:;5-"; «;'..':(-' ;A^': ?»^ / t-' \J 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." C /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'?