 upon myself." 
 
 Shortly after the above incident had 
 occurred he removed to Biggar, where he 
 attended a school until he had become 
 proficient in nearly all of the ordinary 
 branches of education. He next entered 
 the University of Edinburgh as a theologi- 
 cal student, and a few years later graduated 
 as a licentiate of the Church of Scotland. 
 He took up his residence at Teviothead, 
 where it is said the Duke of Buccleuch 
 allowed him the use of a cottage, a small 
 annuity and a grant of land! He never 
 took any active part in the Church. During 
 his life-time he published several books of 
 poetry and songs, and quite a number of 
 the latter have become universal favorites 
 with all classes of people in Scotland. 
 •'He sings," says Dr. Rogers, "of the 
 mountain wilds and picturesque valleys of 
 Caledonia, and of the simple joys and 
 habits of rural or pastoral life. His stj'le 
 is essential!}- lyrical, and his songs are 
 altogether true to nature. Several of his 
 songs, such as 'Scotland Yet.' 'The Wild 
 Glen sae Green,' ' The Land of Gallant 
 Hearts,' and ' The Crook and Plaid,' will 
 find admirers while Scottish lyric poetry is 
 read or sung." 
 
 Mr. Riddell died in 1S70, at the age of 
 seventy-two. The following verses taken 
 from his poem, "The Minstrel's Grave," 
 would form an appropriate inscription lor 
 a monument to his memory : 
 
 * , * * * * + * 
 
 Oh! thou wert beloved fi-om the dawn of thy childhood, 
 Beloved till the last of thy sufferinj^ was seen, 
 
 Beloved now that o'er thee is waving the wildwood. 
 And the worm only living where rapture hath been. 
 
 * * » * * * 
 Vet sleep, gentle bard! for, though silent forever. 
 
 Thy harp in the hall of the chieftain is hung; 
 No time from the mem'ry of mankind shall sever 
 The tales that it told and the strains that it sung.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCO 2X AND. 
 
 875 
 
 A collected edition of his poetical works, 
 in two volumes, edited with a memoir by 
 Dr Brydon, of Hawick, was published at 
 Glasgow, in 1872. 
 
 Gae, bring my guid auld harp ance 
 mair, 
 
 Gae, bring it free and fast, 
 For I maun sing anither sang 
 
 Ere a' my glee be past, 
 And trow ye as I sing, my lads, 
 
 The burden o't shall be 
 Auld Scotland's howes, and Scotland's 
 knowes, 
 
 And Scotland's hills for me, — 
 I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet, 
 
 Wi' a' the honors three. 
 
 The heath waves wild upon her hills. 
 
 And foaming frae the fells, 
 Her fountains sing o' freedom still, 
 
 As they dash down the dells; 
 And weel I lo'e the land, my lads. 
 
 That's girded by the sea; 
 Then Scotland's dales and Scotland's 
 vales, 
 
 And Scotland's hills for me — 
 I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet, 
 Wi' a the honors three. 
 
 The thistle wags upon the fields, 
 
 Where Wallace bore his blade, 
 That gave her foeman's dearest bluid, 
 
 To dye her auld gray plaid; 
 And looking to the lift, my lads, 
 
 He sang this doughty glee, 
 Auld Scotland's right, and Scotland's 
 might. 
 
 And Scotland's hills for me, — 
 I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet, 
 
 Wi' a' the honors three. 
 
 They tell o' lands wi' brighter skies. 
 Where freedom's voice ne'er rang, 
 
 Gi'e me the hills where Ossian lies, 
 And Coila's minstrel sang. 
 
 Por I've nae skill o' lands, my lads, 
 That ken nae to be free, 
 
 Then Scotland's right, and Scotland's 
 might. 
 
 And Scotland's hills for me — 
 I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet, 
 
 Wi' a' the honors three. 
 
 SCOTIA'S THISTLE. 
 
 REV. HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 
 
 Scotia's thistle guards the grave, 
 Where repose her dauntless brave; 
 Never yet the foot of slave 
 
 Has trod the wilds of Scotia. 
 Free from tyrant's dark control — 
 Free as waves of ocean roll — 
 Free as thoughts of minstrel's soul, 
 
 Still roam the sons of Scotia. 
 
 Scotia's hills of hoary hue. 
 Heaven wraps in wreathes of blue, 
 Watering with its dearest dew 
 
 The heathy locks of Scotia. 
 Down each green-wood skirted vale, 
 Guardian spirits, lingering, hail 
 Many a minstrel's melting tale, 
 
 As told of ancient Scotia. 
 
 When the shades of eve invest 
 Nature's dew-bespangled breast, 
 How supremely man is blest 
 
 In the glens of Scotia! 
 There no dark alarms convey 
 Aught to chase life's charms away; 
 There they live, and live for aye. 
 
 Round the homes of Scotia. 
 
 Wake, my hill harp! wildly wake! 
 Sound by lee and lonely lake, 
 Never shall this heart forsake 
 
 The bonnie wilds of Scotia. 
 Others o'er the ocean's foam 
 Far to other lands mav roam, 
 But for ever be my home 
 
 Beneath the sky of Scotia!
 
 CELEBRATED SONQS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 THE LAND OF GALLANT 
 HEARTS. 
 
 REV. HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 
 
 Ours is the land of gallant hearts, 
 
 The land of lovely forms, 
 The island of the mountain-harp, 
 
 The torrents and the storms; 
 The land that blooms with freeman's 
 tread, 
 
 And withers with the slave's, 
 Where far and deep the green woods 
 spread, 
 
 And wild the thistle waves. 
 
 Ere ever Ossian's lofty voice 
 
 Had told of Fingal's fame,_ 
 Ere ever from their native clime 
 
 The Roman eagles came — 
 Our land had given heroes birth. 
 
 That durst the boldest brave, 
 And taught, above tyrannic dust. 
 
 The thistle tufts to wave. 
 
 What need we say how Wallace fought, 
 
 And how his foemen fell ? 
 Or how on glorious Bannockburn 
 
 The work went wild and well ? 
 Ours is the land of gallant hearts. 
 
 The land of honor'd graves, 
 Whose wreath of fame shall ne'er 
 depart 
 
 While yet the thistle waves. 
 
 Oh! meet me Eliza, adown by the 
 wild-wood. 
 Where the wild daisies sleep 'mong 
 the low-lying dew, 
 And our bliss shall be sweet as the 
 visions of childhood, 
 And pure as the fair star, in heaven's 
 deep blue. 
 
 Thy locks shall be braided in drops 
 of the gloaming, 
 And fann'd by the far-travel'd 
 breeze of the lawn; 
 The spirits of heaven shall know of 
 thy coming. 
 And watch o'er our joy till the hour 
 of the dawn. 
 No woes shall we know of dark for- 
 tune's decreeing, 
 Of the past and the future my 
 dreams may not be. 
 For the light of thine eye seems the 
 home of my being. 
 And my soul's fondest thoughts 
 shall be gather'd to thee. 
 
 WHEN THE GLEN ALL IS 
 STILL. 
 
 REV. HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 
 
 When the glen all is still, save the 
 stream of the fountain. 
 When the shepherd has ceased o'er 
 the dark heath to roam. 
 And the wail of the plover awakes on 
 the mountain. 
 Inviting her mate to return to his 
 home — 
 
 WE'LL MEET YET AGAIN. 
 
 REV. HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 
 
 We'll meet yet again, my loved fair 
 one, when o'er us 
 The sky shall be bright, and the 
 bowers shall be green, 
 And the visions of life shall be lovely 
 before us, 
 As the sunshine of summer that 
 sleeps o'er the scene. 
 The woodlands are sad when the green 
 leaves are fading, 
 And sorrow is deep when the 
 dearest must part, 
 But for each darker woe that our 
 spirit is shading 
 A joy yet more bright shall return 
 to the heart.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 377 
 
 We'll meet yet again, when the pain, 
 disconcerting 
 The peace of our minds in a moment 
 like this, 
 Shall melt into nought, like the tears 
 of our parting, 
 Or live but in mem'ry to heighten 
 our bliss. 
 We have loved in the hours when a 
 hope scarce could find us; 
 We've loved when our hearts were 
 the lightest of all, 
 And the same tender tie that has 
 bound, still shall bind us, 
 When the dark chain of fate shall 
 have ceased to enthral. 
 
 We'll meet yet again, when the spirit 
 of gladness 
 Shall breathe o'er the valley, and 
 brighten its flowers, 
 And the lone hearts of those who 
 have long been in sadness 
 Shall gather delight from the tran- 
 sport of ours; 
 Yes, thine are the charms, love, that 
 never can perish, 
 And thine is the star that my guide 
 still shall be. 
 Alluring the hope in this soul that 
 shall cherish 
 Its life's dearest treasures, to share 
 them with thee. 
 
 THE BOWER OF THE WILD. 
 
 REV. HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 
 
 I FORMED a green bower by the rill o' 
 
 yon glen. 
 Afar from the din and the dwellings 
 
 of men; 
 Where still I might linger in many a 
 
 dream. 
 And mingle my strains wi' the voice 
 
 o' the stream. 
 From the cave and the cliff, where the 
 
 hill foxes roam. 
 
 Where the earn has his nest and the 
 
 raven his home, 
 I brought the young flower-buds ere 
 
 yet they had smiled, 
 And taught them to bloom round my 
 
 bower of the wild. 
 
 But the fair maidens came, from yon 
 
 vale far away, 
 And sought my lone grotto still day 
 
 after day. 
 And soon were the stems of their fair 
 
 blossoms shorn 
 That the flowers of the bard might 
 
 their ringlets adorn. 
 Full fair were they all, but the maiden 
 
 most fair 
 Would still have no flower till I pull'd 
 
 it with care; 
 And gentle, and simple, and modest, 
 
 and mild, 
 She stole my lone heart in the bower 
 
 of the wild. 
 
 The summer is past, and the maidens 
 
 are gone, 
 And this heart, like my grotto, is 
 
 wither'd and lone. 
 And yet, with the winter, I'll cease 
 
 not to mourn, 
 Unless, with the blossoms, these fair 
 
 ones return. 
 Oh! had they ne'er come, or had ne'er 
 
 gone away, 
 I sing in my sorrow still day after day, 
 The scene seems a desert — the charm 
 
 is exiled, 
 And woe to my blossoms and my 
 
 bower of the wild! 
 
 THE CROOK AND PLAID. 
 
 REV. HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 
 
 I wiNNA love the laddie that ca's the 
 
 cart and pleugh. 
 Though he should own that tender 
 
 love, that's only felt by few;
 
 378 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 For he that has this bosom a' to 
 
 fondest love betray'd, 
 Is the faithfu' shepherd laddie that 
 wears the crook and plaid; 
 
 For he's aye true to his lassie — 
 
 he's aye true to his lassie, 
 Who wears the crook and plaid. 
 
 At morn he climbs the mountains wild 
 
 his fleecy flocks to view, 
 While o'er him sweeithe laverock sings, 
 
 new sprung frae 'mang the dew; 
 His doggie frolics roun' and roun', 
 
 and may not weel be stay'd, 
 Sae blythe it is the laddie wi' that 
 
 wears the crook and plaid; 
 And he's aye true, &c. 
 
 At noon he leans him down upon the 
 
 high and heathy fell, 
 And views his flocks, beneath hiui a', 
 
 fair feeding in the dell; 
 And there he sings the songs o' love, 
 
 the sweetest ever made; 
 O! how happy is the laddie that wears 
 
 the crook and plaid; 
 And he's aye true, &c. 
 
 He pu's the bells o' heather red, and 
 
 the lily-flowers sae meek, 
 Ca's the lily like my bosom, and the 
 
 heath-bell like my cheek; 
 His words are sweet and tender, as 
 
 the dews frae heaven shed; 
 And weel I love to list the lad who 
 
 wears the crook and plaid; 
 For he's aye true, &c. 
 
 When the dews begin to fauld the 
 
 flowers, and the gloaming shades 
 
 draw on, 
 When the star comes stealing through 
 
 the sky, andthe kye are on the loan, 
 He whistles through the glen sae sweet, 
 
 the heart is lighter made 
 To ken the laddie hameward hies who 
 
 wears the crook and plaid; 
 For he's aye true, &c. 
 
 Beneath the spreading hawthorn grey, 
 
 that's growing in the glen, 
 He meets me in the gloamin' aye, 
 
 when nane on earth can ken. 
 To woo and vow, and there I trow, 
 
 whatever may be said, 
 He kens aye unco weel the way to row 
 
 me in his plaid; 
 
 For he's aye true, &c. 
 
 The youth o' mony riches may to his 
 
 fair one ride. 
 And woo across the table cauld his 
 
 madam-titled bride; 
 But I'll gang to the hawthorn grey, 
 
 where cheek to cheek is laid. 
 Oh! nae wooers like the laddie that 
 
 rows me in his plaid; 
 
 And he's aye true, &c. 
 
 To own the truth o' tender love what 
 
 heart wad no comply, 
 Since love gives purer happiness than 
 
 aught aneath the sky ? 
 If love be in the bosom, then the heart 
 
 is ne'er afraid; 
 And through life I'll love the laddie 
 
 that wears the crook and plaid; 
 
 For he's aye true, &c. 
 
 OH! TELL ME WHAT SOUND. 
 
 REV. HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 
 
 Oh! tell me what sound is the sweetest 
 to hear — 
 The sound that can most o'er our 
 being prevail ? 
 'Tis the sweet melting voice of the 
 maid we love dear. 
 When chanting the songs of her 
 own native vale. 
 More thrilling is this than the tone of 
 the gale, 
 Awakening the wind-harp's wild 
 wandering lore;
 
 CELEBRATED SONOS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 879 
 
 More sweet than the songster that 
 sings in the dale, 
 When the strains of the rest of the 
 warblers are o'er. 
 
 Oh! tell me what light of the earth or 
 the sky 
 Can the deepest delight to the spirit 
 impart? 
 'Tis the bright beaming radiance that 
 lives in the eye 
 Of the maid that affection has 
 bound to the heart. 
 More charming is this than the glory 
 of art, 
 More lovely than rays from yon 
 heavens above; 
 It heightens each joy, as it soothes 
 every smart, 
 Enchanting our souls with the magic 
 of love. 
 
 Oh! tell me what drop is most melting 
 and meek 
 That aught 'neath the azure of 
 heaven can share ? 
 'Tis the tear-drop that falls o'er the 
 dear maiden's cheek 
 When she breathes o'er her lover 
 her sigh and her prayer! 
 More tender is this — more celestial 
 and fair — 
 Than the dew-drop that springs 
 from the chamber of morn; 
 A balm that still softens the ranklings 
 of care, 
 And heals every wound that the 
 bosom hath borne. 
 
 THE MINSTREL'S BOWER. 
 
 REV. HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 
 
 Oh, lassie! if thou'lt gang to yonder 
 
 glen wi' me, 
 I'll weave the wilds amang a bonnie 
 
 bower for thee; 
 
 I'll weave a bonnie bower o' the birks 
 
 and willows green. 
 And to my heart thou'lt be what nae 
 
 other e'er has been. 
 
 When the dew is on the flower, and 
 
 the starlight on the lea, 
 In the bonnie green-wood bower I'll 
 
 wake my harp to thee; 
 I'll wake my hill-harp's strain, and the 
 
 echoes o' the dell 
 Shall restore the tales again that its 
 
 notes o' love shall tell. 
 
 Oh, lassie! thou art fair as the morn- 
 ing's early beam, 
 
 As the image of a flower reflected frae 
 the stream; 
 
 There's kindness in thy heart, and 
 there's language in thine e'e. 
 
 But ah ! its looks impart nae sweet 
 tale o' love to me ! 
 
 Oh, lassie ! wert thou mine I wad love 
 
 thee wi' such love 
 As the lips can ne'er define, and the 
 
 cold can never prove; 
 In the bower by yonder stream our 
 
 happy home should be. 
 And our life a blissful dream, while I 
 
 lived alone for thee. 
 
 When I am far away my thoughts on 
 
 thee shall rest, 
 Allured, as by a ray, frae the dwellings 
 
 o' the blest; 
 For beneath the clouds o' 
 
 where'er my path may be, 
 Oh! a maiden fair as thou, I 
 
 shall never see ! 
 
 dew, 
 
 agam 
 
 WHEN 
 
 THE STAR OF 
 MORNING. 
 
 THE 
 
 REV. HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 
 
 When the star of the morning is set, 
 And the heavens are beauteous and 
 blue,
 
 880 
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 And the bells of the heather are wet 
 With the drops of the deep-lying 
 dew; 
 'Mong the flocks on the mountains 
 that lie, 
 'Twas blythesome and blissful to be, 
 When these all my thoughts would 
 employ; 
 But now I must think upon thee. 
 
 When noontide display^ all its powers, 
 And the flocks to the valley return, 
 To lie and to feed 'mong the flowers 
 That bloom on the banks of the 
 burn; 
 O sweet, sweet it was to recline 
 'Neath the shade of yon hoar haw- 
 thorn tree. 
 And think on the charge that was 
 mine; 
 But now I must think upon thee. 
 
 When gloaming stole down from the 
 rocks, 
 With her fingers of shadowy light. 
 And the dews of the eve in her locks, 
 To spread down a couch for the 
 night; 
 'Twas sweet through yon green birks 
 to stray, 
 That border the brook and the lea; 
 But now, 'tis a wearisome way, 
 Unless it were travel'd with thee. 
 
 All lovely and pure as thou art, 
 
 And generous of thought and of will, 
 Oh, Mary! speak thou to this heart. 
 
 And bid its wild beating be still; 
 I'd give all the ewes in the fold — 
 
 I'd give all the lambs on the lea. 
 By nignt or by day to behold 
 
 One look of true kindness from thee. 
 
 THE WILD GLEN SAE GREEN. 
 
 REV, HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 
 
 When my flocks upon the heathy hill 
 are lying a' at rest, 
 
 And the gloamin' spreads its mantle 
 grey o'er the world's dewy breast, 
 
 I'll take my plaid and hasten through 
 yon woody dell unseen. 
 
 And meet my bonnie lassie in the wild 
 glen sae green. 
 
 I'll meet her by the trysting-tree that's 
 
 standin' a' alane, 
 Where I ha'e carved her name upon 
 
 yon little moss grey stane. 
 There I will lauld her to my breast, 
 
 and be mair bless'd I ween 
 Than a' that are aneath the sky, in 
 
 the wild glen sae green. 
 
 Her head reclined upon this heart, in 
 
 simple bliss I'll share 
 The pure, pure kiss o' tender love that 
 
 owns nae earthly care. 
 And spirits hovering o'er us shall bless 
 
 the heartfelt scene. 
 While I woo my bonnie lassie, in the 
 
 wild glen sae green. 
 
 My fauldin' plaid shall shield her frae 
 
 the gloamin's chilly gale; 
 The star o' eve shall mark our joy, 
 
 but shall not tell our tale — 
 Our simple tale o' tender love — that 
 
 tauld sae oft has been 
 To my bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the 
 
 wild glen sae green. 
 
 It may be sweet at morning hour, or 
 
 at the noon o' day. 
 To meet wi' those that we lo'e weel, 
 
 in grove or garden gay; 
 But the sweetest bliss o' mortal life is 
 
 at the hour o' e'en, 
 Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the 
 
 wild glen sae green. 
 
 O! I could wander earth a' o'er, nor 
 
 care for aught o' bliss. 
 If I might share, at my return, a joy 
 
 sae pure as this; 
 An' I could spurn a' earthly wealth — 
 
 a palace and a queen. 
 For my bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the 
 
 wild glen sae green.
 
 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 881 
 
 THE WEE AULD MAN. 
 
 REV. HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 
 
 About the closin' o' the day 
 
 The wild green woods amang O, 
 A wee auld man cam' down this way, 
 
 As fast as he could gang O, 
 He entered into this wee house 
 
 Where unco weel kent he O, 
 That there, there lived a virtuous lass. 
 
 And fair as fair could be, O. 
 
 For he had vow'd to ha'e O, 
 To ha'e, O, to ha'e, O, 
 
 For he had vow'd to ha'e O, 
 A wifie o' his ain, O. 
 
 He tell't the auld gudewife he'd come 
 
 Her dochter Jean to woo, O, 
 And gin she would but come wi' him, 
 
 She never would it rue, O; 
 For he had oxen, horse, and kye, 
 
 And sheep upon the hill, O, 
 And monie a cannie thing forbye, 
 
 That should be at her will, O. 
 
 For he had vow'd, &c. 
 
 The auld gudewife replied in turn, 
 Up rising frae her stool, O, 
 
 The lass that would your proffer spurn. 
 Would surely be a fool, O, 
 
 She to the door made anxious haste, 
 
 And ca'd young Jeanie in, O, 
 And when aroun' the fire they're 
 placed, 
 The courtin' did begin, O, 
 
 For he had vow'd, &c. 
 
 The wee auld man tauld ower his tale 
 
 Wi' croose and cantie glee, O; 
 But Jeanie's heart was hard and cauld, 
 
 Nae love for him had she, O. 
 Said she, Auld gouk! you've act a part 
 
 That I can ne'er be thine, O; 
 You come to woo my mither's heart, 
 
 You come nae here for mine, O. 
 
 For this is no the way, O, 
 The way, O, the way, O, 
 
 For this is no the way, O, 
 A lassie's heart to win, O. 
 
 And soon a rap came to the door, 
 
 And out young Jeanie ran, O, 
 Said she. You may count ower your 
 store, 
 Wi them that you began, O. 
 The wee auld man rose up in wrath 
 And loud and lang he swore, O, 
 Syne hirsled up his shouthers baith, 
 And hastened to the door, O, 
 
 Still vowin' he would ha'e, &c.
 
 383 CELEBRATED SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND, 
 
 Written for this Work by JAMES KENNED Y. 
 
 How dear to ev'ry Scottish heart are Scotland's melodies ! 
 They sweeten life's dull atmosphere like perfume in the breeze, 
 Blythe as the wild bird's artless notes the greenwood groves among: 
 Earth's sweetest, noblest thoughts are those that warble into song. 
 
 Their mellow music circles round the glad earth far and free. 
 Like light ihey leap from land to land and flash from sea to sea, 
 Till waken'd echoes gladly ring in ev'ry vale and hill: 
 And earth and air exultant catch the quick electric thrill. 
 
 How bright to fancy's eye they bring fair Scotland's classic land ! 
 Her hills in purple splendour clad, rise cloud-like high and grand: 
 Her rustling wealth of golden fields wave 'neath the gladd'ning ray; 
 Her silv'ry waters flash among her valleys green and gay. 
 
 Fair flow'rets bloom in tints that mock the rainbow's dazzling dyes; 
 And daisies ope with modest grace their myriad starry eyes; 
 And all the glow of social life comes group'd in living throngs, 
 Transfigured by the magic grace and beauty of her songs. 
 
 And where have Love's impassioned throes e'er found so sweet a tongue? 
 No mimic frenzy mocks the heart Avhen Scotland's songs are sung, 
 Their artless words, their liquid notes in perfect tones express 
 The matchless might of manly grace and woman's tenderness. 
 
 And buoyant on the tide of time what glorious tales they tell 
 Of freemen battling for the right, of gallant foes that fell; 
 Of heroes who tempestuous rose the tyrant's touch to spurn; 
 The glowing pride of Stirling Bridge ! The joy of Bannockburn! 
 
 O, Scotland! raise thy crested head above the azure sea; 
 Thou art the home of worth and truth, the cradle of the free. 
 Where e'er the eye of Time shall see bold Freedom's flag unfurled. 
 Thy songs shall stamp thy sons among the freemen of the world. 
 
 Thine eye of pity ever melts at tales of human wrongs; 
 Thy seal is set, thy fame is fixed eternal as thy songs 
 Whose clarion blasts shall bravely ring in freedom's battle van 
 Until triumphant they shall hail the unity of Man ! 
 
 New York City, i8S6.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Page 
 
 A big-bellied bottle, 178 
 
 A canty sang, 33-i 
 
 A cogie o' yill, 306 
 
 A famous man was Robin Hood, 249 
 
 A farewell song, 319 
 
 A friend of mine came here yestreen, 61 
 
 A gude New Year to ane an' a', 33S 
 
 A Highland lad my love was born, 16S 
 
 A lass lived down bj'you burn-braes, 363 
 
 A lass that was laden'd with care, 64 
 A lively young lass had a wee pickle 
 
 tow, 200 
 
 A man's a man for a' that, 135 
 
 A rose-bud by my early walk, 154 
 
 A song on the times, 53 
 
 A steed, a steed, 332 
 
 A weary lot is thine, fair maid, 23S 
 
 A wee bird cam' to our ha' door, 310 
 
 A wet sheet and a flowing sea, 290 
 
 A young gudewife is in my house, 195 
 
 About the closin' o' the day, 3S1 
 
 Absence, 50 
 
 Adieu! a heart-warm fond adieu! 143 
 
 Adieu to rock and water-fall, 283 
 
 Admiring nature's simple charms, 275 
 
 Advice to the lassies, 309 
 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever, 141 
 Ae morn of May, when fields were 
 
 gay, 119 
 
 Ae morn, last ouk, as I gaed out, 219 
 
 Afore the Lammas tide, 346 
 
 Aft, aft ha'e I pondered, 345 
 
 Again rejoicing nature sees, 144 
 
 Alake for the lassie, 313 
 
 A' body's like to be married but me, 337 
 
 Allen A-dale, 240 
 
 All joy was bereft me, 245 
 
 Alloa House, 44 
 
 And are ye sure the news is true? 273 
 
 And fare ye well, my auld wife, 74 
 
 And I'll owre the muir to Maggie, 16 
 
 And oh, for ane-and-twenty, Tam, 163 
 
 And ye sail walk in silk attire, Si 
 
 Pagb 
 
 Andro and his cutty gun, 28 
 
 Annie Laurie, 369 
 
 Annie Laurie, (modern version), 369 
 
 An thou were my ain thing, 18 
 
 Argyle is my i>ame, 270 
 
 Art thou for ever gane, 362 
 
 Are ye doin' ought weel, 348 
 
 As I came down the Canongate, 201 
 
 As I came in by Teviot side, 15 
 
 As I came through Glendochart vale, 278 
 
 As I was a-walkingae May morning, 64 
 
 As I was a walking all alone, 62 
 As Jenny sat down wi' her wheel by 
 
 the fire, 337 
 As late by a sodger I happened to 
 
 pass, 295 
 
 As Patie cam' up frae the glen, 66 
 
 As walking forth to view the plain, 30 
 
 At Polwart on the green, 20 
 
 At Willie's weddin' o' the green, 268 
 
 Auld lang syne, Burns, 133 
 
 Auld lang syne. Lady Nairne, 208 
 
 Auld gudeman ye're adrucken carle, 269 
 
 Auld Rob Morris, 146 
 Auld Rob Morris that wons in yon 
 
 glen. 29 
 
 Auld Rob, the laird o muckle land, 1S6 
 
 Auld Robin Gray, Part I, in 
 
 Auld Robin Gray, Part H, 112 
 Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's 
 
 alarms, 164 
 
 Awa, whigs, awa, 83 
 
 Aye waukin' O! 37 
 
 Bailie Nicol Jarvie, 249 
 
 Bannocks o' bear meal, 99 
 
 Barbara Allan, 24 
 
 Barrochan Jean, 255 
 
 Battle of Killicrankie, 93 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 29S 
 
 — Answer to Ditto, 299 
 
 Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 180 
 
 Be kind to auld Grannie, 338
 
 384 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Be lookin' out for fell auld age, 
 
 Beneath a green shade, 
 
 Bessie Bell and Mary Gray, 
 
 Bess the Gawkie, 
 
 Bide ye yet, 
 
 Bird of the wilderness, 
 
 Birks of Aberfeldy, 
 
 Blaw saftly, ye breezes, 
 
 Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 
 
 Blue bonnets over the border, 
 
 Blythe are we set, 
 
 Blythe, blythe and merry was she. 
 
 Burns, 
 Blythe, blythe and merry was she. 
 
 Tea Table Miscellany, 
 Blythe, blythe and merry are we, 
 Blythe, blythe around the nappie, 
 Bl3'the was the time when he fee'd wi' 
 
 my father, O, 
 Blythe young Bess to Jean did say, 
 Bonnie Aggie Lang, 
 Bonnie Ann. 
 Bonnie Bessie Leei 
 Bonnie Charlie's now awa', 
 Bonnie Chrysty, 
 Bonnie Dundee, 
 Bonnie Greenlaw, 
 Bonnie Jean, 
 Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 
 Bonnie Mary Halliday, 
 Bonnie Mary Hay, 
 Bonnie Prince Charlie, 
 Bonnie Strathnaver, 
 Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
 Bothwell Bank, 
 
 Braw, braw, lads of Gala Water, 
 Busk ye, busk ye. 
 By Carnousie's auld wa's at the close 
 
 of the day. 
 By Logan's streams that rin sae deep. 
 By Pinkie House oft let me walk. 
 By smooth-winding Tay, 
 By yon castle wa'. 
 
 Page 
 
 352 
 
 49 
 
 9 
 
 79 
 
 72 
 
 234 
 161 
 
 323 
 311 
 242 
 204 
 
 145 
 
 28 
 2SS 
 
 287 
 
 256 
 
 79 
 340 
 155 
 353 
 211 
 
 17 
 247 
 
 364 
 154 
 161 
 
 293 
 344 
 227 
 
 357 
 
 171 
 
 120 
 
 74 
 
 41 
 
 99 
 192 
 
 40 
 
 29 
 
 171 
 
 Pack 
 
 94 
 
 213 
 
 287 
 
 93 
 
 32 
 
 263 
 
 222 
 
 85 
 
 51 
 
 304 
 
 225 
 
 lor 
 
 118 
 
 190 
 
 358 
 
 174 
 
 21 
 
 137 
 
 47 
 
 22 
 
 ICO 
 
 lOI 
 
 Caller Herrin', 209 
 
 Cam' ye by Athol, 227 
 
 Can I behave, can I behave, 299 
 
 Can you lo'e my dear lassie, 372 
 
 Captain Paton's Lament, 327 
 
 Carle an' the king come, 92 
 
 Castles in the air, 359 
 
 Ca' the yowes to the knowes. Isabel 
 
 Pagan, 80 
 
 Ca'theyowes to the knowes. Burns, 169 
 
 Cauld kail in Aberdeen, 74 
 Cauld blaws the wind frae north to 
 
 south, 218 
 
 Charlie is my darling, 
 
 Charlie is my darling. Lady Nairne, 
 
 Charlie is my darling. Gray, 
 
 Clavers and his Highland men, 
 
 Clout the caldron, 
 
 Cogie, thou heals me. 
 
 Come all ye jolly shepherds, 
 
 Come boat me o'er, 
 
 Come gie's a sang Montgomery cried. 
 
 Come hame to your lingels. 
 
 Come o'er the stream Charlie, 
 
 Come under my plaidie, 
 
 Comin' through the craigs o' Kyle, 
 
 Comin' through the rye. 
 
 Confide ye aye in Providence, 
 
 Contented wi' little, 
 
 Corn-riggs are bonnie. 
 
 Corn Rigs, 
 
 Cope sent a challange frae Dunbar, 
 
 Cromlet's Lilt, 
 
 Culloden, 
 
 Curses, 
 
 Dark lowers the night, 272 
 
 Dear doctor be clever, 228 
 
 Death Song, 175 
 
 Dinna think, bonnie lassie, 102 
 
 " Dinna ye hear it?" 343 
 
 Does haughty Gall invasion threat ? 153 
 
 Doctor Munroe, 22S 
 
 Donald's gane up the hill, 231 
 
 Donald Caird, 241 
 
 Donald Gunn, 296 
 
 Donald Macdonald, 223 
 
 Donald Macgillavry, 231 
 
 Dorothy sits i' the cauld ingle neuk, 263 
 
 Dowie in the hint o' hairst, 373 
 Down in yon meadow a couple did 
 
 tarry, Ii3 
 
 Down the burn Davie, 3" 
 
 Dumbarton's drums beat bonnie O, 27 
 
 Duncan Gray cam' here to woo, 140 
 
 Duncan Gray. Old version, 183 
 
 Dunoon, 320 
 
 Ettrick Banks, 56 
 
 Exile of Uldoonan, 2S3 
 
 Fair lady mourn the memory, 100 
 
 Fairlv shot o' her, 188 
 
 Falkirk Muir, 90 
 
 Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, 142 
 
 Farewell, ^74 
 
 Farewell Edinburgh, 214 
 
 Farewell to Ayrshire, 279 
 
 Farewell to Glen-Shalloch, 233
 
 INDEX. 
 
 885 
 
 Page 
 Farewell to Lochaber, farewell to my 
 
 Jean, 9 
 
 Farewell to Scotland, 337 
 
 Farewell to thee Scotland, 316 
 
 Farewell thou fair day, 175 
 Farewell, ye dungeons dark and 
 
 strong, 147 
 Farewell, ye fields an' meadows 
 
 green! 219 
 
 Fare ye well my auld wife, 74 
 
 Far lone amang the Highland hills, 260 
 
 Far over yon hills, 224 
 
 Fee him, Father fee him, 70 
 
 Fife an' a' the land about it, 236 
 
 First when Maggie was my care, 142 
 
 Flow gently sweet Afton, 121 
 
 Flora Macdonald's Lament, 224 
 
 For lack of gold, 57 
 For mony lang year I ha'e heard frae 
 
 my Grannie, 2S0 
 
 From Roslin Castle's echoing walls, 72 
 
 From thee, Eliza, I must go, 139 
 
 From the village of Lesly, 271 
 
 F}-, let us a' to the bridal, 4 
 
 Gae bring my guid auld harp ance 
 
 mair, 375 
 
 Gala Water, 74 
 
 Gala Water. Burns, 167 
 
 Gane is the day an' mirks the night, 168 
 
 Gang to the brakens wi' me, 229 
 
 General Leslie's March, 24 
 
 Geordie sits in Charlie's chair, 97 
 
 Get up and bar the door, 61 
 
 Get up gudewife, don on your claise, 324 
 
 Gi'e me a lass wi' a lump o' land, 10 
 
 Gin a body met a body, 190 
 
 Gin I had a wee hoose, 72 
 
 Gin living worth could win my heart, 82 
 
 Gin ye meet a bonnie lassie, 19 
 
 Glendochart vale, 278 
 
 Gloomy Feber'war, 315 
 
 Gloomy winter's now awa', 254 
 
 Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 166 
 
 Go to Berwick, Johnnie, 2ig 
 Good night and joy be wi' ye a'. 
 
 Boswell, 269 
 Good night an' joy be wi' you a'. 
 
 Hogg, 22S 
 
 Good night, good night, 194 
 
 Green grow the rashes, O, 140 
 
 Grim winter was howlin', 286 
 
 Gude e'en to you kimmer, 1S5 
 
 Gude e'en to ye kimmer, 371 
 
 Gudewife count the lawin, 168 
 
 Ha'e ye seen, in the calm dewy morn- 
 ing, 182 
 
 Pack 
 
 Hail, land of rny fathers, 358 
 
 Hail to the chief, 239 
 
 Hallow Fair, log 
 
 Halucket Meg, 322 
 
 Hame is aye hamely, 346 
 
 Handsome Nell, 131 
 
 Harken and I will tell you how, 2 
 
 Hark the mavis' evening sang, 170 
 
 Happy's the love which meets return, 14 
 
 Happy we've been a' thegither, 181 
 
 Harper of Mull, 258 
 
 Haud awa frae me Donald, 34 
 
 Have ye ony pots or pans, 32 
 
 Heard ye e'er o' Donald Gunn, 296 
 
 Hearme, yenymphs,and ev'ryswain, 35 
 
 He is gone on the mountain, 238 
 
 Hellen of Kirkconnel, 191 
 
 Her bonnie black e'e, 314 
 
 Here around the ingle bleezin, i8l 
 
 Here awa' there awa', 169 
 Here awa' there awa'. Herd's 
 
 collection, 60 
 
 Here's a health to the land, 364 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa', 156 
 
 Here's to the king, sir! 88 
 
 Here's to the j'ear that's awa'! 116 
 
 He's a terrible man John Tod, 214 
 
 He's owre the hills that I lo'e weel, 215 
 He}' bonnie lassie, blink over the 
 
 burn, 41 
 
 Hey Donald, howe Donald, 185 
 
 Hey for a lass wi' a tocher, 164 
 
 Hey the bonnie, how the bonnie, 185 
 
 Hey, the dusty miller, 187 
 
 Hie Germanie, 331 
 
 Highland laddie, 15 
 
 Highland laddie, 256 
 
 Highland lassie, 148 
 
 Highland Mary, I43 
 
 Hill of Lochiel, 232 
 
 Hooly and fairly, 113 
 
 Hooly and fairly. Joanna Baillie, 196 
 
 How blythe ilk morn was I to see, 26 
 
 How dear to ev'ry Scottish heart, 3S2 
 
 How happy lives the peasant, 302 
 
 How pleasant the banks, 179 
 
 How sweetly smellsthesimmergreen; 17 
 
 Huntingtower. Lady Nairne, 216 
 
 Huntingtower. Old version, 217 
 
 Hurrah for the Highlands, 342 
 
 Husband, husband, cease your strife, 158 
 
 I dream'd I lay, 143 
 
 I formed a green bower, 377 
 
 I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, 150 
 
 I ha'e a wife o' my ain, 147 
 
 I hae laid a herring in saut, 106
 
 386 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 I ha'e nae kith, I ha'e nae kin, 
 
 I ha'e seen great anes, 
 
 I have heard the mavis singing, 
 
 I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane, 
 
 I mark'd a gem of pearly dew, 
 
 I may sit in my wee croo house, 
 
 I met four chaps yon birks amang, 
 
 1 never thocht to thole the waes, 
 
 I wadna gi'e my ain wife, 
 
 I will awa' wi' my love, 
 
 I winna bide in your castle ha's, 
 
 I winna gang back to my mammy 
 
 again, 
 I winna love the laddie, 
 I wish I were where Helen lies. 
 If daughty deeds my lady please, 
 If my dear wife, 
 Ilka blade o' grass gets its ain drap 
 
 o' dew. 
 Ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap 
 
 o' dew, 
 I'll bid my heart be still, 
 I'll gar our gudeman trow, 
 I'll gar ye be fain, 
 I'll owre the muir to Maggy, 
 I'll sing of yon glen of red heather, 
 I'm owre young to marry yet, 
 I'm wearin' awa', John, 
 I'm wearin' awa', Jean, 
 In a saft simmer gloamin', 
 In a wee cot-house far across the 
 
 muir, 
 In Scotland there lived a humble 
 
 begger. 
 In the garb of old Gaul, 
 In the land of Fife, 
 In winter when the rain rain'd cauld, 
 Is there for honest poverty. 
 
 It fell about the Martinmas time. 
 
 It fell on a day, a bonnie simmer 
 day, 
 
 It fell on a morning when we were 
 thrang. 
 
 It was at a wedding near Tranent, 
 
 It was in and about the Martinmas 
 time, 
 
 It was upon a lammas night, 
 
 It's dowie in the hint o' hairst. 
 
 It's Geordie's now come here about, 
 
 It's hame and it's hame. 
 
 It's no that thou'rt bonnie, 
 
 I've heard the lilting, 
 
 I've no sheep on the mountains, 
 
 I've seen the smiling, 
 
 I've wandered east, I've wandered 
 west, 
 
 Jamie o' the glen, 
 
 Page 
 92 
 107 
 340 
 105 
 262 
 S4 
 267 
 348 
 30S 
 14 
 355 
 
 280 
 
 377 
 192 
 250 
 368 
 
 306 
 
 35S 
 319 
 369 
 294 
 16 
 229 
 179 
 210 
 211 
 331 
 
 316 
 
 64 
 
 48 
 325 
 
 23 
 135 
 
 6i 
 
 Page 
 
 Janet and me, 334 
 
 Jeanie Morrison, 329 
 
 Jennie's Lament, 348 
 
 Jenny's Bawbee, 267 
 
 Jenny's Bawbee, 370 
 
 Jenny Dang the weaver, 268 
 
 Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane, 250 
 
 Jock o* Hazeldean, 237 
 
 John Anderson, my Jo, John, 149 
 
 John Grumlie, 289 
 
 John Hay's bonnie lassie, 29 
 
 John Todd, 214 
 
 Johnnie Cope, 47 
 
 , I 
 
 284 
 
 198 
 
 274 
 
 24 
 
 137 
 373 
 
 95 
 291 
 301 
 
 57 
 197 
 
 58 
 
 329 
 
 186 
 
 Kate Dalrymple, 
 
 316 
 
 Kath'rineOgie, 
 
 30 
 
 Katie's answer. 
 
 12 
 
 Keen blaws the wind, 
 
 120 
 
 Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes 0' 
 
 
 Gleniffer, 
 
 253 
 
 Kelvin Grove, 
 
 319 
 
 Killicrankie, 
 
 187 
 
 Lady Keith's Lament, 
 
 84 
 
 Lament for Glencoe, 
 
 361 
 
 Land of my fathers. 
 
 266 
 
 Last Maya braw wooer. 
 
 159 
 
 Last nicht there were four Maries, 
 
 40 
 
 Lassies lookna sourly meek. 
 
 309 
 
 Lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 
 
 176 
 
 Late in an evening forth I went, 
 
 31 
 
 Lay thy loof in mine. 
 
 180 
 
 Leeze me on my spinnin' wheel, 
 
 172 
 
 Let the proud Indian boast. 
 
 341 
 
 Let us go, lassie go. 
 
 253 
 
 Let us haste to Kelvin grove. 
 
 320 
 
 Lewis Gordon, 
 
 78 
 
 Life's a faught, 
 
 264 
 
 Like bees that suck the morning 
 
 
 dew, 
 
 19 
 
 Little wat ye wha's coming. 
 
 96 
 
 Lizzy Lindsay, 
 
 186 
 
 Lochaber no more. 
 
 7 
 
 Lock the door, Lariston, 
 
 230 
 
 Logan's Braes. Burns, 
 
 162 
 
 Logan's Braes. Mayne, 
 
 192 
 
 Long have I pined for thee. 
 
 232 
 
 Lord Gregory, 
 
 173 
 
 Loudon's bonnie woods and braes, 
 
 252 
 
 Loved land of my kindred. 
 
 337 
 
 Love never more shall give rae pain, 
 
 36 
 
 Lucy's flittin', 
 
 312 
 
 Macpherson's farewell, 
 
 146 
 
 Maggie Lauder, 
 
 3 
 
 Maggie Lauder. Gray, 
 
 286 
 
 Manor Braes, 
 
 333
 
 INDEX. 
 
 387 
 
 
 Pace 
 
 
 Pack 
 
 March, march, Ettrick and Teviot- 
 
 dale 
 Marcli, inarch, why the diel do ye na 
 
 242 
 
 My wife's a winsome wee thing, 
 
 282 
 
 Naebody's bairn. 
 
 359 
 
 march ? 
 
 24 
 
 Naebody kens ye, 
 
 348 
 
 Mark yonder pomp, 
 
 139 
 
 Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair. 
 
 148 
 
 Mary Morrison, 
 
 165 
 
 Neil Gow's farewell to whisky. 
 
 201 
 
 Mary of Argyle, 
 
 340 
 
 Nith, 
 
 144 
 
 Mary Scott the flower of Yarrow, 
 
 13 
 
 Nith trembling to the reaper's sang. 
 
 293 
 
 Mary why waste, 
 
 259 
 
 No churchman am I, 
 
 178 
 
 Mary's Dream, 
 
 304 
 
 Now in her green mantle, 
 
 135 
 
 Mary's Dream, original words, ' 
 
 305 
 
 Now wat ye wha 1 met yestreen. 
 
 12 
 
 Maxwelton banks are bonnie, 
 
 369 
 
 Now westlin' winds. 
 
 155 
 
 Maxwelton braes are bonnie. 
 
 3<J9 
 
 Now there's peace on the shore. 
 
 326 
 
 Meet me on the gowan lea. 
 
 371 
 
 
 
 Meg, muckin' at Geordie's byre, 
 
 322 
 
 Allister, M'Allister, 
 
 235 
 
 Meikle thinks my luve, 
 
 15S 
 
 an ye were dead, guidman, 
 
 18S 
 
 Memories dear, 
 
 345 
 
 are ye sleepin' Maggie? 
 
 257 
 
 Menie, 
 
 144 
 
 Bessie Bell, and Mary Gray, 
 
 9 
 
 Merry may the maid be, 
 
 5 
 
 bright the beaming queen 0' night. 
 
 371 
 
 M'Lean's welcome. 
 
 224 
 
 Charlie is my darling. 
 
 2S7 
 
 Mid the thunder of battle, 
 
 343 
 
 come awa, c jme awa, 
 
 34 
 
 Miss Forbes' farewell to Banff, 
 
 219 
 
 dear, dear to me. 
 
 368 
 
 Muirland Willie, 
 
 2 
 
 dinna cross the burn Willie, 
 
 372 
 
 My ain fireside. 
 
 107 
 
 dinna think, bonnie lassie, 
 
 102 
 
 My ain gudeman. 
 
 308 
 
 gin I were fairly shot 0' her ! 
 
 1S9 
 
 My ain kind dearie, O, 
 
 167 
 
 gin my love were yon red rose, 
 
 73 
 
 My auld man, 
 
 325 
 
 gladsome is the sea. 
 
 367 
 
 My boy Tammy, 
 
 105 
 
 hark to the strain, 
 
 351 
 
 My daddie is a cankert carle, 
 
 202 
 
 hush thee m)- babie. 
 
 241 
 
 My dearie, if thou dee, 
 
 36 
 
 I'm wet, wet, 
 
 37 
 
 My dear little lassie, 
 
 321 
 
 lady twine no wreath for me. 
 
 244 
 
 My father was a farmer. 
 
 151 
 
 lassie I lo'e dearest. 
 
 308 
 
 My gudeman says aye to me, 
 
 300 
 
 lassie wilt thou go, 
 
 281 
 
 My Harry was a gallant gay. 
 
 157 
 
 Logie 0' Buchan, 
 
 46 
 
 My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie, 
 
 157 
 
 lovers' eyes are sharp to see. 
 
 247 
 
 My heart's in the Highlands, 
 
 163 
 
 mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, 
 
 173 
 
 My heart is sair, I dare na tell. 
 
 171 
 
 rattlin' roarin' Willie, 
 
 184 
 
 My heart is sair, I daurna tell. Hogg, 
 
 233 
 
 sarely may I rue the day, 
 
 226 
 
 My heather hills. 
 
 367 
 
 saw ye my faither. 
 
 62 
 
 My Jo Janet, 
 
 27 
 
 saw ye my wee thing ? 
 
 104 
 
 My love she's but a lassie yet, 
 
 152 
 
 say not my love. 
 
 240 
 
 My love she's but a lassie j'et. Hogg, 
 
 227 
 
 sing to me the auld Scots sangs, 
 
 370 
 
 My luve's in Germanic, 
 
 105 
 
 the ewe-buchting's bonnie. 
 
 3i3 
 
 My luve is like a red, red rose. 
 
 139 
 
 there's nae wife like our ain wife. 
 
 351 
 
 My mither's aye glowin' ower me, 
 
 12 
 
 waly. waly up the bank. 
 
 32 
 
 My mither men't my auld breeks. 
 
 301 
 
 weel befa' the maiden gay. 
 
 225 
 
 My name it is Donald Macdonald, 
 
 223 
 
 weel may the boatie row, 
 
 78 
 
 My Nannie's awa'. 
 
 135 
 
 were I able to rehearse. 
 
 52 
 
 My Nannie O, 
 
 180 
 
 wha are sae happy as me and my 
 
 
 My only Jo and dearie O, 
 
 279 
 
 Janet? 
 
 334 
 
 My Patie is a lover gay, 
 
 22 
 
 wha's for Scotland and Charlie? 
 
 89 
 
 My Peggie is a young thing, 
 
 21 
 
 wha's that at my chamber door? 
 
 16 
 
 My sheep I neglected. 
 
 59 
 
 where, and O where. 
 
 "7 
 
 My Spouse, Nancy, 
 
 15S 
 
 where, tell me where. 
 
 116 
 
 My sweetest May, let love incline thee. 
 
 II 
 
 when she cam' ben she bobbit fu' 
 
 
 My wee wee wife. 
 
 342 
 
 law. 
 
 188 
 
 My wife had ta'en the gee, 
 
 61 
 
 O'er the muir amang the heather. 
 
 
 My wife's a wanton wee thing, 
 
 72 
 
 Jean Glover, 
 
 1x8
 
 388 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Page 
 O'er the muir amang the heather. 
 
 Stuart Lewis, 119 
 
 O'er the water to Charlie, 85 
 
 Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 181 
 
 Oh! dear were the joys that are past, 284 
 
 Oh! dinna ask me gin I lo'e thee, 116 
 
 Oh! dinna be sae sair cast down, 307 
 
 Oh! for ane-and-twent}', Tarn, 163 
 
 Oh! gin I were where Gadie rins, 336 
 
 Oh! hame is aye hamely still, 347 
 
 Oh! he's been lang o' coming, 98 
 
 Oh, how could I venture, 45 
 
 Oh lassie! if thou'lt gang, 379 
 
 Oh lay thy loof in mine lass, 180 
 
 Oh leeze me on my spinnin' wheel, 172 
 
 Oh Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, 162 
 
 Oh luve will venture in, 177 
 
 Oh Mary, at thy window be, 165 
 Oh meikle thinks my luve o' my 
 
 beauty, 158 
 
 Oh, my luve's like a red, red rose, 139 
 Oh! neighbors what had I to do for to 
 
 marry ? 196 
 
 Oh, once I loved a bonnie lass, 131 
 
 Oh open the door, some pity to show, 166 
 
 Oh! pity an auld Highlan' piper, 1S2 
 
 Oh poortith cauld, 152 
 
 Oh! Rowan tree, 206 
 
 Oh, saw ye bonnie Lesley, 149 
 
 Oh, saw ye Willie frae the west? 281 
 
 Oh! send Lewie Gordon hame, 78 
 
 Oh tell me what sound, 378 
 
 Oh! the auld house, the auld house, 207 
 
 Oh! the bonnie Highland hills, 355 
 
 Oh! the cauld breath o' winter, 364 
 
 Oh! the sunny peaches glow, 315 
 
 Oh this is no my ain lassie, 142 
 
 Oh! Tibbie, I ha'e seen the day, 147 
 
 Oh wae to the orders, 33i 
 
 Oh! weel I lo'e our auld Scots sangs, 339 
 
 Oh! were I on Parnassus' hill, 168 
 Oh whistle an' I'll come to you my 
 
 lad, 162 
 
 Oh! why left I my hame, 333 
 
 Oh, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, 153 
 
 Oh! years ha'e come, 343 
 Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of 
 
 the west, 243 
 
 Old Auchtertool, 271 
 
 Old king Coul, 74 
 
 Old Longsyne, 10 
 
 Old Nanny's song, 234 
 
 Old Scotland I love thee! 34i 
 
 On a green mossy bank, 3^5 
 
 On Cessnock banks, 160 
 
 On Ettrick's banks, 56 
 
 On Gallia's shore we sat and wept, 44 
 
 On the banks o' the burn, 3^4 
 
 Page 
 
 On the blythe Beltane, as I went, 120 
 
 On the wild braes of Calder, 276 
 
 On wi' the tartan, 372 
 
 One night as young Colin, 49 
 
 Ord6 Braes, 352 
 
 Or ere we part, 340 
 
 Our ain wife, 351 
 
 Our auld Scots sangs, 339 
 
 Our bonnie Scots lads, 261 
 
 Our goodman came hame at e'en, 67 
 
 Our guidwife's awa, 289 
 
 Our native land, our native vale, 319 
 
 Ours is the land of gallant hearts, 376 
 
 Ower Bogie, 14 
 
 Pardon now the bold outlaw, 248 
 
 Patie's weddin', 66 
 
 Peggie wi' the glancin' e'e, 203 
 
 Peggy, 155 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 246 
 
 Pinkie House, 40 
 
 Polwart on the green, 20 
 
 Polwarth on the green, 283 
 
 Poverty parts gude cornpanie, 195 
 
 Prince Charles Edward, 316 
 
 Rab Roryson's bonnet, 263 
 
 Rising o'er the heaving billow, 276 
 
 Robin Adair, 362 
 
 Robin is my only Jo, 63 
 
 Robin Shure in hairst, 140 
 
 Robin Tamson's Smiddy, 301 
 
 Rob Rov Macgregor, 248 
 
 Roslin Castle,"^ 72 
 
 Roslin Castle. Richard Hewitt, 81 
 
 Row weel my boatie row weel, 362 
 
 Royal Charlie's now awa, 94 
 
 Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, 83 
 
 Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 145 
 
 Sae merry as we twa ha'e been, 64 
 
 Sae will we yet, 277 
 
 Saw ye Johnnie comin'? 193 
 Saw ye Johnny comin'? Herd's, 
 
 collection, 70 
 
 Saw ye nae my Peggy. 71 
 
 Saw ye my wee thing ? 104 
 Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, 279 
 
 Scotia's Sons, 287 
 
 Scotia's thistle guards the grave, 375 
 Scotland and England must be now, loi 
 
 Scotland, I have no home but thee, 345 
 
 Scotland, thy mountains, 345 
 
 Scotland yet, 374 
 
 Scots', wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 134 
 See the glow worm lits her fairy lamp, 321 
 
 She is a winsome wee thing, 148 
 
 She was naebody's bairn, 359
 
 INDEX. 
 
 389 
 
 Page 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
 
 Ramsay. lo 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 
 Burns, 133 
 
 Sic a wife as Willie had, 165 
 
 Since all thy vows false maid, 22 
 
 Sing a' ye bards, wi' loud acclaim, 310 
 
 Sit ye down here, my cronies, 277 
 
 Somebody. Burns, 171 
 
 Somebody. Hogg, 233 
 
 Song of the Scottish Exile, 315 
 
 Such a parcel of rogues, 141 
 
 Sweet closes the eve, 176 
 
 Sweet fa's the eve, 177 
 
 Sweet Jessie o' the dell, 371 
 
 Sweetly shines the sun, 361 
 
 Sweet sir, for your courtesie, 28 
 
 Tak' it, man, tak' it, 295 
 
 Tak' your auld cloak about ye, 23 
 
 Tam Glen, 157 
 
 Tarry woo, tarry woo, 35 
 
 That life's a faught there is nae doubt, 264 
 
 The auld gudeman, 31 
 
 The auld house, 207 
 
 The auld man's mear's dead, 270 
 
 The auld Stuarts back again, 99 
 
 The auld wife ayont the fire, 25 
 
 The banks of the Dee, 115 
 
 The banks of the Devon, 179 
 
 The battle of Stirling Bridge, 356 
 
 The battle of Vittoria, 310 
 
 The birks of Invermay, 54 
 
 The black e'ed lassie, 285 
 
 The bloom hath fled, 332 
 
 The blude-red rose at Yule may blaw, 175 
 
 The blythesome bridal, 4 
 
 The boatie rows, 78 
 The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' 
 
 the sun, 351 
 The bonnie, bonnie bairn sits pokin' 
 
 in the ase, 359 
 
 The bonnie brucket lassie, 107 
 
 The bonnie Highland hills, 355 
 
 The bonnie house o' Airlie, 2S4 
 
 The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee, 264 
 
 The bonnie rowan bush, 354 
 
 The bonnie wee thing, 171 
 
 The bower of the wild, 377 
 
 The braes o' Ballochmyle, 172 
 
 The braes o' Balquhither 253 
 
 The braes o' Bedlay, 278 
 
 The braes o' Gleniffer, 253 
 
 The braes of Ballendine, 49 
 
 The braes of Yarrow, 41 
 
 The breist knots, 185 
 
 The bridal o't, 39 
 
 The bride cam' out o' the byre, 70 
 
 Pacb 
 The bride she is winsome and 
 
 bonnie, 199 
 
 The broom of the Cowdenknows, 25 
 
 The bush aboon Traquair, 35 
 
 The Campbells are coming, 184 
 The cantie spring scarce rear'd her 
 
 head, 2S6 
 
 The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 172 
 
 The Chevalier's muster roll, 96 
 
 The Cogie, 255 
 
 The Collier's bonnie lassie, 18 
 
 The Collier laddie, 186 
 
 The Collier has a daughter, 18 
 
 The Covenanter's Lament, 265 
 
 The cronach stills the dowie heart, 202 
 
 The crook and plaid, 377 
 
 The cypress wreath, 244 
 
 The deceiver, 69 
 The deil cam' fiddling through the 
 
 town, 138 
 
 The dell's awa' wi' the exciseman, 138 
 
 The dusky hour, 367 
 
 The Esk, no 
 
 The ewe-buchts Marion, 31 
 
 The ewe-buchting's bonnie, 317 
 
 The ewie wi' the crookit horn, 52 
 
 The Exile's song, 333 
 The farewell to the brethren of St. 
 
 James's Lodge, 143 
 The flowers of the forest. Miss Jane 
 
 Elliot, 57 
 The flowersof the forest. Mrs. Cock- 
 burn, 58 
 The flower on Levenside, 260 
 The four Maries, 40 
 The Erasers in the Correi, 86 
 The Gaberlunzie man, i 
 The gallant weaver, 173 
 The gloomy night is gathering fast, 174 
 The gowan glitters on the sward, 197 
 The grass had nae freedom o' growin', 325 
 The Harper of Mull, 258 
 The hazelwood witch, 280 
 The heath this night, 244 
 The humble beggar, 64 
 The hundred pipers, 209 
 The kail brose of auld Scotland, 297 
 The kail brose of auld Scotland. 
 
 Modern version, 298 
 
 The kiss ahint the door, 349 
 
 The kye are rowting in the lone, 234 
 
 The laddies plague me for a sang, 350 
 
 The laird o' Cockpen, 20S 
 
 The land of gallant hearts, 376 
 
 The land o' the leal, 210 
 The land of the bright blooming 
 
 heather, 364 
 
 The lasses a' leugh, 303
 
 390 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 The lassie o' Carmyle, 
 
 The lassie's wardrobe, 
 
 The lass I saw 3-estreen, 
 
 The lass o' Arranteenie, 
 
 The lass o' Ballochmyle, 
 
 The lass o' Branksome, 
 
 The lass o' Gowrie, 
 
 The lass o' Patie's mill, 
 
 The last time I cam' owre the muir, 
 
 The lavvland lads think they are fine, 
 
 The lawlands of Holland, 
 
 The lea rig, 
 
 The Lomond Braes, 
 
 The love that I had chosen, 
 
 The lovely lass o' Inverness. Burns, 
 
 The lovely lass of Inverness. Cun- 
 ningham, 
 
 The lovely moon had climed the hill. 
 
 The love o' siller, 
 
 The Macgregor's gathering. 
 
 The maid of Islay, 
 
 The maid of Llanwellyn, 
 
 The maid of Neidpath, 
 
 The march of the Cameron men, 
 
 The midges dance aboon the burn. 
 
 The miller. 
 
 The minstrel's bower. 
 
 The moon had clim'd the highest hill. 
 
 The moon's on the lake, 
 
 The muir o' gorse an' broom. 
 
 The ne'er-do-weel. 
 
 The news f rae Moidart cam' yestreen. 
 
 The night it flew, the grey cock crew. 
 
 The old Scottish broadswords. 
 
 The pawkie auld carle came o'er the 
 lea, 
 
 The peasant's fireside, 
 
 The piper came to our town. 
 
 The ploughman he's a bonnie lad. 
 
 The proof o' the puddin's the preein' 
 o't. 
 
 The quern lilt, 
 
 The rantin' Highland man, 
 
 The rowan tree. 
 
 The Rover o' Lochryan, 
 
 The Scottish b!ue-bells. 
 
 The Scottish widow's lament. 
 
 The shepherd's song. 
 
 The siller crown, 
 
 The skylark. 
 
 The smiling morn, 
 
 The social cup. 
 
 The soldiers return, 
 
 The Songs of Scotland, 
 
 The sow's tail to Geordie, 
 
 The spinin' o't. 
 
 The spring had pass'd over, 
 
 The spring time returns, 
 
 Page 
 366 
 362 
 
 365 
 260 
 136 
 
 14 
 212 
 
 17 
 
 15 ' 
 
 55 
 loS ; 
 281 
 
 55 I 
 175' 
 
 291 
 305 
 65 
 242 
 276 
 197 
 247 
 360 
 
 257 
 5 
 379 
 305 
 242 
 
 355 
 304 
 
 212 
 
 275 
 326 
 
 I 
 
 302 
 
 97 
 
 73 
 
 367 
 2S2 
 219 
 205 
 373 
 341 
 346 
 
 197 
 81 
 
 234 
 
 55 
 287 
 
 I«iO 
 
 3S2 
 
 95 
 
 33 
 
 112 
 
 44 
 
 Pagb 
 
 307 
 
 264 
 
 251 
 
 The standard on the braes o' mar. 
 The sun blinks sweetly on yon shaw. 
 The sun has gane down. 
 The sun is setting on sweet Glen- 
 garry, 
 The sun is sunk, the day is done. 
 The tears I shed must ever fall. 
 The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 
 The thistle and the rose. 
 The thistle of Scotland, 
 The twa doos, 
 The vale of Clyde, 
 The waefu' heart, 
 The wanton wife, 
 The wauking o' the fauld. 
 The weary pund o' tow. Burns, 
 The wear)' pund o' tow. Joanna 
 
 Baillie, 
 The weary sun to rest has gane, 
 The wedding day, 
 The wee auld man. 
 The wee pickle tow, 
 The wee primrose, 
 The wee, wee Geinian lairdie. 
 The wee, wee man. 
 The wee wifukie. 
 The wells o' wearie. 
 The widow can bake, 
 The wild glen sae green, 
 The winsome wee thing, 
 The winter sat iang. 
 The women folk, 
 The year is wearin' to the wane. 
 The year that's awa'. 
 The young laird and Edinburgh Katie, 
 The youth that should hae been our 
 
 king, 
 There are twa bonn}- maidens. 
 There dwalt a man into the west. 
 There cam' a young man. 
 There grew in bonnie Scotland. Allan, 264 
 There grows a bonnie brier bush. 
 
 Burns, 
 There grows a bonnie brier bush. 
 
 Lady Nairne, 
 There lived a lass in Inverness, 
 There lives a young lassie, 
 There was a lad was born in Kyle, 
 There was a lass, and she was fair, 
 There was a lass they ca'd her Meg, 
 There was an auld wife had a wee 
 
 pickle tow. 
 There was ance a maid and she lo'ed 
 
 na men. 
 There was a wee bit wifukie. 
 There was a wife wonn'd in a glen, 
 There were twa doos sat in a dookit. 
 There's auld Rob Morris, 
 
 265 
 194 
 204 
 
 144 
 264 
 
 347 
 
 213 
 
 275 
 
 82 
 
 293 
 
 21 
 
 170 
 
 195 
 365 
 49 
 381 
 200 
 
 365 
 
 230 
 
 62 
 
 76 
 
 361 
 
 16 
 
 380 
 
 148 
 
 193 
 226 
 22S 
 116 
 II 
 
 93 
 
 85 
 
 290 
 
 60 
 
 173 
 
 216 
 291 
 335 
 133 
 154 
 172 
 
 33 
 
 6 
 
 77 
 
 2'3 
 146
 
 INDEX. 
 
 391 
 
 There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow 
 
 braes, 
 There's cauld kail in Aberdeen, 
 There's cauld kail in Aberdeen, 
 There's fouth o' braw Jockies, 
 Their groves of sweet myrtle, 
 There's many a man, 
 There's meikle bliss in ae fond kiss, 
 There's my thumb I'll ne'er beguile 
 
 thee. 
 There's nae covenant now, lassie. 
 There's nae hame like the hame o' 
 
 youth, 
 There's nae luck about the house. 
 There's nought but care on ev'ry 
 V nan', 
 There'll never be peace sin' Jamie's 
 
 awa', 
 There'll never be peace, 
 Thev say that Jockey'U speed weel 
 
 o't, 
 This is no mine ain house. 
 This is no my ain lassie. 
 Thou bonnie wood of Craigie-lea, 
 Thou cauld gloomy Feber'war, 
 Thou has left me ever, Jamie, 
 Thou has sworn by thy God my 
 
 Jeanie, 
 Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning 
 
 ray. 
 Though fair blooms the rose. 
 Through Crockston Castle's lanely 
 
 wa's. 
 Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue, 
 Tibbie Fowler o' the glen, 
 Tibby has a store o' charms, 
 'Tis hinna ye heard, 
 'Tis na very lang sinsyne, 
 Todlin' hame. 
 To daunion me, 
 To Mary in Heaven, 
 To Scotland's ancient realm. 
 To the lords of convention, 
 To think o' thee. 
 
 Touch once more a sober measure, 
 Tranent wedding, 
 TuUochgorum, 
 Tune your fiddles, 
 'Twas even — the dewy fields were 
 
 green, 
 'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my 
 
 ruin, 
 'Twas on a bonnie simmer morn, 
 'Twas on a Monday morning, 
 'Twas on a Monday morning, 
 'Twas on a summer's afternoon, 
 'Twas summer and saftly the breezes 
 were blowing, 
 
 Page 
 
 167 
 
 75 
 76 
 109 
 164 
 360 
 349 
 
 II 
 
 265 
 
 353 
 272 
 
 140 
 
 99 
 171 
 
 39 
 
 21 
 
 142 
 
 253 
 315 
 
 15S 
 
 292 
 
 132 
 347 
 
 261 
 
 279 
 
 187 
 
 12 
 
 255 
 
 65 
 
 33 
 
 175 
 
 132 
 
 356 
 247 
 30S 
 323 
 274 
 51 
 54 
 
 136 
 
 138 
 366 
 
 95 
 213 
 212 
 
 115 
 
 Page 
 
 'Twas summer tide, the cushat sang, 283 
 
 'Twas when the wan leaf, 312 
 'Twas within a mile of Edinburgh 
 
 town, 189 
 
 Tweedside, 37 
 
 Up amang yon cliffy rocks, 115 
 
 Up an' warn a', Willie, 87 
 
 Up and rin awa, Hawley, 90 
 
 Up in the mornin' early, 2i8 
 
 Waes me for Prince Charlie, 309 
 
 Walkin' out a mornin' early, 203 
 
 Wandering Willie, 169 
 
 Wearie's Well, 331 
 
 Weary fa' you Duncan Gray, 183 
 
 Welcome, Roval Charlie, 89 
 
 Welcome to Skye, 85 
 
 We'll meet beside the dusky glen, 254 
 
 W^e'U meet yet again, 376 
 We never miss the water till the well 
 
 rins dry, 352 
 
 We're a' noddin', 185 
 
 We're a' noddin', 288 
 
 We're a' noddin', 371 
 
 Were na my heart licht, 6 
 
 Wha'll be king but Charlie, 212 
 
 Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? 209 
 
 Whan Jamie first woo'd me, 202 
 
 Whan the glen all is still, 376 
 
 Whare ha'e ye been sae braw, lad ? 1S7 
 
 Whare live ye, my bonnie lass, 1S6 
 
 Wha's for Scotland and Charlie ? 89 
 
 What ails this heart o' mine, 82 
 
 What ails you now, 236 
 
 What beauties does Flora disclose, 37 
 
 What can a young lassie, 161 
 
 What gude the present day can gie, 20S 
 
 Whathedeil hae we gotten for a king, 231 
 
 What's a' the steer kimmer ? 88 
 
 Wha wadna be in love, 4 
 
 When France had herassistance lent, 89 
 
 When gloamin' o'er the welkin steals, 370 
 
 When I began the world first, 53 
 When I ha'e a saxpence under my 
 
 thoom, 33 
 When I think on the sweet smiles of 
 
 my lassie, 27S 
 
 When I upon thy bosom lean, 56 
 
 When I was a miller in Fife, 295 
 
 When John and me were married, 262 
 
 When my flocks upon the heathy hill, 3S0 
 
 When o'er the hill the eastern star, 167 
 
 When our ancient forefathers, 298 
 
 When our gutchers of auld, 297 
 
 When poortith cauld and sourdisdain, 255 
 
 When Rosie was faithful, 258 
 
 When she cam ben she bobbit fu' law, iSS
 
 893 
 
 INVEX. 
 
 When summer comes, the swains on 
 
 Tweed, 
 When the kye comes hame, 
 When the sheep are in the fauld, 
 When the star of the morning, 
 When trees did bud and fields were 
 
 green, 
 When we gaed to the braes o' Mar, 
 When we were at the Schule, 
 When white was my o'erlay. 
 When wild war's deadly blast was 
 
 blawn, 
 Where Cart rins rowin' to the sea, 
 Where is your daddy gane ? 
 Where Manor streams rinsblythe an' 
 
 clear, 
 Where Quair rins sweet, 
 Where shall the lover rest, 
 While frequent on Tweed and on Tay, 
 Whistle o'er the lave o't, 
 Why weep ye by the tide ladye, 
 Wi' a hundred pipers an a', an a', 
 Wi' heart sincere I love thee Bell, 
 Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 
 Willie with his wig a-jee, 
 Will ye gang o'er the lea rig, 
 Will yegangtothe ewe-buchts Marion, 
 Will ye gang wi' me Lizzie Lindsay, 
 
 Page 
 
 26 
 220 
 III 
 
 379 
 
 36 
 
 87 
 
 350 
 
 195 
 
 150 
 
 173 
 86 
 
 333 
 322 
 
 238 
 no 
 142 
 
 237 
 2og 
 
 2S5 
 
 165 
 281 
 108 
 
 32 
 186 
 
 Will ye go to the Indies, 
 
 Will ye no come back again ? 
 
 Within a mile of Edinburgh town, 
 
 Within the towers of ancient Glammis, 
 
 With tuneful pipe and hearty glee, 
 
 With waefu heart, 
 
 Woo'd and married and a'. Herd's 
 
 collection, 
 Woo'd and married and a'. Joanna 
 
 Baillie, 
 Woo'd and married and a'. Mrs. 
 
 Scott. 
 Woo me again, 
 
 Ye banks an' braes o" bonnie Doon, 
 Ye banks and braes, and streams 
 
 around. 
 Ye gallants bright. 
 Ye Jacobites by name, 
 Ye'U a' ha'e heard tell o' Rab Rory- 
 
 son's bonnet, 
 Ye loyal Macdonalds awaken, awaken, 
 Ye rivers so limpid and clear, 
 Ye sunny braes that skirt the Clyde, 
 You may sing o' your Wallace, 
 Young Lochinvar, 
 You're welcome whigs. 
 You've surely heard of famous Neil, 
 
 Pack 
 166 
 
 94 
 1S6 
 201 
 
 69 
 260 
 
 69 
 
 199 
 
 325 
 202 
 
 137 
 
 144 
 
 155 
 181 
 
 263 
 361 
 
 50 
 260 
 
 249 
 
 243 
 
 91 
 201 
 
 ^^^^
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 A', all. 
 
 Abeigh, at a shy distance. 
 
 Aboon, at)Ove. 
 
 Abreed, in breath. 
 
 Addle, putrid water. 
 
 Ae, one. 
 
 Aff, off. 
 
 Aft, ofL 
 
 Agret, off the right line. 
 
 Aiblins, perhaps. 
 
 Ain, own. 
 
 Airn, iron. 
 
 Aith, an oath, 
 
 Alake, alas. 
 
 Alane, alone. 
 
 Akwart, Awkward. 
 
 Amaist, almost. 
 
 An', and, if. 
 
 Ance, once. 
 
 Ane, one. 
 
 Anent, over, against. 
 
 Anither, another. 
 
 Ase, ashes. 
 
 Asklent, asquint. 
 
 Asteer, abroad; stirring. 
 
 Auld lang syne, olden times. 
 
 Anld, old. 
 
 Auldfarran, sagacious, cunning. 
 
 Ava, at all. 
 
 Awa', away. 
 
 Awfu', awful, 
 
 Ayont, beyond, 
 
 Ban, to swear. 
 
 Bauld, bold. 
 
 Bawbee, halfpenny. 
 
 Bawks, the cross-beams of a roof. 
 
 Beild, shelter, 
 
 Bein, good. 
 
 Beltane, the first of May, old style. 
 
 Ben, the spence or parlor. 
 
 Beuk, book. 
 
 Bicker, a drinking vessel. 
 
 Bink, a bank of earth. 
 
 Birk, birch. 
 
 Blethers, nonsensical talk. 
 
 Blinket, looked kindly. 
 
 Bobbin, a weaver's quill or pirn. 
 
 Boggie, a marsh. 
 
 Bonnie, beautiful. 
 
 Bourtree, the elder tree or shrub. 
 
 Brag, vaunt. 
 
 Braggin, boasting. 
 
 Braken, the fern. 
 
 Braw, gaily dressed. 
 
 Bree, the eyebrow. 
 
 Brochin, oatmeal boiled in water. 
 
 Brogues, shoes made of sheepskin, 
 
 Bught, a pen for sheep. 
 
 Busk, to attire one-self. 
 
 Buskit, dressed tidily. 
 
 Byke, a bee-hive. 
 
 Ca', to call. 
 
 Callan, a boy. 
 
 Caller, fresh. 
 
 Cam, come. 
 
 Cannie, gentle, mild. 
 
 Cantie, or Canty, merry. 
 
 Carle, an old man. 
 
 Cauld, cold. 
 
 Chanter, part of a bagpipe. 
 
 Chield, a young man. 
 
 Clachan, village. 
 
 Claise, or Clacs, clothes. 
 
 Claith, cloth. 
 
 Cleed, clothe. 
 
 Clout, to mend. 
 
 Cluds, clouds. 
 
 Cockernonie, dress cap worn by females. 
 
 Coft, bought. 
 
 Cog, a wooden dish. 
 
 Cogie, a small sized wooden dish. 
 
 Coost, did cast. 
 
 Corrie, a hollow in a hill. 
 
 Courin, shivering. 
 
 Couthie, kind. 
 
 Cowt, colt.
 
 394 
 
 OL0a8ARY. 
 
 Cozie, snug. 
 Crack, to converse. 
 Cragie, a crag. 
 Creel, a fishwife's basket. 
 Creepie, a low stool. 
 Crony, comrade, 
 Croodle, to coo as a dove 
 Grouse, proud. 
 Crummie, cow. 
 Cuif, a blockhead. 
 Cuist, cast. 
 
 Dab, to peck as a bird, 
 
 DafBng, making sport. 
 
 Daft, merry; foolish. 
 
 Dauner, walk slowly. 
 
 Daur, dare. 
 
 Daurna, dare not. 
 
 Dawtie, a pet, a darling 
 
 Deave, to make a noise 
 
 Dee, die. 
 
 Dibbled, planted. 
 
 Ding, knock, to push. 
 
 Dinna, do not. 
 
 Dochter, daughter. 
 
 Doited, stupid. 
 
 Dool, sorrow. 
 
 Doon, down. 
 
 Douce, gentle; wise. 
 
 Doucely, quietly. 
 
 DouflF, pithless. 
 
 Dour, stubborn. 
 
 Dow, or Doo, a dove, 
 
 Dowie, worn with grief; sleepy. 
 
 Dree, suffer. 
 
 Dreepin', drooping or wet. 
 
 Drimlie, muddy. 
 
 Drookit, drenched. 
 
 Drouth, thirst. 
 
 Dunt, knock. 
 
 Dunted, beat. 
 
 E'e, the eye. 
 E'en, the eyes. 
 Eerie, frighted. 
 Eild, old age. 
 Elbuck, the elbow. 
 Eldritch, ghastly. 
 Eneugh, enough. 
 Ettle, to try; to attempt. 
 Eydent, diligent. 
 
 Fa', fall. 
 
 Fae, a foe. 
 
 Faem, foam. 
 
 Faiket, unknown. 
 
 Farl, a cake of oaten bread. 
 
 Fash, trouble; care. 
 
 Fasteren-e'en, Fasters Even. 
 
 Fauld, a fold. 
 
 Faulding, folding. 
 
 Faut, fault. 
 
 Faute, want; lack. 
 
 Feal, a field. 
 
 Fearfu', frightful. 
 
 Feart, frighted. 
 
 Fecht, to fight. 
 
 Feck, many; plenty. 
 
 Feckfu', large; brawny. 
 
 Feckless, puny; weak. 
 
 Feckly, weakly. 
 
 Feide, feud; enmity. 
 
 Feirrie, stout; vigorous. 
 
 Fell, keen; biting. 
 
 Fen, successful struggle. 
 
 Fend, to live comfortably. 
 
 Ferlie, or Ferley, to wander. 
 
 Fetch, to pull by fits; to bring. 
 
 Fient, fiend; a petty oath. 
 
 Fier, sound; a brother. 
 
 Fit, a foot. 
 
 Fleech'd, supplicated. 
 
 Fleechin', supplicating. 
 
 Fleg, a kick; a random stroke. 
 
 Fley, to scare. 
 
 Flisked, fretted. 
 
 Flittering, fluttering; vibrating. 
 
 Flunkie, a servant in livery. 
 
 Fodgel, squat and plump. 
 
 Foord, a ford. 
 
 Forbears, forefathers. 
 
 Forbye, besides. 
 
 Forfairn, distressed; worn out. 
 
 Forgather, to meet; to encounter with. 
 
 Forgie, to forgive. 
 
 Fother, fodder. 
 
 Fou, full; intoxicated. 
 
 Foughten, troubled; harassed. 
 
 Fouth, plenty; enough. 
 
 Frien', friend. 
 
 Fuflf't, did blow. 
 
 Funnie, full of merriment. 
 
 Fur, a furrow. 
 
 Fyke, trifling cares. 
 
 Fyle, to soil; to dirty. 
 
 Gab, the mouth; incessant talk. 
 
 Gaberlunzie, a beggar. 
 
 Gae, to go. 
 
 Gang, to go; to walk. 
 
 Gar, to make; to force to. 
 
 Gar't, forced to. 
 
 Gaucy, jolly; large. 
 
 Gaud, a plough. 
 
 Gear, riclies, goods of any kind. 
 
 Gentles, great folks; gentry.
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 896 
 
 Gawky, half-wited; foolish. 
 Geordie, a guinea. 
 Ghaist, a ghost. 
 Gie, to give. 
 Gin, if; against. 
 Girn, to grin; to cry. 
 Glaiket, inattentive; foolish. 
 Glaum, to snatch greedily. 
 Glaum'd, aimed; snatched. 
 Gleck, sharp; ready. 
 Gleg, sharp; ready. 
 Gley, a squint; to squint. 
 Glint, to peep. 
 Gloamin', the twilight. 
 Glowr, to stare; to look. 
 Gowd, gold. 
 
 Gowk, a cuckoo; a term of contempt. 
 Gowl, to howl. 
 Grade, to grope. 
 Graipit, groped. 
 Grane, a groan. 
 Grannie, grandmother. 
 Grat, wept. 
 Gree, to agree. 
 Greet, to shed tears. 
 Greetin, crying; weeping. 
 Grippet, catched; seized. 
 Grousome, loathsomely grim. 
 Grumphie, a sow. 
 Grun', ground. 
 Grunzie, mouth. 
 
 Gude, the Supreme Being, good. 
 Guid-e'en, good evening. 
 Guidman and guidwife, the master and 
 mistress of the house. 
 
 Ha', hall. 
 
 Hae, to have. 
 
 Haen, had. 
 
 Hatiflins, nearly half; partly. 
 
 Hag, a scar, or gulf in mosses or moors. 
 
 Hain, to spare; to save. 
 
 Hain'd, spared. 
 
 Hairst, harvest. 
 
 Haith, a pretty oath. 
 
 Haivers, nonsense. 
 
 Hale, whole. 
 
 Haly, holy. 
 
 Hallowmas, Hallow-eve, the 31st October. 
 
 Hamely, homely; affable. 
 
 Han', or Haun', hand. 
 
 Hap, an outer garment. 
 
 Harkit, hearkened. 
 
 Harn, very coarse linen. 
 
 Hand, to hold. 
 
 Haughs, low lying rich lands. 
 
 Haurl, to drag. 
 
 Haverel, a half-witted person. 
 
 Havins, good manners. 
 
 Healsome, healthful. 
 
 Heapit, heaped. 
 
 Hech, oh; strange. 
 
 Heeze, to elevate; to raise. 
 
 Herd, to tend flocks. 
 
 Herry, to plunder. 
 
 Het, hot. 
 
 Hiney, honey. 
 
 Hirple, to walk lazily. 
 
 Hitch, a loop; a knot. 
 
 Hizzie, a young girl. 
 
 Hoolie, slowly; leisurely. 
 
 Hoord, a hoard; to hoard. 
 
 Hoordit, hoarded. 
 
 Host, or hoast, to cough. 
 
 Hostin, coughing. 
 
 Houlet, an owl. 
 
 Housie, diminutive of house. 
 
 Hove, to heave; to swell. 
 
 Howe, hollow; a hollow or dell. 
 
 Howkit, digged. 
 
 r, in. 
 
 Icker, an ear of corn. 
 
 Ilk, or ilka; each; every. 
 
 Jaupit, bespattered. 
 
 Jeel, jelly. 
 
 Jimp, neat; slender. 
 
 Kail, cabbages; broth. 
 Kaim, comb. 
 Kebbuck, a cheese. 
 Ken, know. 
 Keust, threw off. 
 Kimmer, a young woman. 
 Kith, acquaintance. 
 Kittle, difficult, uncertain. 
 Knowe, a hillock. 
 Kye, cows. 
 
 Laigh, low. 
 Laith, loth. 
 L,eal, faithful; loyal. 
 L-'jar, learning. 
 
 Leeze me, a term of congratulatory en- 
 dearment. 
 Lift, the sky. 
 
 Loof, the palm of the hand. 
 Losh, an exclamation of surprise. 
 Loupin', leaping. 
 Lowe, fiarae. 
 Lowin', burning. 
 Lucky, an old woman. 
 Lugs, ears. 
 Lum, a chimney. 
 Luntin, smoking. 
 Lyart, grey-haired.
 
 896 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Mae, more. 
 
 Mak', make. 
 
 Mailin, farm. 
 
 Mail, more. 
 
 Maist, most. 
 
 Marrow, equal; like. 
 
 Mat, may. 
 
 Maun, must. 
 
 Maunna, must not. 
 
 Mavis, the thrush. 
 
 Merk, a Scottish coin. 
 
 Mess John, the minister. 
 
 Micht, might. 
 
 Minnie, mother. 
 
 Mirk, dark. 
 
 Mischanter, misfortune. 
 
 Monnie, or Mony, many. 
 
 Mou', mouth. 
 
 Moudiwart, a mole. 
 
 Muckle, or Mickle, big; much. 
 
 Mun, must. 
 
 Murlain, a basket. 
 
 Mutch, cap worn by female. 
 
 Na, no; not. 
 
 Nae, no; not any. 
 
 Naething, or Naithing, nothing. 
 
 Nane, none. 
 
 Neist, next. 
 
 Neivefu', handful. 
 
 Neuk, corner. 
 
 Nicht, night. 
 
 Nippit, pinched. 
 
 Nocht, nought. 
 
 Noo, now. 
 
 O', of. 
 
 O'ercome, burden, as of a song. 
 
 Onie, any. 
 
 O't, of it. 
 
 Owk, week. 
 
 Owre, often; to. 
 
 Owsen, oxen. 
 
 Pairtin', parting. 
 
 Parochin, parish. 
 
 Pawky, sly or cunning. 
 
 Perlins, jewels. 
 
 Philabeg, the kilt. 
 
 Plack, an old Scottish coin. 
 
 Pleuch, plough. 
 
 Pow, head. 
 
 Pree, to taste. 
 
 Pree'd, tasted. 
 
 Pu'd, pulled. 
 
 Puir, poor. 
 
 Puirtith, poverty. 
 
 Quo, said. 
 
 Rair, to roar. 
 
 Raize, to madden; to inflame. 
 
 Raught, reached. 
 
 Rax, to stretch. 
 
 Reaming, brimful; frothing. 
 
 Rede, counsel. 
 
 Ree, partly intoxicated. 
 
 Reek, smoke. 
 
 Reekin, smoking. 
 
 Reekit, smoked; smoky. 
 
 Reif, reef; plenty. 
 
 Restit, stood restive; stunted; withered. 
 
 Rew, to repent. 
 
 Rig, a ridge. 
 
 Rin, to run; to melt. 
 
 Rip, a handful of unthreshed corn. 
 
 Rockin, sprinning on the rock, or distaff. 
 
 Roon, a shred; a border; or selvage. 
 
 Roupet, hoarse; as with a cold. 
 
 Row, to wrap. 
 
 Rowtin, lowing. 
 
 Sae, so. 
 
 Sair, sore. 
 
 Sairly, sorel)'. 
 
 Sark, shirt. 
 
 Sel', self. 
 
 Shauchled, ill or loosely shaped. 
 
 Shaw, a wood in a hollow place. 
 
 Shearing, reaping. 
 
 Sheiling, cot; a cottage. 
 
 Sic, such. 
 
 Siccan, such. 
 
 Sin', since. 
 
 Skaith, to damage; to injure; injury. 
 
 Skeigh, proud, nice, high mettled. 
 
 Slaw, slow, dull. 
 
 Slee, sly. 
 
 Sleekit, sly. 
 
 Slogan cry, war cry. 
 
 Sma', small. 
 
 Smack, kiss. 
 
 Soger, soldier. 
 
 Sonsy, stout; good looking. 
 
 Sough, the sighing of the wind. 
 
 Spak', spake. 
 
 Speel'd, clamb. 
 
 Speir, ask. 
 
 Stappit, stepped. 
 
 Starn, a star. 
 
 Steek, shut. 
 
 Stended, strided or walked. 
 
 Stoun, pang. 
 
 Stoups, measures for holding liquids. 
 
 Stour, dust. 
 
 Stown, stolen. 
 
 Sumph, fool.
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 897 
 
 Sunkets, left meat. 
 Sweirt, not caring. 
 Syne, then. 
 
 Taen, taken. 
 
 Tak', to take. 
 
 Takin', taking. 
 
 Tak' tent, take heed. 
 
 Tane, tothcr; the one; the other. 
 
 Tapsalteerie, upside down. 
 
 Tent, caution; to take heed. 
 
 Thae, these. 
 
 Thegither, together. 
 
 Thowless, cold; broken-hearted. 
 
 Till't, to it. 
 
 Tine, to lose. 
 
 Tint, lost. 
 
 Tither, the other. 
 
 Titterin', gigling. 
 
 Tittie, sister. 
 
 Tocher, marriage portion. 
 
 Toddlin, tottering. 
 
 Toom, empty. 
 
 Trig, spruce; neat. 
 
 Trow, believe; know. 
 
 Trj'St, a meeting by appointment. 
 
 Twa, two. 
 
 Twa-three, a few. 
 
 Tyke, dog. 
 
 T)'ne, lose. 
 
 Unco, strange; uncouth; prodigious. 
 Uncos, news. 
 Unkenn'd, unknown. 
 Unsicker, unsure; unsteady. 
 Unskaith'd, undamaged; unhurt. 
 Upo', upon. 
 
 Vera, very. 
 
 Virl, a ring round a column. 
 
 Wa', wall. 
 
 Wab, web. 
 
 Wad, would. 
 
 Waddin', wedding. 
 
 Wadna, would not. 
 
 Wae, sorrowful. 
 
 Waefu', wailing; woeful. 
 
 Waes, woes. 
 
 Wair, to lay out; to expend. 
 
 Warlock, wizard. 
 
 Warst, worst. 
 
 Warstle, wrestle. 
 
 Wat-ye know ye. 
 
 Waukin', waking. 
 
 Waukrife, sleepless. 
 
 Waur, worse. 
 
 Wean, child. 
 
 Wee, little. 
 
 Weel waled, well chosen. 
 
 Ween, a vow — I ween; I wot. 
 
 Weet, rain; wetness. 
 
 Weir, war. 
 
 We'se, we shall. 
 
 Wha, who. 
 
 Wha'll, who will. 
 
 Wha wadna, who would not. 
 
 Whare, where. 
 
 Whigmigmorum, political ranting. 
 
 Whilk, which. 
 
 Whussilt, whistled. 
 
 Wile, choice. 
 
 Wist, wished. 
 
 Wow, vow. 
 
 Yearn, earn. 
 
 Yearns, longs much. 
 
 Yerkit, jerked; lashed. 
 
 Yestreen, yesternight. 
 
 Yett, a gate. 
 
 Yird, earth. 
 
 Yont, beyond. 
 
 Yowe, an ewe. 
 
 Yowie, diminutive of yowe. 
 
 §<e<-—
 
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