The Songs of Scotland Ancient and Modern

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THE
SONGS OF SCOTLAND,
ANCIENT AND MODERN;
WITH
AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES,
historical ani CCritfcal,

AND
CHARACTERS OF THE LYRIC POETS.
He sang
Old songs, the product of Lis native hills ;
A skilful distribution of sweet sounds.
Opening from land to land an easy way
By melody and by the charm of verse.
Wordsworth.
BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM,
ACTHOROF SIB 3IARMADUKE MAXWELL, TRADITION*!. TALES,
ETC.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON :
PRINTED FOR JOHN TAYLOR,
WATERLOO-PLACE, PALL-MALL.
1825.
LONDON :
rjUNTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFIUAHS.
CONTENTS
VOL. III.
Page
Ah the poor shepherd's mournful fate

As Sylvia in a forest lay
At setting day
Awa whigs, awa
Annie Laurie
.
.
.
And ye shall walk in silk attire
Alone by the light of the moon
Bessie Bell and Mary Gray
Bonnie Chirsty
.
Bess the gawkie
.
.
.
.
76
8a
sa
195
. 256
. 200
. 323
Coming through the rye

Corn riggs are bonnic
.
.
.
Cakes o' eroudy
....
Carle, an the king come
Carlisle yetts
....
Came ye o'er frae France
.
.
Galium o' glen
.
.
.
Ca' the yowes to the knowes
Cauld kail in Aberdeen
''.
/.
. 58
. 82
. 350
3
. 157
177
. 203
. 214
. 220
. 237
. 275
.310
iv
CONTENTS.
Page
Down the burn, Davie
61
Dumbarton drums
Do the thing whilk I desire
Derwentwater
....
Donald Macgillavry
. 118
. 123
. 192
. 229
For ever, fortune, wilt thou prove

For the sake of gold
Fairest of the fair
.
. 140
. 273
. 295
Gin ye meet a bonnie lassie

Genty Tibbie and sonsie Nelly
Gin living worth could win my heart
.
70
.
72
. 257
Hamc never came he

Highland lassie
....
Hap me wi' thy petticoat
How can I be blithe
Hard is the fate
....
Hark yon sweet bird
Her absence will not alter me
.
.
1
. 128
. 169
. 171
. 172
. 207
. 329
It was a' for our righiiV king

John Hay's bonny lassie
If love's a sweet passion
I had a horse
I'll ne'er beguile thee
I ha'e nae kith, I ha'e nac kin
John Cameron
....
Johnie Cope
It's hame, and it's hanie
I lo'c nae a laddie but ane
John of Badenyon
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
29
68
137
152
163
201
212
225
246
250
344
CONTENTS.
.
Kenmure's on and awa
Killicrankic
.
King William's march
Kimmilk Genrdie
Page
. 180
. 182
. 184
. 227
Lass wi' a lamp o' land

Lochaber no more
.
.
Lament for Lord Maxwell
.
.
Lochmaben gate
....
Lewie Gordon
....
Lassie, lie near me
...
Logie o' Buchan
....
Locherroch side
....
Langsyrte
....
My lover has left me
Maggie Lauder
....
My lady's gown there's gairs upon't
Millie's meek, Mallie's sweet
My wife she dang me
My love she lives in Lauderdale
My Peggie is a young thing
Myra
My sheep I neglected
My dearie if thou die
My love Annie's very bonnie
Merry may the keel rowe
My mither's ay glowrin o'er me
.
Macdonald's gathering
Matrimonial happiness
My goddess woman
Mary's dream
....
Mary's dream
.
My dear little lassie
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
38
40
186
216
245
251
262
320
335
5
8
23
25
33
34
54
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
93
145
147
150
15!)
176
204
280
282
305
307
338
VI
CONTENTS.
Page
Now Phoebus advances on high

Nannie-o
No dominies for me, laddie
281!
Our gudeman came liauie at e'en

O'er the moor to Maggie
On Mrs. A. H. at a concert
O'er the water to Charlie
O'er the moor amang the heather
\4
86
98
250
271
Patie and Peggie

Polwart on the green
Peggie and Patie
117
148
165
Royal Charlie
Rodin castle
Red gleams the sun
Roy's wife of Aldivailoch
248
Sleepy body
Strephon's picture
Sweet Susan
Strephon and Lydia
The auld man's mare's dead
The rinaway bride
There went a fair maid forth to walk
The reel of Stumpie-o
Tibbie Fowler
The lass that made the bed to ine
The humble beggar
The braes of Branksome
The carle he came o'er the craft
The widow
Ml
112
293
817
.".27
44
101
13.-,
313
10
12
18
20
21
M
31
36
12
15
CONTENTS.
VII
Page
The braes of Yarrow

The young laird and Edinburgh Katie
48
56
The last time I came o'er the moor
63
The las of Patic's mill

The collier's bonnie lassie
6fi
71
The bush aboon Traquair

Tweedside
78
HO
The birks of Invermay

The lass of Livingstone
The weel tocher'd lass
105
107
118
Tow is do my ain house
186
The maltman
130
132
The sold wife beyont the fire

The flowers of the forest
13f!
The flowers of the forest
140
The yellow-hair'd laddie
The bonnie Scot
The Bob of Durable
The spinning wheel
There!! never be peace till Jamie comes hamc
The wee wee German lairdie
IBS
161
167
174
liil
197
The cuckoo
198
The Jacobite muster-roll
The white cockade
20(i
201!
The young Maxwell

The lovely lass of Inverness
20)1
222
Tranent moor
232
The tears of Scotland
239
The waes of Scotland

The tumimspike
The highland character
242
253
2C3
The smiling plains, profusely gay

They say that Jock will speed weel o't
Tullochgorum
26a
269
277
viii
CONTENTS.
Page
The wayward wife

.
The miller
....
The bonnic brucket lassie
The lea rig
.
.
t.
There's nae luck about the bouse
The boatie rows
....
The Darien song
The cuckoo
....
The braes of Yarrow
The minstrel
....
Tibbie Rodan
....
The fisher's welcome
The blue bird
....
The maid that tends the goats
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
284
28C
290
297
301
314
318
321
325
331
330
339
342
348
Up in the morning early

Ungrateful Nannie
Up in the air
.
.
6
110
121
.'
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
46
84
87
91
103
189
299
333
Widow, are ye waukin

William and .Margaret
.
Why hangs that cloud
Werena my heart light I wad die
When summer comes
What news to me, Cummer
What ails the lasses at me
Who's at my window
.
21(1
Young Airlie
SCOTTISH SONGS.
HAME NEVER CAME HE.

Saddled and bridled,
And booted, rode he,
A plume in bis helmet,
A sword at his knee ;
But toom came the saddle,
All bloody to see,
And hame came his steed,
But hame never came he.
Down came his grey father,
Sobbing fu' sair ;
Down came his auld mother,
Tearing her hair.
Down came his sweet wife,
Wi' bonnie bairns three,
Ane at her bosom,
And twa at her knee.
VOl.. lit.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
There stood his fleet steed,
All foaming and hot ;
There shriek'd his sweet wife,
And sank on the spot.
There stood his gray father,
Weeping fu' free,
For hame came his steed,
But hame never came he.
Eight lines of this song may be found in Finlay's

collection of ballads. My friend Mr. Yellowlees had
the kindness to communicate two old and clever verses :
one gives a name to the unfortunate hero.
High upon highlands,
And low upon Tay,
Bonnie George Campbell
Rode out on a day.
The other contains a very moving image of domestic
desolation :
My meadow lies green,
And my corn is unshorn ;
My barn is to build,
And my babe is unborn.
I have not tried to graft these verses upon the song.
By conferring a name on the hero, much of the romantic
charm would be removed ; and the words ascribed to the
young widow are rather too full of worldly care to cor
respond with the sorrow of the father and the mother.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
COMING THROUGH THE RYE.

Jenny's a' wat poor lassie,
Jenny's seldom dry ;
She's draggled a' her petticoat,
Coming through the rye.
Nae moon was shining in the lift,
And ne'er a body nigh ;
What gaur'd ye weet yere petticoat,
Coming through the rye ?
Gin a body meet a body
Coming through the broom ;
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body gloom.
Yestreen I met a cannie lad,
A flowery bank was nigh,
I lay a blink, and counted stars,
And what the waur am I.
Coming through the glen,
Need the parish ken.
I loe a bonnie lad o'er weel
To let him wail and sigh ;
A kiss is aye a kindlie thing,
And what the waur am 1.
b2
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I know of no song, with the exception of Johnie

Cope, which has so many variations as " Coming through
the rye." Some are decorous and discreet, and some
are free and gross, while others unite these two cha
racters in a very curious manner. The heroine, indeed,
seems to care as little about exposing her person to the
evening dews, as she regards the fruits of the earth. I
have ever observed that the Scottish peasantry have a
great regard for corn and all manner of crops ; and to
tread them wantonly down, or make idle roads through
them, is deemed a destruction of " God's gude living."
In this feeling Jenny seems not to have shared. Of the
many variations a specimen may be given :
Coming through the rye,
Need a body cry ?
Coming frae the well,
Need a body tell ?
I see that in the Museum a copy containing much that
is old is ascribed to Burns. I know not on what authority
it is imputed to him. Ignorance has often put my fa
vourite poet into coarse company.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
MY LOVER HAS LEFT ME.

My lover has left me,
Wot ye the cause why ?
He has gowd, he has mailens
No mailens have I ;
But whether I win him,
Or wear him, or no,
I can give a sigh for him,
And e'en let him go.
His flocks may all perish,
His gowd may all flee,
Then his new love will leave him
As he has left me.
O, meeting is pleasure,
And sundering is grief;
But a faithless lover
Is worse than a thief.
A thief will but rob me,
Take all that I have,
But a faithless lover
Brings ane to their grave :
The grave it will rot me,
And bring me to dust
O ! an inconstant lover
May woman ne'er trust !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I cannot find an older copy of this touching song than

that printed in Johnson's Musical Museum, yet I am
certain that the larger portion of it is very old. Like
all old lyrics, it may have been injured or improved
during its oral transmission through several ages, till
it found sanctuary in Johnson. I wish I could know if
the chorus, which is at open variance with the sense and
feeling of the song, has always belonged to it. Only
imagine the pathetic complaint of the forsaken maiden
mixed up with such lines as these :
Whether I get him, whether I get him,
Whether I get him or no
I care not three farthings
Whether I get him or no.
UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.

Cauld sweeps the wind free east to west,
The drift drives sharp and sairly ;
Sae loud and shrill I hear the blast,
I'm sure it's winter fairly :
O, up in the morning's no for me,
Up in the morning early ;
When Criffel puts on her hood o' snaw.
It maun be winter fairly.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Some love the din o' the dancer's feet,

To the music leaping rarely ;
Some love the kiss and the stolen word,
Wi' the lass that loves them dearly ;
But I Jove best the weel-made bed,
Spread warm, and feal, and fairly,
For up in the morning's no for mc,
Up in the morning early.
O, spring-time is a pleasant time,
When green the grass is growing ;
And summer it is sweeter still,
When sun-warm streams are flowing ;
But winter it is thrice as sweet,
When frosts bite sharp and sairly,
Up in the morning's no for me,
The thrush sits chittering on the thorn,
The sparrow dines but sparely ;
The crow longs for the time o' corn
I'm sure it's winter fairly.
The plough stands frozen in the fur',
And down the snow comes rarely
Up in the morning's no for me,
The air of these words is old, and so is much of the
song. Burns trimmed it for the Museum ; and since that
SCOTTISH SONGS.
period it has been augmented by other hands. The idea

of the song is very original, and some parts of thcexecution felicitous. A peasant of Nithsdale once ex
pressed to me his horror at braving a winter morning,
in very poetical language. " Snow, the inspired man
sings, is beautiful in its season. It was nought for him,
sitting with his lasses and his wine, to say sae : had he
been a dry stane diker, he would have said nae sic
thing. As for me, I never see snaw at my window but
I lang to fa' asleep again ; and I never wish to step o'er
the door stane till I am sure I can set my foot on the
bloom of three gowans."
MAGGIE LAUDER.
Wha wadnae be in love
Wi' bonnie Maggie Lauder !
A piper met her gaun to Fife,
And spier'd what was't they ca'd her :
Right scornfully thus answered she,
Begone, you hallan-shaker ;
Jog on your gate, you blether-skate,
My name is Maggie Lauder.
Maggie, quoth he, now by my bags,
I'm fidging fain to sec you
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Sit down by me, my bonnie bird,
In troth I winna steer you ;
For I'm a piper to my trade,
Men call me Rab the Ranter :
The lasses loup as they were daft,
When I blaw up my chanter.
Piper, quo' Meg, have you your bags,
And is your drone in order ?
If you be Rah, I've heard of you,
Live you upon the border ?
The lasses a', baith far and near,
Have heard of Rab the Ranter
I'll shake my foot wi' right good will,
If you'll blaw up your chanter.
Then to his bags he flew wi' speed,
About the drone he twisted ;
Meg up and walloped o'er the green,
For brawlie could she frisk it :
Weel done, quoth he ; play up, quoth she ;
Weel bobbed, quoth Rab the Ranter ;
'Tis worth my while to play, indeed,
When I get sic a dancer.
Weel hae you played your part, quoth' Meg,
Your cheeks are like the crimson
There's nane in Scotland plays sae weel
Since we lost Rabbit Simpson.
10
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I've lived in Fife, baith maid and wife,
These ten years and a quarter ;
Gin ye should come to Anster Fair,
Spier ye for Maggie Lauder.
Much idle controversy has arisen respecting the

meaning of this admirable song : certain sensitive critics
imagine the story to be an impure allegory, like " The
Fleming Barge," while others accept the strict and
literal and honest meaning of the words. It was written
by Francis Semple about the year 1650, if we may trust
family tradition. Tradition has lately accepted the aid
of some very suspicious anecdotes, accompanied by oral
verses, confirmatory of the claim of Semple to this song;
and it would be well if the family would set such mat
ters at rest. Under the name of " Mogey Lauther" this
song was a favourite in England at the Restoration.
THE AULD MAN'S MARE'S DEAD.

The auld man's mare's dead,
She gae a tug and drappit dead,
The mair haste the waur speed,
A mile aboon Dundee.
She was cat-luggit, painch-lippet,
Steel-waimet, staincher fittet,
Chaunler-chaftet, crook-uecket,
And yet the brute did die.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
11

And peats and sticks and corn to lead,
Just in the middle o' his need,
What ailed the brute to die.
Her lunyie bones were knaggs and neuks,
She had the cleeks, the cauld, the crooks,
The moor-ill and the wanton yeuks,
And the howks aboon her e'e.
That bore his banes and wan his bread ;
Frae firth to firth was ne'er a steed
Used half so tenderlie.
The auld man he was rough and dour,
The auld mare she was cross and sour
They loved like birds in summer bower,
And yet the brute could die.
On the authority of some verses by Allan Ramsay,
this curious song might be ascribed to Patie Birnie,
" the famous fiddler of Kinghorn." But the testimony
of verse is very suspicious. There are many variations
of the song ; and all the diseases which the art of far
riery knows have been visited on the auld man's mare
by our provincial rhymers. What bard would think
new of singing in honour of such a miserable animal,
and wonder at the end of every verse that she should
have died, when every line shows it was much more
wonderful that she lived so long ?
12
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE RINAWAY BRIDE.

A laddie and a lassie fair
Lived in the south countree ;
They hae coost their claes thegither,
And wedded wad they be :
On Tuesday to the bridal feast
Came fiddlers flocking free
But hey play up the rinaway bride,
For she has ta'en the gee.
She had nae run a mile or mair
Till she 'gan to consider
The angering of her father dear,
The vexing of her mither,
The slighting of the silly bridegroom,
The warst of a' the three
Then hey play up the rinaway bride,
Her father and her mither baith
Ran after her wi' speed ;
And ay they ran and cryed, hou, Ann !
Till they came to the Tweed :
Saw ye a lass, a lovesome lass,
That weel a queen might be ?
O that's the bride, the rinaway bride,
The bride that's ta'en the gee.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
13
And when they came to Kelso town,

They gaured the clap gae throu'
Saw ye a lass wi' a hood and mantle,
The face o't lined up wi' blue ?
The face o't lined up wi' blue,
And the tail turned up wi' green ;
Saw ye a lass wi a hood and mantle,
Should been married on Tuesday 'te'en?
O at the saft and silly bridegroom
The bridemaids a' were laughin',
When up there spake the bridegroom's man,
Now what means a' this daffin,
For woman's love's a wilfu' thing,
And fancy flies fu' free ;
Then hey play up the rinaway bride,
There is a lively and original spirit in this song such
as few songs possess. It first found a place in Yair's
collection, and then in David Herd's ; but it was
popular among the peasantry before, and few districts
are without numerous variations. The present copy
seems more complete and consistent than the others,
and the concluding verse is without the indelicacy which
polluted the earlier versions.
14
SCOTTISH SONGS.
OUR GUDEMAN CAME HAME AT E'EN.

Our gudeman came hame at e'en,
And hame came he,
And there he saw a saddle-horse,
Where nae horse should be :
And how came this horse here,
And how can it be ?
O how came this horse here
Without the leave o' me ?
A horse ! quo' she,aye, a horse, quo' he.
Ye blind donard bodie,
And blinder may ye be,
'Tis but a dainty milk-cow
My mither sent to me.
A milk cow ! quo' he,aye, a milk cow, quo' she.
O far hae I ridden,
And meikle hae I seen,
But a saddle on a milk-cow
Afore I ne'er saw nane.
And hame came he,
And he spied a pair of jack-boots
Where nae boots should be :
What's this now, gudewife,
What's this I see ?
SCOTTISH SONGS.
15
How came these boots here

Boots ! quo' she,aye, boots ! quo' he.
Shame fa yere cuckold face,
And waur may ye see,
It's but a pair o' milking pails
My minnie sent to me.
Milking-pails ! quo' he,aye, milking-pails ! quo' she.
Far hae I ridden,
And farer hae I gane,
But siller spurs on milking-pails
Saw I never nane.
And hame came he,
And there he saw a shining sword
Where nae sword should be :
And what's this I see ?
O how came this sword here
A sword ! quo' she,aye, a sword ! quo' he.
Shame fa' yere cuckold face,
It's but a porridge spurtle
A spurtle ! quo' he,aye, a spurtle ! quo' she.
Far hae I ridden, love,
16
SCOTTISH SONGS.
But silver hilted spurtles
Saw I never nane.

And hame came he,
And there he spied a powdered wig
Where nae wig should be :
What's this I see?
How came this wig here
A wig ! quo' she, aye, a wig ! quo' he.
Shame fa' yere cuckold face,
'Tis nothing but a clocking-hen
A clocking-hen ! quo' he,aye, a clocking-hen ! quo'
she.
.'.'.'
But powder on a clocking-hen
Saw I never nane.
And hame came he,
And there he saw a meikle coat
Where nae coat should be :
And how came this coat here,
And how can it be ?
SCOTTISH SONGS.
17
0 how came this coat here

A coat ! quo' she,aye, a coat ! quo' he.
Ye blind donard bodie,
And blinder may ye be ;
It's but a pair o' blankets
Blankets ! quo' he,aye, blankets ! quo' sheFar hae I ridden, love,
And tneikle hae I seen ;
But buttons upon blankets
Saw I never mine.
Ben went our gudeman,
And ben went he ;
And there he spied a sturdy man
Where nae man should be.
How came this man here ?
And how can it be ?
How came this man here
A man ! quo' she,aye, a man ! quo' he.
Ye silly blind bodie,
And blinder may ye be ;
'Tis a new milking maiden
A maid ! quo' he,aye, a maid ! quo' she.
And meikle hae I seen ;
VOL. III.
18
SCOTTISH SONGS.
But long-bearded maidens
Saw I never nane.
The concluding lines of this excellent old song lead

us to imagine that it was popular before the final aboli
tion of beards ; but it has many other tokens of anti
quity about it. I know not where David Herd found
it, but we owe its preservation to his industry : it ap
peared in his collection in 1776- The latter efforts of
the Muse are less free, dramatic, and original ; there is
a rustic life and a ready-witted grace about our old
songs which modern verse-makers cannot reach. Do
mestic infelicity was a favourite theme with our ances
tors, and much mirth was infused into song by the
witty wickedness of young wives.
THERE WENT A FAIR MAID FORTH

TO WALK.
There went a fair maid forth to walk
In the sweet twilight of July,
Bonnie she was and frank and young ;
But she met wi' a lad unruly.
The flowers smelled rich aneath their feet,
The birds o'erhead sang hoolie,
Till the bright moon came glancing down
Through the balmy air of July.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
19
There were oft pausings in their walk

Words breathed out meek and lowly,
And smother'd sighs, and oft vowed vows,
And looks so warm and holy !
He took her by the lily white hand,
And swore he loved her truly
The lad forgot, but the maid thought on ;
It was in the month of July.
These verses seem a fragment of some ancient lyric ;
and if I might be indulged in conjecture, I should think
tuey had been retouched by some judicious hand, and
the broad simplicity of the early Muse abated. Like
almost all other Scottish songs, a version existed of a
much more dubious character in point of delicacy than
this. Parodies or interpolated verses often changed a
song and rendered it unfit for a scrupulous audience.
It is as well to let such variations be consigned to obli
vion by the purer taste of society. I suspect the song is
of English extraction. I never saw more than eight
lines of it in any collection ;they are the first four and
last four in the present version.
c2
20
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE REEL OF STUMPIE-O.

Hap and rowe, hap and rowe,
Hap and rowe the feetie o't ;
I thought myseT a maiden leal
Till ance I heard the greetie o't.
My father was a fiddler fine,
My minnie she made mankie-o ;
And I'm myself a thumpin quean
Wha danced the reel of Stumpie-o.
Dance and sing, dance and sing,
Hey the merry dancing-o ;
And a' their love locks waving round,
And a' their bright eyes glancing-o.
The pipes come with their gladsome note
And then wi' dool and dumpie-o ;
But the lightest tune to a maiden's foot
Is the gallant tune of Stumpic-o.
The gossip cup, the gossip cup,
The kimmer clash and caudle-o
The glowin moon, the wanton loon,
The cuttie stool and cradle-o.
Douce dames maun hae their bairntime borne,
Sae dinna glower sae glumpie-o ;
Birds love the morn, and craws love corn,
And maids the reel of Stumpie-o.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
21
All that antiquity can claim of this song amounts

only, I fear, to a fragment. An imperfect copy of the
first verse was printed in the Musical Museum. The
air is well known among Scottish musicians. I have
beard a verse which gives the local claim of this song to
Fife ; but I cannot strengthen this by quotation. The
verses, as they now stand, have been created from such
rubbish as Time has left of the old song. It has been
sang for generationsand " Hap and rowe, hap and
nwe," was always the popular commencement. The
air is a favourite and lively reel tune.
TIBBIE FOWLER.
Tibbie Fowler o' the glen,
There's o'er mony wooing at her ;
Tibbie Fowler o' the glen,
There's o'er mony wooing at her.
Wooing at her, puin at her,
Courtin her, and canna get her ;
Filthy elf, it's for her pelf
That a' the lads are wooing at her.
Ten cam east, and ten cam west,
Ten cam rowin o'er the water ;
Twa cam down the lang dyke-side :
There's twa-and-thirty wooing at her.
22
SCOTTISH SONGS.
There's seven but and seven ben,
Seven in the pantry wi' her,
Twenty head about the door :
There's ane-and-forty wooing 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 wooing at her.
Be a lassie e'er sae black,
Gin she hae the name o' siller,
Sether upon Tintock tap,
The wind will blaw a man till her.
Be a lassie e'er sae fair,
An' she want the penny siller,
A flie may fell her in the air
Before a man be even'd till her.
This is a lucky effusion of the rustic Muse. The

conception is original, and the execution natural and
lively. Female malice alone seems equal to the task of
lessening the manifold attractions of a maiden with one
and forty wooers. The witty catalogue of lovers, the
bitter personality and the biting moral which concludes
this song, render it a general favourite. It came out as
a fragment first, and about the year 1780 appeared in
its present form. It is said to be the production of the
SCOTTISH SONGS.
S3
Kev. Dr. Strachan of Carnwatha clever man and a

skilful musician : but in Scotland every thing above
the mark of a common capacity is attributed to the mi
nister of the parish. The name of the song appears
in Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany. I think this is
nearly decisive of Dr. Strachan's claim. Tintock is the
name of a high hill near Biggar.
MY LADY'S GOWN THERE'S GAIRS

UPON'T.
My lady's gown there's gaire upon't,
And gowden flowers sac rare upon't ;
But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet,
My lord thinks mucklc mair upon't.
My lord a hunting he is gane,
But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane ;
By Colin's cottage lies his game,
If Colin's Jenny be at hame.
My lady's white, my lady's red,
And kith and kin o' Cassilis' blude,
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher gude
Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed.
24
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Out o'er yon moor, out o'er yon moss,
Whare gor-cocks through the heather pass ;
There wons auld Colin's bonny lass,
A lily in a wilderness.
Sae sweetly move her genty limbs,
Like music notes o' lover's hymns :
The diamond dew is her een sae blue,
Where laughing love sae wanton swims.
My lady's dink, my lady's drest,
The flower and fancy o' the west ;
But the lassie that man lo'es the best,
O that's the lass to mak him blest.
In the Museum this clever song is wholly ascribed to

Burns ; and though Johnson often mistook the lyrics
which the poet transcribed for his own inspirations,
there can be little doubt that it owes its chief attrac
tions to his happy pen. In some of the verses, and in
the conception of the song, I think I see an antique
spirit at work : and I am more inclined to believe that
Burns renewed and reanimated a provincial fragment,
than that he imagined and wrote the song wholly from
his own fancy and feelings.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
MALLIE'S MEEK, MALLIE'S SWEET.

O Mallie's meek, Mallie's sweet,
Mallie's modest and discreet,
Mallie's rare, Mallie's fair,
Mallie's every way complete.
As I was walking up the street
A bare-foot maid I chanced to meet
Cold is the day and hard the way,
Fair maiden, for thy tender feet.
O Mallie's sweet, Mallie's meek,
Mallie's modest and discreet,
Mallie's rare, Mallie's fair,
Mallie's chaste, and Mallie's sweet.
It were more meet that these fine feet
Were weel laced up in silken shoon ;
And 'twere more fit that thou shouldst sit
Within yon chariot gilt aboon.
O Mallie fair and Mallie rare !
I'd sail the sea, and roam the land,
And swim yon firth, or gird the earth,
For ae wave of thy gentle hand :
Thy yellow hair beyond compare
Comes trinkling down thy swan-white neck ;
And thy two eyes, like stars in skies,
Would keep a sinking ship frac wreck.
95
26
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The name of Burns accompanies this song in the

Museum ; and though I have no wish to advise a sepa
ration, I cannot help expressing my sorrow at the im
prudence or ignorance of Johnson in adding the name of
the great poet to all the hasty verses and amended songs
which he so willingly and profusely communicated. The
present song is a very beautiful one ; and though the
conception and some of the lines belong to an earlier
period, the charms by which it seizes on our heart and
fancy are the work of Burns.
THE LASS THAT MADE THE BED TO ME.

When Januar' winds were blawing cauld,
As to the north I bent my way,
The mirksome night did me infauld,
I kentna where to lodge till day ;
By my good luck a lass I met,
Just in the middle of my care ;
And kindly she did me invite
To walk into a chamber fair.
I bow'd fu' low unto this maid,
And thank'd her for her courtesie ;
I bow'd fu' low unto this maid,
And bade her mak a bed for me.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
She made the bed baith wide and braid,
Wi' twa white hands she spread it down ;
She put the cup to her rosy lips,
And drank, Young man, now sleep ye sound.
She snatch' d the candle in her hand,
And frae my chamber went wi' speed,
But I ca'd her quickly back again,
To lay some mair below my head.
She laid a pillow 'neath my head,
And served me wi' due respect ;
And to salute her wi' a kiss,
I put my arms about her neck.
Her hair was like the links o' gowo",
Her teeth were like the ivory,
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine,
The lass that made the bed to me.
Her bosom was the driven snaw,
Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see ;
Her limbs the polish'd marble stane,
I kiss'd her owre and owre again,
And aye she wistna what to say ;
I laid her 'tween me and the wa' ;
The lassie thought na lang till day.
I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne,
While the tear stood twinklin in her ee :
27
88
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I said, My lassie, dinna cry,

For ye ay shall make the bed to me.
She took her mither's holland sheets,
And made them a' in sarks to me ;
Blithe and merry may she be,
The bonny lass made the bed to me,
The braw lass made the bed to me ;
I'll ne'er forget, till the day I die,
Burns found an old, lively, and unceremonious song, and
adopting its narrative, and retaining many of the lines,
and preserving something of the stamp and impress of
the old, he produced the present lyrie. It is not yet
quite so pure as it ought to be ; but it is far too beauti
ful to cast away, and too peculiar to alter with much
hope of success. The original song, tradition says, was
occasioned by an intrigue which Charles the Second had
with a Scottish lady before the battle of Worcester. I
have heard a much earlier origin ascribed to it :the
peasantry believe it to be one of the compositions of
King James the Fifth, in which he embodied some of
his own nocturnal adventures.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
IT WAS A' FOR OUR RIGHTFU' KING.

It was a' for our rightfu' king
We left fair Scotland's strand !
It was a' for our rightfu' king
We e'er saw Irish land, my dear,
We e*er saw Irish land.
Now a' is done that men can do,
An' a' is done in vain :
My love an' native land, fareweel !
For I maun cross the main, my dear,
For I maun cross the main.
He turn'd him right an' round about
Upon the Irish shore,
An' ga'e his bridle-reins a shake,
With, adieu for evermore, my dear !
With, adieu for evermore !
The sodger frae the wars returns,
The sailor frae the main ;
But I hae parted frae my love,
Never to meet again, my dear,
Never to meet again.
When day is gane, an' night is come,
An' a' folk bound to sleep,
29
30
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I think on him that's far awa'
The lee-lang night, an' weep, my dear,
The lee-lang night, an' weep.
Tradition ascribes this song to Captain Ogilvic, of

the house of Inverquharity, who accompanied King
James to Ireland, and fought bravely at the battle of
the Boyne. He was one of some hundreds of lowland
Scottish gentlemen who voluntarily exiled themselves,
and perished by famine and the sword, in the cause of
the house of Stuart. Many of them served as common
soldiers, and were slain in the wars of aliens in Spain
and on the Rhine, while others followed the miserable
fortunes of their master, and perished by a consumer as
sure and effectual as the sworddisappointed hope. In
1696 only sixteen were left alive : nor did these men
fight from a blind religious devotion ; only four were
Catholics, the rest were members of the Church of
England, and some of them had been divines. Every
revolution has its stories of sorrow and of wrong ; per
haps that of 1688 has less human misery to answer for
than any other on record.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE HUMBLE BEGGAR,

In Scotland there lived a humble beggar,
He had neither house nor hald nor hame,
But he was weel liked by ilka body,
And they gave him sunkcts to rax his wame.
A nievefou' o' meal, a handfou' o' groats,
A dad o' a bannock or pudding bree,
Cauld porridge, or the lickings of plates,
Wad make him as blythe as a bodie could be.
A humbler bodie O never brake bread,
For the feint a bit of pride had he ;
He wad hae ta'en his alms in a bicker
Frae gentle or semple, or poor bodie.
His wallets afore and ahint did King
In as good order as wallets could.be ;
A lang-kale goolie hung down by his side,
And a meikle nowte-horn to rowt on had he.
It happened ill, and it happened warse
For it happened sae that he did die ;
And wha d' ye think was at his lyke-wauk
But lads and lasses of high degree ?
Some were merry and some were sad,
And some were as blythe as blythe could l>e,
When up he started, the gruesome carle,
I rede ye, good folks, beware o' me !
32
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Out scratched Kate, wha sat in the nook,

Vow now, khnmer ! and how do ye ?
He ca'd her waur than witch andJimmcr,
And rugget and tugget her cockernonie.
They howket his grave in Douket's kirkyMd .'
Twa ell deep, for I gade to see,
' '
But when they were gaun to put him in the ylrd,
The feint a dead nor dead was he! m'j r" x
They brought him down to Douket's kirkyaard ;
He gae a dunt, and the boards did flee, ; ' i < '
And when they gade to lay him in the grave,
In fell the coffin and out lap he !
He cryed I'm cauld ! I'm unco cauld !
''"
Fu' fast ran they, and fu' fast ran he;
But he was first hame at his ain ingle-side} - ..'
And he helped to drink his ain dredgie.
... . v.. i,;b::h
This song is certainly a very old one, though it ap
peared for the first time in David Herd's collection.
The hero seems to have been a kind of martial mendicant, who obtained alms by other means than interces
sion ; his horn and his kale goolie made the impatience
of his friends for his interment very justifiable. The
joy and the sorrow at his lyke-wake is a very just picture
of other times, when, according to the proverb, more
mirth was found at the end of a funeral than at the be
ginning of a wedding.
. i iiTi.iHrbuA
. . ,. , .. .!; -.7 1i O
. ., -! " .< Mil'i .Lin)

l'|
10
SCOTTISH SONGS.
3S
MY WIFE SHE DANG ME.

On peace and rest my mind was bent,
And, fool I was, I married ;
Bnt never an honest man's intent
Sae cursedly miscarried !
For aye my wife she dang me,
And aye my wife did bang me :
O if ye gie a woman her will,
Glide sooth, she'll soon o'ergang ye !
Nae fairer face looks to the sun,
Nae eye has glances brighter ;
Nae foot's mair gladsome in the dance,
I wish her hand were lighter !
And aye my wife she dang me,
And sair my wife did wrang me :
Gude faith, she'll soon o'ergang ye !
There is some comfort still in hope,
When sorrow's days are done, man.
My pains of hell on earth have past,
Then welcome Miss aboon, man !
And aye my wife she dang me,
And aye my wife did bang me :
Gude faith, she'll soon o'ergang ye !
VOL. III.
34
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I found two of these verses in the Musical Museum ;

the chorus is old, the rest of the song is modern. An
old song of the same name was once well known, and
some fragments are not yet forgotten ; though I know
of no relics of ancient song which merit ohlivion more.
MY LOVE SHE LIVES IN LAUDERDALE.
My love she lives in Lauderdale,

And I'm a fiddler fine ;
I played at her bower window,
And drank her health in wine.
She fleeched me an' she floyted me,
As gin I'd been her brither ;
But I maun rin frae Lauderdale,
Fiddle and a' thegither.
There's no a lad in Lauderdale,
Nor yet in a' the land,
That witched the maidens' feet like me,
Or drew sic a bow-hand :
My gude bow-hand has lost its craft,
And tint the charm for ever ;
And I maun rin frae Lauderdale,
SCOTTISH SONGS.
35
When first I came to Lauderdale,

'Twas at the Lammas-term,
I drew a bowa nobler bow
Was never drawn on thairm !
But wae gae by the wanton dance
That makes a maid a mither !
Now I maun rin frae Lauderdale,
There is an old popular ditty, exceedingly lively and
very coarse, bearing the same name with this song, and
containing many lines in common, which may be known
to some of my less fastidious readers. In sobering down
the levities of the old lyric, I have sought to preserve
some of its freedom and animation ; and though I have
changed the meaning, I hope I have preserved all that
any one would think worthy of preservation. I shall
not say where I found the original songit was in
very wild company.
d2
36
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE BRAES OF BRANKSOME.

As I came in by Teviot-side,
And by the braes of Branksome,
There first I saw my bonny bride,
Young, smiling, sweet, and handsome ;
Her skin was safter than the down,
And white as alabaster ;
Her hair a shining wavy brown ;
In straightness nanc surpass 71 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 gooshets fine,
Or shoon with glancing laces,
On her bare leg, forbade to shine
Well shapen native graces.
t .- , i
Ae little coat, and bodice white,

Was sum of a' her claithing ;
Even thae's o'er meikle ; mair delyte
She'd given cled wi' naitiling:
She lean'd upon a flow'ry brae,
By which a burnie trotted ;
On her I glowr'd my soul away,
While on her sweets I doted.
, ;i
. ,,.
,, .a o
SCOTTISH SONGS.
37
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,
Who smil'd, and said, Without a priest,
Sir, hope for nought but kisses.
I had nae heart to do hei harm,
And yet I cou'dna want her ;
What she demanded, ilka charm
Of her's pled, I shou'd grant her.
Since heaven had dealt to me a routh,
Straight to the kirk I led her,
There plighting her my faith and trouth,
And a young lady made her.
The popular song of " The Braes of Branksome" first
appeared under the name of " The Generous Gentleman"
in Allan Ramsay's collection, accompanied by instruc
tions to sing it to the tune of " The Bonnie Lass of
Branksome." The name of the tune seems part of an
old song, of which I regret the loss, since I imagine it
commemorated the beauty of one of the ladies of Brank
some, whose reputation for loveliness is of old standing.
How much or how little of the ancient strain found its
way into this modern composition it is now impossible
to know, but the song wants no old associations to render
it attractive: it is a general favourite. The freedom
38
SCOTTISH SONGS.
with which the lover describes the beauty of the maiden,

the wish which he expresses for still greater simplicity
of dress, and the protracted rapture with which he
dwells on her youth and her loveliness, together with
his own honesty of purpose, all combine to press it upon
our affections. It is the work of a practised hand, and
has been imputed, and, I believe, with truth, to Allan
LASS WITH A LUMP OP LAND.

Gi'e me a lass with a lump of land,
And we for life shall gang thegither,
Though daft or wise, I'll never demand,
Or black or fair, it makesna whether.
I'm aff with wit, and beauty will fade,
And blood alane is na worth a shilling ;
But she that's rich, her market's made,
For ilka charm about her is killing.
Gi'e me a lass with a lump of land,
And in my bosom I'll hug my treasure ;
Gin I had anes her gear in my hand,
Should love turn dowf, it will find pleasure.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
39
Laugh on wha likes, but there's my hand,

I hate with poortith, though bonny, to meddle,
Unless they bring cash, or a lump of land,
They'se never get me to dance to their fiddle
There's meikle good love in bands and bags,
And siller and gowd's a sweet complexion ;
But beauty, and wit, and virtue in rags,
Have tint the art of gaining affection :
Love tips his arrows with woods and parks,
And castles, and riggs, and muirs, and meadows,
And naithing can catch our modern sparks,
But well-tocher'd lasses, or jointur'd widows.
If it were necessary to produce au example of the
freshness, vividness, and rich humour of Allan Ramsay,
and of his power of saying much in small compass, I
would instance the " Lass with a Lump of Land." It
is one of the best of the kind in the language, and
presents an emanation of life and spirit which will
never be old while pleasure and power are matters to
be purchased : gold and silver will always, in spite of
health and beauty, be considered a sweet complexion.
The song has hardly obtained the fame it deserves;
Burns has left it unnoticed, while he illustrates with
criticism and anecdote many inferior lyrics. But Burns
held strange opinions sometimes in matters of tastehe
admired Peter Pindar, and preferred Ferguson to Ram
say. The sympathy excited by Ferguson's unhappy
death, and the wild and uncontrollable career which
40
SCOTTISH SONGS.
hastened it, might have their share ia influencing this

opinion ; but still it is his opinion, and he never recalled
it. Like many other songs, " The Lass with a Lump of
Land" was preceded by another whose attractions were
of a more gross and sensual nature.
.'.-.!
.i.. ii >. : *.'

i. >.-,:...
.'.. .: .'. t'i - - I '.< I'!. '.

.- .. . 1-- ; ,. ..!.: : '
LOCHABER NO MORE.
u
Farewell to Lochaber, farewell to my Jean,
Where heartsome with thee I have mony a day been :
To Lochaber no more, to Lochaber no more,
We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more.
These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear,
And not for the dangers attending on weir ;
Though bore on rough seas to a far bloody shore,
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more !
Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind,
No tempest can equal the storm in my mind :
Though loudest of thunders on louder waves roar,
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore.
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain'd,
But by ease that's inglorious no fame can be gain'd :
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave ;
And I maun deserve it before I can crave.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
41
Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse,

Since honour commands me how can I refuse ?
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee ;
And losing thy favour I'd better not be.
I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame,
And, if I should chance to come glorious hame,
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er,
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.
The sweetness of the air and the beauty of the verses
have rendered this one of the most popular of our Scottish
songs. An earlier song of the same name once existed,
it is imagined, but I never had the fortune to meet with
it, cither entire or in fragments. I have never heard
who the hero of " Lochaber no more" was, nor who was
the Jeany whose beauty had made such an impression on
the martial adventurer. It was seldom that Ramsay
went northward, for subjectshis heart seems not to
have been with the highlands ; and this renders it more
likely that he raised this elegant superstructure of verse
on the foundation of some ancient song.
i.
/'
.. i. .-.'
........
....
12
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE CARLE HE CAME O'ER THE CROFT.

The carle he came o'er the croft,
And his beard new shav'n,
He look'd at me, as he'd been daft,
The carle trows that I wad hae him.
Hout awa' I winna hae him !
Na, forsooth, I winna hae him !
For a' his beard new shav'n,
Ne'er a bit will I hae him.
A siller broach he gae me niest,
To fasten on my curchea nooked,
I wor't a wee upon my breast,
. But soon, alake ! the tongue o't crooked ;
And sae may his, I winna hae him,
Na, forsooth, I winna hae him,
Ane twice a bairn's a lass's jest ;
Sae ony fool for me may hae him.
The carle has na fault but ane,
For he has land and dollars plenty ;
But wuc's me for him ! skin and bane
Is no for a plump lass of twenty.
Hout awa, I winna hae him,
Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ;
What signifies his dirty riggs,
And cash, without a man with them ?
SCOTTISH SONGS.
43
But should my canker'd daddy gar

Me tak him 'gainst my inclination,
I warn the fumbler to beware
That antlers dinna claim their station.
Hout awa, I winna hae him !
Na, forsooth, I winna hae him !
I'm fley'd to crack the haly band,
Sae lawty says, I shou'd na hae him.
The scorn of youth and beauty for age and gray hairs
was a favourite subject with our old lyrists; and wc
have not probably a more ancient song of that kind, or
a more successful one, than " The Carle he came o'er the
croft." It is trueth at Allan Ramsay abated the grossness of the original song, and probably augmented its
humour ; but those who laugh at the manner in which
the merry maiden speculates on her hope of matrimonial
comforts, and the pleasant punishment with which she
threatens her hoary lover, will laugh at what moved the
mirth of our ancestors two hundred years ago.The old
song was published in the Orpheus Caledonius in 1725.
It would appear that the ancient suitor was a highlander.
I have heard verses very different from the copies of
Ramsay and Thomson. I cannot commend their de
licacy.This is a passable one :
He gae me a hollin sark,
An' his beard new shaven,
And sought to kiss me in the dark,
Foul fa' him gin I'll hae him !
44
SCOTTISH SONGS.
SLEEPY BODY.
O sleepy body,
And drowsy body,
O wiltuna waken and turn thee :
To drivel and draunt,
While I sigh and gaunt,
Gives me good reason to scorn thee.
.........
.
.
...,.-,'.
When thou shouldst be kind,
Thou turns sleepy and blind,
And snoters and snores far frae me.
Wae light on thy face,
Thy drowsy embrace
Is enough to gar mc betray thee.
This clever little song is a translation of some Latin

verses ; it appeared first in Allan Ramsay's collection
with a mark intimating that the verses were old, with
additions. I wish so well to the air as to desire that a
verse or two were added ; for the brevity of the song
makes the pleasure cease ere it be well begun.I should
like a song in the feeling of the old words.Some one
I am afraid will take up the air, discover that it may
be sung slow with expression, and pour over its plea
sant liveliness a lyric flood of drowsy sensibility. We
have plenty of moving and touching songsand I would
rather laugh than cry.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
45
THE WIDOW.
The widow can bake, and the widow can brew,
The widow can shape, and the widow can sew,
And 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 and clap her you manna be blate,
Speak well, and 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 for the wearing, and has a good skair
Of every thing lovely, she's witty and fair,
And has a rich jointure, my laddie.
What cou'd you 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 'er, and kill 'er with courtesie dead,
Though stark love and kindness be all ye can plead ;
Be heartsome and airy, and hope to succeed
With a bonny gay widow, my laddie.
Strike iron while 'tis het, if ye'd have it to wald,
For fortune ay favours the active and bauld,
But ruins the wooer that's thowless and cauld,
Unfit for the widow, my laddie.
46
SCOTTISH SONGS.
There was once an old free song, the burthen of which

gives a name to the air to which this song is song, called
" Wap at the widow, my laddie." Allan Ramsay in
fused a more modest spirit through it, without lessening
its unobjectionable attractions ; and the song thus reno
vated in a purer, but still a very free taste, keeps hold
of public favour. We have many rude rhymes, and
still ruder proverbs, expressive of the ease with which
the scruples of a rosy young widow are vanquished ; but
the song itself says quite enough, and I shall not illus
trate the plain and simple text by either rhyme or
proverb.
WIDOW, ARE YE WAUKIN?
O wha's that at my chamber-door ?

Fair widow, are ye wnuking ?
Auld carle, your suit give o'er,
Your love lies a' in tanking.
Gi'e me a 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,
SCOTTISH SONGS.
47
And come of a right gentle kin,

I'm little mair 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
Affection, than your tongue, Sir.
In ancient times, an old man assuming the vivacity of
youth, and making love to the fair and the blooming,
was a prime subject for lyrical mirth ; and many a side
has been agreeably shaken by the wit and the humour
which such a circumstance excited. This is a matter
which seems to have afforded Allan Ramsay abundance
of amusement, and his poetry bears token in many
places that he thought such an unnatural scene as gray
age and blooming youth presented was worthy of satire.
But he has given to gold the eloquence which I am
afraid it will be often found to possess : the stories
of those who live in misery, but who dine in silver,
might fill a volume. Ramsay found a witty and inde
licate old ditty called " Widow, are ye wakin," and
48
SCOTTISH SONGS.
speculating on the idea which it gave, produced this

very lively and pleasant song. He calls it " The auld
Man's best Argument"a witty titlebut I have chosen
to abide by that which gives a name to the air.
THE BRAES OF YARROW.

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,
And let us leave the braes of Yarrow.
Where got ye that bonny bonny bride,
Where got ye that winsome marrow ?
I got her where I durst not well be seen,
Puing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.
Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride,
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow,
Nor let thy heart lament to leave
Puing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.
Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride ?
Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ?
And why dare ye nae mair well be seen
Piling the birks on the braes of Yarrow ?
SCOTTISH SONGS.
49
Long must she weep, Jang must she, must she weep,
Lang must she weep with dole and sorrow,
Aud lang must I nae mair well be seen,
Puing the bixks on the braes of Yarrow.
For she has tint her lover, lover dear,
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow ;
And I have slain the comeliest swain,
That ever 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 you melancholious weeds,
Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow ?
What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flood ?
What's yonder floats? O dole and sorrow !
...jO 'tis the comely swain I slew
Upon the doleful braes of Yarrow.
ii
Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,

His wounds in tears of dole and sorrow,
And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,
And lay him on the braes of Yarrow.
.fin-r-.{ :
Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow,
And weep around in woeful wise,
His helpless fate on the braes of Yarrow.
voL.
in.
-...
50
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield,

My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast,
His comely breast 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 mett'st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow.
Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the
grass,
Yellow on Yarrow's braes the gowan,
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.
Flows Yarrow sweet, as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,
As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,
As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
The apple from its rocks as mellow.
Fair was thy love, fair, fair indeed thy love,
In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter ;
Tho' he was fair, and well belov'd again,
Than me he never lov'd thee better.
Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, then busk, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed,
And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
51
How can I busk a bonny bonny bride,

How 'can I busk a winsome marrow,
How lo'e him on the banks of Tweed,
That slew my love on the braes of Yarrow ?
0 Yarrow field, may never, never rain,
No dew thy tender blossoms cover,
For there was basely kill'd 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 knew,
He was in these to meet his ruin.
The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed,
Unheedful of my dole and sorrow,
But ere the to-fall of the night,
He lay a corpse on the braes of Yarrow.
Much I rejoic'd that woful, woful day ;
1 sung, my voice the woods returning ;
But lang ere night the shaft 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 lover's blood is on thy hand ;
How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me ?
e2
SCOTTISH SONGS.
My happy sisters may be, may be proud,

With cruel and ungentle scoffing,
May bid me seek on Yarrow's braes
My lover nailed in his coffin.
My brother Douglas may, he may upbraid,
And strive with threat'ning words to move me ;
My lover's blood is on thy hand,
How canst thou ever bid me love thee ?
Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love,
With bridal sheets my body cover,
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,
Let in the expected husband-lover.
But who the expected husband, husband is ?
His hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughter.
Ah me ! what ghastly spectre's yon,
Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after ?
Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down,
O lay his cold head on my pillow ;
Take aff, take aff these bridal weeds,
And crown my careful head with willow.
Pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best belov'd,
O could my warmth to life restore thee ;
Yet lie all night between my breasts,
No youth lay ever there before thee.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
53
Pale, pale indeed, O lovely, lovely youth !

Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,
And lie all night between my breasts,
No youth shall ever lie there after.
Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride,
Return and dry thy useless sorrow,
Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs,
He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow.
Of this song Mr. Pinkerton says, " It is in very bad
taste, and quite unlike the ancient Scottish manner; even
inferior to the poorest of the old ballads with this title.
His repeated words and lines causing an eternal jingle
his confused narration and affected pathos throw this
piece . among the rubbish of poetry." I have ever ob
served, that when Pinkerton pauses a little, gathers him
self up, and utters a weighty and deliberate judgment,
he is sure to make a mistake. In matters of poetic taste,
trust only his hurried glance or his hasty allusion,
when he thinks seriously, he thinks wrong. It is one of
the very sweetest and tenderest productions of the Muse.
Among the admirers of the " Braes of Yarrow," let
me mention Wordsworth, who in all that relates to taste
and genius is well worth as many Pinkertons as could
stand between Rydal-mount and Yarrow. He calls it
the exquisite ballad of Hamilton; and in his Yarrow
Unvisited and Yarrow Visitedpoems that would im
mortalise any streamhis allusions to the song are fre
quent and flattering. He had a vision of his ownan
54
SCOTTISH SONGS.
image nobler and lovelier which the song had created in

his fancyhe saw the stream and said
And is this Yarrow ? This the stream
Of which my fancy cherish'd
So faithfully a waking dream ?
An image that hath perish'd !
O ! that some minstrel harp were near
To utter notes of gladness,
And chase this silence from the air
That fills my heart with sadness.
MY PEGGY IS A YOUNG THING.

My Peggy 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 not very auld,
Yet well I like to meet her at
The wauking of the fauld.
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
Whene'er we meet alane,
I wish nae mair to lay my care,
I wish nae mair of a' that's rare.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
55
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,

To a' the lave I'm cauld ;
But she gars a' my spirits glow
At wauking of 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 blyth and bauld,
And naething gi'es me sic delight,
As wauking of the fauld.
My Peggy sings sae saftly,
When on my pipe I play ;
By a' the rest it is confess'd,
By a' the rest, that she sings best.
My Peggy sings sae saftly,
And in her sangs are tauld,
With innocence the wale of sense,
At wauking of the fauld.
The songs which Ramsay wrote for his " Gentle
Shepherd" are inferior to that fine pastoral ; instead
of adorning the text, they encumber it. They are, how
ever, so generally known, and so popular through the
aid of the drama, that a collection would be reckoned
incomplete without them. They echo, and echo faintly,
the preceding text ; and they have little of the readiness
56
SCOTTISH SONGS.
of language and alacrity of humour, and lyric grace of

composition, which distinguish many of Allan's songs.
" My Peggy is a young thing" is partly founded on an
old song which commences thus
Will ye ca' in by our town
As ye come frae the fauld.
If the wit and the humour of this ancient lyric were not
enclosed with grossness and indelicacy, as a thistle bloom
is beset with its prickles, it would be worthy of accepta
tion in any company.
THE YOUNG LAIRD AND EDINBURGH

KATY.
Now wat ye wha I met yestreen,
Coming down the street, my jo ?
My mistress in her tartan screen,
Fu' bonny, braw, and sweet, my jo.
My dear, quoth I, thanks to the night,
That never wish'd a lover ill,
Since ye're out of your mither's sight,
Let's take a wauk up to the hill.
O Katy, wiltu' gang wi' me,
And leave the dinsome town a while ?
SCOTTISH SONGS.
57
The blossom's sprouting frae the tree,

And a' the simmer's gaun to smile :
The mavis, nightingale, and lark,
The bleating lambs, and whistling hind,
In ilka dale, green, shaw, and park,
Will nourish health, and glad ye'r mind.
Soon as the clear goodman of day
Bends his morning-draught of dew,
We'll gae to some burn-side and play,
And gather flow'rs to busk ye'r brow ;
We'll pou the daisies on the green,
The lucken gowans frae the bog :
Between hands now and then we'll lean,
And sport upon the velvet fog.
There's up into a pleasant glen,
A wee piece frae my father's tow'r,
A canny, saft, and flow'ry den,
Which circling birks have form'd a bow'r :
Whene'er the sun grows high and warm,
We'll to the cauler shade remove,
There will I lock thee in mine arm,
And love and kiss, and kiss and love.
Allan Ramsay wrote this very clever and very natural
song, and printed it in his collection in 1724. It was
composed to take place of an old and licentious lyric of
the same name ; and it has been so successful, that its
impure predecessor has wholly disappeared. There was
58
SCOTTISH SONGS.
a fine free spirit of enjoyment about Ramsay, and his

verses exhibit a happy and pleasant mind. The prime
of his life, from twenty-five to five and forty, he devoted
to poetry : he began when observation came to the aid
of fancy, and he desisted when the gravity of years ad
monished him to turn to more solemn thoughts than
merry verse. With him life seems to have glided more
felicitously away than with many other poets he had
fortune and favour on his side, and had the good sense
to be content.
BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY.

O Bessy Bell and Mary Gray,
They are twa bonny lassies,
They bigg'd a bower on yon burn-brae,
And theek'd it o'er wi' rashes.
Fair Bessy Bell I loo'd yestreen,
And thought I ne'er could alter ;
But Mary Gray's twa pawky een,
They gar my fancy falter.
Now Bessy's hair's like a lint-tap ;
She smiles like a May morning,
When Phoebus starts frae Thetis' lap,
The hills with rays adorning :
SCOTTISH SONGS.
59
White is her neck, saft is her hand,

Her waist and feet's fu' genty ;
With ilka grace she can command ;
Her lips, O wow ! they're dainty.
And Mary's locks are like a craw,
Her een like diamonds' glances ;
She's aye sae clean, redd up, and braw,
She kills whene'er she dances :
Blyth as a kid, with wit at will,
She blooming, tight, and tall is ;
And guides her airs sae gracefu' still,
O Jove, she's like thy Pallas.
Dear Bessy Bell and Mary Gray,
Ye unco sair oppress us ;
Our fancies jee between you twa, .
Ye are sic bonny lasses :
Wae's me ! for baith I canna get,
To ane by law we're stented j
Then I'll draw cuts, and take my fate,
And be with ane contented.
The heroines of this song are not so much indebted
to Allan Ramsay for their celebrity as to the affecting
story which tradition associates with their names. Eliza
beth Bell was the daughter of a gentleman in Perth
shire, and Mary Gray was the daughter of Gray of
Lyndoch. They were intimate friends, and very witty
60
SCOTTISH SONGS.
and very beautiful. , When the plague visited Scotland

in 1666, they built a bower in a secluded and romantic
glen, near Lyndoch, and retiring to the spot, which is
yet called " Burnbrac," hoped to survive the contagion.
But they fell victims to their affections : they were
visited by a young gentleman, either as a friend or ad
mirer ; and the plague soon made them occupiers of the
same grave. As they were friends in life, so in death
they were not divided. The place where they lie buried
is enclosed ; and their grave is respected by all who
sympathise in their mournful story. Lyndoch, where
they lie, is the property of Thomas Graham, Lord
Lyndoch. Their fate was the subject of an old and
pathetic song, of which the following fragment only
remains :
O Bessie Bell and Mary Gray,
They were twa bonnie lasses,
They biggit a bower on yon burn brae,
And theekit it o'er wi' rashes :
They theekit o'er wi' rashes green,
They theekit it o'er wi' heather,
But the pest came frae the burrows town,
And slew them baith thegither.
They thought to lie in Methven kirk,
Amang their noble kin,
But they maun lie on Lyndoch brae,
To beak fornent the sun.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
61
O Bessie Bell and Mary Gray,

They were twa bonnie lasses,
They biggit a bower on yon burn-brae,
And theekit it o'er wi' rashes.
These fine verses were recited to me by Sir Walter
Scott.
DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE.

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 eye ;
Blyth 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 burn-side,
And Mary was the bonniest lass,
Just meet to be a bride :
Her cheeks were rosy, red, and white,
Her een were bonny blue ;
Her looks were like Aurora bright,
Her lips like dropping dew.
62
SCOTTISH SONGS.
As down the burn they took their way,
What tender tales they said !
His cheek to hers he aft did lay,
And with her bosom play'd ;
Till baith at length impatient grown
To be mair fully blest,
In yonder vale they lean'd them down ;
Love only saw the rest.
What pass'd, I guess, was harmless play,
And naething sure unmeet ;
For, ganging hame, I heard them say,
They lik'd a walk sae sweet ;
And that they aften shou'd return
Sic pleasure to renew.
Quoth Mary, love, I like the burn,
And ay shall follow you.
The air to which this song is written is at least an

hundred years old ; and it is probable that old words,
bearing the same name, accompanied the air. The
claim which Burns makes for the air, as the composition
of David Maigh, keeper of the blood-hounds to Riddell
of Tweeddale, has been doubted by Sir Walter Scott in
his review of the works of Burns : if the doubt is ex
pressed because of the antiquity of the air, the answer
is, that no era is assigned for the existence of this mu
sical borderer, and that his office was one of great an
tiquity, and has long since ceased. The heroine of the
song has been accused of indelicacy in pointing out a
SCOTTISH SONGS.
63
pleasant walk for her lover ; and the words which express
their happiness and their love have been called overwarm and indiscreet. Bnt no one has successfully mo
derated the warmth or lessened the indiscretion. It is
the composition of Cranford, and was printed in Ram
say's collection, and in every collection since, and so may
it continue.
THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MOOR.

The last time I came o'er the moor,
I left my love behind me.
Ye powers ! what pain 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.
Beneath the cooling shade we lay,
Gazing and chastly sporting ;
We kiss'd and promis'd time away,
Till night spread her black curtain.
I pitied all beneath the skies,
Ev'n kings when she was nigh me ;
In raptures I beheld her eyes,
Which could bnt ill deny me.
64
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Shou'd 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.
f ..
In all my soul there's not one place
To let a rival enter :
Since she excels in every grace,
In her my love shall center.
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 next time I go o'er the moor,
She shall a lover find me ;
And that my faith is firm and pure,
Tho' I left her behind me :
Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain
My heart to her fair bosom,
There, while my being does remain,
My love more fresh shall blossom.
: i.i
...i
AH
, ,, ,
i
Of this song Burns says, " The first lines of ' The
last time I came o'er the moor,' and several other lines
in it, are beautiful : but, in my opinionpardon me,
SCOTTISH SONGS.
65
revered shade of Ramsaythe song is unworthy of the

divine air. I shall try to make or mend." He after
wards said, " ' The last time I came o'er the moor' I
cannot meddle with as to mending it ; and the musical
world have been so long accustomed to Ramsay's words,
that a different song, though positively superior, would
not be so well received." And when a less gifted versi
fier altered the song, he interposed and observed, " I
cannot approve of taking such liberties with an author
as Mr. W. proposes. 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 the poor bard, whose tuneful
tongue is now mute for ever in the dark and narrow
houseby heaven, it would be sacrilege ! I grant that
Mr. W.'s version is an improvement ; but let him mend
the song as the highlander mended his gunhe gave it
a new stock, a new lock, and a new barrel."
I neither wholly agree with the censure which Burns
passes on the song, nor do I concur in the rule which he
lays down concerning the songs of others. He took
many liberties himself; and we owe to the aid or the
inspiration of old verses many of the most exquisite of
his own lyrics : he borrowed whole stanzas, and altered
others without acknowledgment or apology, and con
fesses to a friend, that " The songs marked ' Z' in the
Museum I have given to the world as old verses to their
respective tunes; but in fact, of a good many of them,
little more than the chorus is ancientthough there
is no reason for telling any body this piece of intelli
gence." In a letter to Lord Woodhouselce, inclosing a
VOL. III.
66
SCOTTISH SONGS.
few reliques of west country song, he says" I had once

a great many of these fragments, and some of these here
entire ; but as I had no idea that any body cared for
them, I have forgotten them. I invariably hold it a
sacrilege to add any thing of my own to help out with
the shattered wrecks of these venerable old compositions ;
but they have many various readings."
THE LASS OF PA TIE'S MILL.

The lass of Patie's mill,
Sae bonnie, blithe, and gay,
In spite of all my skill,
She stole my heart away.
When tedding out the hay,
Bareheaded on the green,
Love 'midst her locks did play,
And wanton'd in her een.
Her arms white, round, and smooth ;
Breasts rising in their dawn ;
To age it would give youth,
To press them with his han'.
Through all my spirits ran
An ecstacy of bliss,
When I such sweetness fand
Wrapt in a balmy kiss.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
67
Without the help of art,

Like flow'rs which grace the wild,
Her sweets she did impart,
Whene'er she spoke or smil'd :
Her looks they were so mild,
Free from affected pride,
She me to love beguil'd ;
1 wish'd her for my bride.
O ! had I a' the wealth
Hopetoun's high mountains fill,
Insur'd long life and health,
And pleasure at my will ;
I'd promise, and fulfil,
That none but bonnie she,
The lass of Patio's mill,
Should share the same with me.
There is perhaps less originality in song than in any
other kind of composition. Many of the most beautiful
of our modern lyrics we owe rather to an ancient than
a modern impulse. Allan Ramsay's " Lass of Patie's
mill" is the renovation of an older song ; but how much
of the beauty of the new we owe to the charms of the
old, I have not heard. Sir William Cunningham, of
Robert land, informed Burns on the authority of the
Earl of Loudon, that Ramsay was struck with the ap
pearance of a beautiful country girl, at a place called
Patie's Mill, near New-mills; and under the influence
of her charms composed this song, which he recited at
f2
68
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Loudon Castle. The omission of the second verse was

proposed by Mr. Thomson, and in a moment of unex
ampled fastidiousness, sanctioned by Burns. I have
restored the verse, which, though free and glowing,
bears the character and impress of that age ; and the
removal of it picks the heart and soul out of the song.
JOHN HAY'S BONNY LASSIE.

By smooth winding Tay a swain was reclining,
Aft cry'd he, Oh hey ! maun I still live pining
Mysel thus away, and daurna discover
To my bonny Hay that I am her lover !
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,
Maybe, 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 swaird of the mead, enamell'd wi' daisies,
Looks wither'd and dead when twinn'd of her graces.
But if she appear where verdure invites her,
The fountains run clear, and flowers smell the sweeter ;
'Tis heaven to be by when her wit is a- flowing,
Her smiles and bright eye set my spirits a-glowing.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
69
The mair that I gaze, the deeper I'm wounded,

Struck dumb wi' amaze, my mind is confounded ;
I'm a' in a fire, dear maid, to caress ye,
For a' my desire is Hay's bonnie lassie.
An old and a very beautiful song once existed in
Xithsdale, which was sung to the air of this lyric : I
only heard it once ; I was then very young, and it has
escaped wholly from my memory, except a single line,
with which I think the first and last verses concluded
There's nane o' them a' like my bonnie lassie.
The story of the song was also the same ; and I have an
impression that the whole or part of it was older than
Ramsay's days. Burns had heard that John Hay's
Bonnie Lassie was daughter of the Earl or Marquis of
Tweeddale, and Countess of Roxburgh, who died some
time between the years 1 720 and 1740. If the song
was Ramsay's, and it has been generally attributed to
him, and frequently printed with his name, it must
have been an early production, for the lady, if Burns is
right, was too ripe for the freshness of Aurora when he
printed his Miscellany. But we cannot depend upon
traditional accuracy in such matters ; and it may have
happened that the song was inspired by a much less
lordly personage than an earl's daughter and an earl's
wife.
70
SCOTTISH SONGS.
GIN YE MEET A BONNIE LASSIE.

Gin ye meet a bonnie lassie,
Gi'e her a kiss and let her gae ;
But if ye meet a dorty hizzie,
Fy gar rub her o'er wi' strae.
Be sure ye dinna quat the grip
Of ilka joy when ye are young,
Before auld age your vitals nip,
And lay you twafald o'er a rung.
Sweet youth's a blythe and heartsome time ;
Then, lads and lasses, while 'tis May
Gae pu' the gowan in its prime,
Before it wither and decay.
Watch the saft minutes of delyte,
When Jenny speaks beneath her breath,
And kisses, laying a' the wyte
On you, if she kepp ony skaith.
Haith ye're ill-bred, she'll smiling say,
Ye'll worry me, ye greedy rook !
Syne frae your arms she'll rin away,
And hide hersel' in some dark nook.
Her laugh will lead you to the place
Where lies the happiness ye want,
And plainly tell you to your face,
Nineteen nae-says are half a grant.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
71
Now to her heaving bosom cling,

And sweetly toolie for a kiss :
Frae her fair finger whup a ring
As taiken of a future bliss.
These bennisons, I'm very sure,
Are a' o' heaven's indulgent grant ;
Then surly carles whisht, forbear
To plague us wi' your whining cant.
The poem out of which this song has been extracted,
is described by Lord Woodhouselee as one of the most
fortunate efforts of the genius of Allan Ramsay. It is a
Scottish version of part of the ninth ode of Horace, but
I have heard that the native ease surpasses far the scho
lastic fidelity. It unites great lyric beauty with a vi
vacity and a graphic accuracy of painting, which ter
minate only with the composition. Few hearts could
refrain from dilating on a winter day, at the prospect of
personal comfort and social pleasure which the poet
prepares:
Then fling on coals, and rype the ribs,
And beak the house baith butt and ben ;
That mutchkin stoup it hands but dribs,
Then let's get in the tappit hen.
The first four lines are old, and their spirit has not been
conducted very gently into the body of the song. We
see at once that they fail to mingle with the rest in that
harmonious manner which a song struck off at a heat
will always do. After hearing the starting lines sung,
we expect a different strain to follow.
72
SCOTTISH SONUS.
GENTY TIBBY AND SONSY NELLY.

Tibby has a store o' charms,
Her genty shape our fancy warms ;
How strangely can her sma' white arms
Fetter the lad who looks but at her !
Fra 'er ancle to her slender waist,
These sweets conceal'd invite to daute her ;
Her rosy cheek, and rising breast,
Gar ane's mouth gush bout fu' o' water.
Nelly's gawsy, saft, and gay,
Fresh as the lucken flowers in May ;
Ilk ane that sees her cries, Ah hey,
She's bonny ! O I wonder at her !
The dimples of her chin and cheek,
And limbs sae plump invite to daute her ;
Her lips sae sweet, and skin sae sleek,
Gar mony mouths beside mine water.
Now strike my finger in a bore,
My wyson with the Maiden shore,
Gin I can tell whilk I am for
When these twa stars appear thegither :
O love ! why dost thou gi'e thy fires
Sae large, while we're oblig'd to nither
Our spacious sauls' immense desires,
And ay be in a hankerin swither ?
SCOTTISH SONGS.
73
Tihby's shape and airs are fine,

And Nelly's beauties are divine :
Bat since they canna baith be mine,
Ye gods, give ear to my petition ;
Provide a good lad for the tane,
But let it be with this provision,
I get the other to my lane,
In prospect piano and fruition.
When Allan Ramsay wrote this song, he ought in
prudence to have read to his Muse the obligation under
which he had laid her in his preface, of being remark
ably staid and sedate. She is indeed " a leaper and a
dancer," but she leaps as high as an opera girl here, and
seems equally unconscious of offending the devout eyes
of those for whose pleasure she is moving. With all its
failings this is a lively buoyant song : the indecision
of the lover, and the hankering swither in which two
beauties keep him, is well imagined. One of the lines
requires illustration.
My wyson with the maiden shore.
That isthough you threaten to behead him with the
Earl of Morton's engine of death, the Maiden, he should
not be able to tell which of them he would take. The
preceding line probably alludes to those noted instruments
of torture, the " thumbikins ;" of which King William
said, when they were applied to his royal thumbs,
" They would make me confess any thing !"
74
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE COLLIER'S BONNY LASSIE.

The collier has a daughter,
And O she's wondrous bonny ;
A laird he was that sought her,
Rich baith in lands and money :
The tutors watch'd the motion
Of this young honest lover ;
But love is like the ocean
Wha can its depth 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 bonny lassie,
Fair as the new-blown lily,
Aye sweet, and never saucy,
Secur'd the heart of Willie.
He lov'd 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 ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
75
In safteat flames dissolving,

He tenderly thus tell'd her :
My bonnie collier's daughter,
Let naething discompose ye,
'Tis no your scanty tocher
Shall ever gar me lose ye :
For I have gear in plenty,
And love says, 'tis my duty
To ware what heaven has lent me,
Upon your wit and beauty.
The Collier's Bonnie Lassie was a girl of some nai
vete ; but though Allan Ramsay has given us a good
song, I am not sure that his verses have that kind of
fresh original hue which belongs to the old : .
The Collier has a daughter,
She's black, but O she's bonnie ;
A laird he was that loved her,
Rich both in lands and money.
I'm o'er young to wed the laird,
And o'er black to be a lady ;
But I will hae a collier lad,
The colour o' my daddie.
I vow she's wond'rous pretty ;
She's blackbut O, she's witty !
76
SCOTTISH SONGS.
He shawed her gowd in gowpins,
And she answered him fu' ready ;
The lad I love works under ground,
The colour o' my daddie.
Such is the song which I have heard sung as the old

words.
AH THE POOR SHEPHERD'S MOURNFUL

FATE.
Ah the poor shepherd's mournful fate,
When doom'd to love, and doom'd to languish,
To bear the scornful fair one's hate,
Nor dare disclose his anguish !
Yet eager looks, and dying sighs,
My secret soul discover ;
While rapture, trembling through mine eyes,
Reveals how much I love her.
The tender glance, the reddening cheek,
O'erspread with rising blushes,
A thousand various ways they speak
A thousand various wishes.
For, oh ! that form so heavenly fair,
Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling,
That artless blush, and modest air,
So fatally beguiling !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Thy every look, and every grace,
So charm whene'er I view thee,
Till death o'ertake me in the chase
Still will my hopes pursue thee :
Then when my tedious hours are past,
Be this last blessing given,
Low at thy feet to breathe my last,
And die in sight of heaven.
77
This is one of the most elegant and beautiful songs

in the language. It was written by Hamilton of Bangour ; but so little has its charms been felt in England,
that Dr. Johnson would not allow it to be poetry, be
cause "blushes" and " wishes" were not corresponding
rhymes, and Dr. Aikin published it as the production
of an Englishman, without knowing the author. Burns
says, the old name was " Sour plums of Galloshiels,"
and that the piper of the laird of Galloshiels composed
the air about the year 1700. The old words have been
entirely silenced by this fine song ; and with regard to
the piper's claim upon the air, I have not observed that
Hamilton, in his poem of the Fair Maid of Galloshiels,
mentions the genius of the piper for original composi
tion. I have, it is true, only seen a portion of the
poem, which records a contest between a fiddler and a
piper for the maid of Galloshiels, of which the lady her
self, with a manifest violation of equity, is made sole
judge. The description of the bagpipe made by Glenderule is exquisite, and in the true Homeric style, where
all is painted for the eye.
78
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR.

Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain,
I'll tell bow Peggy grieves me ;
Tho' thus I languish, thus complain,
Alas ! she ne'er believes me.
My vows and sighs, like silent air,
Unheeded never move her ;
At the bonny bush aboon Traquair,
'Twas there I first did love her.
That day she smiled, and made 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 amorous 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 flees the plain,
The fields we then frequented ;
If e'er we meet, she shows disdain,
She looks as ne'er acquainted.
The bonny bush bloom'd fair in May,
Its sweets I'll ay remember ;
But now her frowns make it decay,
It fades as in December.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
79
Ye rural powers, 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,
111 leave the bush aboon Traquair,
To lonely wilds I'll wander.
This song is supposed to have supplied the place of
an ancient one with the same name, of which no reliques
remain. Burns visited the Bush in the year 1787, when
he made a pilgrimage to various places celebrated in story
and in song, and found it composed of eight or nine
ragged birches. The Bush grows on a rising ground
overlooking the old mansion of Traquair and the stream
of Tweed. It has lately paid a heavy tax to human
curiosity, and has supplied nobles, and I have heard
princes, with "specimens" in the shape of snuff-boxes and
other toys. The Earl of Traquair, in anticipation per
haps of this rage for reliques, planted what he called
" The New Bush," but it remains unconsecrated in song,
and can never inherit the fame or share in the honours
of the old. The song is by Crawford.
80
SCOTTISH SONGS.
TWEEDSIDE.
What beauties does Flora disclose !
How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed !
Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those,
Both nature and fancy exceed.
Nor 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 folks sing.
,. .' in : ', yum
How does my love pass the long day -?
'''
.!..*'
Does Mary not tend a few sheep ?

Do they never carelessly stray,
f '
While happily she lies asleep ?
Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest ;'
Kind nature indulging my bliss,
To relieve the soft pains of my breast,
I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
81
Tis she does the virgins excel,

No beauty with her may compare ;
Love's graces all round her do dwell,
She's fairest, where thousands are fair.
Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray ?
Oh ! tell me at noon where they feed ?
Shall I seek them on sweet winding Tay,
Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed ?
Tweed-aide is a song overflowing with gentleness and
beauty : but all who are lovers of nature and simplicity
wish Flora resolved into the influence which awakens
the flowers, or into any other blameless figure of speech.
Burns praises it for its pastoral sweetness and truth, and
ays the heroine was Mary Stuart, of the Castlemilk
family. Family vanity is gratified with the story that
one of its number had charms capable of inspiring a song
so beautiful ; and where we have no surer guide to truth
than vanity, we must be content to be no wiser than
common fame will allow us. Burns, in saying what he has
said, adhered to tradition. The honour of inspiring the
song has also been claimed for Mary Scott, the beautiful
daughter of Scott of Harden, by one who seldom errs :
yet a Dumfriesshire tradition is as good as one of Sel
kirkshire, and I must own that I feel disposed to ascribe
it to the influence of the lady of my native countyIt
is one of Crawford's best songs.
VOL. III.
82
SCOTTISH SONGS.
BONNIE CHIRSTY.
How sweetly smells the simmer green !
Sweet taste the peach and cherry : '
Painting and order please our e'en,
And claret makes us merry :
But finest colours, fruits and flowers,
And wine, though I be thirsty,
Lose a' their charms, and weaker powers,
Compar'd with those of Chirsty.
When wandering o'er the flowery park,
No natural beauty wanting,
How lightsome 'tis to hear the. lark,
And birds in concert chanting !
But if my Chirsty tunes her voice,
I'm rapt in admiration ;
My thoughts with ecstasies rejoice,
And drap the hale 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 of my ain desert,
My sentiments I smother ;
With secret sighs I vex my heart,
For fear she love another.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
88
Thus sang blate Edie by a burn,

His Chirsty did o'erhear him ;
She doughtna let her lover mourn,
But ere he wist drew near him.
She spake her favour by a look,
Which left nae room to doubt her :
He wisely this white minute took,
And flang his arms about her.
My Chirsty !
witness, bonnie stream,
Sic joy frae tears arising !
I wish this may na be a dream
O love the most surprising !
Time was too precious now for tauk ;
This point of a' his wishes
He wadna wi' set speeches bauk,
But wared it a' on kisses.
Ramsay certainly thought very favourably of this song
when he placed it foremost in his collection ; and though
be has written some more fortunate songs, I think its
beauty and truth justify his choice. It appears, from
the Orpheus Caledonius, that old words once existed
for the air to which this song is sung, and with the same
name which Ramsay has retained. These words are
irrecoverably lost, and we are unable to learn how much
of the new song we may owe to the inspiration of the
oli This circumstance certainly casts some doubt on
the tradition, which says the heroine of this song was
Christina, daughter of Dundas of Arniston.
o2
84
SCOTTISH SONGS.
WILLIAM AND MARGARET.

When all was wrapt in dark midnight,
And all were fast asleep,
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.
Her face was like an April morn
Clad in a wintry cloud ;
And clay-cold was her lily hand
That held her sable shroud.
So shall the fairest face appear
When youth and years are flown ;
Such is the robe that kings must wear
When death has reft their crown.
Her bloom was like the springing flow'r
That sips the silver dew ;
The rose was budded in her cheek,
Just op'ning to the view.
But love had, like the canker-worm,
Consum'd her early prime :
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek ;
She died before her timeAwake !she criedy thy true-love calls,
Come from her midnight grave ;
Now let thy pity hear the maid
Thy love refused to save.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
This is the dumb and dreary hour
When injured ghosts complain,
And yawning graves give up their dead,
To haunt the faithless swain.
Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
Thy pledge and broken oath ;
And give me back my maiden vow,
And give me back my troth.
Why did you promise love to me,
And not that promise keep ?
Why said you that my eyes were bright,
Yet leave those eyes to weep ?
How could you say my face was fair,
And yet that face forsake ?
How could you win my virgin-heart,
Yet leave that heart to break ?
How could you swear my lip was sweet,
And made the scarlet pale ?
And why did I, young witless maid,
Believe the flatt'ring tale ?
That face, alas ! no more is fair,
These lips no longer red ;
Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death,
And cv'ry charm is fled.
The hungry worm my sister is ;
This winding-sheet I wear :
85
86
SCOTTISH SONGS.
And cold and weary lasts our night,
Till that last morn appear.
But hark !the cock has warn'd me hence ;
A long and late adieu !
Come see, false man, how low she lies
That died for love of you.
The lark sung out, the morning smiled,
With beams of rosy red ;
Pale William quaked in ev'ry limb,
And, raving, left his bed.
He hied him to the fatal place
Where Margaret's body lay,
And stretch'd him on the green grass turf
That wrapt her breathless clay.
And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name,
And thrice he wept full sore :
Then laid his cheek on her cold grave,
And word spoke never more.
There is little doubt that Mallet saw more of the an

cient ballad of Fair Margaret and Sweet William than
he was willing to admit; and that he imitated the
story of Sweet William's Ghost in this exquisite ballad.
The resemblance is far too close to be accidental ; yet he
acknowledges acquaintance only with the following six
lines woven into the drama of the Knight of the Burning
Pestle:
SCOTTISH SONGS.
87
You are no love for me, Margaret,

I am no love for you.
When it was grown to dark midnight,
And all were fast asleep,
In came Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.
" These lines," says Mallet, " naked of ornament and
simple as they are, struck my fancy ; and bringing fresh
into my mind an unhappy adventure much talked of
formerly, gave birth to the following poem, which was
written many years ago." Several attempts have been
made to alter and improve this exquisite production, but
the superior beauty and simplicity of the original copy
secure it against all corruption.
WHY HANGS THAT CLOUD?

Why hangs that cloud upon thy brow,
That beauteous heav'n, erewhile serene ?
Whence do these storms and tempests flow,
What may this gust of passion mean ?
And must then mankind lose that light
Which in thine eyes was wont to shine,
And lie obscure in endless night,
Far each poor silly speech of mineklt
Dear maid, how can I wrong thy name,
Since 'tis acknowledged, at all hands,
88
SCOTTISH SONGS.
That could ill tongues abuse thy fame,
Thy beauty can make large amends ;
Or if I durst profanely try
Thy beauty's pow'rful charms t' upbraid,
Thy virtue well might give the lie,
Nor call thy beauty to its aid.
For Venus, every heart t* ensnare,

With all her charms has deck'd thy face,
And Pallas, with unusual care,
Bids wisdom heighten every grace. ^
Who can the double pain endure ?
Or who must not resign the field
To thee, celestial maid, secure
With Cupid's bow, and Pallas' shield ?
. . >\
.
If then to thee such pow'r is given,
Let not a wretch in torment live,
But smile, and learn to copy Heaven,
Since we must sin ere it forgive.
Yet pitying Heaven not only does
Forgive th' offender and th' offence,
But even itself appeas'd bestows,
As the reward of penitence.
None of our early lyric poets pays such graceful and
elegant compliments to the ladies as the author of this
song, Hamilton of Bangour. The last verse has been
often imitated, and often plundered. Mrs. S. H. was a
fortunate lady in taking offence at something which the
poet had said to her, since it was atoned for by such a
8tX)TTISH SONGS.
89
beautiful and courtly apology. Tradition has neglected

to tell us her name, but it is likely she was a Hamilton.
I see by the copy which Allan Ramsay published, that
the words were written for an old air which bore the
name of a song, long since lost, called " Halloween." It
is in this way that we are made acquainted with the
names of many of our ancient lyrics.
AS SYLVIA IN A FOREST LAY.

As Sylvia in a forest lay,
To vent her woe alone ;
Her swain Sylvander came that way,
And heard her dying moan :
Ah ! is my love, she said, to you
So worthless and so vain ?
Why is your wonted fondness now
Converted to disdain ?
You vow'd the light should darkness turn,
Ere you'd forget your love ;
In shades now may creation mourn,
Since you unfaithful prove.
Was it for this I credit gave
To ev'ry oath you swore ?
But ah ! it seems they most deceive
Who most our charms adore.
. 1 - -i .
90
SCOTTISH SONGS.
"Tis plain your drift was all deceit,
The practice of mankind :
Alas ! I see it, but too late,
My love had made me blind.
For yon, delighted I could die :
But oh ! with grief I'm fill'd,
To think that credulous, constant, I
Should by yourself be kill'd.
This saidall breathless, sick, and pale,
Her head upon her hand,
She found her vital spirits fail,
And senses at a stand.
Sylvander then began to melt :
But ere the word was given,
The heavy hand of death she felt,
And sigh'd her soul to heaven.
These verses are by David Mallet, and are copied

from Ramsay's collection. They have never been very
popular, though Oswald assisted them with his music :
indeed the peasantry, to whose fondness for song we owe
many of our most admired compositions, would hesitate
to share their sympathy with Sylvia and Sylvander.
Something of the author of William and Margaret may
be observed in the second verse; but no other part
equals the delicacy and pathos of that popular com
position. Allan Ramsay printed them to the tune of
Pinky House, or Rothes's Lament.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
91
WERE NA MY HEART LIGHT I WAD DIE.

There was ance a May, and she lo'ed nae men,
She biggit her bonnie bower down in yon glen ;
But now she cries dool and weel-a-day,
Come down the green gate, and come here away.
When bonnie young Johnie came over the sea,
He vow'd he saw naething sae lovely as me ;
He gae me gowd rings, and mony braw things
And were na my heart light I wad die.
His wee wilfu' tittie she loved na me ;
I was taller, and twice as bonnie as she ;
She raised sic a pother 'tween him and his mother,
That were na my heart light I wad die.
The day it was set for the bridal to be,
The wife took a dwam and lay down to die ;
She main'd and she grain'd, wi' ftuse dolour and pain,
Till he vow'd that he never would see me again.
His lrindred sought ane of a higher degree
Said, Wad he wed ane that was landless, like me ?
Albeit I was bonnie, I was nae worth Johnie
They said I had neither a cow nor calf,
Nor dribbles o' drink coming through the draff,
92
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Nor pickles o' meal running frac the mill ee

My lover he met me ance on the lea,
His tittie was wi' him, and hame ran she ;
His mithcr came out wi' a shriek and a shout
His bonnet stood then fu' fair on his brow
His auld ane look'd better than mony ane's new ;
But now he lets 't wear ony way it will hing,
And casts himself dowie upon the corn bing.
And now he gaes daunering about the dykes,
And a' he dow do is to hound the tykes ;
The live-lang night he ne'er stecks his ce
O were we young now as we ance hae been,
We should hae been galloping down on yon green,
And linking it o'er the lily-white lea
To Lady Grissell Baillie, daughter of the Earl of
Marchmont, we owe this popular song ; but I have never
heard from what impulse, whether of truth or specu
lation, we obtained it. It is very original, very cha
racteristic, and very unequal. I imagine the title is old,
but I have never seen any verses which seemed to cor
respond with the sentiment. It was printed in Allan
SCOTTISH SONGS.
98
Ramsay's collection, and from the place which it ob

tained, I conclude that Allan was more than half ad
vanced with his work before he received it. There is a
curious mixture of naivete and simplicity, of smartness
of remark and lively painting, from beginning to end of
the song. Public attention has lately been called to the
conduct of this admirable lady by the publication of her
family historyshe shines as a wife and a daughter,
as well as a poetess.
. 3 ' 'i . ..T ...*.
'S
. , .
. .. . !,-... -;l
MYRA.
O thou, whose tender serious eyes
Expressive speak the mind I love ;
The gentle azure of the skies,
The pensive shadows of the grove :
O, mix their bounteous beams with mine,
I
And let us interchange our hearts ;
Let all their sweetness on me shine,
Pour'd through my soul be all their darts t ' ''^
Ah ! 'tis too much, I cannot bear
At once so soft, so keen a ray ;
In pity, then, my lovely fair,
. O turn those killing eyes away !
I ,(( But what avails it to conceal
,
. One charm, where nought but charms I see !
.Their lustre then again reveal,
And let me, Myra, die of thee.
94
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Thomson, with a prudence which few of the children

of the Muse regard, was ever looking forward to some
sunny moment when Fortune would equal his merit
hy her bounty. In his songs he protects himself from
the immediate consequences of unguarded expressions,
by complaining of her injustice :
'Tis mine, alas ! to mourn my wretched fate,
I love a maid who all my bosom charms,
Yet lose my days without this lovely mate,
Inhuman Fortune keeps her from mine arms.
His love was of a gentle and considerate kind. He
never was so much enraptured as to forget he was poor.
Myra's beauty excelled her good name.
NOW PHCEBUS ADVANCES ON HIGH.

Now Phoebus advances on high,
Nae footsteps of winter are seen,
The birds carol sweet in the sky,
And lambkins dance reels on the green.
Through plantings, and burnies sae clear,
We wander for pleasure and health,
Where buddings and blossoms appear,
With prospects of joy and of wealth.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
95
Go view the gay scenes all around,

That are, and that promise to be ;
Yet in them a' naething is found
Sae perfect, Eliza, as thee.
Thy een the clear fountains excel,
Thy locks they outrival the grove ;
When zephyrs thus pleasingly swell,
Ilk wave makes a captive to love.
The roses and lilies combin'd,
And flowers of maist delicate hue,
By thy cheek and dear breasts are outshin'd,
Their tinctures are naething sae true.
What can we compare with thy voice,
And what with thy humour sae sweet ?
Nae music can bless with sic joys ;
Sure angels are just sae complete.
. Fair blossom of ilka delight,
Whose beauties ten thousand outshine:
Thy sweet shall be lasting and bright,
Being mix'd with sae many divine.
Ye powers, who have given sic charms
To Eliza, your image below,
O save her frae all human harms !
And make her hours happily flow.
Ramsay wrote this song to the old air of " Sae merry
as we twa hae been ;" and if we may believe in the an
tiquity of the chorus, elsewhere printed in this work,
96
SCOTTISH SONGS.
there can be no doubt that he departed very far from the

peculiar character of the ancient song. Allan was a man
of such a joyous temperament, that he sometimes saw joy
where others might see sorrow ; and he certainly shared
very moderately in that humour for weeping which has
shed so much water through our modern compositions.
To those who can feel a sad as well as a pleasant spirit
in this air, the two songs may be acceptable. Ramsay's
will teach us to enjoy what the other will teach us to
despise.
O'ER THE MUIR TO MAGGY.

And I'll o'er the muir to Maggy,
Her wit and sweetness call me ;
Then to my fair I'll show my mind,
Whatever may befal me :
If she love 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 sheath my limbs in armour ;
If to the softer dance inclin'd,
With gayest airs I'll charm her :
SCOTTISH SONGS.
97
If she love grandeur, day and night

I'll plot my nation's glory,
... Find favour in my prince's sight,
And shine in future story.
jj-
Beauty can wonders work with ease,

Where wit is corresponding,
And bravest men know best to please,
With complaisance abounding.
My bonny Maggy's love can turn
Me to what shape she pleases,
If in her breast that flame shall burn,
Which in my bosom bleezes.
This is a pleasing effusion of Allan Ramsay's Muse,
and has been composed in one of her happiest moods.
The unwearied affection of the lover is free from whining
sentiment and quaint conceit. Much older verses than
these were once popular, and bore the same name ; but
they were less delicate than witty, and have been
deservedly forgotten. Ramsay's song is a favourite
few ladies hearts could withstand a lover of such gifts
and endowmentswho gratified their pride by his per
sonal homage, and their vanity by romantic promises
which could not well be fulfilled.
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98
SCOTTISH SONGS.
ON MRS. A. H. AT A CONCERT.
Look where my dear Hamilla smiles,
Hamilla ! heavenly charmer ;
See how with all their arts and wiles
The Loves and Graces arm her.
A blush dwells glowing on her cheeks,
Fair seats of youthful pleasures ;
There love in smiling language speaks,
There spreads his rosy treasures.
O fairest maid, I own thy pow'r,
I gaze, I sigh, and languish,
Yet ever, ever will adore,
And triumph in my anguish.
But ease, O charmer, ease my care,
And let my torments move thee ;
As thou art fairest of the fair,
So I the dearest love thee.
This is the second song which Crawford wrote for
Ramsay's collection : the heroine was a Miss Ann Ha
milton. It is directed to be sung to the tune of " The
bonniest lass in a' the warld," the name of an ancient
song as well as an old air : and as Ramsay and his
" ingenious young gentlemen" have been repeatedly ac
cused of casting away fine antique lyrics to make room
SCOTTISH SONGS.
99
for their own effusions, I am compelled to quote as much

of the old as may vindicate the propriety of the new :
The bonniest lass in a' the warld,
Came to me unsent for,
She brake her shins on my bed-stock,
But she gat the thing she cam' for.
The song proceeds to describe the charms and allure
ments of this condescending beauty : but the rustic bard
had not the spell of delicacy upon him, nor the fear of
in before him, when he wrote it, so I can quote no
more.
AT SETTING DAY.
At setting day and rising morn,
With soul that still shall love thee,
I'll ask of heaven thy safe return,
With all that can improve thee.
I'll visit oft the birken bush,
Where first thou kindly told me
Sweet tales of love, and hid my blush,
Whilst round thou didst infold me.
To all our haunts I will repair,
By greenwood shaw or fountain ;
h 2
100
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Or where the summer-day I'd share
With thee upon yon mountain.
There will I tell the trees and flowers,
From thoughts unfeign'd and tender,
By vows you're mine, by love is yours
A heart which cannot wander.
This very sweet song is sung by Peggy, in the " Gen

tle Shepherd ;" and the natural thoughts and graceful
expression correspond well with the love of " Maister
Patrick." It is in the songs which come from Peggy's
lips that Ramsay approaches nearest his other lyrics.
There is a similar feeling in the following lines from
the same pen :
Ye meadows where we often strayed,
Ye banks where we were wont to wander,
Sweet scented ricks round which we played,
You'll lose your sweets when we're asunder.
AgainOh ! shall I never creep
Around the knowe with silent duty,
Kindly to watch thee while asleep,
And wonder at thy manly beauty.
I like the delicacy and true love of these lines and true
love is not very plentiful in song. In the same na
tural spirit the maiden reminds her heart of its earlier
feelings :
Nae mair alake, we'll on the meadow play ;
And rin half breathless round the ricks of hay.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
STREPHON'S PICTURE.
Ye gods ! was Strephon's picture blest
With the fair heaven of Chloe's breast ?
More softer, thou fond flutt'ring heart,
Oh, gently throbtoo fierce thou art.
Tell me, thou brightest of thy kind,
For Strephon was the bliss design'd ?
For Strephon's sake, dear charming maid,
Didst thou prefer his wand'ring shade ?
And thou, bless'd shade, that sweetly art
Lodged so near my Chloe's heart,
For me the tender hour improve,
And softly tell how dear I love.
Ungrateful thing ! it scorns to hear
Its wretched master's ardent pray'r,
Ingrossing all that beauteous heav'n,
That Chloe, lavish maid, has given.
I cannot blame thee : were I lord
Of all the wealth those breasts afford,
I'd be a miser too, nor give
An alms to keep a god alive.
Oh smile not thus, my lovely fair,
On these cold looks, that lifeless are ;
Prize him whose bosom glows with fire,
With eager love and soft desire.
101
102
SCOTTISH SONGS.
'Tis true thy charms, O powerful maid !
To life can bring the silent shade :
Thou canst surpass the painter's art,
And real warmth and flames impart.
But oh ! it ne'er can love like me,
I've ever loved, and loved but thee:
Then, charmer, grant my fond request,
Say thou canst love, and make me blest.
This is another of the happy complimentary lyrics of

Hamilton of Bangour : it contains a passionate burst of
fancy such as he has seldom equalled, for he is in general
neat, and elegant, and tender, rather than impassioned :
I cannot blame thee : were I lord
Of all the wealth those breasts afford,
I'd be a miser too, nor give
An alms to keep a god alive.
It was the pastoral affectation of the times to indulge
in such names as Chloe and Strephon names which
hurt the charm of the finest lyric composition; for we
cannot well persuade ourselves that such personages
were ever endowed with flesh and blood. The song was
written to the tune of the " Fourteenth of October,'*
the day of St. Crispin, in whose honour, or derision, a
lyric bearing that name anciently existed. Chloe was
probably Jeanie Stewart, of whose rigour he complains
to Mr. Home, and complains unjustly, since the lady
was willing and ready to reward him.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
WHEN SUMMER COMES.

When summer comes, the swains on Tweed
Sing their successful loves ;
Around the ewes and lambkins feed,
And music fills the groves.
But my loved song is then the broom
So fair on Cowden-knowes ;
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
Se fair on Cowden-knowes ;
For sure, so fresh, so bright a bloom
Elsewhere there never grows.
103
104
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Not Tiviot braes, so green and gay,
May with this broom compare ;
Not Yarrow banks in flow'ry May,
Nor the bush aboon Traquair.
More pleasing far are Cowden-knowes,
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 or Tiviot flows,
Convey me to the best of swains,
And my loved Cowden-knowes.
William Crawford wrote this song to the favourite air

of Cowden-knowes, and though not one of his sweetest
productions, he has graced his verse by introducing, in a
very natural and pleasing way, the names of various
places famous in story and song. The far-famed Cowdenknowes (if I may seek an earthly habitation for a place
which seems to have an aerial locality, and to move at the
will of the poet like the island of Laputa) are said to be
near Melrose, on the river Leader. The old song, which
celebrates Leader haughs and Yarrow as the residence of
the Homes and Scotts, dwells on the loveliness of the
place. I can prophesy that, for many a century, pil
grimages will be made to that neighbourhood; and that
all the celebrity which ancient song has conferred will
SCOTTISH SONGS.
105
fade away before the splendour which mightier works

shed around the place. Our descendants will make relics
of the woods of Abbotsford; and opulent antiquaries
will cany away the mansion, roof, and rafter, like the
miraculous church of Loretto.
THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY.

The smiling morn, the breathing spring,
Invite the tuneful birds to sing,
And while they warble from each 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
Amang 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 nip the vernal shade.
Our taste of pleasure then is o'er,
The feather'd songsters are no more ;
And when they droop, and we decay,
Adieu the birks of Invermay.
The laverock now and lintwhite sing,
The rocks around with echoes ring ;
106
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The mavis and the blackbird gay
In tuneful strains now glad the day ;
The woods now wear their summer-suits ;
To mirth all nature now invites :
Let us be blythsome then and gay
Among the birks of Invermay.
Behold, the hills and vales around
With lowing herds and flocks abound ;
The wanton kids and frisking lambs
Gambol and dance about their dams ;
The busy bees with humming noise,
And all the reptile kind rejoice :
Let us, like them, then sing and play
About the birks of Invermay.
Hark, how the waters as they fall
Loudly my love to gladness call ;
The wanton waves sport in the beams,
And fishes play throughout the streams ;
The circling sun does now advance,
And all the planets round him dance :
Let us as jovial be as they
Among the birks of Invermay.
Much controversy has arisen about the locality of this

song, but no doubt has ever been expressed regarding its
beauty. Mallet, who wrote the two first verses, laid the
scene in Endermay, and surely the poet knew his own
meaning as well as his commentators. Allan Ramsay,
SCOTTISH SONGS.
107
however, changed it to Invermay, and the world has

followed the alteration. Dr. Bryee of Kirknewton was
not satisfied with the shortness of Mallet's song, and
added three verses more : it must be confessed they are
much in the spirit of the original. This innovation too
has been approved, and Mallet goes with the double bur
then to posterity, of Ramsay's amendment and Bryee's
addition. The river May falls into the Erne near Duplin
Castle, and on its banks, amid natural woods, stands
the house of Invermay.
THE LASS OF LIVINGSTON.
Pain'd with her slighting Jamie's love,

Bell dropt a tearBell dropt a tear ;
The gods descended from above,
Well pleas'd to hearwell pleas'd to hear.
They heard the praises of the youth
From her own tonguefrom her own tongue,
Who now converted was to truth,
And thus she sungand thus she sung.
Bless'd days when our ingenuous sex,
More frank and kindmore frank and kind,
Did not their lov'd adorers vex ;
But spoke their mindbut spoke their mind.
108
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Repenting now, I promise fair,

Wou'd he returnwou'd he return,
I ne'er again wou'd give him care,
Or cause him mournor cause him mourn.
Why lov'd I thee, deserving swain,
Yet still thought shameyet still thought shame,
When thou my yielding heart didst gain,
To own my flame to own my flame ?
Why took I pleasure to torment,
And seem too coyand seem too coy ?
Which makes me now, alas ! lament
My slighted joymy slighted joy.
Ye fair, while beauty's in its spring,
Own your desireown your desire :
While love's young power with his soft wing
Fans up the firefans up the fire,
0 do not with a silly pride,
Or low designor low design,
Refuse to be a happy bride ;
But answer plainbut answer plain.
Thus the fair mourner wail'd her crime,
With flowing eyeswith flowing eyesGlad Jamie heard her all the time,
With sweet surprisewith sweet surprise;
Some god had led him to the grove ;
His mind unchang'dhis mind unchang'd
Flew to her arms, and cry'd, My love,
1 am reveng'dI am reveng'd !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
109
The name of this song is all that is oldneither

Ramsay, who wrote it, nor perhaps any other poet, could
succeed in reclaiming the ancient words from their witty
indelicacy. He wisely preferred writing something new,
to the thankless and laborious office of chastening down
the old heathen, and rendering it' lit for modest so
ciety. But I am sorry that he found it necessary to
call down the gods, since a woman could have wept very
satisfactorily without them ; and the confession of her
love is very natural and pleasing. A tasting, however,
of the old lyrical morsel of our ancestors may not be
unacceptable.
The bonnie lass o' Livingstone,
Ye ken her nameye ken her name,
And she has written in her contract
To lit' her laneto lie her lane ;
And I have vowed while vowing's worth
Ye very grave and reverend ancestors of the pre
sent people of Scotlandit was well that Wedderburn abated your indelicate songs into " Gude and
Godly Ballads ;" for the fragments of many of your
favourite lyrics, like the love letters of King Henry the
Eighth, can neither be sung nor quoted.
110
SCOTTISH SONGS.
UNGRATEFUL NANNY.
Did ever swain a nymph adore,
As I ungrateful Nanny do ?
Was ever shepherd's heart so sore,
Or ever broken heart so true f
My checks are swell'd with tears, but she
Has never wet a cheek for me.
If Nanny call'd, did e'er I stay,
Or linger when she bid me run ?
She only had the word to say,
And all she wish'd was quickly done.
I always think of her, but she
Does ne'er bestow a thought on me.
To let her cows my clover taste,
Have I not rose by break of day ?
Did ever Nanny's heifers fast,
If Robin in his barn had hay ?
Tho' to my fields they welcome were,
I ne'er was welcome yet to her.
If ever Nanny lost a sheep,
I cheerfully did give her two ;
And I her lambs did safely keep
Within my folds in frost and snow :
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Ill
Have they not there from cold been free ?

But Nanny still is cold to me.
When Nanny to the well did come,
'Twas I that did her pitchers fill ;
Full as they were, I brought them home :
Her corn I carried to the mill ;
My back did bear the sack, but she
Will never bear a sight of me.
To Nanny's poultry oats I gave,
I'm sure they always had the best ;
Within this week her pigeons have
Eat up a peck of peas at least.
Her little pigeons kiss, but she
Will never take a kiss from me.
Must Robin always Nanny woo,
And Nanny still on Robin frown ?
Alas ! poor wretch ! what shall I do,
If Nanny does not love me soon !
If no relief to me she'll bring,
I'll hang me in her apron string.
Joseph Ritson mistook this song for one of tender
and pastoral import. It is a city pastoral, and abounds
in the conceits common to the witty youth of a po
pulous , place. Such songs the heart of Scotland never
breathed.
112
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Here one poor word an hundred clenches makes,

And ductile dulness new meanders takes.
Yet affected as it is, and though the rustic population
of Scotland are secure from feeling its influence, it is
still a curious song, and may be preserved as the failure
of an experiment to inflict conventional wit and the
smartness and conceit of a town life on country pursuits
and rural manners.
NANNY-O.
While some for pleasure pawn their health,
'Twixt Lais and the Bagnio,
I'll save myself, and without stealth
Kiss and caress my Nanny-o.
She bids more fair t'engage a Jove
Than Leda did or Danae-o.
Were I to paint the queen of love,
None else should sit but Nanny-o.
How joyfully my spirits rise,
When dancing she moves finely-o ;
I guess what heaven is by her eyes,
Which sparkle so divinely-o.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
118
Attend my vow, ye gods ! while I

Breathe in the bless'd Britannia,
None's happiness I shall envy
As long's ye grant me Nanny-o.
My bonny, bonny Nanny-o !
My lovely, charming Nanny-o !
I care not though the world know
How dearly I love Nanny-o.
Few of Ramsay's songs present such an union of
natural beauty and utter tastelessness as this. To find
Lais, and Leda, and Jove, and Danae in the neighbour
hood of four such exquisite lines as the second verse
commences with is very surprising. I wish he had
oftener remembered the salutary promise of the old
sag:
I'll bring nae simile frae Jove
My height of extacy to prove ;
And sighing thuspresent my love
With roses eke and liliesSome old verses bearing the name of this song have
been communicated by John Mayne, Esq. author of
" Logan braes," to the gentlemen who compiled the
Lives of Eminent Scotsmen. They are very curious and
very irregular ; but if they are " very simple," they are
not " very touching ;" nor do they equal " My Nannie-o"
of Burns, nor approach near the four fine lines I have
VOL. III.
114
SCOTTISH SONGS.
mentioned in Ramsay, which hang amid their meaner

companions
Like pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.
It is but fair, however, to make the old words as public
as possible, and the more so, since opinions have been
expressed and comparisons made.
As I came in by Embro' town
By the back o' the bonny city-o,
I heard a young man make his moan
And O it was a pity-o.
For aye he cried his Nanny-o,
His handsome charming Nanny-o ;
Nor friend, nor foe can tell, O ho,
How dearly I love Nanny-o.
Father, your counsel I wad tak ;
But ye maun not be angry-o :
I'd rather hae Nanny but a plack,
Than the laird's daughter an' her hundred merk.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
115
DUMBARTON'S DRUMS.
Dumbarton's drums beat bonnie-o,
For they mind me of my dear Johnie-o.
How happy 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 gaudie-o :
Though commissions are dear,
Yet I'll buy him one this year ;
For he shall serve no longer a cadie-o.
A soldier has honour and bravery-o,
Unacquainted with rogues and their knavery-o ;
He minds no other thing
But the ladies or his 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 ',
i2
116
SCOTTISH SONGS.
*
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 Johnie-o :
How happy shall I be
When on my soldier's knee,
And he kisses and blesses his Annie-o !
In Ramsay's collection of 1724 this song appears ;
the name of the author is not known. There is an
air of martial delight about it which has -made it retain
a place in popular favour. Burns remarks that " Dum
barton Drums is the last of the West Highland airs ; and
from Dumbarton over the whole tract of country to the
confines of Tweedside, there is hardly a tune or song that
one can say has taken its origin from any place or transac
tion in that part of Scotland. The oldest Ayrshire reel
is Stewarton Lasses, which was made by the father of
the present Sir Walter Montgomery Cunningham :
since which period there has indeed been local music in
that country in great plenty. Johnie Faa is the only
old song which I could ever trace as belonging to the
county of Ayr." There is an old lyric of some merit
known by the name of " Peggie," which claims localiza
tion in that wide district ; and several others might be
mentioned.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
PATIE AND PEGGY.
By the delicious warmness of thy mouth,

And rowing een, which smiling tell the truth,
I guess, my lassie, that as well as I
You're made for love, and why should ye deny ?
But ken ye, lad, gin we confess o'er soon,
Ye think us cheap, and syne the wooing's done :
The maiden that o'er quickly tines her pow'r,
Like unripe fruit, will taste but hard and sour.
Bu twhen they hing o'er lang upon the tree,
Their sweetness they may tine, and sae may ye :
Red-cheeked you completely ripe appear,
And I have thol'd and woo'd a lang half-year.
Then dinna pu' me ; gently thus I fa'
Into my Patie's arms for good and a' :
But stint your wishes to this frank embrace,
And mint nae farther till we've got the grace.
O charming armfu' ! hence, ye cares, away,
I'll kiss my treasure a' the live lang day:
A' night I'll dream my kisses o'er again,
Till that day come that ye'll be a' my ain.
117
118
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Sun, gallop down the westlin skies,
Gang soon to bed and quickly rise ;
O lash your steeds, post time away,
And haste about our bridal day :
And if ye're wearied, honest .Light,
Sleep, gin ye like, a week that night !
Amid much homeliness of thought and occasional

coarseness of language, Allan Ramsay often rose into
fine bursts of fancy, and expressed himself with an ease
and a dignity worthy of a poet of romance. See with
what happiness he admonishes the sun to exert his speed
that the bridal day may sooner come ; and with what
familiar, yet poetic naivete, he gives him remission
from his toil and soothes him down with the permission
to sleep a week on the bridal night ! This song was
written for the Gentle Shepherd, the only dramatic
pastoral in the language, which finds all its beauties
both of manners and of character in the land where it is
laid.
THE WELL TOCHER'D LASS.

I was ance a well tocher'd lass,
My mither left dollars to me ;
But now I'm brought to a poor pass,
My stepdamc has gart them fiee.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
My father he's aften frae hame,
And she plays the deil with his gear ;
She neither has lawtith nor shame,
And keeps the hale house in a steer.
She's barmy-fac'd, thriftless, and bauld,
And gars me aft fret and repine ;
While hungry, half-naked, and cauld,
I see her destroy what's mine :
But soon I might hope a revenge,
And soon of my sorrows be free,
My poortith to plenty wad change,
If she were hung up on a tree.
Quoth Ringan, wha lang time had loo'd
This bonny lass tenderlie,
I'll take thee, sweet May, in thy snood,
Gif thou wilt gae hame with me.
'Tis only yoursel that I want,
Your kindness is better to me
Than a' that your stepmother, scant
Of grace, now has taken frae thee.
I'm but a young farmer, 'tis true,
And ye are the sprout of a laird ;
But I have milk cattle enow,
And routh of good rucks in my yard.
Ye shall have naithing to fash ye,
Sax servants shall jouk to thee :
Then kilt up thy coats, my lassie,
And gae thy ways hame with me.
119
120
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The maiden her reason employ'd,
Not thinking the offer amiss,
Consentedwhile Ringan o'erjoy'd,
Receiv'd her with mony a kiss.
And now she sits blithely singan,
And joking her drunken stcpdame,
Delighted with her dear Ringan,
That makes her goodwife at hame.
This song is from Allan Ramsay's collection, and is

directed to be sung to the ancient air of " Gin the Kirk
wad let me be." I know not if Ramsay had any know
ledge of the humorous song of which this tune bears
the name. The song which supplies its place bears no
resemblance to it, and is something less lively than most
of the old lyrics which sing of domestic affection and
fireside enjoyments. Of the song of " Gin the Kirk wad
let me be," several versions existed ; but if they exhibited
varied humour, they also showed varied grossness ; and
wormwood and gall as they must have been to the kirk
session, their indelicacy stood in the way of their fame.
The reputation which their liveliness would bring, their
open grossness and their approach to profanity would
destroy.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
121
UP IN THE AIR.
Now the sun's gane out o' sight,
Beet the ingle, and snuff the light ;
In glens the fairies skip and dance,
And witches wallop o'er to France.
Up in the air
On my bonny gray mare,
And I see her yet, and I see her yet.
The wind's drifting hail and sna'
O'er frozen hags, like a foot-ba' ;
Nae starns keek thro' the azure slit,
'Tis cauld, and mirk as ony pit.
The man i' the moon
Is carousing aboon ;
D' ye see, d' ye see, d' ye see him yet ?
Take your glass to clear your een,
'Tis the elixir heals the spleen ;
Baith wit and mirth it will inspire,
And gently beets the lover's fire.
Up in the air,
It drives away care ;
Have wi' you, have wi' you, have wi' you lads yet.
Steek the doors, haud out the frost,
Fill the cup, and give us your toast ;
122
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Till it lads, and lilt it out, '

And let us hae a blythesome bout.
Up wi' 't ! there, there !
Dinna cheat, but drink fair.

Huzza, huzza, and huzza lads yet.
When the wine is coming in, and the wit going
roundand man stands on the line that separates
drunkenness from sobriety, this song of Allan Ramsay's
ought to be sung. The midnight hour of songs and
clatter, when the spirit is up and discretion is sinking,
has been hit off with infinite humour and glee. It re
quired, perhaps, in those days, no very inordinate ele
vation in drink, to see witches posting through the
nocturnal air; but to behold the man in the moon
indulging in a deep carouse demanded a large supply
of wine, and a curious fancy. We are a grave, and,
perhaps, a thoughtful people, and our songs, recording
the boisterous merriment and indulgence of the table,
are very few; yet what we have are excellent, and
seem to have been all composed under different in
fluences of the divinity of drink.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
DO THE THING WHILK I DESIRE.

Get up, gudewife, don on your claise,
And to the market make you boun,
'Tis lang time sin' your neighbours raise.
They're weel nigh gotten to the town :
See you don on your better gown,
And gar the lass big on the fire ;
Dame, do not look as ye wad frown,
But do the thing whilk I desire.
I speer what haste ye hae, gudeman ?
Your mither staid till ye were born ;
Wad ye be at the tother cann,
To scour your throat so sune this morn ;
Gude faith, I haud it but a scorn
That ye sud wi' my rising mel ;
For when ye have baith said and sworn,
I'll do but what I like mysel'.
Gudewife, we maun needs hae a care
Sae lang 's we wun in neighbours' raw,
Of neighbourhood to tak' a share,
And rise up when the cock does craw ;
For I have heard an old said saw,
They that rise last big on the fire,
What wind or weather so ever blaw :
Dame, do the thing whilk I desire.
123
124
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Nay, do you talk of neighbourhood,
Oif I lig in my bed till noon
By nae man's shins I bake my bread,
And ye need not reck what I hae done ;
Nay, look to the clouting o' ye'r shoon,
And with my rising do not mel,
For gin ye lig baith sheets aboon,
I'll do but what I will mysel'.
Gudewife, we maun needs tak' a care
To save the geer that we hae won,
Or lay awa baith plough and car,
And hang up King when all is done ;
Then may our bairns a begging run,
To seek their mister in the mire,
So fair a thread as we hae spun :
Dame, do the thing that I require.
Gudeman, ye may weed a begging gang,
Ye seem sae weel to bear the pock :
Ye may as weel gang sune as syne,
To seek your meat amang gude folk :
In ilka house ye'se get a loak,
When ye come whar ye'r gossips dwell :Nay, lo you look sae like a gouk,
I'll do but what I list mysel'.
Gudewife, ye promis'd when we were wed,
That ye wad me truly obey,
Mess John can witness what ye said,
And I'll go fetch him in this day ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
125
And gif that haly man will say

Ye'se do the thing that I desire,
Then sal we sune end up this fray ',
Dame, do the thing that I require.
I nowther care for John nor Jack,
I'll tak' my leisure at myne ease,
I care not what ye say a plack,
You may go fetch him gin ye please;
And gin ye want ane of a mease,
You may e'en fetch the deil in hell ;
I wad ye wad let your japin cease,
For I'll do but what I like mysel'.
Weel, since it will nae better be,
I'll tak' my share ere a' be gane ;
The warst card in my hand sal flee,
And, faith, I wat I can shift for ane :
I'll sell the plew, and wad the waine,
The greatest spender sail bear the bell ;
And then, when a' the goods are gane,
Dame, do the thing ye list yoursel'.
The long resistance and open rebellion of the wife
the admonitions of her husbandhis clusters of proverbs
relating to household managementhis wish to refer
the matter to the minister, and his final despair, have
all combined to render this song a very particular fa
vourite. It belongs to the same class of compositions
as the " Auld Gudeman," and " Tak your auld cloak
about ye."
126
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THIS IS NO MY AIN HOUSE.
This is no my ain house,

I ken by the rigging o't ;
Since with my love I've changed vows,
I dinn a like the bigging o't.
For now that I'm young Robie's bride,
And mistress of his fireside,
My ain house I like to guide,
And please me with the trigging o't.
Then farewell to my father's house,
I gang where love invites me ;
The strictest duty this allows,
When love with honour meets me.
When Hymen moulds us into ane,
My Robie's nearer than my kin,
And to refuse him were a sin,
Sae lang's he kindly treats me.
When I am in my ain house,
True love shall be at hand ay,
To make me still a prudent spouse,
And let my man command ay ;
Avoiding ilka cause of strife,
The common pest of married life,
That makes ane wearied of his wife,
And breaks the kindly band ay.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
127
Had Ramsay adhered more closely to the idea which

the old song supplies, I think he would have composed a
song much superior to this. But there can be no doubt
that Allan shared largely in that amiable vanity which
makes a man contented with his own productions. Burns
has preserved some of the. old verses, and more might be
added. I like the picture of rustic abundance which
the first verse contains, and the rude and motherly
kindness of the second :'
O this is no my am house,
My aih house, my ain house ;
This is no my ain house,
I ken by the biggin o't.
There's bread an' cheese in my door cheeks,
My door cheeks, my door cheeks;
There's bread an' cheese in my door cheeks,
And pancakes on the riggin o't.
But wow ! this is my ain wean,
My ain wean, my ain wean ;
But wow ! this is my ain wean,
I ken by the greetie o't.
I'll take the curchie aff my head,
Aff my head, aff my head ;
I'll take the curchie aff my head,
And row't about the feetie o't.
The tune is a popular hornpipe air, to which all the
128
SCOTTISH SONGS.
youth of Nithsdale have danced, under the name of

" Shaun truish Willighan." It is of course of highland
descent.
... ., .,
- ..#
- .v -
HIGHLAND LASSIE.
The lawland maids go trig and fine,
But aft they're sour, and ever saucie :
Sae proud, they never can be kind,
Like my light-hearted highland lassie.
. . . i .
Than ony lass in burrows town,

Wha make their cheeks with patches mottie,
I'd take my lassie in her gown,
Barefooted in her kilted coatie.
Beneath the broom or brekan bush,
Whene'er I kiss and court my dautie,
I'm far o'er blithe to have a wish
My flichterin heart gangs pittie-pattie.
,.'.JJ.
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'
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O'er highest heathery hills I'll sten,

With cocket gun and ratches tentie,
To drive the deer out of the den,
And feast my lass on dishes dainty.
. .
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i
1
1
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SCOTTISH SONGS.
129
And wha shall dare, by deed or word,

'Gainst her to wag a tongue or finger,
While I can draw my trusty sword,
Or firae my side whisk out a whinger ?
The mountains clad in purple bloom,
And berries ripe, invite my treasure
To range with melet great folk gloom,
While wealth and pride confound their pleasure.
The "Highland Lassie" shares with Ramsay's " High
land Laddie" in many of the words of the ancient song,
and they nearly divide the chorus in common between
them :
O my bonnie bonnie highland lassie,
My lovely smiling highland lassie !
May never care make thee less fair,
But bloom of youth aye bless my lassie !
It is printed in Allan's collection, without any notice of
its author, of the state in which it was found, or of its
antiquity; but it carries the stamp of the year 1724
about it, and resembles, in several places, the productions
of Ramsay. The free and unrestrained love which this
mountaineer admires corresponds well with the license
of old in the north, when men led a roving and irregular
life by the wild lakes, by the wild streams, and among
the wilder hills. To feed their flocks among the glens
and upon the mountains, and sing of the ancient freedom
VOL. III.
ISO
SCOTTISH SONGS.
of the land and the exploits of their old heroes, was their
chief occupation : their labour was little, and as little
they loved it ; their wants were few, and such as the
arrow and the net readily supplied. I know not that
the earth has any happier situations in her gift than this.
Men exchange the plaiden sock for silken hosewater
from the rock for wine from the cellarand a bed of
heather for a couch of down ; and they look not more
manly, feel not more refreshed, and sleep no sounder.
Burns saidand the sensual wish was called by the
Edinburgh Review " elegant hypochondriasm"that he
envied most a wild horse in the deserts of Arabia, or an
oyster on the coast of Africa : the last had not a wish to
gratify, and the first had not a wish ungratified.
THE MALT-MAN.
The malt-man comes on monday,
He craves wonder sair,
Cries, Dame, come gi'e me my siller,
Or malt ye sail ne'er get mair.
I took him into the pantry,
And gave him some good cock-broo,
Syne paid him upon a ga'ntree,
As hostler-wives should do.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
1S1
When malt-men come for siller,

And gangers with wands o'er soon,
Wives, tak them down to the cellar,
And clear them as I have done.
This bewith, when cunzie is scanty,
Will keep them frae making din ;
The knack I learn'd frae an auld aunty,
The snackest of a' my kin.
The malt-man is right canning,
But I can be as slee,
And he may crack of his winning,
When he clears scores with me :
For come when he likes, I'm ready ;
But if frae hame I be,
Let him wait on our kind lady,
She'll answer a bill for me.
The genuine pithy humour of this clever song is in
Ramsay's best manner; the air is reckoned very old,
and an air in those days (when sounds were unwelcome
which conveyed no meaning) seldom went out unattired
with words. This ready-witted landlady seems to have
been a descendant or a friend of the far-famed wife of
Whittlecockpen, in whose praise some old minstrel has
sung with less delicacy than humour. They arranged
the payment of their debts and entertained their visitors
in the same agreeable way. Even the manner in which
she proposes to charm the gauger is hereditary in her
k2
132
SCOTTISH SONGS.
family ; and a similar spirit of good will and accommo

dation also belongs to the " kind lady," the owner, per
haps, of the house. I have heard this song often making
wall and rafter ring again, when the liquor was plenty
and the ways weary, on the night of a summer fair.
THE AULD WIFE BEYONT THE FIRE.

There was a wife wonn'd in a glen,
And she had dochters nine or ten,
That sought the house baith but and ben,
To find their mam a snishing.
The auld wife beyont the fire,
The auld wife aneist the fire,
The auld wife aboon the fire,
She died for lack of snishing.
Her mill into some hole had faun,
What recks ? quoth she, let it be gaun,
For I maun hae a young goodman
Shall furnish me with snishing.
Her eldest dochter said right bauld,
Fy, mother, mind that now ye're auld,
And if ye with a younker wald,
He'll waste away your snishing.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
138
The youngest dochter ga'e a shout,

O mother dear ! yoHr teeth's a' out,
Besides half blind, you have the gout,
Your mill can haud nae snishing.
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.
Aweel, says Peg, that pauky slut,
Mother, if you can crack a nut,
Then we will a' consent to it,
That you shall have a snishing.
The auld ane did agree to that,
And they a pistol-bullet gat ;
She powerfully began to crack,
To win hersell a snishing.
Braw sport it was to see her chow't,
And 'tween her gums sae squeeze and row't,
While frae her jaws the slaver flWd,
And ay she curs'd poor stumpy.
At last she gae a desperate squeeze,
Which brak the lang tooth by the neez,
And syne poor stumpy was at ease,
But she tint hopes of snishing.
134
SCOTTISH SONGS.
She of the task began to tire,
And frae her dochters did retire,
Syne le&n'd her down ayont the fire,
And died for lack of snishing. '
Ye raid wives, notice well this truth,
As soon as ye're past mark of mouth,
Ne'er do what's only fit for youth,
And leave aff thoughts of snishing :
Else, like this wife beyont the fire,
Ye'r bairns against you will conspire ;
Nor will ye get, unless ye hire,
A young man with your snishing.
There can be little doubt that the "Auld Wife

beyont the fire " has been " pruned and starched and
lander'd" by Allan Ramsay ; he marks it in his collec
tion as an old song with corrections: and any one who
compares the corrected songs of Ramsay with the old
verses which survive in their original state will conclude
that he has striven to purify the ' ancient song, which
perhaps spoke a plainer and less mystical language. The
note which he has found it necessary to add as a supple
ment to the text shows the embarrassment of the bard,
for he explains " snishing," about which the old dame is
so ludicrously clamorous, to mean, sometimes content
ment, a husband, love, money, and, literally, snuff. Was
there ever such allegorical confusion any where seen,
except in some of our national monuments ? It has its
SCOTTISH SONGS.
135
use ; it gives the more prudent reader an opportunity of

escaping from a moral scruple, through the open door of
any favourite figure of speech.
SWEET SUSAN.
The morn was fair, saft was the air,
All nature's sweets were springing ;
The huds did bow with silver dew,
Ten thousand birds were singing :
When on the bent, with blithe content,
Young Jamie sang his marrow,
Nae bonnier lass e'er trod the grass,
On Leader-haughs and Yarrow.
How sweet her face, where eVry grace
In heavenly beauty's planted ;
Her smiling een, and comely mien
That nae perfection wanted.
I'll never fret, nor ban my fate,
But bless my bonny marrow ;
If her dear smile my doubts beguile,
My mind shall ken nae sorrow.
Yet though she's fair, and has full share
Of every charm enchanting,
Each good turns ill, and soon will kill
Poor me, if love be wanting.
136
SCOTTISH SONGS.
O bonny lass ! have but the grace
To think, e'er ye eae furder,
Your joys maun flit, if ye commit
The crying sin of murder. .,,.',.,
My wand'ring ghaist will ne'er get res,fc .
And night and day affright ye ;
But if ye're kind, with joyful mind
I'll study to delight yc.
Our years around with love thus crown'd,
From all things joys shall borrow ;
Thus none shall be more bless'd than we
On Leader-haughs and Yarrow.
O sweetest Sue ! 'tis only you

Can make life worth my wishes,
If equal love your mind can move
To grant this best of blisses.
Thou art my sun, and thy least frown
Would blast me in the blossom :
But if thou shine, and make me thine,'
^':\-t . 111
. flourish in thy bosom. d ..: v. .;! i i(v ji.n
I have no better authority than tradition for ascribing
this song to the pen of William Crawford. It was
printed in Allan Ramsay's collection without any token
of age or author ; and though a pretty song, it is far in
ferior to the ancient song of " Leader Haughs and Yar
row," which seems to have suggested it. I am afraid
that few ladies have an imagination so sensitive as to be.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
137
alarmed into love and matrimony with the terror of a

visitation from their lover's ghost ; and that a lover who
reinforces his persuasions with threats of self-destruction,
if the lady continues cruel, is in a fair way of becoming
a subject for the sheriff's examination, if there be any
sincerity in his nature.
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IF LOVE'S A SWEET PASSION.

If love's a sweet passion, why does it torment ?
If a bitter, O tell me whence comes my complaint ?
Since I suffer with pleasure, why should I complain,
Or grieve at my fate, since I know 'tis in vain ?
Yet so pleasing the pain is, so soft is the dart,
That at once it both wounds me, and tickles my heart.
I grasp her hands gently, look languishing down,
And by passionate silence I make my love known.
But oh ! how I'm bless'd when so kind she does prove
By some willing mistake to discover her love ;
When in striving to hide, she reveals all her flame,
And our eyes tell each other what neither dare name.
How pleasing her beauty ! how sweet are her charms !
How fond her embraces ! how peaceful her arms !
Sure there is nothing so easy as learning to love,
Tis taught us on earth, and by all things above :
IS8
SCOTTISH SONGS.
And to beauty's bright standard all heroes must yield,

For 'tis beauty that conquers, and wins the fair field.
I found this very pleasing song in Allan Ramsay's
collection, bearing the mark denoting the author's name
unknown. I have some suspicion that it is an English
production ; but as it has been rejected by Dr. Aikin,
and other southern editors, I admit it gladly. Like
a borderer of old, whose inheritance was a matter of
national contest, it may rank under either the thistle
or the rose. These two lines would do honour to any
song:
I grasp her hands gently, look languishing down,
And, by passionate silence, I make my love known.
THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.

I've seen the smiling
Of fortune beguiling
I've tasted her favours,
And felt her decay :
Sweet is her blessing,
And kind her caressing
But soon it is fled
It is fled far away.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
189
I've seen the Forest,

Adorned the foremost
With flowers of the fairest,
Both pleasant and gay :
Full sweet was their blooming,
Their scent the air perfuming,
But now they are wither'd,
And a' wede away.
I've seen the morning
With gold the hills adorning;
The rude tempest storming,
Before the mid-day :
I've seen Tweed's silver streams
Glittering in the sunny beams,
Turn drumlie and dark
As they roamed on their way.
Oh, fickle Fortune !
Why this cruel sporting ?
Why thus beguile us,
Poor sons of a day ?
Thy frowns cannot fear me,
Thy smiles cannot cheer me,
Since the Flowers of the Forest
Are a' wede away.
This song has found many admirers, and the subject
of it has found many poets. It was written by Miss
Rutherford, daughter of Rutherford of Fairnalie, in
*>
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Selkirkshireno one has ever mentioned it without

praise, and no collection is thought complete that wants
it. I prefer the song on the same subject by Miss Jane
Elliott-nature always surpasses art; yet the union of
the two is oftentimes exceedingly graceful and engaging.
..- -
,-.-. . tA,
THE FLOWERS OP THE FOREST.

I've heard a lilting
At our ewe-milking,
Lasses loud lilting
Before the dawn of day; ,-,\
But now they are moaning
In ilka green loaning;
The Flowers of the Forest! .r..-. j,.^
Are a' wede away.
'
At bughts in the morning,
Nae blithe lads are scorning ;
The lasses are lonely,
And dowie and wae;
Nae daffing, nae gabbing,
But sighing and sabbing ;
Ilk ane lifts her leglin,
And hies her away.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
In har'st, at the shearing,
Nae youths now are jeering ;
Bandsters are rankled,
' .'.'.
And lyart and gray;
At fair or at preaching,
Nae wooing, nae fleeching :
The Flowers of the Forest
Are a' wede away.
At e'en, in the gloaming,
Nae younkers are roaming
I tfBeht stackV, with' the lasses
At bogle to play ;
But ilk maid sits eerie,
Lamenting her deary
Are a' wede away.
Dool and wae for the order
Sent our lads to the border !
The English for ance
By guile wan the day ;
That fought ay the foremost,
The prime of our land
Are cauld in the clay.
We'll hear nae mair lilting
At the ewe-milking,
1*1
148
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Women and bairns arc
Heartless and wae ;
Sighing and moaning
In ilka green loaning,
Are a' wede away.
i . ..
This pathetic song requires neither praise nor com
ment ; its pathos is the pathos of nature, and every
heart that feels will understand it. At the period of the
battle of Flodden, the Forest of Selkirk extended over
part of Ayrshire and the Upper Ward of Clydesdale, and
had therefore many warriors to lose on that fatal field.
The fate of our gallant James seems yet dubious ; but
he was lost to his country, whatever became of him : the
letters of the Earl of Surrey, edited by Mr. Ellis, throw
some further historical light on this fatal fray. The
body of the king was never identified ; and the conduct
of some of the Scottish leaders, during and after the
battle, was sufficiently mysterious. We owe this ex
quisite song to Miss Jane Elliott of Minto.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
POLWART ON THE GREEN.

At Polwart on the green
If you'll meet me the morn,
Where lasses do convene
To dance about the thorn,
A kindly welcome you 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 lang as e'er they please ;
Seem caulder than the sua',
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 nae to be free.
At Polwart on the green,
Amang the new-mawn hay,
With sangs and dancing keen
We'll pass the heartsome day.
At night, if beds be o'er thrang laid,
And thou be twiim'd of thine,
Thou shalt be welcome, my dear lad,
To take a part of mine.
148
144
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Polwarth on the Green deserves a much better song :

yet unimportant as the words are, they have been
claimed for two different names of very different reputa
tion. Burns says the author is John Drnmmond Macgregor, of the family of Bochaldie. Who informed the
poet of this, it is now impossible to discover ; but the
verses have generally been imputed to Allan Ramsay,
and are such as he might have written at an unexpected
call to fill up some chasm in his collection. Allan was
no scrupulous person, and his reputation could afford
such drawbacks as a hasty verse might require. Such
dancings on the green, and round about the thorn, have
perhaps wholly ceased in Scotland since the Reformation,
which silenced much of our mirth : they are still com
mon in many places in England. I confess that the hut
four lines of the song seem to belong to some other poet
than the author of their companions, and perhaps to an
older time. This is only conjecture, and as such let it'
go.Ramsay has printed the first four lines and the last
four in italics, probably to denote greater antiquity than
the rest of the song.
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SCOTTISH SONGS.
146
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33*{ wtmd T~ilO . -; . ' .'.' ,,; ..:.:. .
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j*baara;|fY SHEEP I NEGLECTED.
mrf ,-:-.. ii'u i!
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. ... - -,
My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook,

And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook :
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove ;
Ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love.
Bttt what had my youth with ambition to do ?
Why left I Amynta, why broke I my vow ?
OMi*an'':.n :
Through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wide world secure me from love.
Ab> fool ! to imagine that aught could subdue
A love so well founded, a passion so true !
Ah, give me my sheep, and my sheep-book restore,
And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more !
...(
<
Alas, 'tis too late at thy fete to repine I

'.;-. *ll
Poor shepherd, Amynta no more can be thine !
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain,
The moments neglected return not again.
Ah, what had my youth with ambition to do ?
Why left I Amynta, why broke 1 my vow ?
Sir Gilbert Elliot, ancestor of the present Lord
Minto, was the author of this very beautiful pastoral ;
VOL. III.
146
SCOTTISH SONGS.
and we have the authority of no mean judge for saying

that the poetical mantle of Sir Gilbert has descended to
his family. It is among the last and best efforts of the
Muse of the sheep-pipe and crook, and possesses more
nature than commonly falls to the lot of those elegant
and affected songs, which awake a Sicilian rather than
a Scottish echo.
The old words, which were sung to the tune of " My
apron, dearie," could hardly suggest so sweet and so
delicate a song. I will try to pick out a passable
verse as a specimen of the old song, which bestowed a
name on this popular air :
O, had I ta'en counsel of father or mother,
Or had I advised with sister or brother !
But a saft and a young thing, and easy to woo,
It makes me cry out, my apron, now.
My apron, deary, my apron now,
The strings are short of my apron, now.
A saft thing, a young thing, and easy to woo,
It makes me cry out, my apron, now.
I am not even certain that these words, old as
they are, and bearing the stamp of a ruder age, are
the oldest which were sung to the air. I have heard a
song of still ruder rhyme, and of equal freedom ; and
I think I can find as much of it as may enable the
reader to judge, without deeply offending against de
licacy :
SCOTTISH SONGS.
147
Low, low down in yon meadow so green,

I met wi' my laddie at morning and e'en
Till my stays grew straitwadna meet by a span,
Sae I went to my laddie and tauld him than.
The conversation which ensues is too confidential for
quotation.
MY DEARIE IF THOU DIE.

Love never more shall give me pain,
My fancy's fix'd on thee,
Nor ever maid my heart shall gain,
My Peggy, if thou die.
Thy beauty doth such pleasure give,
Thy love's so true to me,
Without thee I can never live,
My dearie if thou die.
If fate shall tear thee from my breast,
How shall I lonely stray :
In dreary dreams the night I'll waste,
In sighs, the silent day.
l2
148
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I ne'er can so much virtue find,
Nor such perfection see ;
Then I'll renounce all womankind,
My Peggy, 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.
'Twas this, that like the morning sun,
. Gave joy and life to me ;
And when its destin'd day is done,
With Peggy let me die.
Ye powers that smile on virtuous love,
And in such pleasure share ;
You who its faithful flames approve,
With pity view the fair :
Restore my Peggy's wonted charms,
Those charms so dear to me !
Oh ! never rob them from these arms
I'm lost if Peggy die.
When Crawford wrote these words, it is not certain

that he knew more of the old song which gave the name
- to his own than the single line which has descended to
the present times, " My dearie an thou die." Burns
briefly remarks, " Another beautiful song of Crawford's."
Cupid might have been spared from the third verse,
and the flames of love from the fourth : but he was
SCOTTISH SONGS.
149
no regular dealer in darts and flames, like the poets of

his timehis failings were more in the pastoral way,
and we have few lyrics of a purer or more natural or
more graceful character, than those which he composed.
FOR EVER, FORTUNE, WILT THOU PROVE.

For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
An unrelenting foe to love ?
And when we meet a mutual heart
Come in between and bid us part ?
Bid us sigh on from day to day,
And wish and wish the soul away,
Till youth and genial years are flown.
And all the life of love is gone ?
Rut busy busy still art thou
To bind the loveless, joyless vow
The heart from pleasure to delude,
And join the gentle to the rude.
For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,
And I absolve thy future care ;
All other blessings I resign
Make but the dear Amanda mine.
This beautiful complaint against the caprice of fortune
130
SCOTTISH SONGS.
was written by James Thomson ; and the name by which

it is commonly known is " Logan Water," though neither
by allusion nor circumstance can such locality be claimed
for it. The last four lines of the first verse, and the first
four lines of the second, contain all that can be urged
concerning the disappointment ofyouthful affection ; and
many a heart will respond to their pathetic complaint.
This song first appeared united to the air of " Logan
Water," in the Orpheus Caledonius in 1725.
MY LOVE ANNIE'S VERY BONNIE.

What numbers shall the Muse repeat ?
What verse be found to praise my Annie?
On her ten thousand graces wait,
Each swain admires, and owns she's boanie.
Since first she trod the happy plain
She sets each youthful heart on fire ;
Each nymph does to her swain complain
That Annie kindles new desire.
This lovely darling, dearest care,
This new delight, this charming Annie,
Like summer's dawn, she's fresh and fair,
When Flora's fragrant breezes fan ye.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
151
All day the amorous youths convene,

Joyous they sport and play before her ;
All night, when she no more is seen,
In blissful dreams they still adore her.
Among the crowd Amyntor came,
He look'd, he lov'd, he bow'd to Annie ;
His rising sighs express his name,
His words were few, his wishes many.
With smiles the lovely maid reply'd,
Kind shepherd, why should I deceive ye ?
Alas ! your love must be deny'd,
This destin'd breast can ne'er relieve ye.
Young Damon came with Cupid's art,
His wiles, his smiles, his charms beguiling,
He stole away my virgin heart ;
Cease, poor Amyntor, cease bewailing.
Some brighter beauty you may find ;
On yonder plain the nymphs are many :
Then choose some heart that's unconfin'd,
And leave to Damon his own Annie.
I have a strong belief that the name of this song
should be " Annan Water ;" a fine ballad of that name
will be found in this work, with many marks of an
tiquity about it, and possessing the line, " O, my love
Annie's very bonnie." Burns was informed that the
honour belonged to Allan Water, in Strathallan ; but
what I have said seems nearly decisive of the question.
158
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Annan Water is no vulgar stream: it is noticed by

Collins in his admirable Ode on the Superstitions of
Scotland, in the lays of Sir Walter Scott, and it runs
smooth in many a lesser song. The banks, which in
many places are very romantic, were in ancient times
so thickly clothed with wood, that it was the vaunt
of a Halliday, a warlike laird of Gorehead, that he
could let his deer-dog into the wood at his own door,
and it would never run off the land of a Halliday, nor
be seen for wood till it came out at the firth of Solway
a fair inheritance. This is one of Crawford's songs. It
offers violence to propriety in seeking to unite Amyntor
in wedlock with Anniebut after she could fall in love
with Damon, she was capable of any foolish thing.
I HAD A HORSE.
.>
I had a horse, and I had nae mair,
I gat him frae my daddy ;
My purse was light, and my heart was sair.
But my wit it was fu' ready.
And sae I thought me on a time,
Outwittens of my daddy,
To fee mysel' to a lowland laird,
Wha had a bonnic lady.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
< ' I wrote a letter, and thus begaa ;
Madam be not offended,
I'm o'er the lugs in love wi' yon,
And care net though ye kend it :
, . jFor I get little frae the laird,
mi . . And fer less frae my daddy,
And I wad blithely be the man
tooJ - Wad strive to please his lady.
ion . ...b..n I i 'i- .
_ . She read the letter and she leugh
i>
jne needna been sae blate, man,
t.h: . Y<ra might hae come to me yoursel',
And tauld me o' yonr state, man :
You might hae come to me yoursel',
Outwittens of ony body,
y
And made John Goukstone of the laird,
And kiss'd his bonnie lady.
Then she pat siller in my purse ;
We drank wine in a cogie ;
She fee'd a man to rub my horse,
And wow, but I was vogie !
But I gat ne'er sae sair a fleg
Since I came frae my daddy ;
The laird came rap rap to the yett
When I was wi' his lady.
Then she put me behint a chair,
And happ'd me wi' a plaidie ;
158
154
SCOTTISH SONGS.
But I was like to swarf wi' fear,
And wish'd me wi' my daddie.
The laird gaed out, he saw na me,
I gaed when I was ready :
I promis'd, but I ne'er went back
To see his bonnie lady.
Burns in his notes says, " A John Hunter, ancestor

to a very respectable farming family who live at Barrmill, in the parish of Galston in Ayrshire, was the luck
less hero who 'Had a horse, and had nae mair:' for
some little youthful follies he found it necessary to make
a retreat to the West Highlands, where he fee'd himself
to a highland lairdfor that is the expression of all the
oral editions of the song I ever heard. The present Mr.
Hunter who told me the anecdote is the great-grandchild
of our hero." This note was written in 1795, twenty
years after the publication of the song by David Herd. It
seems surprising that such a song failed to obtain an
earlier place in some of our collections, for it is an
original and clever production.
.1
SCOTTISH SONGS.
155
THE YELLOW-HAIR'D LADDIE.
In April, when primroses paint the sweet plain,

And summer approaching rejoiceth the swain ;
The yellow-hair'd laddie would oftentimes go
To wilds and deep glens, where the hawthorn trees grow.
There, under the shade of an old sacred thorn,
With freedom he sung his loves ev'ning and morn :
He sung with so saft and enchanting a sound,
That Sylvans and Fairies unseen danc'd around.
The shepherd thus sung, Though young Maya be fair,
Her beauty is dash'd with a scornfu' proud air ;
But Susie was handsome, and sweetly could sing,
Her breath like the breezes perfum'd in the spring ;
That Madie in all the gay bloom of her youth,
Like the moon was inconstant, and never spoke truth :
But Susie was faithful, good-humour'd, and free,
And fair as the goddess who sprung from the sea ;
That mamma's fine daughter with all her great dow'r,
Was awkwardly airy, and frequently sour :
Then, sighing, he wished, would parents agree,
The witty sweet Susie his mistress might be.
156
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The beauty of the air and the happiness of the sub

ject have united in giving popularity to a song which
cannot rank high as poetry, and which outrages all
superstitious knowledge by a dance of Sylvans and
Fairies. Ramsay seems to have admired the air, since
he wrote another song in the same measure for the
" Gentle Shepherd," in which he has imitated the dra
matic form of the earlier words, and imitated them with
some success. One of the verses is valuable, since we
may suppose it records the poet's favourite songs :
. ,...i.- 1 .
Our Jenny sings saftly the " Cowden-broom knowes,"
And Rosie lilts sweetly the " Milking the Ewes ;"
There's few " Jenny Nettles" like Nansie can sing,
At " Through the wood, Laddie !" Bess gars our lugs
ring:
But when my dear Peggy sings, with better skill,
" The Boatman," " Tweed Side," and " The Lass of the
Mill,"
'Tis many times sweeter and pleasant to me,
For though they sing nicely, they cannot like thee.
/i
SCOTTISH SONGS.
.....,.,'.._.
-.t..
..
......;..
.
..!t.'
157
,,.M
.'..i,:
ii I.
CORN-RIGGS ARE BONNY.
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.
,.-..... .'.'i.
. .
Last night I met him on a bawk,
Where yellow corn was growing ;
There mony a kindly word he spake,
That set my heart a-glowing.
., . . He kissM, and vow'd he wad be mine,
!(.
i.m
1 Tl\
i-'~
And loo'd 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
Where corn-riggs are bonny-
158
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Ramsay has been laughed at for the rhyme of the

second line of the first verse. It is dangerous to cavil
at words : in one of Burns's best songs we have him
wishing, in honour of his love, that the flowers may be
ever fair, and the waters never " drumlie ,"a word
more objectionable than Ramsay's, since it is used in a
pathetic song. This song belongs to the " Gentle
Shepherd ;" the air is old, and there were words of far
greater antiquity than Allan's, which wanted some skil
ful and cunning hand to render them fit for modest com
pany. The following lines formed the chorus ; and if
I remember right, the chorus of every verse was a va
riation from its predecessor, of which we have an ex
ample in too few songs :
O corn-riggs and barley-riggs,
And corn-riggs are bonnie ;
And gin ye meet a winsome quean,
Gae kiss her kind and canine.
The London wags who compiled a work called " Mirth
and Wit" abused the sweetness of this fine old air by
compelling it to carry the burthen of some very silly
verses, written in that kind of singular slang which a
citizen uses when he thinks he speaks Scotch.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
MERRY MAY THE KEEL ROWE.
As I came down through Cannobie,

Through Cannobie, through Cannobie,
The summer sun had shut his ee,
And loud a lass did sing-o :
Ye westlin winds, all gently blow,
Ye seas, soft as my wishes flow,
And merry may the shallop rowe
That my true love sails in-o !
My love has breath like roses sweet,
Like roses sweet, like roses sweet,
And arms like lilies dipt in weet,
To fold a maiden in-o.
There's not a wave that swells the sea,
But bears a prayer and wish frae me ;
O soon may I my truelove see,
Wi' his bauld bands again-o !
My lover wears a bonnet blue,
A bonnet blue, a bonnet blue ;
A rose so white, a heart so true,
A dimple on his chin-o.
159
160
SCOTTISH SONGS.
He bears a blade his foes have felt,
And nobles at his nod have knelt :
My heart will break as well as melt,
Should he ne'er come again-o.
An imperfect copy of this song found its way into

Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song.
It started thus :
As I came down the Cannogate,
The Cannogate, the Cannogate ;
As I came down the Cannogate,
I heard a lassie sing-o:
O merry may the keel rowe,
The keel rowe, the reel rowe ;
Merry may the keel rowe
The ship that my love's in-o t
The picture of her love which the heroine draws
seems to be that of the Pretender ; at all events, the
white rose of the Stuarts marks it for a Jacobite song.
...'.'- ^'oj&tf*
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE BONNY SCOT.

Ye gales, that gently wave the sea,
And please the canny boat-man,
Bear me frae hence, or bring to me
My brave, my bonny Scot-man !
In haly bands
We join'd our hands,
Yet may not this discover,
While parents rate
A large estate
Before a faithfu' lover.
But I'd lieuer choose in Highland glens
To herd the kid and goat, man,
Ere I cou'd for sic little ends
Refuse my bonny Scot-man.
Wae worth the man,
Wha first began
The base ungenerous fashion
Frae greedy views,
Love's art to use,
While strangers to its passion !
Frae foreign fields, my lovely youth,
Haste to thy langing lassie,
Wha pants to press thy bawmy mouth,
And in her bosom hawse thee !
vol. in.
*
1G1
162
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Love gi'es the word,
Then haste on board !
Fair winds and tenty boat-man,
Waft o'er, waft o'er,
Frae yonder shore,
My' blithe, my bonny Scot-man !
This is a lyric of ardent passion embodied in very

pleasant strains. The constant and disinterested at
tachment of the "langing lassie" is finely portrayed;
and that easy and winning simplicity, which lends the
sweetest grace to song, is happily diffused over all.
Ramsay was seldom possessed by intense and rapturous
enthusiasm ; with him, love was a prudent and rea
sonable emotion. He calls the song the " Bonny Scot,''
to the tune of the " Boatman ;" but the ancient verses
which belonged to the melody have long since been
lost. " Scotman" has always seemed to me a clumsy com
pound, and not very intelligible. The air presents many
obstructions to facility of composition, and Ramsay, in
several of his songs, was not over solicitous about liquid
ease and harmonious grace of expression. A singer,
formerly, overcame such difficulties with the voice as
would not be tolerated now. We are more correct, but
far less natural.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
163
I'LL NE'ER BEGUILE THEE.

My sweetest May, let love incline thee,
T" accept a heart which he designs thee ;
And as your constant slave regard it,
Syne for its faithfulness reward it.
'Tis proof a-shot to birth or money,
But yields to what is sweet and bonny ;
Receive it then with a kiss and a smily,
There's my thumb, it will ne'er beguile ye.
How tempting sweet these lips of thine are !
Thy bosom white, and legs sae fine are,
That, when in pools I see thee clean 'em,
They carry away my heart between 'em.
I wish, and I wish, while it gaes duntin,
O gin I had thee on a mountain !
Though kith and kin and a' shou'd revile thee,
There's my thumb, I'll ne'er beguile thee.
Alane through flow'ry hows I dander,
Tenting my flocks lest they shou'd wander ;
Gin thou'll gae alang, I'll daute thee gaylie,
And gi'e my thumb I'll ne'er beguile thee.
O my dear lassie, it is but daifin,
To haud thy wooer up aye niff naffin.
That na, na, na, I hate it most vilely,
O say, yes, and I'll ne'er beguile thee.
h2
164
SCOTTISH SONGS.
This song is the composition of Allan Ramsay, but

on perusing it the fancy is borne away to a far earlier
period, and the name of the air suggests a lyric which
may have made the heroes of Otterburn or Flodden
smile. Indeed if Ramsay knew the old song, and com
posed his verses on the principle of purity which he
states in his preface, there is an end to my lamentation ;
for if the old words exceeded his by a shade or so in in
delicacy, it was wise in our ancestors to forget them. There
is a curious remnant of ancient manners recorded in the
songpresenting the thumb to be touched, as a pledge
of perfect sincerity. It is known among rustics by the
name of " lick thumb." At school all the little bargains
which the boys make with each other are sealed by
this mystic ceremony. Each wets his thumb with his
tongue, then they join them together, then hook them
into each other, and finally both ratify all in rhyme:
Ring thumbs, ring the bell
Them that rue first gang to hell.
In Johnson's Musical Museum may be found a song
as old as Ramsay's, adapted to the same air, which
seems a half English and half Scottish production. In
the same work there is a song called " Sweetest May,"
written by Burns. Part is a parody on Allan's song,
and what is not parodied is borrowed :
Sweetest May, let love inspire thee
Take a heart which he designs thee :
SCOTTISH SONGS.
166
As thy constant slave regard it ;

For its feith and truth reward it.
Proof o' shot to birth or money ;
Not the wealthy, but the bonnie,
Not high born, but noble minded,
In love's silken band can bind it.
PEGGY AND PATIE.

When first my dear laddie gade to the green hill,
And I at ewe-milking first sey'd my young skill,
To bear the milk-bowie nae pain was to me,
When I at the bughting forgather'd with thee.
When corn-riggs wavM yellow, and blue heather-bells
Bloom'd bonny on moorland and sweet-rising fells,
Nae birns, brier, or bracken gave trouble to me,
If I found but the berries right ripen'd for thee.
When thou ran, or wrestled, or putted the stane, ,,
And came aff the victor, my heart was aye fain :
Thy ilka sport manly gave pleasure to me,
For nane can put, wrestle, or run swift as thee. ,, j. ,
Our Jenny sings saftly the " Cowden Broom-knowes,"
And Rosie lilts sweetly the " Milking the Ewes ;"
166
SCOTTISH SONGS.
There's few " Jenny Nettles" like Nancy can sing ;

With " Thro' the wood, Laddie," Bess gare our lugs
ring:
But when my dear Peggy sings with better still
The " Boat-man," " Tweedside," or the " Lass of the
Mill,"
'Tis many times sweeter and pleasing to me ;
For though they sing nicely, they cannot like thee.
How easy can lasses trow what they desire,
With praises sae kindly increasing love's fire !
Give me still this pleasure, my study shall be
To make myself better and sweeter for thee.
The pastoral accuracy of this song is its chief com
mendationthe nature is the nature with which we are
familiar, and all the imagery and allusions pertain to
Scotland. This is a praise which we cannot extend to
some far cleverer songs. Ramsay was born in a district
which gave him an early acquaintance with the sharp birn
and the blae heather-bell; the ewe-bughts and the
milking-pails were presented sooner to his eye than
corn-riggs waving yellow. This is one of the songs in
the " Gentle Shepherd."
SCOTTISH SONGS.
167
THE BOB OF DUMBLANE.
Lassie, lend me your braw hemp heckle,

And I'll lend you my thripling kame ;
For fainness, deary, I'll gar ye keckle,
If ye'll go dance the Bob of Dumblane.
Haste ye, gang to the ground of your trunkies,
Busk ye braw, and dinna think shame ;
Consider in time, if leading of monkies
Be better than dancing the Bob of Dumblane.
Be frank, my lassie, lest I grow fickle,
And take my word and offer again ;
Syne ye may chance to repent it meikle,
Ye did na accept the Bob of Dumblane.
The dinner, the piper, and priest shall be ready,
And I'm grown dowie with lying my lane ;
Away then, leave baith minny and daddy,
And try with me the Bob of Dumblane.
When Burns passed through Dumblane, he had the
good fortune to find an old lady, at one of the principal
inns, who had the courage to repeat some of the words
of the old song, which the verses of Allan Ramsay su
perseded.
168
SCOTTISH SONGS.
" Lassie, lend me your braw hemp heckle,

And I'll lend you my thripling kame ;
My heckle is broken, it canna be gotten,
And we'll gae dance the Bob-o-Dumblane.
Twa gaed to the wood, to the wood, to the wood,
Twa gaed to the wood, three came hame ;
An' it be nae weel bobbit, weel bobbit, weel bobbit,
An' it be nae we'll bobbit, we'll bob it again."
" I insert this song,"saysthe poet,"to introduce the fol
lowing anecdote, which I have heard well authenticated.
At the close of the battle of Dumhlane, a Scottish
officer observed to the Duke of Argyle, that he was
afraid the Rebels would give out to the world that they
had won the victory. ' Weel, weel,' said his Grace,
alluding to the foregoing ballad, ' if they think it be
nae weel bobbitwe'll bob it again." This is not one of
the cleverest of Ramsay's productions ; nor has he been
able to escape wholly from the influence of the original :
he laboured hard to keep within the limits of delicacy,
but few will have the charity to think he has succeeded.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
169
HAP ME WITH THY PETTICOAT.

',1! II
)!-..
'
' ' .
" O Bell, thy looks have kill'd my heart !

I pass the day in pain ;
When night returns, I feel the smart,
' ! And wish for thee in vain.
' I'm starving in Cold, while thou art warm :
"'Have pity an3 incline,
And grant me for a hap that charm
: -ln petticoat of thine.
.runi) en. .ii -....-.
" My ravish'd fancy in amaze

Still wanders o'er thy charms ;
Delusive dreams ten thousand ways
1 " Present thee to my arms.
' But waking think what I endure,
While cruel you decline
Those pleasures, which can only cure
This panting breast of mine.
I faint, I fail, and wildly rove,
Because you still deny
The just reward that's due to love,
And let true passion die.
>i
170
SCOTTISH SONGS.
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 pow'rs of love agree
At length to make thee mine,
Or loose my chains, and set me free
From ev'ry charm of thine !
This is certainly far from being one of Allan Ramsay's

happiest songs, and I have introduced it for the purpose
of saying something about the cause of his failure, and
the character of the song which he sought to supplant.
The ancient song of " Hap me wi' thy petticoat," like
the song of " O ! to be lying beyond thee," and many
others, which delighted a ruder and less fastidious age,
was more lively than delicatewas more kind than
chaste ; and every verse concluded by repeating the wish
which gives the present name to the air. To express
such a wish in elegant and decorous language might
have been Allan's desire ; but there was a difficulty in
managing this very interesting garment, which he could
not overcome; and every one must feel that he has
touched it with a very awkward and unskilful hand.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
171
The song which Lord Woodhouselee heard sung in the

country, by nurses who wished to poothe their babes
to sleep, was probably a parody on the verses which
Ramsay had in his mind when he wrote this song. The
old words began
O hap me wi' thy petticoat,
My ain kind thing.
HOW CAN I BE BLITHE.
How can I be blithe and glad,

Or in my mind contented be,
When the bonnie lad whom I love best
Is banish'd frae my companie ?
Though he be banished for my sake,
His true-love shall I still remain ;
0 that I was, and I wish I was,
With thee, my own true-love again !
1 dare but wish for thee, my love,
My thoughts I may not, dare not speak ;
My maidens wonder why I sigh,
And why the bloom dies on my cheek.
172
SCOTTISH SONGS.
If thoughts of thee be sin in me,
O, deep am I in shame and sin ;
O that I was, and I wish I was,
In the chamber where my love is in 1
Another version of this song may be found in Wotherspoon's collection, very contradictory and corrupt.
It seems to have been made up by an unskilful hand,
from some old fragments.
One of the verses condemns
all innocent indulgence in the first two lines, but relaxes

much in the two which succeed.
Kissing is but a foolish fancy,
It brings two lovers into sin
O that I was, and I wish I was,
In the chamber where my love is in !
' t
.
i
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1
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lici.rL.i
HARD IS THE FATBt i.i .._i..^thT
'M :! . .
. . ni ...jw. A ,Ai\.y
Hard is the fate of him who loves,
. .y:i'o
Yet dares not tell his trembling pain,

But to the sympathetic groves,
But to the lonely list'ning plain !
..j ... e.\ A mi ,
SCOTTISH SONGS.
178
Oh, when she blesses next your shade,

Oh, when her footsteps next are seen
In flow'ry tracks along the mead,
In fresher mazes o'er the green ;
Ye gentle spirits of the vale,
To whom the tears of love are dear,
From dying lilies waft a gale,
And sigh my sorrows in her ear !
Oh, tell her what she cannot blame,
Though fear my tongue must ever bind :
Oh, tell her, that my virtuous flame
Is as her spotless soul refin'd !
Not her own guardian-angel eyes
With chaster tenderness his care,
Not purer her own wishes rise,
Not holier her own thoughts in prayer.
But if at first her virgin fear
Should start at love's suspected name,
With that of friendship soothe her ear
True love and friendship are the same.
This tender and elegant lyric was written by James
Thomsonevery body's James Thomsonthe author
of the Seasons. He shines less in song than in loftier
compositionshis verses are fine and polished, but they
want the ready, native, and original grace of language
which is so peculiar to Scottish song.
174
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE SPINNING-WHEEL.
As I sat at my spinning-wheel,
A bonny lad was passing by :
I view'd him round, and lik'd him weel,
For troth he had a glancing eye.
My heart new panting 'gan to feel,
But still I turn'd my spinning-wheel.
With looks all kindness he drew near,
And still mair lovely did appear ;
And round about my slender waist
He clasp'd his arms, and me embrae'd :
To kiss my hand syne down did kneel,
As I sat at my spinning-wheel.
My milk-white hands he did extol,
And prais'd my fingers lang and small,
And said, there was nae lady fair
That ever could with me compare.
These words into my heart did steal,
But still I turn'd my spinning-wheel.
Altho' I seemingly did chide,
Yet he wad never be denied,
But still declar'd his love the mair,
Until my heart was wonnded sair :
SCOTTISH SONGS.
175
That I my love could scarce conceal,

Yet still I turn'd my spinning-wheel.
My hanks of yarn, my rock and reel,
My winnels and my spinning-wheel ;
He bade me leave them all with speed,
And gang with him to yonder mead.
My yielding heart strange flames did feel,
Yet still I turn'd my spinning-wheel.
About my neck his arm he laid,
And whisper'd, Rise, my bonny maid,
And with me to yon hay-cock go,
111 teach thee, better wark to do.
In troth 1 loo'd the motion weel,
And loot alane my spinning-wheel.
Amang the pleasant cocks of hay,
Then with my bonny lad I lay ;
What lassie, young and saft as I,
Could sic a handsome lad deny ?
These pleasures I cannot reveal,
That far surpast the spinning-wheel.
This old free song is from Ramsay's collectionand
if love triumphs over household rule and domestic in
dustry, the success is very natural and very common.
176
SCOTTISH SONGS.
MY MITHER'S AY GLOWRIN O'ER ME.

My mither's ay glowrin o'er me,
Though she did the same before me ;
I canna get leave
To look at my love,
Or else she'll be like to devour me.
Right fain wad I tak ye'r offer,
Sweet sirbut I'll tine my tocher ;
Then, Sandy, ye'll fret,
And wyte ye'r poor Kate,
Whene'er ye keek in your toom coffer.
For though my father has plenty
Of siller and plenishing dainty ;
Yet he's unco swear
To twin wi' his gear
And sae we had need to be tenty.
Tutor my parents wi' caution,
Be wylie in ilka motion ;
Brag weel o' ye'r land,
And there's my leal band
Win them, I'll be at your devotion.
This song is a felicitous and natural expression of
every-day feeling ; but it lacks that luxuriant warmth
SCOTTISH SONGS.
177
of fancy that sheds a poetic glow over the young laird's

address. The maiden is too prosaic : she looks as if she
had chanted her answer while under the chilling in
fluence of her " Mither's glowre." Ramsay, indeed, does
not often give us that pure extract of the heart which old
Daniel mentions as constituting the very soul of poesy ;
for he writes not so much from the overflowings of a
wayward and sprightly fancy as from the treasured
riches of a retentive memory, and an acute observation
of his fellow men and of social manners : he is, in short,
the poet of mind rather than of nature, and delineates
always with a correct and lively, and sometimes with a
satiric and humorous pen, the thoughts, and feelings,
and conceptions which are peculiar to youthful and
amorous spirits.
CAKES O' CROUDY.

Clunie the deddy, and Rethy the monkey,
Leven the hero, and little Pitcunkie :
0 where shall ye see, or find such a soudy?
Bannocks of bear meal, cakes of croudy.
Deddy on politics dings all the nation,
As well as Lord Huffie does for his discretion ;
And Crawford comes next with his Archie of Levy,
Wilkie, and Webster, and Cherry-trees Davy.
VOL. III.
178
SCOTTISH SONGS.
There's Greenock, there's Dickson, Houston of that

ilkie,
For statesmen, for taxmen, for soldiers-what think ye ?
Where shall ye see such, or find such a snudy ?
There's honest Mass Thomas, and sweet Geordie Brodie,
Weel ken'd William Veitch and Mass John Goudy,
For preaching, for drinking, for playing at noudy
There's Semple for pressing the grace on young lasses ;
There's Hervey and Williamson, two sleeky asses :
They preach well, and eat well, and play well at
noudy
Bluff Mackey for lying, lean Lawrence for griping ;
Grave Burnet for stories, Dalgleish for his piping ;
Old Ainslie the prophet for leading a dancie,
And Borland for cheating the tyrant of Francie.
There's Menie the daughter, and Willie the cheater,
There's Geordie the drinker, and Annie the eater
Where shall ye see such, or find such a soudy ?
Next come our statesmenthese blessed reformers !
For lying, for drinking, for swearing enormous
Argyle and brave Morton, and Willie mv lordic
Bannocks of bear meal, cakes of croudy-
SCOTTISH SONGS.
179
My curse on the grain of this hale reformation,

The reproach of mankind and disgrace of our nation :
Ddl hash them, deil smash them, and make them a
soudy;
Knead them like bannocks, and steer them like croudy.
This song was written by Lord Ncwbottlc, in the
year 1 688, and published by James Hogg in his Jacobite
relics. There is some liveliness about it ; but, like all
lyrics concerning the heroes of the day, it is obscure
without illustration ; and illustration cannot confer
eminence on men not naturally eminent. Of Leven
the hero, it is said, that he whipped Lady Mortonhall
with his whip ; and the indiscretion of the Rev. David
Williamson with the daughter of Lady Cherrytrees is
recorded by William Meston, in some biting and in
decorous lines. The fine genius of Burnet could not
save him from the scoff of our noble ballad maker ; and
the conduct of the Prince and Princess of Orange and
the Princess of Denmark is open to the censure or the
praise of posterity. They who praise them must wil
fully forget their ties of nature with the king they de
throned ; and those who censure mnst suppose that they
had no love of religion or country about them. Some
of the song seems not so old as the Revolution.
n2
180
SCOTTISH SONGS.
KENMURE'S ON AND AWA, WILLIE.

,' '. * ' .
Kenmure's on and awa, Willie,
Kenmure's on and awa ;
And Kenmure's lord is the bravest lord
That ever Galloway saw.
Success to Kenmure's band, Willie,
Success to Kenmure's band ;
There's no a heart that fears a Whig
E'er rides by Kenmure's hand.
O, Kenmure's lads are men, Willie,
O, Kenmure's lads are men ;
Their hearts and swords are metal true,
And that their foes shall ken.
They'll live and die wi' fame, Willie,
They'll live and die wi' fame ;
And soon wi' sound of victoryMay Kenmure's lads come hameHere's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie,
Here's Kenmure's health in wine ;
There ne'er was a coward of Kenmure's blood,
Nor yet of Gordon's line.
His lady's cheek grew red, Willie,
Syne white as sifted snaw :
There rides my lord, a Gordon gude,
The flower of Gallowa.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
181
There's a rose in Kenmure's cap, Willie,

A bright sword in his hand
A hundred Gordons at his side,
And hey for English land !
Here's him that's far awa, Willie,
Here's him that's far awa ;
And here's the flower that I love best,
The rose that's like the snaw.
The " Gordon's line" has lately been restored to the
honours of which it was deprived by the unfortunate
hero of this lyrie. The Galloway Gordons, a numerous
and opulent race, rejoiced on the occasion, after the
manner of Scotland, with feast and dance and song.
The story of William Gordon, Viscount Kenmure, is
matter of history. He left Galloway with two hundred
horsemen well armed ; and joining the Earl of Derwentwater, advanced to Preston with the hope of being
reinforced by the English Jacobites, a numerous, but an
irresolute body. Here the rebel chiefs were attacked
by General Carpenter : their sole resource was in their
courage ; and this seems to have failed some of them
the result need not be told. Kenmure was beheaded on
Tower-hill.It is said of the present viscount's mother,
a proud Mackenzie, that she refrained from acknowledg
ing in the usual way the presence of his late Majesty on
the terrace-walk of Windsor ; and walked loftily past,
rustling her silks with a becoming dignity. The King
found a cure for this : he sent his compliments, and said
he honoured those who were stedfast in their principles.
182
SCOTTISH SONOS.
The lady's pride submittedFor when did a monarch

pay a compliment in vain ?
I have endeavoured to give an accurate copy of this
favourite song. It is of Galloway origin, with a few
touches by Burns and other hands; and more verses
might be added.
KILLICRANKIE.
Whare hae ye been sae braw, lad ?
Whare hae ye been sae brankie-o ?
Whare hae ye been sae braw, lad ?
Came ye by Killicrankie-o ?
An ye had been whare I hae been,
Ye wadna be sae cantie-o ;
An ye had seen what I hae seen,
On the braes of Killicrankie-o.
I faught at land, I faught at sea,
At hanie I faught my auntie-o ;
But I met the devil and Dundee
On. the braes o' Killicrankie-o.
The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr,
And Clavers gat a clankie-o,
Else I had fed an Athol gled,
On the braes o' Killicrankie-o.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
183
O fie, JVIuckay ! 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.
Of John Grahame, of Claverhouse, much has been
written and much said ; and over his fall at Killicrankie the Cameronians have shouted, and the Jacobites
mourned. The former recognised him by the name of
the Bloody Claver'se, imagined he had entered into a
covenant with the enemy of mankind, and finally slew
him with a silver button, for he was supposed to be proof
against lead and steel : the latter admired him as a man
bold and chivalrous, devoted to their cause, a soldier
of no common capacity, and in whose untimely death
they saw the downfall of their hopes. He was cer
tainly a gallant commander, but a relentless and unsparing
one ; and his conduct in the Persecution has called all
the generous and noble qualities in question which his
admirers have assigned him. Sir Walter Scott has
painted a stern and unbending hero, who shed human
blood with as little compunction as one would drain a
fen, and who thought all nobleness of nature was con
fined to the cavaliers. James Hogg pulled him down
from this high station, made him a contemptible stabber
and oppressor, and gave him a thirst for blood, which
18*
SCOTTISH SONG*.
was often allayed, l>ut never appeased. The latter is

far wrong, nor am I sure that the former is quite right.
His death was according to his characterhe was fol
lowing the vanquished enemy, and shouting and calling
his men onward, with his sword waving over his head,
when he received a ball under his arm, and instantly
fell. He lived only till he wrote a short account of his
victory to King James, and was buried at Blair Athol.
KING WILLIAM'S MARCH.

O Willie, Willie Wanbeard,
He's awa' frac hame,
Wi' a budget at his back,
An' a wallet at his wame :
But some will sit on his seat,
Some will eat of his meat,
Some will stand i' his shoon,
Or he come again.
He's awa' to ride,
Wi' a bullet in his bortree,
And a shable by his side ;
But some will whyte wi' Willie's knife,
Some will kiss Willie's wife
Some will wear his bonnet,
Or he come again.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
'..:j<v
185

He's awa' to sail,
Wi' water in his waygate,
An' wind in his tail ;
Wi' his back boonermost,
An' his kyte downermost,
An' his flype hindermost,
Fighting wi' his tail.
He's awa' to fight ;
But fight dog, fight bane,
Willie will be right :
An' he'll do, what weel he may,
An' has done for mony a day,
Wheel about, an' rin away,
Like a wally wight.
O saw ye Daddy Duncan
Praying like to cry ?
Or saw ye Willie Wanbeard
Lying in the rye ?
Wi' his neb boonermost,
An' his doup downermost,
An' his flype hindermost,
Like a Pesse pie !
In ridiculing the martial prowess of King William,

the author of this song has drawn a very ungracious
186
SCOTTISH SONGS.
picture of his person, and represented him as suffering

by sea-sickness on his way to Ireland. James Hogg
supposes it to be from the pen of some waggish cavalier,
and says he has often heard the two first verses sung as
an interlude in a nursery tale. The song is whimsical
rather than humorous : to ridicule William's prowess,
was to attack him where he was least vulnerable his
courage was less questionable than his military capacity.
Like many other Jacobite effusions, it begins with hope,
and concludes with prophecy; but the true spirit of
prophecy had long before passed out of song, and the
Stuarts were gonenever to return.
LAMENT FOR LORD MAXWELL.

Green Nithisdale, make moan, for thy leaf's in the fa',
The lealest of thy warriors are drapping awa' ;
The rose in thy bonnet, that flourished sae and shone,
Has lost its white hue, and is faded and gone !
Our matrons may sigh, our hoary men may wail,
He's gone, and gone for ever, the Lord of Nithisdale !
But those that smile sweetest may have sadness ere
lang,
And some may mix sorrow with their merry merry sang.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
187
Full load was the merriment among onr ladies a',

They sang in the parlour and danced in the ha'
O Jamie's coming hame again to chase the Whigs awa' :
But they cannot wipe the tears now so fast as they fa'.
Our lady dow do nought now but wipe aye her een
Her heart's like to burst the gold-lace of her gown ;
Men silent gaze upon her, and minstrels make a wail
0 dool for our brave warrior, the Lord of Nithisdale !
Wae to thee, proud Preston !to hissing and to hate
1 give thee: may wailings be frequent at thy gate !
Now eighty summer shoots of the forest I have seen,
To the saddle-lapps in blude i' the battle I hae been,
But I never ken'd o' dool till I ken'd it yestreen.
0 that I were laid where the sods are growing green !
1 tint half mysel' when my gude lord I did tine
He's a drop of dearest blood in this auld heart of mine.
By the bud of the leaf, by the rising of the flower,
By the sang of the birds, where some stream tottles o'er,
I'll wander awa' there, and big a wee bit bower,
To hap my gray head frac the drap and the shower ;
And there I'll sit and moan till I sink into the grave,
For Nithsdale's bonnic Lord ay the bravest of the
brave !
O that I lay but with him, in sorrow and in pine,
And the steel that harms his gentle neck wad do as
much for mine !
188
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The hero of this song, the Earl of Nithsdale, was

taken prisoner, along with Viscount Kenmure and many
other noblemen, at Preston in Lancashire, and sentenced
to be beheaded. His countess, a lady of great presence
of mind, contrived and accomplished his escape from the
Tower.Her fortitude, her patience, and her intrepidity
are yet unrivalled in the history of female heroism. A
letter from the Countess, containing a lively and circum
stantial account of the Earl's escape, is in Terreagles
House in Nithsdale, dated from Rome in the year 1718.
From the woman's cloak and hood, in which the Earl
was disguised, the Jacobites of the north formed a new
token of cognizanceall the ladies who favoured the
Stuarts wore " Nithsdales," till fashion got the better
of political love. I wish the royal clemency had ex
tended to the ancient and noble name of Maxwell, when
other names were restored to their honours. The house
of Nithsdale is the representative of a numerous class
in Dumfriesshire and Galloway. An old man once
counted to me forty gentlemen's families, all of the name
of Maxwell.They are less numerous now.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
189
.[,i*/.:.
WHAT NEWS TO ME, CUMMER.
-ri'iJ
;-.!
'i ' i
Now what news to me, Cummer,

Now what news to me ?
Enough o' news, quo' the Cummer,
The best that God can gie.
Has the Duke hanged himsel, Cummer,
Has the Duke hanged himsel,
Or taken frae the other Willie
The hottest nook o' hell ?
*
The Duke's hale and fier, carle,
The blacker be his fa' !
But our gude Lord of Nithsdale
He's won frae 'mang them a'.
Now bring me my bonnet, Cummer,
Bring me my shoon ;
I'll gang and meet the gude Nithsdale,
As he comes to the town.
Alake the day ! quo' the Cummer,
Alake the day ! quoth she ;
He's fled awa' to bonnie France,
Wi' nought but ae pennie I
We'll sell a' our corn, Cummer,
We'll sell a' our bear ;
And we'll send to our ain lord
A' our sett gear.
' .
190
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Make the piper blaw, Cummer
Make the piper blaw ;
And let the lads and lasses both
Their souplc shanks shaw.
We'll a' be glad, Cummer,
We'll a' be glad ;
And play " The Stuarts back again,"
To make the Whigs mad.
This rude song of welcome was first printed in the

Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song. The second
line of the second verse gives me occasion to notice a
mistake made by Lord Byron, in one of his latest
works, where he speaks so fondly of Scotland, and re
calls the scenes where he had passed his youth. He
quotes a rhyming proverb :
Brig of Balgonie,
Black be yere wa' !
Wi' a wife's ae wean,
And a mare's ac foal,
Down shall ye fa'.
His lordship should have written
Brig of Balgonie,
Black be yere fa' !
" Black be yere fa', or fate," is a common execration ;
the word " fa'," the Scottish synonyme of " fate," had
SCOTTISH SONGS.
191
perhaps puzzled and misled the noble poet. In his

poem he renders the mistake incurable, where he sings
of " Balgonie's brig's black wall."
THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE

COMES HAME.
By yon castle wa', at the close o' the day,
I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray ;
And as he was singing, the tears they down came,
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
The church is in ruins, the state is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars :
We darena weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame
My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
And now I greet round their green beds in the yird ;
It hrak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame
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 till Jamie comes hame
This very beautiful song is from the pen of Burns,
192
SCOTTISH SONGS.
inspired in some small degree by an old fragment of the

same character and on the same subject. It first ap
peared in Johnson's Musical Museum. The last four
lines of the first verse belong to the old fragment. The
subdued and sedate sorrow of the old man's lamenta
tion is very touchingthe love for his lost children, .
and for his ancient line of kings, lends an interest na
tional and domestic, which is not surpassed in any of
the songs of that unhappy cause.
DERWENTWATER
O, Derwentwater's a bonnie lord,
He wears gowd in his hair,
And glenting is his hawking e'e
Wi' kind love dwelling there.
Yestreen he came to our lord's yett,
. And loud loud could he ca',
Rise up, rise up, for good King James,
And buckle, and come awa.
Our Indie held by her gude lord,
Wi' weel love-locket hands ;
But when young Derwentwater came,
She loos'd the snawy bands.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
193
And when young Derwehtwater kueul'd,

My gentle fair ladie !
..:.: i ;;.. v..The teare gave way to the glow o' lure
In our gude ladies e'e.
-. ,
I will think me on this bonnie ring,
And on this snawy hand,
When on the helmy ridge o' weir
Comes down my burly brand.
And I will think on thae links o' gowd
Which ring thy bright blue een,
When I wipe off the gore o' weir,
And owre my braid sword lean.
O never a word our ladie spake,
As he press'd her snawy hand ;
And never a word our ladie spake,
As her jimpy waist he spann'd ;
But, O my Derwentwater ! she sighed,
When his glowing lips she fend.
He has drapp'd frae his hand the tassel o' gowd
Which knots his gude weir-glove,
And he has drapp'd a spark frae his een
Which gars our ladie love.
Come down, come down, our gude lord says,
Come down, my fair ladie ;
O diiina young Lord Derwent stop,
The morning sun is hie.
VOL. HI.
19*
, ,
SCOTTISH SONGS.
And high high raise the morning sun, ' H
Wi' front o' ruddie blade
Thy harlot front, frae the white curtain,
Jiui
Betokens naething gude.
.i, '.i mit-iin'n
Our ladie look'd frae the turret top
;. i a
As lang as she could see ;
And every sigh for her gude lord,
For Derwent there were three.
I believe there is no traditional testimony to support

the surmise of the poet, that the wife of one of the Ja
cobite chiefs had a criminal regard for the unfortunate
Earl of Derwentwater. He was a young and brave
and generous nobleman, and his fate was vehemently
lamented in the north of England. The aurora borealis,
which appeared then for the first time, and shone re
markably vivid on the night of his execution, is still
known in the north by the name of Lord Derwentwater's lights. A very beautiful song is popularly
known by the title of " Lord Derwentwater's good
night."
And fare thee well, my bonnie gray steed,
That carried me ay sae free,
I wish I had been asleep in my bed,
The last time I mounted thee :
The warning bell now bids me cease,
My trouble's nearly o'er ;
Yon sun now rising from the sea
Shall rise on me no more.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
19B
Fifteen hundred braver men never were led to battle

than those whom Dcrwentwater conducted to Preston :
but the senses of the leaders seemed bewildered and
confounded, and they allowed themselves to be sur
rounded and manacled, and conducted to the axe and
the gibbet without murmur or resistance.
AWA WHIGS, AWA.

Our thistles flourished 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, awa,
Awa whigs, awa ;
Ye're but a pack o' traitor loons,
Ye'll ne'er do good at a'.
Our sad decay in church and state
Surpasses my descriving ;
The whigs came o'er us for a curse,
And we have done wi' thriving.
A foreign whiggish loon brought seeds,
In Scottish yird to cover ;
But we'll pu' a' his dibbled leeks,
And pack him to Hanover.
o2
196
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Our ancient crown's fan i' the dust,
.- Deil blind them wi' the stour o't!
And write their names' i' his black beuk,
Wha ga'e the whigs the power o't !
. -
1
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.
The deil he heard the stour o' tongues,
And ramping came aiming us ;
But he pitied us sae wi' cursed whigs,
He turn'd, and wadna wrang us.
Sae grim he sat amang the reek,
Thrang bundling brimstone matches ;
And croon'd, 'mang the beuk-taking whigs,
Scraps of auld Calvin's catches.
Awa whigs, awa,
Awa whigs, awa ;
Ye'll rin me out o' wun spunks,
And ne'er do good at a'.
Some of the lines of this song are as old as the days

of Oliver Cromwell, and some of them are of very re
cent composition. It was a favourite fancy of the Ja
cobites to place their enemies in perdition, and distribute
infernal power and rule among them according to their
SCOTTISH SONGS.
197
labours in the cause of the house of Orange or Hanover.

Meston, and many nameless writers, indulged in this
poetical mode of punishment ; which drew down upon
them the indignant reproach of Addison. I wish not to
defend it ; but since the Whigs divided all power and
domination among themselves on this earth, the Ja
cobites might be justified in their imaginary appropria
tion of paradise and in allotting a place of punishment to
their enemies.The air of the song is very ancient.
THE WEE WEE GERMAN LAIRDIE.

Wha the deil hae we got for a king
But a wee wee German lairdie ?
And when we gade to bring him hame
He was delving his kail-yardie :
Sheughing kail, and laying leeks,
Without the hose, and but the breeks ;
And up his beggar duds he cleeks
The wee wee German lairdie.
And he's clapt down in our gudeman's chair,
The wee wee German lairdie ;
And he's brought fouth o' foreign trash,
And dibbled them in his yardie.
He's pu'd the rose o' English loons,
And broken the harp o' Irish clowns,
But our thistle top will jag his thumbs
The wee wee German lairdie.
198
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Come np amang our Highland hills,

Thon wee wee German lairdie,
And see the Stuarts' lang-kail thrive
We dibbled in our yardie :
And if a stock ye dare to pu',
Or haud the yoking o' a plough,
We'll break your sceptre o'er your num'.
Thou wee bit German lairdie.
. .
i :.
Our bills are steep, our glens are deep,

Nae fitting for a yardie ;
And our Norland thistles winna pu',
Thou wee bit German lairdie :
And we've the trenching blades o' weir
Wad prune ye o' your German gear
We'll pass ye 'neath the claymore's sheer,
Thou feckless German lairdie.
Auld Scotland, thou'rt o'er cuuld a hole
For nursing foreign vermin ;
But the very dogs o' England's court,
They bark and howl in German.
Short while they'll fawn and lick thy hand
Wc come wi' target and wi' brand
To sweep them frae the southron land
Thou wee wee German lairdie.
The idea of this song is old, so are the three starting
lines ; all the rest is modern. The poverty of the Elector
of Hanover, and the laborious industry with which he
strove to maintain the external show of worldly splen
SCOTTISH SONGS.
199
dour, formed a theme for the Jacobite bards both of Eng

land and of Scotland. I have before me a copy of a
scoffing ballad, which was chanted through London on
the arrival of George the First Had the monarch un
derstood our language, the song must have given him a
very mean idea of Jacobite satire. Its burthen is Ger
man poverty and English abundance, and the wonder
which our wardrobes and dinner tables excited in the
royal minds of the strangers.
THE CUCKOO.
The Cuckoo's a bonny bird when he comes home,
The Cuckoo's a bonny bird when he comes home ;
He'll fley away the wild birds that flutter round the
throne
My bonny bonny Cuckoo when he comes home.
The Cuckoo's a bonny bird, and he'll ha'e his day ;
The Cuckoo's the royal bird, whatever they may say ;
Wi' the whistle o' his mou, and the blink o' his e'e,
He'll scare a' the unco birds away frae me.
The Cuckoo's a bonny bird when he comes home,
The Cuckoo's a bonny bird when he comes home ;
He'il fley away the wild birds that flutter round the
throne
My bonny Cuckoo, when he comes home.
200
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The Cuckoo's a bonny bird, but far frae his hame,

I ken him by the feathers that grow about his kame ;
And round that double kame yet a crown I hope to see,
For my bonny Cuckoo he is dear unto me.
" I took these two verses," says James Hogg,
" from the recitation of a shrewd idiot, one whom
we call in Scots a ' half daft man,' named William
Dodds ; who gave it as a quotation, in a mock discourse
which he was accustomed to deliver to the lads and
lasses in the winter evenings, to their infinite amuse
ment, in the style and manner of a fervent preacher. It
is not easy to discover where the similarity existed be
tween the Chevalier and the cuckoo." The similarity is
this : with the coming of the cuckoo the Chevalier was
looked forthe bird and the prince were expected in
April : the cuckoo was therefore " a bonnie bird when he
came hame," since his first note in the land, and the warcry of the Stuarts, would be heard together. In the
same manner a violet was employed by the partisans of
Buonaparte to indicate the period of his return from
Elba. " II reviendrai an printems," was their am
biguous motto ; and their hero was recognised and his
praises celebrated under the fantastic epithet of " Cor
poral Violet"
SCOTTISH SONGS.
.I i.
i'<..'.,
i ' :.
. i .
901
. .
.
' .' '
< ,c. . .. ' ..t '.
I HAE NAE KITH, I HAE NAE KIN.
.
I hae nae kith, I hae 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 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.
202
SCOTTISH SONGS.
James Hogg says, " 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 lyrical songs of Scotland." The ingratitude of the
Prince and Princess of Orange many old songs have cele
brated :
.
.....i
:
'
.i... i i
Ken ye the rhyme to porringer
Ken ye the rhyme to porringer?
King James he had a daughter dear,
And he gave her to an Oranger.
Ken ye how he requited him
Ken ye how he requited him ?
The knave into Old England came,
And took the crown in spite o' him.
Scottish verse-makers indulged to the last the idle
hope of the return of the Stuarts, and expressed their
wishes in a thousand forms of hope and prophecy. Their
expectations may be traced through innumerable mazes
of allegorical absurdity ; but they may be well excused
for this affectation, since a plainer song would have put
them in some small jeopardy.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
II... ill :!'-. '

,:..
203
. .
CARLE, AN THE KING 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 eVry man shall hae his ain,
I trow we swapped for the worse,
We ga'e the boot and better horse ;
And that we'll tell them at the cross,
When yellow corn grows on the rigs,
And gibbets stand to hang the Whigs,
O then we'll a' dance Scottish jigs,
Nae mair wi' pinch and drouth we'll dine,
As we ha'o donea dog's propine,
But quaff our waughts o' rosic wine,
Cogie, an the king come,
Cogie, an the king come,
I'sc be fou, and thou'sc be toom.
Cogie, an the king come.
ili
204
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The concluding verse of this old Jacobite chant is a

fair specimen of the drunken loyalty with which many
noblemen and squires of low degree cherished the me
mory and the hopes of the house of Stuart. They could
carouse and empty the cup to any cause. The song has
long been a favourite, and many variations arc known
among the peasantry.
MACDONALD'S GATHERING.
Come along, my brave clans,
There's nae friends sae staunch and true ;
Come along, my brave clans,
There's nae lads sae leal as you.
Come along, Clan-Donuil,
Frae 'mang your birks and heather braes,
Come with bold Macalister,
Wilder than his mountain raes.
Gather, gather, gather,
From Loch Morer to Argyle ;
Come from Castle Tuirim,
Come from Moidart and the Isles :
Macallan is the hero
That will lead you to the field.
Gather, bold Siolallain,
Sons of them that never yield.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
305
Gather;, gather, gather,

Gather from Lochaber glens ;
Mae-Hie- Rannail calls you :
Come from Taroph, Roy, and SpcanGather, brave Clan-Donuil,
Many sons of might you know ;
Lenochan's your brother,
Aucterechtan and Glencoe.
Gather, gather, gather,
'Tis your prince that needs your arm ;
Though Maccoiinel leaves you,
Dread no danger or alarm.
Come from field or foray,
Come from sickle and from plough ;
Come from cairn and correi,
From deer-wake and driving too.
Gather, bold Clan-Donuil,
Come with haversack and cord ;
Come not late with meal or cake,
But come with durk, and gun, and sword.
Down into the Lowlands
Plenty bides by dale and burn ;
Gather, brave Clan-Donuil,
Riches wait on your return.
This song, we are told by Mr. Hogg in his Reliques,
is a genuine highland lyric, translated by a lady of the
SCOTTISH SONGS.
family of the Macdonnells. It is full of animation and
bustle. It resembles very closely, in several passages,
the inimitable " Pibroch of Donuil Dhu," by Sir Walter
Scott.
. . i.":!
THE JACOBITE MUSTER-ROLL.

Duncan's coming, Donald's coming.
Colin's coming, Ronald's coming,
Dugald's coming, Lachlan's coming,
Alister and a's coming.
Little wat ye wha's coming
Jock, and Tam, and a's coming.
Borland and his men's coming*
Cameron and M'Lean's coming,
Gordon and M'Gregor's coming,
Ilka Dunywastle's coming
Little wat ye wha's coming,
M'Gillavry and a's coming.
Wigton's coming, Nithsdale's coming,
Carnwath's coming, Kenmure's coming,
Derwentwater and Foster's coming,
Withrington and Nairn's coming
. Blythe Cowhill and a's coming.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The laird of M'Intosh is coming,
M'Crabie and M 'Donald's coming,
. M'Kenzic and M'Pherson's coming,
And the wild M'Craws are coming
Donald Gun and a's coming.
!90T
. i
.i
*-,..*
They gloom, they glour, they look sae big,

At ilka stroke they'll fell a Whig ;
They'll fright the fuds of the pockpuds,
For many a buttock bare's coming
Jock, and Tam, and a's coming.
This lyric is a curious example of highland song, but

it gives a very imperfect list of the noblemen and gentle
men who followed the fortunes of the house of Stuart.
It seems to have been written about the time of the Earl
of Marr's march to Sheriflmuir, yet many of the principal
chiefs are forgotten : where is Athol, Brcadalbane, Ogilvie, Keith, and Stuart ? I shall not attempt any account
of all the names signalized in this songsome are known
to history, and others are beyond the historian's power.
The Gordons were the first to join, and the first to run
away; the Macgregors loved plunder better than the
line of the Stuarts; the laird of Macintosh was the
leader of ten small combined clans; the Macdonalds
brought four powerful and independent clans ; the Mac
kenzie:* of Seaforth appeared at the head of their warlike
name ; and the Macphersons, next to the Macintoshes in
SCOTTISH SONGS.
power, were conducted by the gallant Clunic. One of
the bravest of them all was the laird of Borland, the
leader of the Macintoshes: he was taken at Preston,
and, with eighteen others, broke, sword in hand, out of
Newgate prison, and escaped to France.
;
THE WHITE COCKADE.
My love was born in Aberdeen,

The bonniest lad that e'er was seen ;
But now he makes our hearts fu' sad,
He 's ta'en the field wi' his white cockade.
O, he 's a ranting, roving blade !
O, he's a brisk and a bonny lad !
Betide what may, my heart is glad,
To see my lad wi' his white cockade.
O, leeze me on the philabeg,
The hairy hough, and garter'd leg !
But aye the thing that glads my e'e
Is the white cockade aboon the bree.
I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,
My rippling kame, and spinning wheel,
To buy my lad a tartan plaid,
A braid sword and a white cockade. .
SCOTTISH SONGS.
209
111 sell my rokelay and my tow,

My gude gray marc and hawkit cow,
That every loyal Buchan lad
May take the field wi' his white cockade.
O, he's a ranting, roving blade !
O, he's a brisk and a bonny lad !
Betide what will, my heart is glad
To see my lad wi' his white cockade.
The tune is beautiful, and the song has obtained most
of its reputation from the air. Though it sings of the
white cockade, the well-known cognizance of the house
of Stuart, the strain is feeble and ineffectual. Other
versions have more life in them, but far less delicacy.
It is needless to attempt their purification.
THE YOUNG MAXWELL.
Where gang ye, ye silly auld carle,

Wi' yere staff and shepherd fare ?
I'm gaun to the hill, thou sodger-man,
To shift my hirsels' lair.
Ae stride or twa took the silly auld carle,
An' a gude lang stride took he.
I trow thou art a frock auld carle,
Wilt thou show the way to me ?
VOL. III.
810
SCOTTISH SONGS.
For I have ridden down bonnie Nith,
Sae have I the silver Orr,
And a' for the blood of the young Maxwell,
Which I love as a gled loves gore.
And he is gone wi' the silly auld carle,
Adown by the rocks sae steep,
Until that they came to the auld castle
That hangs o'er Dee sae deep.
The rocks were high, the woods were dark,
The Dee roll'd in its pride ;
Light down and gang, thou sodger-man,
For here ye mayna ride.
He drew the reins of his bonnie gray steed,
And gaily down he sprang :
His war-coat was of the scarlet fine,
Where the golden tassels hang.
He threw down his plaid, the silly auld carle,
The bonnet frae boon his bree :
And who was it but the young Maxwell ?
And his good brown sword drew he.
Thou kill'd my father, thou base Southron,
Sae did ye my brethren three ;
Which broke the heart of my ae sister,
I loved as the light o' my c'e.
Now draw thy sword, thou base Southron,
Red wet wi' blood o' my kin ;
That sword, it cropt the fairest flower
E'er grew wi' a head to the sun.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
211
There's ae stroke for my dear auld father,

There's twa for my brethren three ;
And there's ane to thy heart for my ae sister,
Whom I loved as the light of my e'e.
Instead of saying why or when I wrote this song, or
telling the reasons that induced me to imitate the natural
ballad style of the north, I will tell a little touching
story, which has long been popular in my native place.
At the close of the last rebellion, a party of the Duke
of Cumberland's dragoons passed through Nithsdale;
they called at a lone house, where a widow lived, and
demanded refreshments. She brought them milk ; and
her son, a youth of sixteen, prepared kale and butter
this, she said, was all her store. One of the party in
quired how she lived on such slender means : " I live,"
she said, " on my cow, my kale-yard, and on the blessing
of God." He went and killed the cow, destroyed her
kale, and continued his march. The poor woman died
of a broken heart, and her son wandered away from
the inquiry of friends and the reach of compassion. It
happened, afterwards, in the continental war, when
the British army had gained a great victory, that the
soldiers were seated on the ground, making merry with
wine, and relating their exploits" All this is nothing,"
cried a dragoon, " to what I once did in ScotlandI
starved a witch in Nithsdale ; I drank her milk, I killed
her cow, destroyed her kale-yard, and left her to live
upon Godand I dare say he had enough ado with
her." " And don't you rue it ?" exclaimed a soldier
p2
212
SCOTTISH SONGS.
starting up"don't you rue it?" "Rue what?" said

the ruffian ; " what would you have me rue ? she's dead
and damned, and there's an end of her." " Then, by my
God!" said the other, "that woman was my mother*-*
draw your sworddraw." They fought on the spot, and
while the Scottish soldier passed his sword through his
body, and turned him over in the pangs of death, he
said, " Had you but said you rued it, God should have
punished you, not I."
JOHN CAMERON.
The weary sun sank down on a day of woe and care,
The parting light shone sad on John Cameron's hoary
hair; .
His dim eyes upturn'd unto Heaven seem'd to grow,
His feeble hands he wrung, and his heart was full of woe.
The steps of the spoiler were fresh by his hame,
The fires of the reaver in embers were warm ;
He look'd ay, and sigh'd, as his heart would burst in twa,
The cruel Duke of Cumberland has ruin'd us a* !
Three fair sons were mine, young, blooming, and bold ;
They all lie at other's sides, bloody and cold :
I had a lovely daughter, the delight of every e'e,
And dear as the promise of Heaven unto me.
I had a pleasant hame, and a sweet wife there,
Wi' twa bonnie grandbairns, my smiling to share ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
21 S
Wi' plenty in my barn, and abundance in my ha'

0 the cruel Duke of Cumberland has ruin'd us a' !
Our country's laid desolate, our houses are reft,
And nought but the wish for to right us is left ;
Revenge and despair ay by turns weet my e'e ;
The fall of the spoiler I long for to see.
Friendless I lie, and friendless I gang,
I've nane but kind Heaven to tell of my wrang.
Thine old arm, quo' Heaven, cannot strike down the
proud,
1 shall keep to myself the revenge of thy blood.
An imperfect copy of this song found its way out of
Cromek's Remains into the Jacobite Relics. In my
native county of Dumfries the memory of the Duke of
Cumberland is most cordially detested among the pea
santry, who hate cruelty, and love clemency and bene
volence They have many stories to tell of the miseries
which came upon all those who hunted down the dis
comfited rebels, and conducted them to death. One un
happy man was followed so closely, that he ran up to
the neck in a mill-dam ; there his pursuers proposed to
leave him, and were dispersing, when a farmer rode into
the water and brought him outhe was taken to Carlisle
and executed. In the wreck of the farmer's affairs, and
in the misfortunes which befel him and his children, the
peasantry saw the visitation of Heaven for spilt blood.
Instances might be multiplied, but I shall desist. It is
said of a wounded highlandcr, that when he was exhorted
214
SCOTTISH SONGS.
to relinquish all thoughts of revenge against his enemy,

inasmuch as revenge belonged to the Lord, " Aye, aye,"
exclaimed the expiring man, " I thought it was owre
sweet a morsel for a mortal."
CARLISLE YETTS.
White was the rose in my love's hat,
As he rowed me in his lowland plaidie ;
His heart was true as death in love,
His hand was aye in battle ready.
His long, long hair, in yellow hanks,
Waved o'er his cheeks sae sweet and ruddy ;
But now it waves o'er Carlisle yetts,
In dripping ringlets, soil'd and bloody.
When I came first through fair Carlisle,
Ne'er was a town sae gladsome seeming ;
The white rose flaunted o'er the wall,
The thistled pennons wide were streaming.
When I came next through fair Carlisle,
O sad, sad seem'd the town and eerie !
The old men sobb'd, and gray dames wept,
O lady ! come ye to seek your dearie?
I tarried on a heathery hill,
My tresses to my cheeks were frozen ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
215
And far adown the midnight wind

I heard the din of battle closing.
The gray day dawnedamang the snow
Lay many a young and gallant fellow ;
And O ! the sun shone bright in vain,
On twa blue een 'tween locks of yellow.
There's a tress of soil'd and yellow hair
Close in my bosom I am keeping
Now I have done with delight and love,
And welcome woe, and want, and weeping.
Woe, woe upon that cruel heart,
Woe, woe upon that hand sae bloody,
That lordless leaves my true love's hall,
And makes me wail a virgin widow !
The heads of the rebels were fixed on many places
throughout the kingdom ; and an old lady of Dumfries
shire often mentioned to me the horror which she felt
when she saw several heads on the Scottish gate of
Carlisle, one of which was that of a youth with very
long yellow hair. The story of a lady, young and
beautiful, who came from a distant part, and gazed at
this head every morning at sunrise, and every evening
at sunset, is also told by many. At last the head and
the lady disappeared. The name of the youth I have
heard, but cannot remember it ; that of the lady was
ever a- secret. It is said, from some sorrowful words
which she dropt, that the youth was her brother.
316
SCOTTISH SONOS.
LOCHMABEN GATE.
. .
..-...* .V:
As I came by Lochmaben gate,

It's there I saw the Johnstones riding ;
Away they flew, and they fear'd no foe,
With their drums a beating, colours flying.
All the lads of Annandale
Came there, their gallant chief to follow ;
Brave Burleigh, Ford, and Ramerscales,
With Winton and the gallant Rollo.
I ask'd a man what meant the fray
Good sir, said he, you seem a stranger :
This is the twenty-ninth of May
Far better had you shun the danger.
These are rebels to the throne,
Reason have we all to know it ;
Popish dogs and knaves each one.
Pray pass on, or you shall rue it.
I look'd the traitor in the face,
Drew out my brand and ettled at him :
Deil send a' the whiggish race
Downward to the dad that gat 'em !
Right sair he gloom'd, but naething said,
While my heart was like to scunner ;
Cowards are they born and bred,
Ilka whinging, praying sinner.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
317
My bonnet on my sword I bare,

And fast I spurr'd by knight and lady,
And thrice I waved it in the air,
Where a' our lads stood rank'd and ready.
Long live King James ! aloud I cried,
Our nation's king, our nation's glory !
Long live King James ! they all replied,
Welcome, welcome, gallant Tory !
There I shook hands wi' lord and knight,
And mony a braw and buskin'd lady ;
But lang I'll mind Lochmaben gate,
And a' our lads for battle ready.
And when I gang by Locher-briggs,
And o'er the moor, at e'en or morrow,
I'll lend a curse unto the Whigs,
That wrought us a' this dool and sorrow.
This border song found a place among the Jacobite
Relics. I have no doubt of its beauty, but much of its
authenticity. That it was composed on a heartless or a
drunken rising of some of the Jacobite gentlemen of the
district is certain ; that it was written near the time of
the rebellion of 1715 is far more than questionable. It
appears that, on the 29th of May, 1714, the two Max
wells of Tinwald, with Johnstone of Wamphray and
Carruthers of Ramerscales, marched up to the cross of
Lochmaben with drums beating and colours flying,
where they drank the exiled king's health on their
knees, and execrated all who refused to do the like. But
218
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I can find no farther proof of the folly of the name of

Johnstonethe Maxwells persevered and suffered. The
hand of royal vengeance fell heavy on many families,
and on none heavier than on the ancient and warlike
name of Halliday. For putting their foot in the stirrup
for the Stuarts, the Hallidays had their name erased
from among the proprietors of Annandale. Sir Andrew
Halliday is one of the representatives of the old heroes
of Corehead, and the descendant of Thomas Halliday,
sister's son of the renowned Sir William Wallace. I
am grieved to see possessions pass away from a name
which warred so well and so willingly of old for the
freedom of Scotland.
YOUNG AIRLY.
Ken ye ought of brave Lochiel ?
Or ken ye ought of Airly ?
They have belted on their bright broad-swords,
And aff and awa' wi' Charlie.
Now bring me fire, my merry, merry men,
And bring it red and yarely
At mirk midnight there flashed a light
O'er the topmost towers of Airly.
What lowe is yon, quo' the gude Lochiel, '
Which gleams so red and rarely ?
SCOTTISH SONGS.
219
By the God of my kin, quo' young Ogilvie,

It's my ain bonnie hame of Airly !
Put up your sword, said the brave Lochiel,
And calm your mood, quo' Charlie ;
Ere morning glow we'll raise a lowe
Far brighter than bonnie Airly.
O, yon fair tower's my native tower !
Nor will it soothe my mourning,
Were London palace, tower, and town,
As fast and brightly burning.
It's no my hamemy father's hame,
That reddens my cheek sae sairlie,
But my 'wife and twa sweet babes I left
To smoor in the smoke of Airly.
The lady of young Ogilvie of Airly, a Johnstone of
Westerhall, accompanied him through the vicissitudes
of the rebellion, marched with him into England, was
with him during the whole of the disastrous retreat from
Derby to Culloden ; and her love for her husband, and
attachment to the house of Stuart, is yet the theme of
story and tradition. I believe the burning of Airly is a
gratuitous piece of poetical mischief; and though his
Grace the Duke of Cumberland had much to answer
for, Lady Ogilvie and her children cannot be numbered
among those who suffered by fire, abundantly as they
suffered in other respects. There is an old ballad com
memorating the destruction of Airly by the Earl of
Argyle.
220
SCOTTISH SONGS.
CAME YE OE'R FRAE FRANCE.

Came ye o'er frae France ?
Came ye down by Lunnon ? '
Saw ye Geordie Whelps
And his bonny woman ?
Were ye at the place
Ca'd the Kittle Housie ?
Saw ye Geordic's grace
Riding on a goosie ?
Geordie he's a man,
There is little donbt o't ;
He's done a' he can,
Wha can do without it ?
Down there came a blade,
Linkin like my lordie ;
He wad drive a' trade
At the loom of Geordie.
Though the claith were bad,
Blithely may we niffer;
Gin we get a wab,
It makes little differ.
We hae tint our plaid,
Bonnet, belt, and swordie,
Ha's and mailins braid
But we hae a Geordie !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
221
Jocky's ganc to France,

And Montgomery's lady ;
There they'll learn to dance
" Madam, are ye ready ?"
They'll be back beliye,
Belted, brisk, and lordly ;
Brawly may they thrive
To dance a jig wi' Geordie.
Hey for Sandy Don !
Hey for Cockolorum !
Hey for bobbing John
And his Highland quorum !
Mony a sword and lance
Swings at Highland hurdie ;
How they'll skip and dance
O'er the bum o' Geordie !
Some of this song is new, much of it is old, and much
of it obscure. The suspicious and dubious story of
Kouingsmark <is alluded to in the second and third
verses ; but the volatile bard skips away from that tragic
occurrence as if it only furnished fresh matter for his
mirth, and loses himself in the obscurity of wild plots
and wilder prophecies. It is not easy to guess at his
meaning ; but the lively image of Jacobite triumph with
which the song terminates cannot fail to be understood :
the attempt to realize it caused much blood to be shed,
and filled the north with mourning. Count Kouings
mark was of great personal beauty ; and his barbarous
222
SCOTTISH SONGS.
murder of Mr. Thynne showed that his ferocity was

equal to his outward accomplishments. That the elec
toral princess loved him many have doubted ; that she
favoured him few have denied. His vanity aspired to
her person, and his presumption was rewarded by an im
mediate order of banishment. He besought a parting
kiss of the princess's hand, and she indulged him with
this in her chamber. He left the room, and never went
farther ; for he was seized and destroyed, and his body
was secreted under her dressing-room, where it was
discovered in the succeeding reign.
THE LOVELY LASS OP INVERNESS.

There liv'd a lass in Inverness,
She was the pride o' a' the town ;
Blithe as the lark on gowan top,
When frae the nest it's newly flown.
At kirk she wan the auld folks' love,
At dance she wan the lads's ecn ;
She was the blithest o' the blithe,
At wooster-trystes or Halloween.
As I came in by Inverness,
The simmer sun was sinking down ;
O there I saw the weelfaur'd lass,
And she was greeting through the town.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
223
The gray-hair'd men were a' i' the streets,

And auld dames crying sad to see,
The flower o' the lads o' Inverness
Lie bloody on Culloden lee !
She tore her haflFet links o' gowd,
And dighted aye her comely e'e ;
My father lies at bloody Carlisle
At Preston sleep my brethren three !
I thought my heart could haud nac mair,
Mae tears could never blind my e'e ;
But the fa' o' ane has burst my heart,
A dearer ane there ne'er could be !
He trysted me o love yestreen,
O' love tokens he gave me three ;
But he's faulded i' the arms o' weir,
O, ne'er again to think o' me !
The forest flowers shall be my bed,
My food shall be the wild berrie,
The fa'ing leaves shall hap me owre,
And wauken'd again I winna be.
O weep, O weep, ye Scottish dames !
Weep till ye blind a mither's e'e ;
Nae reeking ha' in fifty miles,
But naked corses, sad to see !
O, spring is blithesome to the year ;
Trees sprout, flowers spring, and birds sing hie ;
224
SCOTTISH SONGS.
But, O what spring can raise them up,
When death for ever shuts the e'e ?
The hand o' God hung heavy here,
And lightly touch'd foul tyrannic :
It struck the righteous to the ground,
And lifted the destroyer hie.
But there's a day, quo' my God, in prayer,
When righteousness shall bear the gree :
I'll rake the wicked low i' the dust,
And wauken in bliss the gude man's e'e.
The battle of Culloden-moor extinguished for ever the

hopes of the house of Stuart ; and our Jacobite songs were
ever after sobered down into a sorrowful and desponding
strain. The blood shed at the battle, and the desolation
which the unbridled soldiery spread over so much of Scot
land, made an impression on the hearts of the people
which was long in effacing. In the ruin of so many
families, and the destruction of so many houses, the
Cameraman s beheld the fulfilment of their great apostle's
prophecy : the song, therefore, sings no fabulous woes.
It was first published in the Remains of Nithsdale and
Galloway song.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
225
JOHNIE COPE.
Cope sent a challenge frae Dunbar
Come, Charlie, meet me gin ye daur,
And I'll learn you the art of war,
If you'll meet me in the morning.
My men are bauld, my steeds are rude ;
They'll dye their hoofs in highland blood,
And eat their hay in Holy rood
By ten to-morrow morning.
When Charlie looked the letter on,
He drew his sword the scabbard from
Come follow me my merry merry men
To meet Johnic Cope in the morning.
Hey, Johnie Cope, are ye waking yet,
Or are your drums abeating yet ?
Wi' claymore sharp and music sweet
We'll make ye mirth i' the morning.
Atween the gray day and the sun
The highland pipes came skirling on ;
Now fye, Johnie Cope, get up and run,
'Twill be a bloody morning.
O yon's the warpipes' deadlie strum,
It quells our fife and drowns our drum ;
The bonnets blue and broadswords come
'Twill be a bloody morning.
VOL. III.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Now, Johnie Cope, be as good's your word,
And try our fate wi' fire and sword ;
And takna wing like a frighten'd bird
That's chased frae its nest in the morning.
The warpipes gave a wilder screed,
The clans came down wi' wicked speed :
He laid his leg out o'er a steed
I wish you a good morning.
Moist wi' his fear and spurring fast,
An auld man speered as Johnie past
How speeds it wi' your gallant host ?
I trow they've got their corning.
I'feith, quo' Johnie, I got a fleg
Frae the claymore and philabeg :
If I face them again, deil break my leg,
So I wish you a good morning.
, .
Johnie Cope is an universal favourite in Scotland ;

and no song in existence has so many curious variations.
Yet it must be confessed that the charm lies more with
the music than the poetry. The present copy is made
out of various versions ; and some liberties have been
taken in rendering it more pointed and consistent.
Prince Charles displayed great presence of mind and
great personal bravery in the battle of Prestonpans,
which the impetuous charge of the clans rendered very
short and decisive.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
KIRN-MILK GEORDIE.
It's James and George, they war twa lords,
And they've coosten out about the kirn ;
But Geordie he proved the strongest loon,
And he's gart Jamie stand a hin'.
And hey now, Geordie, Geordie, Geordie,
Ply the cutty as lang as ye can ;
For Donald the piper will win the butter,
And nought but kirn-milk for ye than.
And aye he suppit, and aye he swat,
And aye he ga'e the tither a girn,
And aye he fykit, and aye he grat,
When Donald the piper ca'd round the kirnAnd up wi' Geordie, kirn-milk Geordie,
He is the king-thief o' them a' ;
He steal'd the key, and hautet the kirn,
And siccan a feast he never saw.
He kicked the butler, hanged the groom,
And turn'd the true men out o' the ha' ;
And Jockie and Sawney were like to greet,
To see their backs set at the wa\
And up wi' Geordie, kirn-milk Geordio,
He has drucken the maltman's ale ;
But he'll be nickit ahint the wicket,
And tuggit ahint his gray mare's tail.
2
227
&28
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Young Jamie has rais'd the aumry cook,

And Jockie has sworn by lippie and law ;
Douce Sawney the herd has drawn the sword,
And Donald the piper the warst of a'.
And down wi' Geordie, kirn-milk Geordie ;
He maun hame but stocking or shoe,
To nump his neeps, his sybows, and leeks,
And a wee bit bacon to help the broo.
The cat has clomb to the eagle's nest,
And suck it the eggs, and scar'd the dame ;
The lordly lair is daubed wi' hair ;
But the thief maun strap, an' the hawk come hame.
Then up wi' Geordie, kirn-milk Geordie,
Up wi' Geordie high in a tow :
At the last kick of a foreign foot,
We'se a' be ranting roaring fou.
The life and humour of this song will excuse some
little coarseness, and the strange mixture of allegory
with figures of flesh and blood. The animation com
mences with the commencing line and continues to the
last. James Hogg describes it as old : of its antiquity
I have many doubts. The poverty of the house of
Hanover seems to have given our Jacobite poets great
satisfaction ; for it forms the theme of many a ditty ;
and perhaps they persevered till the visible and surpass
ing misery of the house of Stuart caused their satire to
cut with two edges. The obscurities which deform the
Jacobite songs arose in a great measure from the figu
SCOTTISH SONGS.
229
rative way in which they expressed the hopes and fears

of the party. To sing plainly was to sing seditiously ;
and the poet was fain to escape from the penalties of
law into the region of dark metaphor, from which the
most scrupulous Whig should not extract a meaning
that could be followed up by fining or imprisonment.
DONALD MACGILLAVRY.
Donald's gane up the hill hard and hungery,
Donald comes down the hill wild and angry ;
Donald will clear the gouk's nest cleverly
Here's to the king and Donald Macgillavry.
Come like a weigh bauk, Donald Macgillavry,
Come like a weigh bauk, Donald Macgillavry ;
Balance them fair, and balance them cleverly
Offwi' the counterfeit, Donald Macgillavry.
Donald's run o'er the hill but his tether, man,
As he were wud, or stang'd wi' an ether, man ;
When he comes back there's some will look merrily
Here's to King James and Donald Macgillavry.
Come like a weaver, Donald Macgillavry,
Come like a weaver, Donald Macgillavry ;
Pack on your back, and elwand sae cleverly,
Gic them full measure, my Donald Macgillavry.
230
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Donald has foughten wi' rief and roguery,

Donald has dinner'd wi' banes and beggary ;
Better it were for Whigs and whiggery
Meeting the devil than Donald Macgillavry.
Come like a tailor, Donald Macgillavry,
Come like a tailor, Donald Macgillavry ;
Push about, in and out, thimble them cleverly
Here's to King James and Donald Macgillavry.
Donald's the callan that brooks nae tangleness,
Whigging, and prigging, and a' new fangleness ;
They maun be gane, he winna be baukit, man ;
He maun hae justice, or faith he'll tauk it, man.
Come like a cobler, Donald Macgillavry,
Come like a cobler, Donald Macgillavry ;
Beat them, and bore them, and lingel them cleverly
Up wi' King James and Donald Macgillavry.
Donald was mumpit wi' mirds and mockery,
Donald was blinded wi' blads o' property ;
Aries run high, but makings were naething, man
Lord, how Donald is flyting and fretting, man !
Come like the devil, Donald Macgillavry,
Come like the devil, Donald Macgillavry ;
Skelp them and scaud them that prov'd sae un~
britherly
Up wi' King James and Donald Macgillavry.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
231
This is the cleverest of all our party songs ; sharp,

lively, and original. I know not to whose hand we owe
it : it cannot well be so old as the period of the last re
bellion ; for every line has the echo of yesterday, com
pared to the lyrics of the forty-five. " The clan Maegillavry," says James Hogg, " is a subordinate one ; so
that the name seems to represent the whole of the
northern clans. In the Chevalier's muster-roll Maegillavry of Drumglass is named as one of the expected
chieftains ; and in 1745, the brave and powerful clan of
Macintosh was led by Colonel Macgillavry." To the
north of Scotland the house of Stuart seems long to
have looked for salvation: the chieftains of the clans
were deluded by promised power and imaginary rank to
arm in its cause ; and that native pride which nought
can surpass, and that courage which nought can subdue,
were alike bribed to the adventure. How far it suc
ceeded history will ever relate with astonishment. A
small bridge a short way in advance from Derby was
the limit of their daring march ; and their retreat was
still more extraordinary. The people of Derby long
after remembered the friendly visit of the highland
army.
232
SCOTTISH SONGS.
TRANENT MUIR.
The Chevalier, being void of fear,
Did march up Birsle brae, man,
And through Tranent, e'er he did stent,
As fast as he could gae, man ;
While General Cope did taunt and mock,
Wi' mony a loud huzza, man ;
But e'er next morn proclaimed the cock,
We heard anitker craw, man.
The brave Lochiel, as I heard tell,
Led Camerons on in cluds, man ;
The morning fair, and clear the air,
They loos'd with devilish thuds, man ;
Down guns they threw, and swords they drew,
And soon did chace them an", man ;
On Seaton Crafts they buft their chafts,
And gart them rin like daft, man.
The bluff dragoons swore, blood and 'oons,
They'd make the rebels run, man ;
And yet they flee when them they see,
And winna Are a gun, man :
They turn'd their back, the foot they brake,
Such terror seiz'd them a', man ;
Some wet their checks, some fyl'd their breeks,
And some for fear did fa', man.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The volunteers prick'd up their ears,
And vow gin they were crouse, man ;
But when the bairns saw't turn to earn'st,
They were not worth a louse, man ;
Maist feck gade hameO fy for shame !
They'd better stay'd awa', man,
Than wi' cockade to make parade,
And do nae good at a', man.
Menteith the great, when hersell shit,
Un'wares did ding him o'er, man ;
Yet wadna stand to bear a hand,
But aff fou fast did scour, man ;
O'er Soutra hill, e'er he stood still,
Before he tasted meat, man :
Troth he may brag of his swift nag,
That bare him aff sae fleet, man.
And Simpson keen, to clear the een
Of rebels far in wrang, man,
Did never strive wi' pistols five,
But gallop'd with the thrang, man :
He turn'd his back, and in a crack
Was cleanly out of sight, man ;
And thought it best ; it was nae jest
Wi' Highlanders to fight, man.
'Mangst a' the gang nane bade the bang
But twa, and ane was tanc, man ;
For Campbell rade, but Myrie staid,
And sair he paid the kain, man ;
233
234
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Fell skelps he got, was waur than shot,
Frac the sharp-edg'd claymore, man ;
Frae many a spout came running out
His reeking-het red gore, man.
But Gard'ner brave did still behave
Like to a hero bright, man ;
His courage true, like him were few,
That still despised flight, man ;
For king and laws, and country's cause,
In honour's bed he lay, man ;
His life, but not his courage, fled,
While he had breath to draw, man.
And Major Bowie, that worthy soul,
Was brought down to the ground, man ;
His horse being shot, it was his lot
For to get mony a wound, man :
Lieutenant Smith, of Irish birth,
Frae whom he call'd for aid, man,
Being full of dread, lap o'er his head,
And wadna be gainsaid, man.
He made sic haste, sae spurr'd his beast,
'Twas little there he saw, man ;
To Berwick rade, and safely said,
The Scots were rebels a', man :
But let that end, for well 'tis kend
His use and wont to lie, man ;
The Teaguc is naught, he never fought,
When he had room to flee, man.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
And Cadell drest, amang the rest,
With gun and good claymore, man,
On gelding gray he rode that way,
With pistols set before, man ;
The cause was good, he'd spend his blood,
Before that he would yield, man ;
But the night before, he left the core,
And never fac'd the field, man.
But gallant Roger, like a soger,
Stood and bravely fought, man ;
I'm wae to tell, at last he fell,
Bnt mae down wi' him brought, man :
At point of death, wi' his last breath,
(Some standing round in ring, man),
On's back lying flat, he wav'd his hat,
And cry'd, God save the king, man.
Some highland rogues, like hungry dogs,
Neglecting to pursue, man,
About they fac'd, and in great haste
Upon the booty flew, man ;
And they, as gain for all their pain,
Are deck'd wi' spoils of war, man,
Fu' bauld can tell how her nainsell
Was ne'er sae pra before, man.
At the thorn-tree, which you may see
Bewest the meadow-mill, man,
2J5
9S6
SCOTTISH SONGS.
There mony slain lay on the plain,
The clans pursuing still, man.
Sic unco' hacks, and deadly whacks,
I never saw the like, man ;
Lost hands and heads cost them their deads,
That fell near Preston-dyke, man.
That afternoon, when a' was done,
I gaed to see the fray, man ;
But had I wist what after past,
I'd better staid awa', man,
On Seaton sands, wi' nimble hands,
They pick'd my pockets bare, man ;
But I wish ne'er to drie sic fear,
For a' the sum and mair, num.
This very popular and clever song was written by

Mr. Skirving, a farmer near Haddington. Some of the
names which it celebrates are well known ; others are
become obscure. On the three generals whom Prince
Charles and his little band .of adventurers foiled, some
punning person made the following ludicrous but accu
rate epigram :
Cope could not cope, nor Wade wade thro' the snow,
Ner Hawley hawl his cannon on the foe.
For the death of Colonel Gardiner, a brave and de
vout soldier, general lamentation was made : he was cut
SCOTTISH SONGS.
287
down by a highlander, armed with a scythe blade, after

his soldiers had basely deserted him. The story of the
wildness of his youth and of his mysterious conversion
is well known. He was the last of a class of gentlemen
who sought to unite the discordant qualities- of war and
religion ; who prayed] and preached one hour, and
stormed a city and filled it with bloodshed the next.
Lieutenant Smith was deeply offended at the freedom
which the rustic poet took with his name, and sent a
challenge to the author by the hands of a brother officer.
" Go back," said Skirving to the messenger, " and tell
Lieutenant Smith to come here, and I will take a look
at him ; if I think I can fight him, I'll fight him ; if I
think I canna, I'll just do as he didI'll rin awa."
Whenever the song was sung the story of the challenge
was told, and the unfortunate Irishman was obliged to
endure the scoffing verses and sarcastic commentary.
CALLUM-A-GLEN.
Was ever old warrior of suff'ring so weary ?
Was ever the wild-beast so bay'd in his den ?
The Southron blood-hounds lie in kennel so near me,
That death would be freedom to Callum-a-Glen.
My sons are all slain, and my daughters have left me ;
No child to protect me, where once there were ten :
My chief they have slain, and of stay have bereft me,
And woe to the gray hairs of Callum-a-GIen.
238
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The homes of my kinsmen are blazing to heaven,

The bright star of morning has blush'd at the view ;
The moon has stood still on the verge of the even,
To wipe from her pale cheek the tint of the dew ;
For the dew it lies red on the vales of Lochaber,
It sprinkles the cot, and it flows in the pen.
The pride of my country is fallen for ever !
Death, hast thou no shaft for old Callum-a-Glen ?
The sun, in his glory, has look'd on our sorrow,
The stars have wept blood over hamlet and lea :
O, is there no day-spring for Scotland ? no morrow
Of bright renovation for souls of the free ?
Yes : one above all has beheld our devotion,
Our valour and faith are not hid from his ken.
The day is abiding of stern retribution,
On all the proud foes of old Callum-a-Glen.
" It is a pity," says Mr. Hogg, " that I have too
much hand in these songs from the Gaelic, to speak of
them as I feel ; and though this is indebted to me for
the rhyme, I could take it against any piece of modern
poetry." Such is the note which accompanies this
song in the Jacobite Relics. It is no gracious thing
to question a poet's judgment in a matter of verse. I
cannot say that I am captivated with this Highland song
so much as Mr. Hogg is ; the language is cumbrous ;
it wants the air of genuine simplicity which touches me
so much in Burns's Lass of Inverness. It contains no
new images of heroic fortitude, or pathetic suffering or
despair.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.
Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn

Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn !
Thy sons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground.
Thy hospitable roofs no more
Invite the stranger to the door ;
In smoky ruins sunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.
The wretched owner sees afar
His all become the prey of war,
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast, and curses life.
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks ;
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain ;
Thy infants perish on the plain.
What boots it then in every clime,
Through the wide-spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze ?
Thy towering spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke :
239
240
SCOTTISH SONGS.
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage and rancour fell.
The rural pipe and merry lay
No more shall cheer the happy day ;
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night :
No strains but those of sorrow flow,
And nought is heard but sounds of wo ;
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.
Oh, baneful curse ! oh, fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn !
The sons against their fathers stood,
The parent shed his children's blood ;
Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's soul was not appeas'd ;
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames and murdering steel.
The pious mother, doom'd to death,
Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath ;
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread.
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend ;
And, stretch'd beneath the inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
241
Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins,

And unimpair'd remembrance reigns,
Resentment of my country's fate .
Within my filial breast shall beat,
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathizing verse shall flow.
Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn !
Smollett was a Jacobite, but it required little party
spirit to inspire a song which gives a moving picture of
domestic desolation and human sorrow. The Duke of
Cumberland nearly fulfilled the prediction ascribed to
Alexander Peden ; " The day will come, when men may
ride an hundred miles in Scotland, nor see a reeking
house, nor hear a crowing cock !"This moving song
was made on the ravages of the Duke of Cumberland, in
1746. The eastern Cameronians, during the rebellion
of 1715, acted a curious but characteristic part. They
armed and advanced upon Dumfries, but seemed uncer
tain whether they would fight for the " man who sought
the temporal crown, or the man who wore it." They
refused to acknowledge any king but Jesus, or to min
gle with any people who were not covenantedthey
prayed, preached, disputed, and dispersed.
voL. 111.
SCOTTISH SONOS.
THE WAES OP SCOTLAND.

When I left thee, bonny Scotland,
O fair wert thou to see !
And blithe as a bonny bride i' the morn,
When she maun wedded be.
When I came back to thee, Scotland,
Upon a May-morn fair,
A bonny lass sat at our town end,
A leaming her yellow hair.
Oh hey ! oh hey ! sung the bonny lass,
Oh hey, and wae is me !
There's siccan sorrow in Scotland,
As een did never see.
Oh hey,"oh hey, for my father auld !
Oh hey, for my mither dear !
And my heart will burst for the bonny lad
Wha left me lanesome here.
I hadna ganc in my ain Scotland
Mae miles than twa or three,
When I saw the head o' my ain father
Borne up the gate to me.
A traitor's head ! and, A traitor's head !
Loud bawl'd a bloody loon ;
But I drew frae the sheath my glaive o' weir,
And strack the reaver down.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I hied me hame to my father's ha',
My dear auld mither to see ;
Bat she lay 'mang the black eizels,
Wi' the death-tear in her e'e.
0 wha has wrought this bloody wark ?
Had I the reaver here,
I'd wash his sark in his ain heart's blood,
And gie't to his love to wear.
1 hadna gane frae my ain dear hame
But twa short miles and three,
Till up came a captain o' the whigs,
Says, Traitor, bide ye me !
I grippet him by the belt sac braid,
It bursted i' my hand,
But I threw him frae his weir-saddle,
And drew my burly brand.
Shaw mercy on me ! quo' the loon,
And low he knelt on knee ;
And by his thigh was my father's glaivo
Which gude King Bruce did gi'e ;
And buckled round him was the broider'd belt
Which my mither's hands did weave
My tears they mingled wi' his heart's blood,
And reek'd upon my glaive.
I wander a' night 'mang the lands I own'd,
When a' folk are asleep ;
k2
843
244
SCOTTISH SONOS.
And I lie o'er my father and mither's grave
An hour or twa to weep.
(), fatherless and mitherless,
Without a ha' or hame,
I maun wander through my dear Scotland,
And bide a traitor's name.
This song is copied from Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song, where it first appeared ; it has
since found its way into many collections. Mr. Hogg
admitted it into the Jacobite Relics, accompanied by
such praise of the author as I would rather allude to
than quote. It would be uncandid to say such praise
is unwelcome ; for the praise of a man of original
genius will always be considered by the world as an
acceptable thing, and I am willing to acknowledge its
value. The song contains no imaginary picture of Ja
cobite suffering : tradition still tells a similar tale of a
Galloway gentleman, and points out the banks of the
water of Dee as the scene of his single combat with the
spoiler of his house.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
LEWIE GORDON.
O send Lewie Gordon hame,
And the lad I darena name !
Tho' his back be at the wa',
Here's to him that's far awa.
Ohon, my highlandman !
O my bonny highlandman !
Weel wad I my true love ken
Amang ten thousand highlandmen.
O 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' !
The princely youth that I do mean
Is fitted for to be a king ;
On his breast he wears a star
You'd take him for the god of war.
O to see this princely one
Seated on his father's throne !
Disasters a' wad disappear,
Then begins the jub'lee year.
Ohon, my highlandman !
O my bonny highlandman !
Weel wad I my true love ken
Amang ten thousand highlandmen.
245
2*6
SCOTTISH SONGS.
This is a very popular song, and is imagined to be

written by Mr. Geddes, priest at Shenval in the Enzic,
on Lord Lewis Gordon, third son of the Duke of Gor
don, who raised a rebel regiment in 1745, defeated the
Maclcods and took possession of Perth. He escaped
from the field of Culloden, was attainted by Parliament
in 1746, and died at Montreuil in France, in the year
1754. " The lad I darena name" was Prince Charles
Stuart.
ITS HAME AND IT'S HAME.

It's hame and its hame, hame fain would I be,
O, hame, hame, hame to my ain countree !
There's an eye that ever weeps", and a fair face will be
fain,
As I pass through Annan-water with my bonnie bands
again;
When the flower is in the bud, and the leaf upon the
tree,
The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countree.
It's hame and its hame, hame fain would I be,
O hame, hame, hame to my ain countree !
The green leaf of loyalty's beginning for to fa',
The bonnie white rose it is withering and a',
But I'll water't with the blood of usurping tyrannic,
And green it will grow in my ain countree.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
247
It's hame and it's hame, hame fain would I be,

O hame, hame, hame to my am count rce !
There's nought now from ruin my country can save
But the keys of kind heaven to open the grave,
That all the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie
May rise again and fight for their ain countree.
It's hame and it's hame, hame fain would I be,
O hame, hame, hame to my ain countree !
The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save ;
The new grass is growing aboon their bloody grave ;
But the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in my e'e,
I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countree.
This song is noticed in the introduction to the " For
tunes of Nigel," and part of it is sung by Richie Moniplies. It is supposed to come from the lips of a
Scottish Jacobite exile. The old song of the same name
had a similar chorus, and one good verse. Against the
British fleet, which was thenand may it ever con
tinue !master of the sea, the poet prayed for very
effectual aid :
May the ocean stop and stand, like walls on every side,
That our gallant chiefs may pass, wi' heaven for their
guide !
Dry up the Forth and Tweed, as thou didst the Red
Sea,
When the Israelites did pass to their ain countree.
248
SCOTTISH SONGS.
ROYAL CHARLIE.
\
The wind comes frae the land I love,
It moves the gray flood rarely ;..
Look for the lily on the lea,
And look for royal Charlie.
Ten thousand swords shall leave their sheaths,
And smite fu' sharp and sairly ;
And Gordon's might, and Erskine's pride,
Shall live and die wi' Charlie.
The sun shines outwide smiles the sea.
The lily blossoms rarely ;
0 yonder comes his gallant ship
Thrice welcome, royal Charlie !
Yes, yon's a good and gallant ship,
Wi' banners flaunting fairly ;
But should it meet your darling prince,
'Twill feast the fish wi' Charlie.
Wide rustled she her silks in pride,
And waved her white hand lordlie
And drew a bright sword from the sheath,
And answered high and proudlie.
1 had three sons, and a good lord,
Wha sold their lives fu' dearlic
And wi' their dust I'd mingle mine,
For love of gallant Charlie.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
JM9
It wad hue made a hale heart sair

To see our horsemen flying ;
And my three bairns, and my good lord,
Amang the dead and dying :
I snatched a bannerled them back
The white rose flourish'd rarely :
The deed I did for royal James
I'd do again for Charlie.
Most of our Scottish ladies were vehement Jacobites,
and Duncan Forbes found that men's swords did less for
the cause of Prince Charles than the tongues of his fair
countrywomen. Like Mause Headrigg they cried out,
"Testify with your hands as we testify with our
tongues, and they will never be able to harl the blessed
youth into captivity." The gentlemen had the fear of
forfeiture and the headsman's axe upon them ; but the
ladies saw in imagination the splendour of ancient
royalty returning to Scotland, and had visions promising
themselves an increase of importance and glory. This
song comes from the lips of one of those resolute he
roinesprobably a lady of the family of Mar. The
noble name of Erskine has lately been restored to its
honoursan act of tardy but generous clemency.
250
SCOTTISH SONGS.
O'ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE.

Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er,
Come boat me o'er to Charlie !
I'll gi'e John Brown another halfcrown
To boat 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 weal, come woe, we'll gather and go,
And live or die wi' Charlie.
I lo'e weel my Charlie's name,
Though some there be abhor him ;
I'd sing to see auld Nick gaun hame
Wi' Charlie's foes afore him.
The mirkest night will draw to light,
There's sunshine yet for Charlie.
I swear and vow by moon and stars,
And sun that shines sae clearlie,
If I had twenty thousand lives,
I'd die as aft for Charlie.
This sword that shone at Bannockburn
Shall shine again for Charlie.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
This is one of the many lyric effusions with which the
adherents of the house of Stuart sought to preserve the
national love for their ancient line of Princes. It is
however somewhat amended by Burns, and some sense
has been infused into the chorus. In Hogg's " Jacobite
Relics" another verse is added, which takes the song
from the lips of a soldier and gives it to those of a lady.
I think the general feeling is in favour of the former ;
though we have President Forbes's testimony to the
violent love of the ladies for the exiled princes, and the
assurance of Ray that they would listen to no manner
of reason, but were Jacobites one and all. I have re
tained the original version.
LASSIE, LIE NEAR ME.

Lang ha'e we parted been,
Lassie, my dearie ;
Now we are met again,
Lassie, lie near me.
Near me, near me,
Lassie, lie near me ;
Lang hast thou lain thy lunc,
262
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Frae dread Culloden's field,
Bloody and dreary,
Mourning my country's fate,
Lanely and weary ;
Weary, weary,
Lanely and weary ;
Become a sad banish'd wight,
Par frae my dearie.
Loud, loud the wind did roar,
Stormy and eerie,
Far frae my native shore,
Far frae my dearie.
Near me, near me,
Dangers stood near me ;
Now I've escap'd them a',
A' that I ha'e endur'd,
Lassie, my dearie,
Here in thine arms is cur'd
Near me, near me,
Lassie, lie near mc ;
Lang hast thou Iain thy lane,
The original of this very pretty song was purely do

mestican infusion of Jacobite feeling seems not to
SCOTTISH SONGS.
263
have injured cither its tenderness or its simplicity. We

have, however, many varieties of the song. Some fas
tidious persons, who believe that a man never addresses
his wife by any familiar name, have substituted " Wifie,
lie near me ;" others, again, supposed they had amended
the imaginary indecorum by singing " Laddie, lie near
me." If I am called on to confess my own belief in this
matter, I must say that men both of the north and
south are in the practice of bestowing familiar and en
dearing names on their wives, and that I see in the hero
and heroine of this song a wedded pair, who, separated
by misfortune, had met again in mutual and overflowing
joy.
THE TURNIMSPIKE.
Hersell pe highland shentleman,
Pe auld as Pothwell Prig, man ;
And mony alterations seen,
Amang the lawland whig, man.
First when her to te lawlands came,
Nainsell was droving cows, man,
There was nae laws about hims nerse,
About the preeks or trews, man.
Nainsell did wear the philabeg,
The plaid pricked on her shoudcr ;
De gudc claymore hung py her pelt,
Her pistol charged with powder.
254
SCOTTISH SONGS.
But curse upon these Saxon preeks,
In which her limbs are lockit ;
Ohon that ere she saw the day !
For a' her houghs pe prokit.
Every thing in the highlands now
Pe turned to alteration ;
Te sodger dwall at our door cheek,
And tats a great vexation.
Scotland pe turned a Hingland now,
The laws pring in de cadger ;
Nainsell wad durk him for his deeds,
But oh, she fears te sodger.
Anither law came after tat,
Me never saw te like, man ;
They make a lang road on te ground,
And ca' him Turnimspike, man :
And wow she pe a ponny road,
Like Loudon corn riggs, man ;
Where twa carts may gang on her,
And no preak ither's legs, man.
They charge a penny for ilka horse,
In troth she'll no be sheaper,
For nought but gaun upon the ground,
And they gi'e me a paper.
They take the horse then py te head,
And there they make him stand, man ;
She tells them she had seen the day
They had nae sic command, man.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
255
Nae doubt nainsell maun draw her purse,

And pay him what him like, man ;
She'll see a shudgement on his door,
That filthy turnimspike, man.
But I'll away to te highland hills,
Where deil a ane dare turn her,
And no come near the turnimspike,
Save when she comes to purn her.
The humour of this lowland ditty lies not altogether
in the comic style of the highlander : there is consider
able naivete in his complaint against the innovation of
good roads and turnpike-gates, and still more in his
wrath against that injurious and insulting but ludicrous
act of Parliament which imprisoned him in lowland
breeches. I am no admirer of songs which seek to excite
laughter by the imperfections of language ; and I shall
insert no more of those ditties which show up a highlander floundering along in the mysterious humour of
broken English.
256
SCOTTISH SONGS.
ANNIE LAURIE.
Maxwelltown banks are bonnir,
Where early fa's the dew ;
Where I and Annie Laurie
Made up the promise true ;
Made up the promise true,
And never forget will I,
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay down my head and die.
-I .
She's backet like a peacock,

She's breasted like a swan,
She's jimp about the middle,
Her waist you weel may span :
Her waist you weel may span,
And she has a rolling eye,
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay down my head and die.
I found this song in the little " Ballad Book," col
lected and edited by a gentleman to whom Scottish
literature is largely indebted Charles Kirkpatrick
Sharpe of Hoddam. It is accompanied by the following
notice :" Sir Robert Laurie, first Baronet of the Maxwelton family (created 27th March, 1685), by his second
wife, a daughter of Riddell of Minto, had three sons and
SCOTTISH SONGS.
357
four daughters, of whom Anne was much celebrated for

her beauty, and made a conquest of Mr. Douglas of
Fingland, who is said to have composed the following
verses under an unlucky starfor the lady married
Mr. Ferguson of Craigdarroch." I have only to add,
that I am glad such a song finds a local habitation in my
native place.
GIN LIVING WORTH COULD WIN MY

HEART.
Gin riving worth could win my heart,
Ye shou'dna sigh 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 what a heart was that to lose !
But I maun not repine.
Yet oh ! gin heaven in mercy soon
Would grant the boon I crave,
And tak this life, now naething worth,
Sin' Jamie's in his grave !
VOL. III.
'
258
SCOTTISH SONGS.
And see his gentle spirit comes
To shew me on my way ;
Surpriz'd, nae doubt, I still am here,
Sair wond'ring at my stay.
I come, I come, my Jamie dear ;
And oh! wi' what good will,
I follow wheresoe'er ye lead,
Ye canna lead to ill.
She said ; and soon a deadly pale
Her faded cheek possest,
Her waefu' heart forgat to beat,
Her sorrows sunk to rest.
I lament my inability to name the author of this

sweet song. It has been some six-and-thirty years be
fore the public ; and if it be written with an English
pen, it is written with a Scottish spirit. Johnson's
Musical Museum became its first sanctuary, and it soon
won its way to public favour. It is seldom indeed that
songs of this touching and simple kind become public
favourites. The stream of sorrow which glides along
so smooth and so deep fails to glitter and attract as it
flows.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
259
I LO'E NAE A LADDIE BUT ANE.

I lo'e nae a laddie but ane,
He lo'es nae a lassie but me ;
lie's willing to make me his ain,
And his ain I am willing to be.
He eoft me a rokelay of blue,
A pair of mittens of green
The price was a kiss of my mou,
And I paid him the debt yestreen.
My mither's ay making a phrase,
That I'm rather young to be wed ; ,
But lang ere she counted my days,
O' me she was brought to lied.
Sae mother just settle yere tongue,
And dinna be flyting sae bauld,
We can weel do the thing when we're young,
That we canna do weel when we're auld.
Some person informed Burns, that " I lo'e nae a
laddie but ane" was written by " Mr. Clunie"who
ever wrote it, wrote a capital song. I have seen it
printed with the addition of four new verses, the work
seemingly of a very inferior pen, and to which the name
of Macneill was added. Macneill, indeed, could bring
the lyric ease of language necessary for the attempt, but
s2
260
SCOTTISH SONGS.
he could not bring the peculiar life and naivete of the

original words. The last four lines of the first verse are
in the most lucky spirit of true love and innocence, and
the argument by which she subdues her mother is un
answerable. I wish I could be sure of the name of the
author: though Mr. Clunie is mentioned by Burns, I
am not satisfied of his authorship; the poet was no
anxious inquirer, and the song is printed in Kitson with
the initials " I. D." attached to it.
AND YE SHALL WALK IN SILK ATTIRE.

And ye shall walk in silk attire,
And siller hae to spare,
Gin ye'll consent to be his bride,
Nor think o' Donald mair.
O wha wad buy a silken gown,
Wi' a poor broken heart ?
Or what s to me a siller crown
Gin free my love I part ?
The mind whose meanest wish is pure
Far dearest is to me,
And ere I'm forced to break my faith,
I'll lay me down and die :
SCOTTISH SONGS.
261
For I have vowed a virgin's vow,

My lover's fate to share,
And he has gi'en to me his heart,
And what can man do mair ?
*
His mind and manners wan my heart,

He gratefu' took the gift,
And did I wish 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 faith,
I'll lay me down and die.
This is not an old song ; yet its sweetness and beauty
and popularity have not induced the author to claim it.
It made its first appearance about six-and-thirty years
ago, and has maintained a place among the national
songs, after submitting to a few unimportant emenda
tions. The name of the lover was Donald at firstand
so let it remain : but like Sandy in our lowland songs, it
personates a people rather than an individual, and all
such names should be avoided in cither tender or pa
thetic poetry.
262
SCOTTISH SONGS
LOGIE OF BUCHAN.
O Logic of Buchan, it's Logie the laird,
He's ta'en awa' Jamie wha delved in the yard,
Wha played on the pipe and the viol sac sma'
He has ta'en awa' Jamie, the flower o' them a' !
f
Keep up yere heart, lassie, though I'm gann awa'

0 think na lang, lassie, when I'm far awa' ;
For summer will come when cauld winter's awa',
And I'll come and see you in spite o' them a' !
Though Sandie has horses and houses and land,
And Jamie has nought but his heart and his hand,
Yet his look is my life, and his wish is my law ;
They have ta'en awa' Jamie, the flower o' them a' !
My daddie looks sadly, my mother looks sour ;
They mock me wi' Jamie, because he is poor :
But true love's too strong for weak duty to awe
They hae ta'en awa' Jamie, the flower o' them a' !
1 sit in the sunshine and spin on my wheel,
And think on the laddie who loves me sae weel ;
And I think till my heart's fit to start into twa
They hae ta'en awa' Jamie, the flower o' them a' !
Popular belief assigns this song to Lady Ann Lindsay ;
and it is every way worthy of the accomplished au
SCOTTISH SONGS.
263
thoress of " Auld Robin Gray." Many liberties have

been taken with the words : there are few songs
which have undergone more changes within these
forty years. The present version differs from all that
precede it; and it seems to me to have increased in
sweetness and simplicity. The story of the song is
very simple, and is generally felt, because it is true.
Some forty years ago, in the north country, oppressors
like "Logie the laird" were not wanting, to dispose of
the surplus youth of the district to the army or the
plantations ; and many moving stories might be told of
such acts of tyranny and injustice.
THE HIGHLAND CHARACTER.

In the garb of old Gaul, with the fire of old Rome,
From the heath-cover'd mountains of Scotia we come :
When the Romans endeavour'd our country to gain,
O our ancestors fought, and they fought not in vain.
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 honour and
applause,
And defy the French, with all their force, to alter our
laws.
964
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Ho effeminate customs our sinews unbrace ;

No luxurious tables enervate our race ;
Our . loud-sounding pipe breathes the true martial strain,
And our hearts still the old Scottish valour retain.
v.i ,.,.;,. .. i :.:..-. .: ..r . .-; f 1"iAI ! ..i -.'
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 encounter our spear.
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 our foes with our thundering strokes.
Quebec and Cape Breton, the pride of old France,
In their strength fondly boasted till we did advance ;
But when our claymores they saw us produce,
Their courage did fail, and they sued for a truce.
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.
Sir Harry Erskinc of Tony wrote this song, and the
fine air has combined with national vanity to give greater
popularity to the words than they seem to merit. There
is a good deal of animation and some pedantry a great
SCOTTISH SONGS.
265
love of country and a moderate love of truth) and an

enthusiasm which carries patriotism into bombast. I
wish his praise of our valour had been more modest, and
his account of our exploits more discreet. It was printed
by David Herd in 1769, and the music was added by
General Reid. More natural strains and more accurate
praise have succeeded in rendering this far-famed song
less a favourite than heretofore.
,.'...
THE SMILING PLAINS, PROFUSELY GAY.

The smiling plains, profusely gay,
Are drest in all the pride of May ;
The birds, on every spray above,
To rapture wake the vocal grove ;
But, ah ! Miranda, without thee,
Nor spring nor summer smiles on me ;
All lonely in the secret shade
I mourn thy absence, charming maid !
O soft as love ! as honour fair !
Serenely sweet as vernal air !
Come to my arms ; for thou alone
Canst all my absence past atone.
O come ! and to my bleeding heart
The sovereign balm of love impart ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Thy presence lasting joy shall bring,
And give the year eternal spring.
To William Falconer, author of " The Shipwreck,"
we owe this song, if we can imagine we have incurred a
debt of obligation or praise by such a hasty and imper
fect production. It contains nothing either peculiar or
nationalits love is general, and its description diffuse.
I could not refuse place to a brief effusion of an unfor
tunate son of song ; and the pleasure which his fine
poem of " The Shipwreck" has given me would have
secured insertion to less captivating verse. The new
scenes which that pathetic poem opened, and the perfect
enchantment which the whole narrative threw over me,
were such as I can never forget. The truth and nature
of his storythe singular mixture of ancient glory with
present sufferings the labours of the mariners the
augmenting fury of the devouring element, and the final
catastrophe, form altogether a tale which one cannot
well escape from without reading ; and when once read,
it possesses and haunts one. In December 1769 he
sailed for India in the Aurora frigate, in the 39th year
of his age : the ship was never more heard of after leaving
the Cape of Good Hope, and the poet perished with her.
He was a native of Edinburgh.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
HARK YON SWEET BIRD.
Hark yon sweet bird that lonely wails,

His faithful bosom grief assails :
Last night I heard him in a dream,
When death and woe were all the theme.
Like that poor bird, I make my moan
I grieve for one that's dead and gone :
With him, to gloomy woods I'll fly
He wails for love, and so do I !
'Twas love that tamed his tender breast
'Tis grief that robs him of his rest ;
He droops his wings and hangs his head,
Since she he fondly loved is dead !
With my love's breath my joy is gone
With my love's smiles my peace is flown ;
Like that poor bird I pine, and prove
Nought can supply the place of love !
He hangs his feathers since that fate
Deprived him of his darling mate ;
Dimmed is the brightness of his eye ;
His song is now a short sad cry ;
No more the hills and woods among
He'll cheer us with his charming song ;
267
268
SCOTTISH SONGS.
His sorrows, hapless bird, display
An image of my soul's dismay !
Dr. Fordyce, the author of this song, perished at sea

in the year 1755. It was long known under the name
of " The Black Eagle," and the song commenced thus :
" Hark ! yonder eagle lonely calls."
But it has been felt, and felt justly, that a ravenous bird
of prey formed a strange and unnatural image of the
woes of the hero of the song ; and the eagle has been
displaced by a softer bird, the naming of which is left
to the reader's fancy. The Delia of the original song
has also been dethroned ; but as no Scottish family can
be supposed to suffer by the removal, and as the name
injures rather than assists the pathos of the story, it can
be spared without pain.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Sfl&
THEY SAY THAT JOCK WILL SPEED

WEEL O'T.
They say that Jock will speed weel o't,

They say that Jock will speed weel o't ;
For he grows brawer ilka day
I hope well hae a bridal o't.
'Twas yesternight, nae farther gane,
The back house at the side-wall o't,
He there wi' Meg was mirding seen
I hope we'll hae a bridal o't.
An' we had but a bridal o't,
An' we had but a bridal o't,
We'll leave what follows to gude luck,
Although there should betide ill o't.
O bridal-days are merry times..
And young folks like the coming o't ;
The bards lilt up their merry rhymes,
And pipers like the bumming o't.
The lasses like a bridal o't,
The lasses like a bridal o't ;
Their brews maun be in rank and file,
Although that they should guide ill o't.
270
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The bottom of the kist is then
Turn'd up unto the inmost o't ;
The end that held the claes sae clean
Is now become the toomest o't.
The barnman at the threshing o't,
The barnman at the threshing o't,
Afore it comes is fidgin fain,
And ilka day is clashing o't.
He'll sell his jerkin for a groat,
His bonnet for anither o't ;
And ere he want to clear his shot,
His sark shall pay the tither o't.
When they have done wi' eating o't,
When they have done wi' eating o't,
For dancing they gae to the green,
And aiblins to the beating 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 fcezings o't.
This rough provincial strain was written by Alexander

Ross, author of the " Fortunate Shepherdess." It brought
no increase to his reputation : the festivities of a rustic
bridal had been chanted before him by livelier spirits,
and, like other imitators, he has failed in equalling his
prototypes.
The " Blythesome Bridal" could not be
SCOTTISH SONGS.
271
surpassed in its kind: Ross had little to add, and he

could not excel. There is some truth and life in the
closing verse. To clap the hands in the dance, in the
manner described, is a common feat of rustic activity ;
but the continual ducking of the head is ungraceful, and
the din of the hands more clamorous than agreeable. A
battle was formerly, and indeed lately, no uncommon
termination to religious as well as festive meetings. A
devout lowlander once informed me that in his youth he
attended a highland kirk, to which the pastor regularly
went with an excellent staff of root-grown oak, to arbi
trate between his quarrelsome parishioners, who, after
sermon, amused themselves with fighting in the kirkyard.
0'ER THE MOOR AMANG THE HEATHER.
Coming through the crags o' Kyle,

Amang the bonnie blooming heather,
There I met a bonnie lassie,
Keeping a' her ewes thegither.
O'er the moor amang the heather,
O'er the moor amang the heather ;
There I met a bonnie lassie,
Keeping a' her ewes thegither.
272
SCOTTISH SONGS.
. Says I, my dear, where is thy hame, '

In moor or dale, pray tell me whether ?
She says, I tend the fleecy flocks
That feed amang the blooming heather.
. .. .
.
.
....... v .. *
We laid us down upon a bank,
Sae warm and snnnie was the weather:
She left her flocks at large to rove
Amang the bonnie blooming heather.
While thus we lay, she sang a sang,
Till echo rang a mile and farther ;
And aye the burden of the sang
Was, O'er the moor amang the heather.
She charm'd my heart, and aye sinsyne
I couldna think on ony other :
By sea and sky, she shall be mine,
The bonnie lass amang the heather !
O'er the moor amang the heather,
Down amang the blooming heather,
By sea and sky, she shall be mine,
The bonnie lass amang the heather !
A singular story is told about the origin of this very
beautiful song.Burns says, " Coming through the
Crags o' Kyle" is the composition of Jean Glover, a girl
who was not only a whore but a thief, and in one or
SCOTTISH SONGS.
#78
other character had visited most of the correction-houses

in the west. She was born, I believe, in Kilmarnock.
I took the song down from her singing, as she was
strolling through the country with a slight-of-hand
blackguard." There are older, and there are newer
verses on this subject, but Jean Glover has surpassed
them far in gaiety, and life, and ease. Her song became
popular about the year 1 790, and is likely to continue a
favourite.
FOR THE SAKE OF GOLD.

For the sake of gold she has left me-o ;
And of all that's dear she's bereft me-o ;
She me forsook for a great duke,
And to endless wo 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 ;
Thro' distant climates I must rove,
Since Jeany she has left me-o.
VOL. III.
274
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Ye powers above, I to your care
Resign my faithless lovely fair ;
Your choicest blessings be her share,
Tho' she has ever left me-o !
To the inconstancy of Miss Jean Drummond, of Megginch, we are indebted for this popular song. It is sel
dom that woman's fickleness produces so much pleasure.
Dr. Austin, a physician in Edinburgh, had wooed and
won this young lady, when her charms captivated the
Duke of Athol; and the doctor was compelled to console
himself with song when his bride became a duchess.
One naturally inquires the cause of such inconstancy ;
and it would appear that her lover was right when he
sung,
For the sake of gold she has left me-o.
"
i/
The noble admirer for whose love she was faithless was
a man somewhat advanced in lifea widow had won
him before, and borne him a familyand he had only
wealth and rank to oppose to youth and to talent. On
the death of his grace the duchess married Lord Adam
Gordon, and Providence indulged her with a long life,
that she might reflect and repent.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
875
CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES.

Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
Ca' them where the heather grows,
Ca' them where the bnrnie rowes,
My bonnie dearie.
As I gade down the water side,
There I met my shepherd lad,
He rowed me sweetly in his plaid,
An' he ca'd me his dearie.
Will ye gang down the water side
And see the waves sae sweetly glide
Beneath the hazels spreading wide ?
The moon it shines fu' clearly.
Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf leather shoon to thy white feet ;
And in my arms yese lie and sleep,
And ye shall be my dearie.
If ye '11 but stand to what ye've said,
Ise gang wi' you, my shepherd lad,
And ye may rowe me in your plaid,
And I shall be your dearie.
t2
276
SCOTTISH SONGS.
While water wimples to the sea,
While day blinks in the lift sae hie,
Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my c'e,
Ye shall be my dearie.
The song is partly old and partly new ; what is old

is very old, what is new was written by a gentleman
of the name of Pagan. The last verse is very sweet
and sincere. To render the song more consistent I
have omitted one verse, in which the heroine is made
to express her apprehensions of a moonlight walk by the
river side, though she had been before on the banks of
the same stream, and " rowed sweetly" in her shepherd's
plaid. It is a very pleasant pastoral, and was once very
popular. Its truth can be felt by all who have led
out their flocks to pasture by the green braes, on
the heathy hills, and by the running streams. Burns
says, " this song is in the true old Scottish taste, yet I
do not know that either air or words were ever in print
before." It has a border sound ; and the line,
Ise gang wi' you, my shepherd lad,
i Annandale or Eskdale, and, I believe, good Yarrow.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
TULLOCHGORUM.
Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cried,
And lay your disputes all aside,
What signifies't for folks to chide
For what's been done before them ?
Let Whig and Tory all agree,
Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,
Let Whig and Tory all agree
To drop their whigmegmorum.
Let Whig and Tory all agree
To spend the night with mirth and glee,
And cheerfu' sing alang wi' me
The reel of Tullochgorum.
Tullochgorum's my delight,
It gars us a' in ane unite,
And ony sumph that keeps up spite,
In conscience I abhor him.
Blithe and merry we's be a',
Blithe and merry, blithe and merry,
And mak' a cheerfu' quorum.
As lang as we hae breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',
The reel of Tullochgorum.
277
278
SCOTTISH SONGS.
There needs na be sae great a phraize,
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays ;
I wadna' gie our ain strathspeys
For half a hundred score o 'em.
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Douff and dowie, douff and dowie,
Wi' a' their variorum.
Their allegros, and a' the rest,
They canna please a Highland taste
Compared wi' Tullochgorum.
Let warldly minds themselves oppress
Wi' fear of want, and double cess,
And silly sauls themselves distress
Wi' keeping up decorum.
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Like auld Philosophorum ?
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,
And canna rise to shake a fit
At the reel of Tullochgorum ?
May choicest blessings still attend
Each honest-hearted open friend,
And calm and quiet be his end,
And a' that's good watch o'er him !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
279
May peace and plenty be his lot,

Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,
And dainties a great store o' em !
Unstain'd by any vicious blot ;
And may he never want a groat
That's fond of Tullochgorum.
But for the discontented fool
Who wants 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,
And honest souls abhor him !
And a' the ills that come frae France,
Whae'er he be that winna dance
The reel of Tullochgorum !
The Reverend John Skinner wrote this song; and
Burns speaks of it with a rapture which I hope was
real, for I would rather suppose that his judgment was
for once infirm, than imagine him insincere. His words
areand they are exceedingly characteristic
" Accept in plain dull prose my most sincere thanks
for the best poetical compliment I ever received. I as
sure you, Sir, as a poet, you have conjured up an airy
280
SCOTTISH SONGS.
demon of vanity in my fancy which the best abilities in

your other capacity will be ill able to lay. I regret
and while I live shall regretthat when I was north
I had not the pleasure of paying a younger brother's
dutiful respect to the author of the best Scotch song
ever Scotland saw, " Tullochgorum's my delight" The
world may think slightly of the craft of song-making,
if they please ; but as Job says, ' O that mine adversary
had written a book !' Let them try."
Tullochgorum is indeed a lively clever song, but I
would never have edited this collection had I thought
with Burns, that it is the best Scotch song Scotland
ever saw. I may say with the king in my favourite
ballad,
I trust I have within my realm
Five hundred good as he.
MATRIMONIAL HAPPINESS.
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.
A mutual flame inspires us baith,
The tender look, the melting kiss :
. .
Ev'n years shall ne'er destroy our love,
But only gie us change o' bliss.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
281
Haelawish? it's a' for tlieft; . .

.
:.. ,.. i.lI ken thy wish is me to please;
Our moments pass so 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 ay when weary cares arise,
Thy bosom still shall be my home.
I'll lay me there, and take 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 :
Hae I a joy ? it's a' her ain ;
United Still her heart and mine ;
They're like the woodbine round the tree,
That '8 twined till death shall them disjoin.
The great and merited success of Burns inspired many
of the rustics of Scotland with a belief, that as they
equalled him in condition and in education, they also
equalled him in genius.
Volume followed volume,
and it was long before the contempt or the neglect
of mankind succeeded in silencing their idle strains.
Among them came forward John Lapraik, portioncr of
Dalfram, near Muirkirk, in Ayrshire, the correspondent
of Burns, and to whom the youthful poet, ambitious of
distinction, had addressed several of his most exquisite
poetic epistles. But of all the verses with which Lap
raik courted public notice, time has left us nothing, save
282
SCOTTISH SONGS.
the present song. It obtained the early admiration of

Burns ; and had it wanted such patronage, the poetical
compliment which he paid it would have secured it from
forgetfulness.
Lapraik, in a moment when he forgot whether he
was rich or poor, became security for some persons con
cerned in a ruinous speculation called the Ayr Bank,
and was compelled to sell his little estate on which his
name had been sheltered for many centuries. His se
curities were larger than the produce of his ground
covered, and he found his way into the jail of Ayr when
he was sixty years old. In this uncomfortable abode,
his son told me, he composed this song: it is recon
cilable with the account which he gave to Burns, that
he made it one day when his wife had been mourning
over their misfortunes.
MY GODDESS, WOMAN.
Of mighty Nature's handy-works,
The common or uncommon,
There's nought through a' her limits wide
Can be compared to woman.
The farmer toils, the merchant trokes,
From dawing to the gloamin ;
The farmer's cares, the merchant's toils,
Are a' to please thee, woman.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The sailor spreads the daring sail,
Through billows chafed and foaming,
For gems and gold, and jewels rare,
To please thee, lovely woman.
The soldier fights o'er crimson'd fields,
In distant climates roaming ;
But lays, wi' pride, his laurels down,
Before thee, conquering woman.
The monarch leaves his golden throne,
With other men in common,
And lays aside his crown, and kneels
A subject to thee, woman.
Though all were mine e'er man possess'd,
Barbarian, Greek, or Roman,
What would earth be, frae east to west,
Without my goddess, woman ?
This very clever song has failed to find public favour :
the ladies, on whom it lavishes such praise, have treated
it with coldness and neglect. It first appeared in John
son's Musical Museum : the author's name is John Learmont, and he was a gardener at Dalkeith. He was one of
those lesser spirits whom the success of Burns called into
the world for a little space. He seems to have had some
of the right stuff about him for a lyric poet. This song
is very happily imagined, but the execution is unequal.
284
SCOTTISH SONGS.
t
'
ii
THE WAYWARD WIFE.
Alas ! my son, you little know

The sorrows which from wedlock flow :
Farewell sweet hours of mirth and ease,
When you have gotten a wife to please.
Your hopes are high, your wisdom small,
Woe has not had you in its thrall ;
The black cow on your foot ne'er trod,
Which makes you sing along the road.
Stay Solway's tide, rule Criffel's wind,
Turn night to day, and cure the blind ;
Make apples grow on alder trees,
But never hope a wife to please.
Whate'er you love she'll mock and scorn,
Weep when you sing, sing when you mourn ;
Her nimble tongue and fearless hand
Are ensigns of her high command.
When I, like you, was young and free,
I valued not the proudest she ;
Like you, my boast was bold and vain,
That men alone were born to reign.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
286
Great Hercules and Sampson too

Were stronger far than I or you,
Yet they were baffled by their dears,
And felt the distaff and the shears.
Stout gates of brass, and well-built walls,
Are proof 'gainst swords and cannon-balls ;
But nought is found, by sea or land,
That can a wayward wife withstand.
This clever song was written by Miss Jenny Grahame
of Dumfries, a maiden lady of lively wit, fascinating
manners, and in her youth one of the most accomplished
dancers in the district. She composed many other verses,
but the present song alone escaped from her hand into
popularity. In the Orlando Furioso of Sir John Har
rington we meet with the proverbial line,
The black oxe has not trod on their toe ;
and in the north of England it still continues to be ap
plied in the manner of the song.
286
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE MILLER.
O merry may the maid be
Who marries wi' the miller,
For foul day or fair day
He's ay bringing till her ;
Has ay a penny in his pouch,
Has something het for supper,
Wi' beef and pease, and melting cheese,
An' lumps o' yellow butter.
Behind the door stand bags o' meal,
And in the ark is plenty ;
And good hard cakes his mither bakes,
And mony a sweeter dainty.
A good fat sow, a sleeky cow,
Are standing in the byre ;
Whilst winking puss, wi' mealy mou,
Is playing round the fire.
Good signs are these, my mither says,
And bids me take the miller ;
A miller's wife's a merry wife,
And he's ay bringing till her.
For meal or maut she'll never want
Till wood and water 's scanty ;
As lang as cocks and cackling hens,
She '11 ay hae eggs in plenty.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
287
In winter time, when wind and sleet

Shake ha-house, barn, and byre,
He sits aside a clean hearth stane,
Before a rousing fire ;
O'er foaming ale he tells his tale ;
And ay to show he's happy,
He claps his weans, and dawtes his wife
Wi' kisses warm and sappy.
The Miller was written by Sir John Clerk of Pennycuick, and first made its appearance in Yair's Charmer,
in the year 1751. The commencing lines form part of
a more ancient song, into the peculiar tact of which the
poet has entered with much truth and felicity. The
present copy varies from other versions ; it has spared a
verse from the narrative which the story seemed not to
want, and where it departs from the earlier copies it
departs for the sake of nature and truth. On the whole,
it presents a very pleasing picture of rustic enjoyment.
288
SCOTTISH SONGS.
NO DOMINIES FOR ME, LADDIE.

I chanced to meet an airy blade,
A new-made pulpiteer, laddie,
Wi' cock'd up hat and powder'd wig,
Black coat, and cuffs fu' clear, laddie.
A lang cravat at him did wag,
And buckles at his knee, laddie ;
Says he, my heart, by Cupid's dart,
Is captivate to thee, lassie.
I '11 rather chuse to thole grim death ;
So cease and let me be, laddie :
For what ? says he ; Good troth, said I,
No dominies for me, laddie.
Ministers' stipends are uncertain rents
For lady's conjunct-fee, laddie ;
When books and gowns are a' cried down,
But for your sake I'll fleece the flock,
Grow rich as I grow auld, lassie ;
If I be spared I'll be a laird,
And thou's be madam call'd, lassie.
But what if ye should chance to die,
Leave bairnies, ane or twa, laddie ?
Naething wad be reserved for them
But hair-moul'd books to gnaw, laddie.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
289
At this he angry was, I wat,

He gloom'd and look'd fu' hie, laddie :
When I perceived this, in haste
I left my dominie, laddie.
Fare ye well, my charming maid ;
This lesson learn of me, lassie,
At the next offer hold him fast,
That first makes love to thee, lassie.
Then I returning hame again,
And coming down the town, laddie,
By my good luck I chanced to meet
A gentleman dragoon, laddie ;
And he took me by baith the hands,
'Twas help in time of need, laddie :
Fools on ceremonies stand,
At twa words we agreed, laddie.
He led me to his quarter-house,
Where we exchanged a word, laddie :
We had nae use for black gowns there,
We married o'er the sword, laddie.
Martial music's far more fine
Than ony sermon bell, laddie ;
Gold, red and blue, is more divine
Than black, the hue of hell, laddie.
Kings, queens, and princes, crave the aid
Of my brave stout dragoon, laddie ;
VOL. III. '
290
SCOTTISH SONGS.
While dominies are much employ'd
'Bout whores and sackcloth gowns, laddie.
Away wi' a' these whining loons !
They look like, Let me be, laddie :
I 've more delight in roaring guns
Thb song was written by the Reverend Nathaniel

Mackay of Crossmichael, in Galloway ; and it is alleged
that he was himself the slighted dominie whom he has
so felicitously ridiculed ; for he had paid his addresses,
in early life, to a fair but scornful lady, who considered
herself far above the rank and pretensions of a " newmade pulpiteer," and finally yielded to the assiduities of
an admirer who sported a gaudier livery, and pursued a
more attractive and romantic vocation.
THE BONNIE BRUCKET LASSIE.

The bonnie bracket 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.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
291
My shape, she says, was handsome,

My face was fair and clean ;
But now I'm bonnie bracket,
And blue beneath the een.
My eyes were bright and sparkling,
Before that they turn'd blue ;
But now they're dull with weeping,
And a', my love, for you.
My person it was comely,
My shape they said was neat ;
But now I am quite changed,
My stays they winna meet.
A' night I deeped soundly,
My mind was never sad ;
But now my rest is broken,
Wi' thinking o' my lad.
O could I 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 I have offended
But loving him too well.
Her lover heard her mourning,
As by he chanced to pass ;
u2
292
SCOTTISH SONGS.
And press'd unto his bosom
The lovely bracket lass.
My dear, he said, cease grieving ;
Since that your love's so true,
My bonnie bracket lassie,
I'll faithful prove to you.
James Tytler, the author of this popular song, was a

clever and very eccentric charactera printer, a pub
lisher, a poet, a compiler, a projector, a wild democrat,
and a maker of balloons. His labours were many and
unproductive. He was familiar with all the varieties of
evil fortune, and experienced by turns the misery of a
poet, a publisher, and a drudge to literary speculators.
This person exhibited a sad image of daily dependence
for bread on the pen. With leaky shoes, a hat without
the crown, neighbourless kneebuckless, clothes ragged
and stained with poet's and with printer's ink, and ani
mated by whisky, he has been seen gliding from house
to house at the twilight, as much from dread of en
countering a creditor, as from shame of his wretched
ness. At last he entered deeply into the wild schemes
of our revolutionary fanatics, and was obliged to seek
refuge in America, where he died in the fifty-eighth
year of his age. This song, to which alone of all his
works he owes the notice of his name, originated in an
ancient lyric of the same title, which is not quite ladies'
reading.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
ROSLIN CASTLE.
'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 Nannie's charms the shepherd sung,
The hills and dales with Nannie 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 Nannie 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 raptured notes arise,
For beauty darts from Nannie's eyes,
And love my rising bosom warms,
And fills my soul with sweet alarms.
^3
294
SCOTTISH SONGS.
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 !
This song is attributed to a youth of the name of

Richard Hewit, sometime amanuensis and companion to
Dr. Blacklock. During the period of the blind poet's
residence in Cumberland, Hewit led him about ; and,
on quitting his service, addressed some verses to his
friend, in which he alludes to the narrative ballads and
songs with which the country people cheer their fire
sides, and of which he was himself a faithful rehearser.
Of the author I am sorry I can give no further account.
The old ballads which he loved to repeat have sunk into
oblivion with him, unless some of them had the good
fortune to meet the eye of Sir Walter Scott.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
FAIREST OF THE FAIR.

O Nannie, wilt thou gang wi' me,
Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town ;
Can silent glens have charms for thee,
The lowly cot and russet gown ?
Nae langer drest in silken sheen,
Nae langer deck'd wi' jewels rare,
Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?
O Nannie, when thou'rt far awa',
Wilt thou not cast a look behind ?
Say, canst thou face the flaky snaw,
Nor shrink before the warping wind ?
O can that saft and gentlest mien
Severest hardships learn to bear,
Nor sad regret each courtly scene,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?
O Nannie, canst thou love so true,
Through perils keen wi' me to gae ?
Or when thy swain mishap shall rue,
To share with him the pang of wae ?
And when invading pains befall,
Wilt thou assume the nurse's care,
Nor wishful those gay scenes recall,
295
296
SCOTTISH SONGS.
And when at last thy love shall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath ?
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,
And cheer with smiles the bed of death ?
And wilt thou o'er his much-lov'd clay
Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear ?
Nor then regret those scenes so gay,
This very natural and charming song has been wel

comed in Scotland as one of its own productions ; and
indeed in language and feeling it is quite northern. The
imitation of the songs of Caledonia is as happy as any of
the Bishop of Drom ore's English productions. As a
compensation to our southern friends for admitting this
lyric among those of the north, I shall exclude many
Anglo-Scottish productions which for some time have
mingled with ours. No English poet has caught up the
language and the character of our national songs with
such happiness and skill as Percy ; and I believe no poet
and critic has rendered such essential benefit to the
literature of the island. The publication of the Reliques
of English Poetry recalled the taste of the country to
the simple and the natural, and exposed the poverty of
the cold and glittering style which came, with other
fashions, from abroad.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE LEA RIG.

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 scug ill e'en frae you and me,
My ain kind dearie-o.
Nae herd 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 warld's gear, my jo,
Upon the lee my pleasure grows
Wi' thee, my kind dearie-o.
At gloamin', if my lane I be,
Oh, but I'm wondrous eerie-o ;
And mony a heavy sigh I gie,
When absent frae my dearie-o :
But seated 'neath the milk-white thorn,
In ev'ning fair and clearie-o,
Enraptur'd, a' my cares I scorn,
Whan wi' my kind dearie-o.
297
298
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Whare through the birks the burnie rows,
Aft hae I sat fu' cheerie-o,
Among 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,
Whan wi' my kind dearie-o.
For though the night were ne'er sae dark,
And I were ne'er sae weary-o,
I'd meet thee on the lea rig,
While in this weary warld of wae,
This wilderness sae drearie-o,
What makes me blithe, and keeps me sae ?
'Tis thee, my kind dearie-o.
The first two verses of this song were written by the

unfortunate Robert Ferguson, a poet of fine genius
and irregular life, whose works bear promise of expand
ing powers, and a more exalted and consistent song.
The first time I ever saw his poems, their perusal was
accompanied by an anecdote of the author too charac
teristic not to be true. " He was a strange lad," said
my friend, " and as wild as a poet ought to be. One
day, in Dumfries, I saw a pale young man in an odd
cap and a flannel jacket, staring at the crowds, who
were staring at him. Some said he was mad, some said
lie was winning a wager, and some said he was a poet.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
299
This last conjecture was right;it was Robert Fer

guson, who, from some idle vaunt, or for some foolish
wager, undertook to walk from Edinburgh to Dumfries
in that strange dress, and performed his undertaking."
The three additional verses arc written by Mr. William
Reid, bookseller in Glasgow. They are executed much
in the feeling and manner of the original song.
WHAT AILS THE LASSES AT ME.

I am a young bachelor winsome,
A farmer by rank and degree,
And few I see gang out more handsome
To kirk or to market than me.
I've outsight and insight, and credit,
And frae onie eelist I'm free ;
I'm weel enough boarded and bedded,
What ails the lasses at me ?
My bughts of good store are na scanty,
My byres are weel stock'd wi' kye ;
Of meal in my girnels there's plenty,
And twa or three easements forby.
A horse to ride out when they're weary,
And cock wi' the best they can see ;
And then be cn't dautic and deary,.
I wonder what ails them at me.
300
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I've tried them, baith highland and lowland,
Where I a fair bargain could see ;
The black and the brown were unwilling,
The fair anes were warst o' the three.
With jooks and wi' scrapes I've addressed them,
Been with them baith modest and free ;
But whatever way I caressed them,
They were cross and were canker'd wi' me.
There's wratacks, and cripples, and cranshanks,
And a' the wandoghts that I ken,
Nae sooner they smile on the lasses,
Than they are ta'en far enough ben.
But when I speak to them that's stately,
I find them aye ta'en wi' the gee,
And get the denial fu' flatly ;
What think ye can ail them at me ?
I have a gude offer to make them,
If they would but hearken to me ;
And that is, I'm willing to take them,
Gin they wad be honest and free.
Let her wha likes best write a billet,
And send the sweet message to me ;
By sun and by moon, I'll fulfil it,
Though crooked or crippled she be !
To the poet's challenge a very long and a very dull

answer was written, and signed " Jeanie Gradden,"
which follows the song in many collections. I have
SCOTTISH SONGS.
301
denuded the present lyric of two verses, and still it is long

enough. The author, Alexander Ross, had not learned
the art of being brief ; he continued to sing while
there was any hope of a listener. Burns calls him
" Ross, the wild warlock," but there is little witchery
in his verse ;it is humble, and homely, and accurate.
THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE.

And are ye sure the news is true ?
And are ye sure he's weel ?
Is this a time to talk o' wark ?
Ye jades, fling by your wheel !
Is this a time to think of wark,
When Colin's at the door ?
Gie me my cloak ! I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nac luck ava ;
There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa.'
Rise up, and mak a clean fire-side,
Put on the muckle pot ;
Gie little Kate her cotton gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat ;
302
SCOTTISH SONGS.
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw ;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
He likes to see them braw.
There's twa hens upon the bauk,
Been fed this month and mair,
Mak haste and thra their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare ;
And spread the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw ;
It's a' for love of my gudeman,
For he's been lang awa'.
O gie me down my bigonets,
My bishop-sattin gown ;
And rin an' tell the Baillie's wife
That Colin's come to town :
My Sunday shoon they maun gae on,
My hose o' pearl blue ;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.
Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech,
His breath like caller air !
His very foot has music in't
When he comes up the stair :
And will I see his face again ?
And will I hear him speak ?
I'm downright dizzy with the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
303
The cauld blasts of the winter wind,

That thrilled through my heart,
They're a' blawn by ; I hae him safe,
'Till death we'll never part :
But what puts parting in my head,
It may be far ami' :
The present moment is our ain,
The neist we never saw !
Since Colin's well, I'm well content,
I hae nae mair to crave ;
Could I but live to mak him blest,
I'm blest aboon the lave.
And will I see his face again ?
And will I hear him speak ?
I'm downright dizzy with the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.
This is one of the finest domestic songs in the lan
guagefull of kind thoughts, female joy, and felicitous
expressions. What can equal the flutter of delight into
which the heroine is thrown by the approach of her
husband ! The many and the hurried commands which
she gives to her maidens to trim the house and prepare
the children, her own wish to appear before him in her
best attire, with her hose of pearl blue, and the breath
less rapture with which she asserts
His very foot has music in't
When he comes up the stair,
all stamp the verse with nature and truth.
304
SCOTTISH SONGS.
For a while the song had no author's name ; at last, it

passed for the production of an enthusiastic old woman
of the west of Scotland, called Jean Adam, who kept a
school and wrote verses, and claimed this song as her
own composition. It happened, however, during the
period that Mr. Cromek was editing his collection of
Scottish Songs, that Dr. Sim discovered among the ma
nuscripts of Mickle, the translator of the Lusiad, an
imperfect, altered, and corrected copy of the song, with
all the marks of authorship about it. The changes
which the poet had made were many and curious, and
were conclusive of his claim to the honour of the song :
his widow added decisive testimony to this, and said
that her husband wrote her a copysaid it was his
own, and explained the Scottish words. Mickle, too,
was a maker of songs in the manner of onr early lyrics,
and his genius supports his title to this truly Scottish
song. But I have not sought to deprive the old school
mistress of the honour of the song, without feeling some
conscientious qualms. Many lyric poets have taken
pleasure in secretly ekeing out the ancient songs of
their country ; and, after all, Mickle may have done no
more for this than improve the language, and new-model
the narrative.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
305
MARY'S DREAM.
The moon had climb'd the highest hill
That rises o'er the source of Dee,
And from the eastern summit shed
Her silver light on tow'r and tree ;
When Mary laid her down to sleep,
Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea ;
When soft and low a voice was heard,
Saying, Mary, weep no more for me.
She from her pillow gently rais'd
Her head, to ask who there might be ;
She saw young Sandy shiv'ring stand,
With visage pale and hollow e'e :
O Mary dear, cold is my clay,
It lies beneath a stormy sea ;
Far far from thee I sleep in death,
. So, Mary, weep no more for me.
Three stormy nights and stormy days
We toss'd upon the raging main,
And long we strove our bark to save,
But all our striving was in vain.
Ev'n then, when horror chill'd my blood,
My heart was fill'd with love for thee :
The storm is past, and I 'm at rest,
So, Mary, weep no more for me.
VOL. III.
306
SCOTTISH SONGS.
O maiden dear, thyself prepare,
We soon shall meet upon that shore
Where love is free from doubt and care,
And thou and I shall part no more.
Loud crow'd the cock, the shadow fled,
No more of Sandy could she see ;
But soft the passing spirit said,
" Sweet Mary, weep no more for me !"
This beautiful and pathetic song is all that connects

the name of John Lowe with the national poetry of Scot
land. It embodies in touching verse the fate of a youth
of the name of Miller, who was beloved by Mary
Macghie, of Airds in Galloway ; and in calling in the
aid of romantic superstition, I have heard that it only
abides by the story ; for by dream or vision her lover's
fate was said to have been first revealed to her. I have
never seen any more of Lowe's poetry which merits re
membrance. Since the first appearance of the song,
which was soon after the year 1770, it has received, I
know not from what hand, two very judicious amend
ments.It originally commenced thus :
Pale Cynthia just had reached the hill,
which was well exchanged for
The moon had climbed the highest hill.
The fifth and sixth lines, at the same time, by an ex
SCOTTISH SONGS.
SOT
cellent emendation, let us at once into the stream of

this affecting storyThey once ran thus :
When Mary laid her down to sleep,
And scarcely yet had closed her e'e.
The alteration, it will be observed, engrafts a super
stitious influence on the story, and gives it an equal hold
on the imagination and the heart. Lowe wrote another
song, called " Pompey's Ghost," which Burns inquired
after when he was seeking songs for Johnson. The
Scottish Muse lent her aid reluctantly to a classic sub
ject, and " Pompey's Ghost" is but a wreath of mist
compared to the spirit of Sandie.
MARY'S DREAM.
The lovely moon had climbed the hill,
Where eagles big aboon the Dee ;
And like the looks of a lovely dame,
Brought joy to every body's e'e :
A' but sweet Mary, deep in sleep,
Her thoughts on Sandie far at sea ;
A voice dropt softly in her ear,
Sweet Mary, weep nae mair for me !
x2
SCOTTISH SONGS.
She lifted up her wondering een
To see from whence the voice might be,
And there she saw young Sandie stand,
A shadowy form, wi' hollow e'e !
0 Mary dear, lament nae mair,
I'm in death-thraws below the sea ;
Thy weeping makes me sad in bliss,
Sae, Mary, weep nae mair for me !
The wind slept when we left the bay,
But soon it waked and raised the main,
And God he bore us down the deep :
Wha strave wi' him but strave in vain ?
He stretched his arm, and took me up,
Tho' laith I was to gang but thee ;
1 look frae heaven aboon the storm,
Sae, Mary, weep nae mair for me !
Tak aff the bride sheets frae thy bed,
Which thou hast faulded down for me :
Unrobe thee of thy earthly stole
I'll meet wi' thee in heaven hie.
Three times the gray cock flapt his wing
To mark the morning lift his e'e,
And thrice the passing spirit said,
Sweet Mary, weep nae mair for me !
This variation of Lowe's beautiful lyric is copied
from Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway
Song, where it was accompanied by remarks on its claims
SCOTTISH SONGS.
309
to notice as a Scottish version and variety of the other.

It has been described as an attempt to injure the fame
of Lowe, as if variations of songs had now for the first time
appeared in the language ; and it has been also repre
sented as dull and stupid. To seek to injure a poet's
fame by publishing a variation of his song, sprinkled
with the native dialect of the land, is a charge that
might have been made against both Ramsay and Burns :
their works abound with such lyrics. And to write
a good song down by means of a duller one, reminds
me of the clergyman who came to London on purpose to
write down Paradise Lost. It is needless to say more :
if I abstain from noticing the printed folly of one of the
district authors, it is only because I wish not to revive
the memory of a work which the world has so willingly
and so hastily forgotten. I feel reluctance at waging
war with a candidate for a pulpitbesides I have a
reverence for gravity and dulness, and a sympathy for
those who seem largely endowed by nature with the
power of promoting the slumbers of a respectable con
gregation.
310
SCOTTISH SONGS.
CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN.
There's cauld kail in Aberdeen,

And castocks in Stra'bogie ;
Gin I hae but a bonnie lass,
Ye're welcome to ynnr cogie.
And ye may sit up a' the night,
And drink till it be braid day-light :
Gie me a lass baith clean and tight,
To dance the reel o' Bogie.
In cotillons the French excel,
John Bull loves country dances ;
The Spaniards dance fandangos well ;
Mynheer an all'mand prances :
In foursome reels the Scots delight,
At threesomes they dance wond'rous light,
But twasomes ding a' out o' sight,
Danc'd to the reel o' Bogie.
Come, lads, and view your partners weel,
Wale each a blithesome rogie :
I'll tak this lassie to mysel',
She looks sae keen and vogic :
SCOTTISH SONGS.
311
Now, piper lad, bang up the spring ;

The country fashion is the thing,
To pree their mou's ere we begin
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 carina think oursels to hain,
For they maun hae their come-again
Now a' the lads hae 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,
Cauld Kale in Aberdeen has been a standing dish for
the bards of that district for many years : but though
numerous verses have been poured forth in its honour,
none of them are excellent. Fame imputes the present
song to the Duke of Gordon ; and if fame is right, his
grace has been free and condescending in his enjoyments:
he dances on the green with much animation, and salutes
312
SCOTTISH SONGS.
his rustic partner with a gallantry worthy of the house

of Gordon. Of the other songs, ancient and modern,
few quotations will serve :
There's cauld kale in Aberdeen,
And castocks in Stra'bogie,
Where ilka lad maun hae his lass,
But I maun hae my cogie.
For I maun hae my cogie, lass,
I canna want my cogie ;
I wadna gie my three-girred cog
For a' the queans in Bogie.
This Aberdeenshire toper goes on to complain of a
neighbour's wife, whose numerous children somewhat
scrimped her husband in his cups, while she gave him
other intelligible admonitions :
She fand him ance at Willie Sharp's,
And what they maist did laugh at,
She brake the bicker, spilt the drink,
And tightly gowffed his haffet.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
818
STREPHON AND LYDIA.

All lonely on the sultry beach
Expiring Strephon lay,
No hand the cordial draught to reach,
Nor cheer the gloomy way.
Ill-fated youth ! no parent nigh
To catch thy fleeting breath,
No bride to fix thy swimming eye,
Or smooth the face of death !
Far distant from the mournful scene
Thy parents sit at ease,
Thy Lydia rifles all the plain,
And all the spring, to please.
Ill fated youth ! by fault of friend,
Not force of foe, depress'd,
Thou fall'st, alas ! thyself, thy kind,
Thy country, unredress'd !
The author of this touching song was William Wal
lace, Esq., of Cairnhall, county of Ayr : and I am sorry ,
he has left only this very brief proof of very fine lyric
powers. He has erred with others in the use of un
natural namesStrephon and Lydia give the air of
fiction to a very true and mournful story. The hero and
heroine were perhaps the loveliest couple of their time.
314
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The gentleman was commonly known by the name of

Beau Gibson. The lady was the " Gentle Jean," cele
brated in Mr. Hamilton of Bangour's poems. Having
frequently met at public places, they had formed a re
ciprocal attachment, which their friends thought dan
gerous, as their resources were by no means adequate to
their tastes and habits of life. To elude the bad conse
quences of such a connexion, Strephon was sent abroad
with a commission, and perished in Admiral Vernon's
expedition to Carthagena, in the year 1740.
THE BOATIE ROWS.

The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows fu' weel :
MeiHe luck attend the boats,
The murlain, and the creel.
Wecl may the boatie row,
And better may it speed ;
Weel may the boatie row,
That wins the bairns' bread.
I coost my line in Largo bay,
And fishes I catch'd nine ;
'Twas three to boil, and three to fry,
And three to bait the line.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The boatie rows indeed ;
And happy be the lot of a'
Who wishes her to speed.
O weel may the boatie row
That fills a heavy creel,
And cleads us a' frae head to feet,
And buys our porritch meal.
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,
0 muckle lighter grew my creel !
He swore we'd never part.
The boatie rows fu' weel ;
And muckle lighter is the lade
When love bears up the creeL
My kurch I put upon my head,
And dress'd mysel' fu' braw,
1 trow my heart was douf an' wae
When Jamie gaed awa' :
But weel may the boatie row,
And lucky be her part ;
315
316
SCOTTISH SONGS.
And lightsome be the lassie's care
That yields an honest heart.
When Sawney, Jock, and Janetie,
Are up, and gotten lear,
They'll help to gar the boatie row,
And lighten a' our care.
The boatie rows fu' weel ;
And lightsome be her heart that bears
The murlain and the creel.
Burns says the author of this song " was a Mr. E wan
of Aberdeen." It is a charming display of womanly
affection, mingling with the common concerns and daily
avocations of humble life. We have very few of these
maritime lyrics, and what we have are not excellent.
The Scottish poets seem averse to go down to the sea in
ships, and view the wonders of the Lord on the deep.
The varied fortunes of a mariner or a fishermanhis
obedience to the tidehis knowledge of wild shores
of the productions of the sea, and his laborious occupa
tion, are all poetie. Several curious communities of
fishermen belong to the Scottish coast.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
317
RED GLEAMS THE SUN.

Red gleams the sun on yon hill tap,
The dew sits on the gowan ;
Deep murmurs thro' her glens the Spey,
Around Kinrara rowan.
Where art thou, fairest, kindest lass ?
Alas ! wert thou but near me,
Thy gentle soul, thy melting e'e
Would ever, ever cheer me.
The laverock sings among the clouds,
.The lambs they sport so cheerie,
And I sit weeping by the birk ;
O where art thou, my dearie !
Aft may I meet the morning dew,
Lang greet till I be weary ;
Thou canna, winna, gentle maid !
Thou canna be my dearie.
This sweet short song was written by Dr. Robert
Couper, and published about the year 1790. The name
which the author gave it was " Kinrara ;" and Kinrara
was the summer residence of the late Duchess of Gordon,
to whom he dedicated two volumes of verse.
S18
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE DARIEN SONG.

We will go, maidens, go
To the lonesome woods and mourn,
Where the primroses blow,
Till our gallant lads return :
Till from Darien's sunny land
We shall welcome back again
That young and goodly companie
That ventured o'er the main.
We will go, lady, go
To the lonesome wood wi' thee ;
Though chill the winds should blow,
While those weary days we dree.
Our lovers' banners proudly waved
As they sailed o'er the faem
Alas ! when will that sweet wind blow
Will waft our gallants hame ?
O there were white hands waved,
And many a parting hail
As their vessel stemmed the tide,
And stretched the snowy sail :
With many a sigh and bitter tear,
And many a parting sign,
Away they went to spread our fame
Along the boundless brine.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
319
You may go, maidens, go

Your weary days to dree,
But I shall never see you more
Come laughing o'er the lea :
With watching will your eyes be dim,
And meikle will you mourn,
For never will the lads you love
From Darien's shore return.
" On the 26th of July, 1698, the whole city of Edin
burgh poured down upon Leith, to see the colony depart
amid the tears and prayers of relations and friends, and
of their countrymen. Neighbouring nations, with a
mixture of surprise and respect, saw the poorest king
dom of Europe sending forth the most gallant and most
numerous colony that had ever gone from the Old to the
New World ."Sir J. Dalrymple's Remains. The sordid
policy of foreign powers, and the treachery of King
William, united to ruin the famous Scottish colony of
Darien. For nearly half a century, the cruel extinction
of this young colony, and the infamous murder of the
people of Glenco, were considered, in Scotland, as na
tional grievances, of which the house of Stuart long held
out the hope of redress or revenge. This beautiful song
expresses very meekly the fears and feelings of the
nation.
330
SCOTTISH SONGS.
LOCH-ERROCH SIDE.
As I came by Loch-Erroch side,
The lofty hills surveying,
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 press'd 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
For ever you shall find me ;
And of our meeting here so sweet,
Loch-Erroch sweet shall mind me.
Enraptur'd then, My lovely lass,
I cried, no more we'll tarry ;
We'll leave the fair Loch-Erroch side,
For lovers soon should marry.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
381
This song is supposed to be the composition of James

Tytler, author of" The Bonnie Brucket Lassie." It is
copied from Johnson's Musical Museum, where it stands
side by side with a song on the same subject by Burns. It
wants the original merit of Tytler's other fine song ; but
original merit is a matter of great rarity, and most of
our modern songs only re-echo, in softer language and
smoother numbers, the lively and graphic strains of our
ancestors. In truth, many of our latter lyrics are made
from the impulse of other songs, rather than from the
native feelings of the heartand lyric love and heroism
are felt through the medium of verse, when they should
come warm and animated from the bosom.
THE CUCKOO.
Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove '
Thou messenger of spring !
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.
What time the daisy decks the green
Thy certain voice we hear :
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year ?
VOL. III.
382
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Delightful visitant ! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.
The schoolboy, wandering through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,
Starts, the new voice of spring to hear,
And imitates thy lay.
What time the pea puts on the bloom
Thou fliest thy vocal vale,
An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.
Sweet bird, thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear ;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year.
O could I fly, I'd fly with thee !
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring.
The oldest English song yet published is in praise of

the Cuckooit is very natural and very curious and
very authentic :
SCOTTISH SONGS.
323
Sumer is icumen in,

Lhude sing Cuccu ;
Groweth sed, and bloweth med,
And springeth the wode nu ;
Awe bleteth after lamb,
Lows after calue cu,
Bulluc stertes, bucke vertes,
Murie sing Cuccu.
Ritson imagines it at least as old as 1250, while Sir
John Hawkins attributes it to the middle of the fifteenth
century. The present song is the composition of the
Rev. John Logan, and would do honour to any poet.
ALONE BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON.

The day is departed, and round from the cloud
The moon in her beauty appears ;
The voice of the nightingale warbles aloud
The music of love in our ears.
Maria, appear ! now the season so sweet
With the beat of the heart is in tune ;
The time is so tender for lovers to meet
Alone by the light of the moon.
y2
884
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I cannot when present unfold what I feel :

I sighcan a lover do more ?
Her name to the shepherds I never reveal,
Yet I think of her all the day o'er.
Maria, my love ! do you long for the grove ?
Do you sigh for an interview soon ?
Does e'er a kind thought run on me as you rove
Alone by the light of the moon ?
Your name from the shepherds whenever I hear
My bosom is all in a glow ;
Your voice, when it vibrates so sweet through mine ear,
My heart thrillsmy eyes overflow.
Ye powers of the sky, will your bounty divine
Indulge a fond lover his boon ?
Shall heart spring to heart, and Maria be mine,
Alone by the light of the moon ?
This very sweet and elegant song is the composition
of the Rev. John Logan. The association of his love
with the sweetness of the season, the voice of the night
ingale, and the light of the moon, is very beautiful. The
nocturnal interview, to which the heroine is invited, has
had charms for the sons and daughters of men in all
ages.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE BRAES OF YARROW.

Thy braes were bonnie, Yarrow stream,
When first on them I met my lover ;
Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream,
When now thy waves his body cover !
For ever now, O Yarrow stream,
Thou art to me a stream of sorrow ;
For never on thy banks shall I
Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow !
He promis'd me a milk-white steed,
To bear me to his father's bowers ;
He promis'd me a little page,
To squire me to his father's towers :
He promis'd me a wedding-ring,
The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow ;
Now he is wedded to his grave,
Alas ! his watery grave, in Yarrow !
Sweet were his words when last we met,
My passion I as freely told him ;
Chisp'd in his arms, I little thought
That I should never more behold him !
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost ;
It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow !
Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,
And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow
325
326
SCOTTISH SONGS-
His mother from the window look'd,

With all the longing of a mother ;
His little sister weeping walk'd
The green-wood path to meet her brother :
They sought him east, they sought him west,
They sought him all the forest thorough ;
They only saw the cloud of night,
They only heard the roar of Yarrow !
No longer from thy window look,
Thou hast no son, thou tender mother !
No longer walk, thou lovely maid,
Alas ! thou hast no more a brother !
No longer seek him east or west,
And search no more the forest thorough ;
For, wandering in the night so dark,
He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.
The tear shall never leave my cheek,
No other youth shall be my marrow ;
I'll seek thy body in the stream,
And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.
The tear did never leave her cheek,
No other youth became her marrow ;
She found his body in the stream,
And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.
The old verses of Yarrow Braes seem to have been
known to Logan when he wrote this song. Though
his song is very touching and tender, it fails in present
SCOTTISH SONGS.
32T
ing us with those striking natural images of female

distress which affect us in the old and ruder strain. The
story might be truth to the ancient bard, but it was
fiction to Logan ; and we cannot help feeling the dif
ference.
ROY's WIFE OF ALDIVALLOCH.

Roy's wife of Aldivalloch !
Wat ye how she cheated me
As I came o'er the braes of Balloch ?
She vowed, she swore she wad be mine,
Said that she lo'ed me best of ony ;
But, oh ! the fickle, faithless quean,
She's ta'en the carle and left her Johnie.
Hoy's wife of Aldivalloch !
She was a kind and cantie queen,
Weel could she dance the highland walloch ;
How happy I, had she been mine,
Or I'd been Roy of Aldivalloch !
828
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Her hair sae fair, her een sae clear,
Her wee bit mou sae sweet and bonnie !
To me she ever will be dear,
Though she's for ever left her Johnie.
Mr. Cromek, an anxious inquirer into all matters il

lustrative of northern song, ascribes Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch to Mrs. Murray of Bath ; while George Thom
son, and all other editors of Scottish song, impute it to
Mrs. Grant of Carron. I am not aware that the author
ship has been settledand I am sorry for it ; because
whoever wrote it has favoured us with a very sprightly
and pleasant production. The closing description of
this highland enchantress is truly luscious and pro
voking. The hero is quite a model for all forsaken
swains : he admires the person of his mistress, admits
her witchery in the dance, and reminds her in the
gentlest manner how she had vowed herself to him be
fore she took honest Roy of Aldivalloch. This is much
better than if he had gone "daunering about the dykes"
and sung songs, long and dolorous, of woman's in
constancy.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
329
HER ABSENCE WILL NOT ALTER ME.

Though distant far from Jessy's charms,
I stretch in vain my longing arms ;
Though parted by the deeps of sea,
Her absence shall not alter me.
Though beauteous nymphs I see around,
A Chloris, Flora, might be found,
Or Phillis with her roving e'e ;
Her absence shall not alter me.
A fairer face, a sweeter smile,
Inconstant lovers may beguile ;
But to my lass I'll constant be,
Nor shall her absence alter me.
Though laid on India's burning coast,
Or on the wide Atlantic tost,
My mind from love no power could free,
Nor could her absence alter me.
See how the flow'r that courts the sun
Pursues him till his race is run ;
See how the needle seeks the pole,
Nor distance can its power control :
Shall lifeless flow'rs the sun pursue,
The needle to the pole prove true
Like them shall I not faithful be,
Or shall her absence alter me ?
330
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Ask, who has seen the turtle-dove
Unfaithful to its marrow prove ?
Or who the bleating ewe has seen
Desert her lambkin on the green ?
Shall beasts and birds, inferior far
To us, display their love and care ?
Shall they in union sweet agree,
And shall her absence alter me ?
For conq'ring love is strong as death,
Like veh'ment flames his pow'rful breath ;
Through floods unmov'd his course he keeps,
Ev'n through the sea's devouring deeps.
His veh'ment flames my bosom burn,
Unchang'd they blaze till I return ;
My faithful Jessy then shall see
Her absence has not alter'd me.
This is a favourite song with our Scottish mariners ;

and their affection is very natural. The hero indeed
speculates upon the inconstancy of a sailor's affection :
he imagines woman to be all truth, and a mariner to be
all levity. He has no suspicion that while he " is on
India's burning coast" his love may forsake him ; and
he labours to assure the world that he is unchangeable
and immutable.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE MINSTREL.
Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-head,
The snaw drives snelly through the dale,
The Gaberlunyie tirls my sneck,
An shiv'ring tells his waefu' tale :
Cauld is the night, O let me in,
And dinna let your minstrel fa' ;
And dinna let his winding sheet
Be naething but a wreath o' snaw.
Full ninety simmers hae I seen,
And pip'd whar gorcocks whirring flew ;
And mony a day ye've danc'd, I ween,
To lilts that frae my drone I blew.
My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cried,
Get up, gudeman, and let him in,
For weel ye ken the winter night
Seem'd short when he began his din.
My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet !
E'en though she banns and scolds a wee ;
But when it's tun'd to pity's tale,
O, haith it's doubly dear to me !
331
332
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Come ben, auld carle, I'll rouse my fire,
And make it bleeze a bonnie flame ;
Your blude is thin, ye've tint the gate ;
Ye shoudna stray sae far free hame.
Nae hame hae I, the minstrel said,
Sad party strife o'erturn'd my ha',
And, weeping, at the eve o' life,
I wander through a wreath o' snaw.
This very touching and original song was written by

Thomas Pickering of Newcastle, in 1794. The lives
of poets are only so many stories of genius depressed
and unrewarded, of sorrow and misfortune. Life has
been usually the bitterest, and the world the rudest, to
those whose song was sweetest. Of Pickering I have
heard much more than I am willing to repeat : his fol
lies were only injurious to himself; and death was a
welcome boon. His song of Donochthead surpasses all
his other compositions ; it attracted the notice and ob
tained the admiration of Burns, and will probably long
continue to please. It speaks of civil discord, and pro
bably alludes to the brief and bloody struggle which
took place in behalf of the exiled house of Stuart.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
333
WHO'S AT MY WINDOW.
O, who's at my window, now, now ?
Who whispers so softly, who, who ?
I'm sleepy, I'm wearie,
And, worse, I am eerie,
And my mother is watching helow, below,
And my mother is watching below.
O go from my window, go, go ;
O go from my window, love, do :
Who loves me in the night
Will love me in the light ;
So come in the sunshine, and woo, and woo,
So come in the sunshine and woo.
Gin ye be a true love of mine,
O wave thy white hand for a sign ;
Wi' the sleet in my hair,
I've come ten miles and mair
For a word of that sweet tongue o' thine, o' thine,
And a glance o' thy dark eye divine.
Know ye what a lover maun dree ?
O come to thy window and see :
Thou rain, in thy dashing,
Thou fire, in thy flashing,
Thou wind, shaking turret and tree, and tree
O speak to my fair one for me !
384
SCOTTISH SONGS.
O come to my chamber, love, do ;

The way all with rushes I'll strew
A kind heart shall warm thee,
A sweet tongue shall charm thee ;
O come to my chamber, love, now, love, now,
O come to my chamber, love, do !
No one, I hope, will suppose that this song is written
to supply the place of the old lyric with the same name
which Wedderburn sought to supplant. Innumerable
verses of this measure are scattered over the south of
Scotland; but few of them are worth collecting for
their poetry.
There's mirth in the barn and the ha', the ha',
There's mirth in the barn and the ha' :
There's quaffing and laughing,
And dancing and daffing ;
And our young bride's daftest of a', of a'.
And our young bride's daftest of a'.
These lines have no antique soundbut they contain
a lively image of bridal festivity and freedom.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
LANGSYNE.
When silent time, wi' lightly foot,
Had trode on thirty years,
I sought my lang lost hame again,
Wi' mony hopes and fears.
Wha kens, if the dear friends I left
Will ay continue mine ?
Or, if I e'er again shall see
The friends I left langsyne ?
As I came by my father's tow'rs,
My heart lap a' the way ;
Ilk thing I saw put me in mind
O' some dear former day :
The days that follow'd me afar,
Those happy days o' mine,
Which gars me think the joys at hand
Are naething to langsyne.
These ivy'd towers now met my e'e,
Where minstrels us'd to blaw ;
Nae friend came forth wi' open arms
Nae weel kenn'd face I saw ;
Till Donald totter'd frae the door,
Whom I left in his prime,
And grat to see the lad come back
He bore about langsyne.
335
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I ran thro' every weel kenn'd room,
In hopes to meet friends there ;
I saw where ilk ane us'd to sit,
And hang o'er ilka chair :
Till warm remembrance' gushing tear
Did dim these een o' mine ;
I steek'd the door and sobb'd aloud
As I thought on langsyne.
Of all the " Langsynes" which have appeared since
the famous " Langsyne" of Burns, this seems by far the
most beautiful. I have ventured, however, to cut away
the concluding verse, which weakened the impression of
the overpowering image presented in the fourth. I am
sorry I cannot name the author.
TIBBIE RODAN.
The gallant lads of Gallowa,
The lads frae far Corehead to Hoddom,
The merry lads of green Nithsdale,
Are a' come wooing Tibbie Rodan.
Tweedshaw's tarry nieves are here ;
The braksha lairds of Moffatt water,
The blithesome Bells, the Irvings good,
Are come to count her gear and daut her.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
337
I mind her weel in plaiden gown,

Before she heir'd her uncle's coffer ;
The gleds might howk'd out her gray een,
And ne'er a lad hae shored them off her.
Now she's got a bawsant nag,
Graithing sewed with gowd and siller ;
Silken sonks to haud her doup,
And half the country's trysting till her.
I wadna gie twa rosie lips,
With breath like mixed milk and honey,
Whick i' the gloaming dew I kiss'd,
For Tibbie, wi' a mine o' money. .
I wadna gie the haffet locks,
With scented dew all richly drappin,
Which lay yestreen upon my breast,
For Tibbie, wi' her lady-happin.
Of this scion from the universal favourite, Tibbie
Fowler, some of the slips may be worth preserving :
Sour plums are gude wi' sugar baked
Slaes are sweet wi' kames o' hinnie ;
The bowltest carlin i' the land,
Gowd can make her straught an' bonnie.
A ruder and earlier copy was printed in Cromek's
volume, and many variations might be given, but they
would be more curious than excellent.
VOL III.
338
SCOTTISH SONGS.
MY DEAR LITTLE LASSIE.

My dear little lassie, why, what's a' the matter?
My heart it gangs pittypat, winna lie still ;
I've waited, and waited, an' a' to grow better,
Yet, lassie, believe me, I'm aye growing ill :
My head's turn'd quite dizzy, an' aft when I'm speaking
I sigh, an' am breathless, an' fearfu' to speak ;
I gaze aye for something I fain wad be seeking,
Yet, lassie, I kenna weel what I wad seek.
Thy praise, bonnie lassie, I ever could hear of,
And yet when to ruse ye the neebour lads try,
Tho' its a' true they tell ye, yet never sae far off
I could see 'em ilk ane, an' I canna tell why.
Whan we tedded the hayfield, I raked ilka rig o't,
And never grew wearie the lang simmer day ;
The rucks that ye wrought at were easiest biggit,
And I fand sweeter scented aroun' ye the hay.
In har'st, whan the kirn-supper joys mak' us cheerie,
'Mang the lave of the lasses I pried yere sweet mou ;
Dear save us ! how queer I felt whan I cam' near ye,
My breast thrill'd in rapture, I couldna tell how.
Whan we dance at the gloamin it's you I aye pitch on,
And gin ye gang by me how dowie I be ;
There's something, dear lassie, about ye bewitching,
That tells me my happiness centres in thee.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
339
I copied this happy and delicate song from a manu

script belonging to my friend Dr. Darling. It is sung
to the tune of Bonnie Dundee.
THE FISHER'S WELCOME

We twa hae fish'd the Kale sae clear,
An' streams o' mossy Reed,
We've tried the Wansbeck an' the Wear,
The Teviot an' the Tweed ;
An' we will try them ance again
When summer suns are fine,
An' we'll thraw the flie thegither yet
For the days o' lang syne.
'Tis mony years sin' first we met
On Coquet's bonny braes,
An' mony a brither fisher's gane,
An' clad in his last claes ;
An' we maun follow wi' the lave,
Grim Death he heuks us a',
But we'll hae anither fishing bout
Afore we're ta'en awa'.
For we are hale an' hearty baith,
Tho' frosty are our pows,
xil
340
SCOTTISH SONGS.
We still can guide our fishing graith,
An' climb the dykes and knowes ;
We'll mount our creels an' grip our gads,
An' thraw a sweeping line ;
An' we'll hae a plash amang the lads,
For the days o' lang syne.
Tho' Cheviot's top be frosty still,
He's green below the knee,
Sae don your plaid an' tak your gad,
An' gang awa' wi' me.
Come busk your flies, my auld compeer,
We're fidgin' a' fu' fain,
We've fish'd the Coquet mony a year,
An' we'll fish her owre again.
An' hameward when we toddle back,
An' night begins to fa',
When ilka chiel maun tell his crack,
We'll crack aboon them a' :
When jugs are toom'd an' coggies wet,
I'll lay my loof in thine,
We've shown we're good at water yet,
An' we're little warse at wine.
We'll crack how mony a creel we've fiil'd,
How mony a line we've flung,
How many a ged an' sawmon kill'd
In days when we were young.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
341
We'll gar the callants a' look blue,

An' sing anither tuae ;
They're bleezing aye o' what they'll do
We'll tell them what we've dune.
This clever song is the work of an Englishman ; and
had it come from a Caledonian bard, the costume of
language, and the spirit of the '' North Countrie," could
not have been more perfect. It is one of the annual
Fisher's Garlands which Newcastle sends out to the world,
and to which the graver of Bewick adds such charms of
truth and nature as seldom accompany lyric poetry. In
reading the songa trout stream, slightly swelled by an
upland shower, gushes out upon one's fancy a rod
comes into our handwe cast a careful line upon the
rippling waterwe watch the well-dissembled flies, and
our patience is rewarded by casting " A trout bedropped
with crimson hail," upon the grassy bank. Burns, who
went to angle in the Nith with a huge fur cap on, and
a highland broadsword by his side, knew little of the art
compared to my excellent friend of Newcastle.
342
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE BLUE BIRD.

When winter's cold tempests and snows arc no more,
Green meadows and brown furrow'd fields reappearing,
The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,
And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering ;
When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing,
When red glow the maples so fresh and so pleasing ;
O then comes the blue-bird, the herald of spring, >
And hails, with his warblings, the charms of the season.
Then loud piping frogs make the marshes to ring,
Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather;
The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,
And spice-wood and sassafras budding together :
O then to your gardens ye housewives repair,
Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure ;
The blue bird will chant from his box such an air
That all your hard toils will be gladness and pleasure.
He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree,
The red flowering peach and the apple's sweet blossoms ;
He snaps up destroyers wherever they be,
And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms :
He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours.
The worms from their beds where they riot and welter ;
His song and his services freely are ours,
And all that he asks is in summer a shelter.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
343
The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his train,

Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer him ;
The gardener delights in his sweet simple strain,
And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him.
The slow-lingering schoolboys forget they'll be chid,
While gazing intent as he warbles before them,
In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red,
That each little loiterer seems to adore him.
When all the gay scenes of the summer are o'er,
And autumn slow enters, so silent and sallow,
And millions of warblers that charm'd us before,
Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow ;
The blue-bird forsaken, yet true to his home,
Still lingers and looks for a milder to-morrow,
Till, forced by the terrors of winter to roam,
He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow.
While spring's lovely season, serene, dewy, warm,
The green face of earth, and the pure blue of heaven,
Or love's native music, have influence to charm,
Or sympathy's glow to our feelings is given
Still dear to each bosom the blue-bird shall be :
His voice, like the thrillings of hope, is a treasure ;
For through bleakest storms if a calm he but see,
He comes to remind us of sunshine and pleasure.
I confess I admire the gossiping ballad verse of
Alexander Wilson much more than I do his purer and
more ambitious strains. The description of the blue
944
SCOTTISH SONGS.
bird is very graphic, and the picture of American na

ture is very accurate, but his Caledonian scenes of riotous
enjoyment are far superior. A man who reads " Watty
and Meg" cannot miss to hear the mirth of the changehouse, and the clamour of Meg's uncontrollable tongue,
for a full week after. Wilson has scattered much curious
and instructive lore over the pages of his " American
Ornithology," a scarce, a beautiful, and an unfinished
work, of which I lament my inability tb obtain a copy ;
and I have cause to lament, for I understand its pages
are studded with songs of a very sweet and peculiar
kind.
JOHN OF BADENYON.
When first I came to be a man
Of twenty years or so,
I thought myself a handsome youth,
And fain the world would know :
In best attire I stept abroad,
With spirits brisk and gay,
And here and there, and everywhere,
Was like a morn in May ;
No care had I, no fear of want,
But rambled up and down,
And for a beau I might have pass'd
In country or in town :
SCOTTISH SONGS.
,
..
346
I still was pleased where'er I went,

- - , And when I was alone
' I tuned my pipe, and pleased myself
Wi' John of Badenyon. . m .
i,. ,.* -.',.:
...
. . '-
. .
Now in the days of youthful prime

A mistress I must find ;
For love, I heard, gave one an air,
And even improved the mind :
On Phillis fair, above the rest,
Kind fortune fix'd mine eyes ;
Her piercing beauty touch'd my heart,
And she became my choice.
To Cupid now, with hearty prayer,
I offer'd many a vow,
And danced and sung, and sigh'd and swore,
As other lovers do ;
But When at last I breathed my flame,
I found her cold as stone
I left the jilt, and tuned my pipe
To John of Badenyon.
When love had thus my heart beguiled
With foolish hopes and vain,
To friendship's port I steer'd my course,
And laugh'd at lovers' pain.
A friend I got by lucky chance,
'Twas something like divine ;
An honest friend's a precious gift,
And such a gift was mine.
346
SCOTTISH SONGS.
And now, whatever might betide,
A happy man was I,
In any strait I knew to whom
I freely might apply :
A strait soon camemy friend I triedHe heard and spurn'd my moan ;
I hied me home, and tuned my pipe
Methought I should be wiser next,
And would a patriot turn,
Began to doat on Johnie Wilkes,
And cry up parson Home ;
Their manly spirit I admired,
And praised their noble zeal,
Who had with flaming tongue and pen
Maintained the public weal.
But ere a month or two had pass'd,
I found myself betray'd ;
'Twas self and party after all,
For all the stir they made.
At last I saw the factious knaves
Insult the very throne ;
I cursed them all, and tuned my pipe
What next to do I mused a while,
Still hoping to succeed,
I pitch'd on books for company,
And gravely tried to read ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I bought and borrow'd every where,
And studied night and day,
Nor miss'd what dean or doctor wrote,
That happen'd in my way :
Philosophy I now esteem'd
The ornament of youth,
And carefully, through many a page,
I hunted after truth :
A thousand various schemes I tried,
And yet was pleased with none ;
I threw them by, and tuned my pipe
And now ye youngsters everywhere,
Who wish to make a show,
Take heed in time, nor fondly hope
For happiness below ;
What you may fancy pleasure here
Is but an empty name,
And dames, and friends, and books also, .
You'll find them all the same :
Then be advised, and warning take
From such a man as me,
I 'm neither pope nor cardinal,
Nor one of high degree ;
You'll meet displeasure everywhere
Then do as I have done,
E'en tune your pipe, and please yourselves
With John of Badenyon.
347
348
SCOTTISH SONGS.
There is something of the sermon in this clever song :

the author puts his hero through a regular course of
worldly pursuits, and withdraws him from love, friend
ship, politics, and philosophy, with the resolution of seek
ing and finding consolation in his own bosom. When
the song was composed, John Wilkes was in the full
career of his short-lived popularity ; and honest Skinner,
incensed, probably, at the repeated insults which the
demagogue offered to Scotland, remembered him in song.
The satire of Churchill, and the wit of Wilkes, united
for a time against my native country ; and while the
people were agitated and inflamed, it was no safe thing
for a man even to shout " Wilkes and Liberty" with a
Scottish accent in the streets of London.
THE MAID THAT TENDS THE GOATS.

Up aiming 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 promised ay to lo'e me;
Here's a brooch I ne'er shall tine
Till he's fairly married to me :
Drive away ye drone Time,
An' bring about our bridal day.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
349
Sandy herds a flock o' sheep,

Aften does he blaw the whistle,
In a strain sae saftly sweet,
Lammies list'ning danrna 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 he can 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 ay the bangster :
A' his praise can ne'er be sung
By the langest-winded sangster.
Sangs that sing o' Sandy
Come short, though they were e'er sae lang.
This pleasing song was written by Mr. Robert
Dudgeon, a farmer, near Dunse in Berwickshire. The
air is very popular, and the song very pretty. He is
not the only one of his name and family whom the lyric
Muse has honoured with her visits.
350
SCOTTISH SONGS.
BESS THE GAWKIE.

Blithe young Bess to Jean did say,
Will ye gang to yon sunny brae,
Where flocks do feed, and herds do stray,
And sport a while 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 blitheness in his face,
Out owre the muir to Maggie :
I wat he ga'e her monie a kiss,
And Maggie took them ne'er amiss ;
'Tween ilka smack pleased her wi' this,
That Bess was but a gawkie
For when a civil kiss I seek,
She turns her head and thraws her cheek,
And for an hour she '11 hardly speak :
Wha'd no ca' her a gawkie ?
But sure my Maggie has mair sense,
She'll gie a score without offence ;
Now gie me ane into the meuse,
And ye shall be my dawtie.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
O Jamie, ye hae 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 carina be ;
Sic thoughts as thae are far frae me,
Or onie thy sweet race 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.
0 dear Bess, I hardly knew,
When I cam' by your gown sae new ;
1 think you've got it wet 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.
351
352
SCOTTISH SONGS.
As they gade owre the muir they sang,
The hills and dales wi' echoes rang,
The hills and dales wi' echoes rang,
Gang o'er the muir to Maggie.
This has been a favourite song for many years, and

few of our popular lyrics have so much genuine naivete
and dramatic animation. For a long while it went with
out an author's name ; but in addition to the assurance
of my father and general tradition, I am now authorised,
by the family of the author, to print it as the composition
of the Rev. Mr. Morehead. My friend William Gray,
of Magdalen College, Oxford, a gentleman who unites
a deep knowledge and warm admiration of our national
literature with very high classical attainments, had the
kindness to inquire about it during his residence in
Galloway. He was assured by Henries Morehead, Esq.
of Spottes, that the song was written by his father, the
late minister of the parish of Urr, on a love adventure
of his early days, and that the author himself was the
fortunate and unfortunate hero.
KND OF VOL. III.
LONDON :
"
PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVIbON, WIIITEFBIAItS.
SONGS OF SCOTLAND.
LONDON :
PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, wiiiTrrnTAit*.
THE
SONGS OF SCOTLAND,
ANCIENT AND MODERN;
WITH
AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES,
historical antr Critical,

AND
CHARACTERS OF THE LYRIC POETS.
He sang
Old songa, the product of his native hills ;
A skilful distribution of sweet sounds.
Opening from land to land an easy way
By melody and by the charm of verse.
WonnswoRTH.
BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM,
author or sin marmaduke maxwell, traditional tales,
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
VOL. IV.
LONDON :
PRINTED FOR JOHN TAYLOR,
WATERLOO-PLACE, PALL-MALL.
1825.
CONTENTS
VOL. IV.
Page
Auld Robin Gray

.....
Ae fond kiss
.
.
.
.
Again rejoicing nature sees
Afton water
Annie
....
A red, red rose
....
Auld Rob Morris
Auld lang syne
Annie
....
A wet sheet and a flowing sea
Awake, my love
....
Adelgitha
.
.
A weary lot is thine
Allan-a-maut
Allan-a-dale
Ae happy hour
Bonnie Lesley
Bonnie Bell
Blithe was >In
5
29
31
47
66
78
95
97
151
208
226
238
266
287
294
300
54
68
93
VI
CONTENTS.
Page
Bonnie Jean
KM)
Bess and her spinning-wheel
122
Banks of the Devon

Beware, o' bonnie Ann
173
Bonnie lady Ann
194
302
Brignal banks
MS
Come under my plaidie
37
Country lassie
87
Contented wi' little
93
99
Caledonia
Cherokee Indian death-song
150
Chloris
1G1
Carle, now the king's come
243
307
Come, toom the stoup
Donald and Flora
25
Duncan Gray
39
Donald Macdonald
245
Donald Caird
349
De Bruce, De Bruce
S56
Evan banks
59
Earl March
290
For a' that and a' that

Farewell thou fair day
9
45
Farewell to Ayrshire
49
Green grow the rashes
19
50
Gudewife, count the Iawin

Gloomy winter's now awa
100
Galls water
Good night, and joy be wi' you a
142
105
CONTENTS.
Good night, good night

Gentle Hugh Herries
vil
I'agc
212
230
49
91
.
.
191
207
283
324
Her flowing locks

Had I a cave
Highland Mary
Hohenlinden
Habbic's frae hame
Halucket Meg
Jenny's bawbee
16
I'D ay ca' in by yon town

I winna gang back
m
.
117
1 love ray Jean

John Anderson my jo
138
153
I am a son of Mars
195
Jock of Hazledean
224
Jean's bright een
289
Lord Gregory
77
Logan water
Langsyne, beside the woodland burn
124
137
Ijouis, what reck I by thee ?
166
Last May, a braw wooer
167
Low Germanie
.
.
213
217
Logan braes
Last night a proud page
270
Lord UUin's daughter

Lord Randal
321
332
Lucy's flittin'
347
Mary il orison
11
M'Pherson's farewell
22
Meg o' the mill
24
vill
CONTENTS.
Page
My only jo and dearie

.
My Nannie-o
...
My Mary
My Jeanie
My heart's in the highlands
My tocher's the jewel
Mary
.
.
My bonnie Mary
Mary of Castle-cary
'Mong Scotia's glens
Miles Colvine
My ain bonnie May
My Johnie
My ain countree
Marmion
My Nunie-o
Naebody
Nancy
Nora's vow
....
O May, thy mom

O were I on Parnassus' hill
O for ane and twenty, Tam
O poortith cauld
Och hey, Johnie lad
O tell me how to woo thee
O gin my love were yon red rose
O, wat ye wha's in yon town
O, wha is she that lo'es me
Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast
On the seas and far away
O are ye sleeping, Maggie?
On wi' the tartan
.
.
.
.
.28
. 75
89
96
. 120
. 129
. 144
179
. 188
222
. 258
. 279
. 292
304
310
328
85
183
215
13
32
72
80
114
118
121
134
162
170
171
176
274
CONTENTS.
IX
1'agc
Our lailyt's blessed well

O, my love is a country lass
277
Poor and honest sodger

Phillis the fair
Peggy Alison
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
Pull away, jolly boys
Phemie Irving
Peggie
Poverty parts good company
Peggie
109
334
Roland Cheync
233
Sae flaxen were her ringlets

Sair I rue the witless wish
Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie bum
Sic a wife as Willie had
She's fair and fausc
Saturday's sun
Say, sweet carol
Song of the elfin miller
Song of Richard Faulder
Stars, dinna peep in
Sing on, sing on
Song of Snorro
The Bruce of Bannockburn
The braes o' Balquhithcr
The blue-eyed lass
The plaid amang the heather
The birks of Aberfeldy
The lass o' Ballochmyle
VOL. IV.
33
145
155
205
.20!)
21H
:ioi
305
3
4fi
(a
147
186
'221
262
308
312
318
335
340
1
II
21
39
13
51
CONTENTS.
Page
The stown glance o' kindness

.
The bonnie wee thing
.
,
The cradle song
The lammie
The auld man
The deil's awa wi' the exciseman
The gloomy night
The lass of Arrantcenie
Thro' Cruikston Castle's lonely wa'a
The lea-rig
The braes o' Ballochmyle
The day returns, my bosom burns
The flower o' Dumblane
The posie
The braes o' Gleniffer
This is no my ain lassie
Tibbie, I hae seen the day .
To Mary in heaven
The evening star
Tarn Glen .'
The young highland rover .
The Chevalier's lament
The gowden locks of Anna
The rantin dog the daddie o't
The lad that's far awa'
The banks o' Doon
.
The lovely lass of Inverness
The sailor's lady
The exile of Erin
The hameward song
.
The poet's morning
The return of spring
The black cock
The wounded hussar
.33
.
.
.
.
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.
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87
61
03
65
89
70
73
82
107
112
H3
116
120
188
131
132
149
157
169
164
174
177
181
184
193
198
218
219
225
228
229
231
232
CONTENTS.
The tears I shed must ever fall
XI
Page
234
The hills o' Gallowa'

236
The shepherd's son
2-11
The thistle's grown aboon the rose
248
The Norman horseshoe
250
. Tho' richer swains
.
The green bowers of Bargeny
252
253
The broken heart of Annie

254
The braes of Ballahun
The soldier's dream
The downfall of Dalzcll
SOI
263
2(14
The emigrant's farewell

2(i8
The mariner
.
271
The foray
The social cup
272
273
The evening star

275
The moon was a waning
276
The bride of Allanbay
*The bonnie bark
281
284
The widow's lament

The captive huntsman
28G
288
The lass of Preston mill

Take tent now, Jean
The charmed bark
The king's landing at Leith
2U5
2<)8
2!)(t
315
The cypress wreath

The maid of Llanwellyn
316
319
The gallant auld carle

The pirate's song
320
323
Thou hast vow'd by thy faith, my Jeanie

The rose of Sharon
327
330
The mariner
333
The lord's Marie
338
The lass of Delorainc
343
Xll
CONTENTS.
Page
The battle of the Baltic

The spring o' the year
350
Vision of liberty
10W
Whistle o'er the lave o't

Wandering Willie
Wha is that at my bower door ?
What can a young lassie do ?
Willie brew'd a peck o' maut
Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad
Wilt thou be my dearie
Welcome bat and owlet gray
Waken, lords and ladies gay
Young Lochinvar
Ye mariners of England
:u
41
109
10-1
140
180
190
211
257
313
351
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE BRUCE OF BANNOCKBURN.

Scots, wha hae 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 of battle lour ;
See approach proud Edward's powerChains and slaverie !
Wha will be a traitor knave ?
Wha can fill a coward's grave ?
Wha sae base as be a slave ?
Let him turn and flee !
Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa',
Let him follow me !
voL. iv.
a
SCOTTISH SONGS.
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 !
Of this martial song the poet says, " There is a tra

dition that ' Hey, tuttie, taitie !' was the march of Ro
bert Bruce at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought,
in my solitary wanderings, warmed me into a pitch of
enthusiasm on the theme of liberty and independence,
which I threw into a kind of Scottish ode fitted to the
air, which one might suppose to be the gallant Royal
Scot's address to his heroic followers on that eventful
morning." By another account, Burns was overtaken by
a tremendous storm of mingled lightning and rain among
the Galloway mountains, and in the midst of the ele
mental commotion he conceived and composed the song.
It would appear too that the poet was musing- on the
French Revolution and the war for the independence
of Scotland at the same time. A halo, historical and
poetical, has been shed over the field of Bannockburn
over the hero who led, and the thirty thousand heroes
who conquered : I will attempt no idle illustration of a
subject which Barbour, Burns, and Scott have sung.
The concluding verse is chiefly borrowed from Blind
Harry's Wallace :
SCOTTISH SONGS.
A false usurper sinks in every foe,

And Liberty returns with every blow.
A change was afterwards made in the original struc
ture of the verse, so that it might correspond with the
air of Lewie Gordon ; this encumbered the simple beauty
of the fourth line of each stanza.I have adhered to
the first version.
SAE FLAXEN WERE HER RINGLETS.

Sae flaxen were her ringlets,
Her eyebrows of a darker hue,
Bewitchingly o'er-arching
Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue.
Her smiling, sae wyling,
Wad make a wretch forget his woe ;
What pleasure, what treasure,
Unto these rosy lips to grow !
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face,
, When first her bonnie face I saw,
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm,
She says she lo'es me best of a'.
Like harmony her motion ;
Her pretty ancle is a spy
Betraying fair proportion,
Wad make a saint forget the sky.
b2
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Sae warming, sae charming,
Her faultless form and gracefu' air ;
Ilk feature auld Nature
Declar'd that she could do nae mair :
Hers are the willing chains o' love,
By conquering beauty's sovereign law ;
And 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 ;
Gie 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,
And hear my vows o' truth and love,
And say thou lo'es me best of a' !
Of this exquisite song Burns says little ; of the wo

man in whose praise it was written he says too much.
" She is one of the finest women in Scotland, and in
fact is in a manner to me what Sterne's Eliza was to
hima mistress, or a friend, or what you will, in the
guileless simplicity of Platonic love. I assure you, that
to my lovely friend you are indebted for many of your
best songs of mine. Do you think that the sober gin
SCOTTISH SONGS.
horse routine of existence could inspire a man with life,

and love, and joy,could lire him with enthusiasm, or
melt him with pathos, equal to the genius of your book ?
No, no ; whenever I want to be more than ordinary in
songto be in some degree equal to your diviner airs,
do yon imagine I fast and pray for the celestial emana
tion ? I put myself in a regimen of admiring a fine
woman; and in proportion to the adorability of her
charms, in proportion you are delighted with my verses.
The lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus,
and the witchery of her smile the divinity of Helicon."
Such is the glowing picture which the poet gives of
youth and health, and voluptuous beauty ; but let no
lady envy the poetical elevation of poor Chloris : her
situation in poetry is splendidher situation in life
merits our pity, and perhaps our charity.
AULD ROBIN GRAY.
When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye a' at
heme,
And a' the warld to sleep are gane ;
The waes of my heart fa' in showers frae my ee,
When my gudeman lies sound by me.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and he sought me for his

bride,
But saving a crown he had naething beside ;
To make that crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea,
And the crown and the pound were baith for me.
He had nae been gone a week but only twa,
When my mither she fell sick, and the cow was stoun
awa' ;
My father brake his arm, and my Jamie at the sea,
And auld Robin Gray came a courting to me.
My father couldna' work, and 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 ee
Said, Jenny, for their sakes, will ye marry me ?
My heart it said nay, I look'd for Jamie back ;
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wreck,
The ship it was a wreck, why didna Jenny die ?
And why do I live to say Wae is me ?
My father urged me sair ; though my mither didna
speak,
She look'd in my face till my heart was like to break ;
So I gied him my hand, though my heart was in
the sea,
And auld Robin Gray is gudeman to me.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I hadna been a wife a week but only four,

When sitting sae mournfully at my ain door,
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I coudna think it- he,
Till he said, I'm come back, love, to marry thee.
0 sair did we greet, and muckle did we say ;
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away ;
1 wish I were dead, but I'm no like to die ;
And why do I live to say Wae is me ?
I gang like a ghaist, and carena to spin ;
I darena think on Jamie, for that wou'd be a sin ;
But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,
For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me.
This exquisite song was written by Lady Ann Lind
say, and appeared before her ladyship was twenty years
old. It has been fortunate in the admiration of the
world and in the abuse of Mr. Pinkerton. In truth, I
imagine the critic condemned it more from an intense
spirit of contradiction, than from coldness of heart or
infirmity of judgment, for he has sometimes expressed
opinions in good taste and right feeling ; but all who
are charmed with simple grace and happy delicacy will
love the song of " Auld Robin Gray." Of the three
characters, I love Auld Robin the most : he is a grayhaired and chivalrous old man, and ought to have lived
and established a dynasty of Grays. Jamie is indeed a
worthy fellow, and is to be commended for his many
words and his " ae kiss ;" but the unstable element on
SCOTTISH SONGS.
which a sailor lives makes him look out for disappoint

ments and changesquicksands, sunken rocks, sudden
tempests, fierce enemies, and faithless loves are part and
parcel of his fortunes ; they are expected with calmness;
and braved or endured when met. Of Jenny I would
gladly believe the best, yet she seems something of a
schemer ; the destruction of her lover's vessel, and the
belief that he had perished, I am afraid had some share
in overcoming her reluctance : yet who can forget the
picture of domestic sorrow which she draws, or fail to
lay up in his heart the conclusion of the courtship :
My father urged me sair ; though my mother didna
speak,
She look'd in my face till my heart was like to break.
Of the noble authoress I am sorry I can say no more
than that she is the daughter of James Lindsay, fifth
Earl of Balcarras, the widow of Andrew Bernard, Esq.
Colonial Secretary at the Cape of Good Hope, and that
her residence is in Berkeley-square. Some years ago
the song of " Auld Robin Gray" was claimed as the pro
duction of an Irish clergyman. Lady Ann married the
son of the bishop of Limerick I can help Ireland no
farther in its claim of authorship.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.

Is there, for honest poverty
That hangs his head, and a' that ?
The coward-slave, we pass him hy,
We dare be poor for a' that !
For a' that, and a' that,
Our toils obscure, and 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 hodden-gray, and a' that ;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that ;
Their tinsel show, and a' that :
The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ;
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that :
His riband, star, and a' that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that-
10
SCOTTISH SONGS.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that ;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa' that !
Their dignities, and a' that,
The pith o' sense, and 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 and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that.
It's coming yet, for a' that,
That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.
" A great critic (Aikin) on song says, that love and

wine are the exclusive themes for song writing. The
following is on neither subject, and consequently is no
song ; but will be allowed to be, I think, two or three
pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme." In
this manner Burns speaks of this pithy, sarcastic, and
manly song. That it re-echoes the sentiments of his
own heart there can be little doubt : he believed in the
supremacy of genius, and was something of a leveller ;
and who can blame him ? During one year he enjoyed
the friendship of the northern nobility, and for seven
years he felt their neglect. During his visit to Edin
SCOTTISH SONGS.
11
burgh, he was caressed as no poet was ever caressed : he

expected this sunshine to last, and looked for fortune
to follow ; but he was not prepared for disappointment,
and his fortitude was not equal to his other powers. To
go at once from the rich man's wine and a table covered
with plate, to water from the well and the homely fare
and rustic work of a farmerto leave my lady's hand
for the rough stilts of the ploughwere descents beyond
his expectation, and far too strong for his spirit : he
sank, and died of a broken heart. This song was pre
ceded by many a " For a' that and a' that," both jacobitical and domestic ; but none are worthy of remem
brance.
MARY MORISON.
O Mary, at thy window be,

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour !
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor :
How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure
Of lovely Mary Morison.
12
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed through the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard nor saw :
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
Ye are na Mary Morison.
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only fault is loving thee ?
If love for love thou wiltna gie,
At least be pity to me shown !
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.
" Mary Morison" is one of the best and the earliest of

Burns's songs. It is written much in the antique style,
and the name of the heroine has a national look and
sound which excite an interest worth ten thousand
Chlorises and Phyllises, and all the fabulous tribe of
Arcadian damsels. . That the poet did not think well of
it himself, we have his own authority : " I do not think
it very remarkable either for its merits or demerits ;it
is impossible to be always original, entertaining, and
witty."
SCOTTISH SONGS.
13
O MAY, THY MORN.
O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet

As the mirk night o' December ;
For sparkling was the rosy wine,
And private was the chamber :
And dear was she I darena name,
But I will aye remember ;
And dear was she I darena name,
But I will aye remember.
And here's to them, that, like oursel,
Can push about the jorum ;
And here's to them that wish us weel,
May a' that's gudc watch o'er them ;
And here's to them we darena tell,
The dearest o' the quorum ;
And here's to them we darena tell,
The dearest o' the quorum.
This happy and original little lyric was one of many
which flowed from the pen of Burns into the Musical
Museum. The contrast of the first and last verses
is very great, yet very natural. The poet imagines him
self warmed with wine, and seated among his com
panions, to whom he announces, as the glass goes round,
14
SCOTTISH SONGS.
the attractions of his mistress, and his good fortune in

her affection. His confidence goes no farther ;the
name of his love is not to be told ; and for this poetical
tyranny there is no remedy.
THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER.
Let us go, lassie, go,

To the braes of Balquhither,
Where the blae-berries grow
'Mang the bonnic Highland heather ;
Where the deer and the rae,
Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang simmer day,
On the braes o' Balquhither.
I will twine thee a bow'r,
By the clear siller fountain,
And I'll cover it o'er
Wi' the flow'rs of the mountain ;
I will range through the wilds,
And the deep glens sae drearie,
And return wi' the spoils
To the bow'r o' my dearie.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
15
When the rude wintry win'

Idly raves round our dwelling,
And the roar of the linn
On the night breeze is swelling,
So merrily we'll sing,
As the storm rattles o'er us,
Till the dear shieling ring
Wi' the light lilting chorus.
Now the summer is in prime,
Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme
A' the moorlands perfuming ;
To our dear native scenes
Let us journey together,
Where glad Innocence reigns
'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.
This song was written by Robert Tannahill, and its
liquid verse and lively images have made it a favourite.
It is simple and natural without pastoral affectation,
but without much pastoral knowledge. The shepherd's
shieling is a bower made of materials far too frail to en
dure the rattle of a winter stormit is only a summer
residence. It was in a little shieling of turf and hea
ther that I found my friend James Hogg, half way up
the hill of Queensberry, with the Lay of the Last Min
strel in his hand, and all his flocks feeding before him ;
but I should never have looked for him there on a winter
night when snows were drifting thick and deep.
16
SCOTTISH SONGS.
JENNY'S BAWBEE.
I met four chaps yon birks aiming,
Wi' hanging lugs and faces lang :
I spier'd at neighbour Bauldy Strang,
What are they, these we see ? /
Quoth he, ilk cream-fac'd pawky chiel'
Thinks himsel' cunnin' as the deil,
And here they come awa' to steal
; Jenny's bawbee.
The first, a captain to his trade,
Wi' ill-lin'd scull, and back weel clad,
March'd round the barn, and by the shed,
And papped on his knee :
Quoth he, my goddess, nymph, and queen,
Your beauty 's dazzled baith my een !
Though ne'er a beauty he had seen
But Jenny's bawbee.
A Norland laird neist trotted up,
Wi' bawsent naig and siller whip ;
Cried, Here's my horse, lad, haud the grup,
Or tie him to a tree.
What's gowd to me ? I've wealth o' Ian'
Bestow on ane o' worth your han'
He thought to pay what he was awn
Wi' Jenny's bawbee.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
17
A lawyer neist, wi' bleth'rin gab,

And speeches wove like ony wab ;
O' ilk ane's corn he took a dab,
And a' for a fee ;
Accounts he owed through a' the town,
And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown
But now he thought to clout his gown
Wi' Jenny's bawbee.
Quite spruce, just frae the washin' tubs,
A fool came neist ; but life has rubs,
Foul were the roads, and fu' the dubs,
And sair besmear'd was he :
He danc'd up, squintin' through a glass,
And grinn'd, F faith, a bonnie lass !
He thought to win, wi' front o' brass,
Jenny's bawbee.
She bade the laird gae kaim his wig,
The sodger not to strut sae big,
The lawyer not to be a prig ;
The fool he cried, Tee-hee !
I kenn'd that I could never fail !
But she prinn'd the dishclout to his tail,
And cool'd him wi' a water-pail,
And kept her bawbee.
Then Johnie came, a lad o' sense,
Although he had na mony pence ;
And took young Jenny to the spence,
Wi' her to crack a wee.
vol. nr.
18
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Now Johnie was a clever cluel',
And here his suit he press'd sae weel,
That Jenny's heart grew saft as jeel,
And she birl'd her bawbee.
The name of this song was suggested to Sir Alexander

Boswell by an old fragment, which still lives among the
peasantry. He borrowed no more, and has filled up the
idea which this little symbol of the maiden's wealth
presented, with a procession of lovers of many pro
fessions, all alike eager for the acquirement of wealth
by matrimony. The characters of the competitors for
the crown matrimonial are cleverly drawn : Jenny had
more prudence than what commonly pertains to maidens
who flourish in lyric verse. The old verses are scarcely
worth preserving:
And a' that e'er my Jenny had,
My Jenny had, my Jenny had ;
A' that e'er my Jenny had,
Was ae bawbee.
There's your plack and my plack,
And your plack and my plack,
And my plack and your plack,
And Jenny's bawbee :
We'll put it in the pint stoup,
The pint stoup, the pint stoup ;
We'll put it in the pint stoup,
And birl't a' three.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
19
>
GREEN GROW THE RASHES.
There s nought but care on ev'ry han',

In ev'ry hour that passes-o ;
What signifies the life o' man,
An' 'twerena for the lasses-o ?
Green grow the rashes-o !
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent aiming the lasses-o !
The warldly race may riches chase,
An' riches still may fly them-o ;
An' though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them-o.
But gie me a cannie hour at e'en,
My arms about my dcarie-o ;
An' warldly cares, and warldly men,
May a' gae tapsaltcerie-o !
For you sae douse, ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses-o !
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,
He dearly lov'd the lasses-o.
c2
20
SCOTTISH SONGS.
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.
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent amang the lasses-o !
The " Green grow the Rashes" of our ancestors was

a song of some spirit, and more freedom.I remember
the chorus :
Nae feather-bed was e'er sae saft,
As a bed amang the rashes-o !
It was probably akin to the song of " Pou thou me the
Rushes green,'' mentioned in the " Complaynt of Scot
land." This is one of the early songs of Burns, and the
incense which it offers in the concluding verse at the
shrine of female beauty is the richest any poet ever
brought.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
21
THE BLUE-EYED LASS.

I gaed a waefii' gate yestreen,
A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ;
I 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 wyl'd,
She charm'd my soul, I wistna how ;
And aye the stound, the deadly wound,
Came 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.
The lady, in honour of whose blue eyes this fine song
was written, was Miss Jeffrey of Lochmaben, now re
siding at New York in Americaa wife and a mother.
It is very popular among the ladies ; their sweet clear
voices ascend with the music a height which few men
can hope to reach. I have a copy of the song in the
hand-writing of Burns.
82
SCOTTISH SONGS.
MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL.
Farewell, ye dungeons, dark and strong,
The wretch's destinie !
Macpherson's time will not be long,
On yonder gallows-tree.
Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sae dauntingly gaed he ;
He play'd a spring, and danced it round,
Below the gallows-tree.
0 what is death but parting breath. !
On many a bloody plain
1 have dar'd his face, and in this place
.1 scorn him yet again !
Untie these bands from off my hands,
And bring to me my sword ;
And there's no 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
SCOTTISH SONGS.
28
May coward shame destain his name,

The wretch that dares not die !
Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sae dauntingly gaed he ;
He play'd a spring, and danced it round,
Below the gallows-tree.
Burns, if I may trust a mark in the Museum, com
municated this wild and warlike song as an old lyric,
with additions : it is, however, as much his own as a
song may well be.It owes little, except the name and
subject, to the death-chant of Macpherson, printed in
Herd's Collection. This daring freebooter composed the
song and tune while under sentence of death at Inver
ness ; and when he came to the fatal tree he played the
air on a favourite violin : holding up the instrument,
he offered it to any of his name who would play the
tune at his lyke-wake. No one answeredhe dashed
the fiddle to pieces on the hangman's head, and flung
himself from the ladder. Tradition has some curious
stories to tell of songs sung, and music composed, in
circumstances very unfavourable for such compositions.
The town piper of Falkirk, it is said, was sentenced to be
hanged for horse-stealing : on the night before his execu
tion he obtained as an indulgence the company of some
of his brother pipers, and as the liquor was abundant, and
their instruments in tune, the noise and fun grew fast
and furious. The execution was to be at eight o'clock,
and the poor piper was recalled to a sense of his situa
21-
SCOTTISH SONGS.
tion by morning light dawning on the window. He

suddenly silenced Lis pipe, and exclaimed, " O but this
wearyfu' hanging rings in my lug like a new tune !"
MEG O' THE MILL.

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ?
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ?
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller,
And broken the heart o' the barley miller.
The miller was strappin', the miller was ruddy ;
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady :
The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl :
She's left the guid fellow, and ta'en the churl.
The miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving :
The laird did address her wi' matter mair moving ;
A fine pacing horse, wi' a clear chained bridle,
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle.
O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ;
And wae on the love that is fix'd on a mailen' !
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle,
But, gie me my love, and a fig for the warl !
" Meg o' the Mill" was a favourite theme with Burns s
augmented the humour and the glee of the old song,
SCOTTISH SONGS.
25
and sent it to the Museum ; while for Thomson's more

classic collection he wrote the present version. The
ancient song lives still in the tenacious memory of the
peasantry, though little of it deserves to live.
Ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ?
Ken ye what Meg o' the .Mill has gotten ?
A braw new gown, and the tail o't is rotten,
And that's what Meg o' the Mill has gotten.
DONALD AND FLORA.

When merry hearts were gay,
Careless of aught but play,
Poor Flora slipt away
Sadd'ning to Mora.
Loose flow'd her yellow hair,
Quick heav'd her bosom bare,
And thus to the troubled air
She vented her sorrow :
Loud howls the northern blast,
Bleak is the dreary waste ;
Haste then, O Donald, haste,
Haste to thy Flora !
Twice twelve long months are o'er,
Since on a foreign shore
You promis'd to fight no more,
But meet mc in Mora.
26
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Come then, O come away !
Donald ! no longer stay !
Where can my rover stray
From his Wd Flora ?
Ah ! sure he ne'er could be
False to his vows and me !
Heavens ! is't not yonder he,
Comes bounding o'er Mora ?
Never, O wretched fair !
Sigh'd the sad messenger,
Never shall Donald mair
Meet his loved Flora !
Cold as yon mountain's snow,
Donald, thy love, lies low !
He sent me to soothe thy woe,
While weeping in Mora.
Well fought our valiant men
On Saratoga's plain ;
Thrice fled the hostile train
From British glory.
But, though our foes did flee,
Sad was each victory !
For youth, love, and loyalty,
Fell far, far from Mora !
Here, take this love-wrought plaid,
Donald, expiring, said ;
Give it to yon dear maid,
Drooping in Mora :
SCOTTISH SONGS.
27
Tell her, O Allan, tell !

Donald thus bravely fell ;
And that in his last farewell
He thought on his Flora !
Mute stood the trembling fair,
Speechless with wild despair !
Striking her bosom bare,
She sigh'd, Poor Flora !
Ah, Donald ! ah, well-a-day !
Flora no more could say ;
At length the sound died away
For ever in Mora !
Hector Maeneill had some tenderness, but no pathos ;
and as pathos was wanted for this tale of woe, the song
is a failure. What messenger ever came with so swift
a foot and so tedious a tongue :in three verses he tells
what he might have said in three lines, and the silly
sorrow of the lady is in keeping with the stupidity of
the messenger :
Ah, Donald ! ah, well-a-day !
Flora no more could say.
I have omitted one verse, and more might be spared.
28
SCOTTISH SONGS.
MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE.

Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue,
My only jo and dearie-o ;
Thy neck is like the siller dew,
Upon the banks sae brierie-o ;
Thy teeth are o' the ivorie,
O sweet's the twinkle o' thine e'e !
Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me,
My only jo and dearie-o.
The birdie sings upon the thorn
It's sang o' joy, fu' cheerie-o,
Rejoicing in the simmer morn,
Nae care to make it eerie-o ;
But little kens the sangster sweet
Aught o' the cares I hae to meet,
That gar my restless bosom beat,
Whan we were bairnies on yon brae,
And youth was blinkin' bonnie-o,
Aft we wad daff the lee-lang day
Our joys fu' sweet and monie-o :
Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lea,
And round about the thorny tree,
Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee,
My only jo and dearic-o.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
29
I hae a wish I carina tine,

'Mang a' the cares that grieve me-o ;
I wish thou wert for ever mine,
And never mair to leave me-o :
Then I wad daut thee night and day,
Nor ither warldly care wad hae,
Till life's warm stream forgot to play,
I remember when this song was exceedingly popular :
its sweetness and ease rather than its originality and
vigour might be the cause of its success. The third
verse contains a very beautiful picture of early attach
menta sunny bank and some sweet soft school-girl,
will appear to many a fancy when these lines are sung.
It was written by Richard Gall.
AE FOND KISS.
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ;
Ae farewell, alas, for ever !
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage theeWho 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.
30
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy :
But to see her, was to love her ;
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never lov'd sae kindly,
Had we never lov'd sae blindly,
Never metor never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted !
Fare thee well, thou first and fairest !
Fare thee well, thou best and dearest !
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure !
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ;
Ae farewell, alas ! for ever !
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
Burns wrote this moving song about the year 1790

Like Thomson he laments the cruelty of fortune : but
there is more passion in his complaint ; and he seems to
have drunk deeply of joy before he parted with the cup.
Of the heroine I cannot speak with certainty ; but the
poet I believe has named her rightthe song is more
creditable to her charms than to her good name.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
AGAIN REJOICING NATURE SEES.

Again rejoicing Nature sees
Her robe assume its vernal hues,
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep'd in morning dews.
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 and the lintwhite sing.
The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi' joy the tentic seedman stauks,
But life to me's a weary dream,
A dream of anc that never wauks.
The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And every thing is blest but I.
The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorland whistles shill,
Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step,
I meet him on the dewy hill.
And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blithe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist, I hameward glide.
31
82
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me !
I have removed from this fine song the idle encum

brance of an adopted chorus ; it interrupted the flow of
the narrative, and was at open war with the sentiment
of each verse. The chorus was joyous and the song
mournful. It is one of the earliest printed lyrics of
Burns.
O WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL.

O 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 and spell,
And write how dear I love thee.
.i
Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay,

For a' the lee-lang simmer's day
I cou'dna sing, I cou'dna say
How much, how dear I love thee.
ifi
SCOTTISH SONGS.
33
I see thee dancing o'er the green,

Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een
By heaven and earth I love thee !
By night, by day, a-field, at hame,
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ;
And aye I muse and 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 thenand then I'll love thee.
Burns wrote this song when he first became a dweller
on the banks of the Nith ; and he wrote it in honour
of Mrs. Burns. I have heard the introduction of the
heathen hill and fount of poetic inspiration censured as
pedantic ; but they are mentioned only in a half-serious
and half-comic way, that the poet may give preference
to the stream of Nith and the hill of Corsincon. The
second verse contains one of those happy strokes for
which the poet is unrivalledhe gazes on the image of
life and loveliness which his fancy presents till he can
contain himself no longer, and exclaims, after making
an inventory of various perfections, " By heaven and
earth I love thee !"
VOL. IV.
34
SCOTTISH SONGS.
WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE OT.

First when Maggie was my care,
Heaven, I thought, was in her air ;
Now we're marriedspier nae mair
Whistle o'er the lave o't.
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,
Bonnie Meg was nature's child
Wiser men than me's beguil'd ;
How we live, my Meg and me,
How we love and how we 'gree,
I carena by how few may see ;
Wha I wish were maggots' meat,
Dish'd up in her winding sheet,
I could writebut Meg maun see't
No lady would be thought ambitious who wished to
be considered the heroine of this brief and pithy song.
Burns wrote it as a speculation upon matrimonial hap
piness, and with the wish of supplanting the ancient
song of " Whistle o'er the lave o't," which it has not
SCOTTISH SONGS.
85
wholly succeeded in accomplishing. The old song is

still living, though scarcely worthy of existence :
She sent her daughter to the well,
Better she had gane hersell ;
She missed a foot, and down she fell
And so it goes on, meaning much more than it openly
expresses.
THE PLAID AMANG THE HEATHER.

The wind blew hie owre muir and lea,
And dark and stormy grew the weather ;
The rain rain'd sair ; nae shelter near
But my love's plaid amung the heather.
Close to his breast he held me fast;
Sae cozle, warm, we lay thegither ;
Nae simmer heat was half sae sweet
As my luve's plaid amang the heather !
'Mid wind and rain he tauld his tale ;
My lightsome heart grew like a feather :
d2
36
SCOTTISH SONGS.
It lap sac quick I cou'dna speak,
But silent sigh'd amang the heather.
The storm blew past ;we kiss'd in haste ;
I hameward ran and tauld my mither ;
She gloom'd at first, but soon confest
The bowls row'd right amang the heather.
Now Hymen's beam gilds bank and stream,
Whare Will and I fresh flowers will gather
Nae storms I fear, I've got my dear
Kind-hearted lad amang the heather.
This I believe is not a popular song ; nor is it one of

those compositions for which the author has shown any
particular regard, or his admirers any marked affection.
Neither has it much novelty of sentiment or originality
of conception to recommend it. Nevertheless, for flowing
ease and natural felicity of expression, it surpasses any
of the other songs of Hector Maeneill. A lover's plaid,
and a bed of heath, are favourite topics with the
northern Muse; when the heather is in bloom it is
worthy of becoming the couch of beauty. A sea of
brown blossom, undulating as far as the eye can reach,
and swarming with wild-bees, is a fine sight.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
37
COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE.

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 'wa wi' 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 might be my gutcher :auld Donald, gae 'wa.
I'm gaun to meet Johnie, he's young and he's bonnie ;
He's been at Meg's bridal, fu' trig and fu' braw !
Nane dances sae lightly, sae gracefu', sae tightly,
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 hale o' his pack he has now on his back ;
He's thretty, and I am but threescore and twa.
Be frank now and kin'ly : I'll busk ye aye finely ;
To kirk or to market they'll few gang sae braw ;
A bien house to bide in, a chaise for to ride in,
And flunkies to 'tend ye as fast as ye ca'.
38
SCOTTISH SONGS.
My father ay tauld me, my mither an' a',

Ye'd make a gude husband, and keep me ay braw ;
It's true I lo'e Johnie, he's young and he's bonnie,
But, waes me, I ken, he has naething ava !
I hae little tocher, ye've made a gude offer ;
I'm nae mair than twenty ; my time is but sma' !
Sae gie me your plaidie, I'll creep in beside ye,
I thought ye'd been aulder than threescore and twa !
She crap in ayont him, beside the stane wa',
Whare Johnie was list'ning, and heard her tell a' :
The day was appointed ! his proud heart it dunted,
And strack 'gainst his side, as if bursting in twa.
He wander'd home wearie, the night it was drearie,
And, thowless, he tint his gate 'mang the deep snaw :
The howlet was screamin', while Johnie cried, Women
Wad many auld Nick if he'd keep them ay braw.
O the deil's in the lasses ! they gang now sae braw,
They'll lie down wi' auld men o' fourscore and twa ;
The hale o' their marriage is gowd and a carriage ;
Plain love is the cauldest blast now that can blaw.
Auld dotards, be wary ! take tent wha ye marry,
Young wives wi' their coaches they'll whup and they'll
ca',
Till they meet wi' some Johnie that's youthfu' and
bonnie,
And they'll gie ye horns oil ilk haffet to claw.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
89
" Come under my Plaidie" was printed in the Mu

seum, and has since found ready admission into our lyric
collections; yet it is deficient in the sprightly rustic
grace and buoyant animation of many of our songs of
courtship and matrimony. That an old man should de
sire a young wife, is nothing new ; and that the vanity
of woman should cast away true love for splendid dresses
and a coach, is not uncommon. The charm, therefore,
must lie in the poetry or in the vivid narrative. There
is little that can be called poetry about it ; and the nar
rative is never brightened up for a moment by any of
those flashings-out of humour or of wit, which we re
member, with pleasure and love, to repeat. It was
written by Hector Macneill.
DUNCAN GRAY.
Duncan Gray came here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
On blithe Yule night, when we were fou,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Maggie coost her head fu' heigh,
Look'd asklent an' unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ;
Duncan neech'd, an' Duncan pray'd,
40
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,
Duncan sigh'd baith out an' in,
Grat his een baith blear'd an' blin',
Spake o' louping o'er a linn,
Time an' chance are but a tide,
Slighted love is sair to bide,
. Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
for a haughty hi zzie die ?
She may gae toFrancefor me !
. .'
How it comes let doctors tell,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't ;
Meg grew sick as he grew heal,
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings ;
And O, her een, they spake sic things !
Duncan was a lad o' grace,
Maggie's was a piteous case,
won.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
41
Duncan couldna be her death,

Swelling pity sunoor'd his wrath :
Now they're arouse and canty baith ;
" Duncan Gray is that kind of light-horse gallop of
an air which precludes sentiment the ludicrous is its
ruling feature:" such are the words of Burns in his
communication with Mr. Thomson concerning this lively
song. Into the shortest measure, the poet had the un
rivalled art of infusing ease and grace, and vivacity and
humour. To airs for which our ancestors could only
find a lucky line or two, which, from a penury of in
vention, they repeated through the verse, Burns found
an overflow of happy verses, telling the lively or the
tender story of the song without the clumsy assistance
of those cuckoo repetitions. An ancient Duncan Gray
once existed, but the hero had no right to be called " a
lad of grace."
WANDERING WILLIE.
Here awa', there awa', wandering Willie,
Here awa', there awa', haud awa' hame ;
Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie,
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.
48,
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting,

It was na the blast brought the tear in my e'e :
Welcome. now simmer, and welcome my Willie,
The simmer to naturemy Willie to me.
Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers,
How your dread howling a lover alarms !
Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows,
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.
But Oh ! if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie,
Flow still between us, thou wide-roaring main ;
}VIay I never see it, may I never trow it,
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain !
The old " Here awa' Willie," which inspired this song,
has some merit, and is well known. The versions of
Burns's song are numerous ; and lyric poets may obtain
instruction in the art of song-writing by reading the
correspondence between the poet and the musician. To
induce the song to echo the music with greater nicety,
the poetry submitted to a kind of musical martyrdom
sense was prevailed against by sound. I have restored
the reading of the first rough sketch of the song in
the second verse : the expression is more natural and
touching.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY.

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes,
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays ;
Come, let us spend the lightsome days
In the birks of Aberfeldy.
Bonny lassie, will ye go,
Will ye go, will ye go ?
Bonny lassie, will ye go
To the birks of Aberfeldy ?
The little birdies blithely sing,
While o'er their heads the hazels hing ;
Or lightly flit on wanton wing
The braes ascend like lofty wa's,
The foamy stream deep roaring fa's
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws,
The birks of Aberfeldy.
The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers,
White o'er the linns the burnie pours,
And rising, weets wi' misty showers
The birks of Aberfeldy-
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Let fortune's gifts at random flee,
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me.
Supremely blest wi' love and thee,
The old song of the Birks of Abergeldie was well

known, and still merits notice.
Bonnie lassie, will ye go,
Will ye go, will ye go ;
Bonnie lassie, will ye go
To the birks of Abergeldie ?
Ye shall get a gown of silk,
A gown of silk, a gown of silk ;
Ye shall get a gown of silk,
And a coat of callimankie.
The song of Burns was conceived while he stood be
side the Falls of Aberfeldy, in Perthshire, during his
highland tour. He seldom adhered so closely to the
spirit of the old words which he sought to imitate. His
own original fancy, and happy turn of thought, carried
him away from the paths of others.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
43
FAREWELL, THOU FAIR DAY.

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 ! bnt 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 heroa glorious mark !
He falls in the blaze of his fame.
In the field of proud honour, our swords in our hands,
Our King and our Country to save,
While Victory shines on life's last ebbing sands,
O ! who would not die with the brave !
Burns wrote this heroic song at the first out-burst of
the French revolutionary war, and so well was he satisfied
with what he had done, that he was desirous of having
it set to music, and printed separately. The poet
imagines a field of battle, the sun setting, the victory
won, and the victorious and the wounded and the dying,
chanting the song of death. The song, noble and heartrousing as it is, has some lines of common sentiment and
cumbrous expression.
46
SCOTTISH SONGS.
SAIR I RUE THE WITLESS WISH.

O sair I rue the witless wish
That gard me gang wi' you at e'en,
And sair I rue the birken bush
That scrcen'd us with its leaves sae green.
And tho' ye vow'd ye wad be mine,
The tear o' grief ay dims my e'e,
For, O ! I'm fear'd that I may tyne
The love that ye hae promised me !
While ithers seek their e'ening sports,
I wander, dowie, a' my lane,
For, when I join their glad resorts,
Their darting gi'es me meiklc pain.
Alas ! it was na sae shortsyne,
When a' my nights were spent wi' glee ;
But O ! I'm fear'd that I may tyne
The love that ye hae promised me.
Dear lassie, keep thy heart aboon.
For I ha'e wair'd my winter's fee,
I've coft a bonnie silken gown,
To be a bridal gift for thee.
And sooner shall the hills fa' down,
And mountain-high shall stand the sea,
Ere I'd accept a gowden crown
To change that love I bear for thee.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
47
Ease and gentleness, rather than vehemence and

vigour, characterise the songs of Tannahill. The sorrow
of the lady in this song is moderate, and the rapture of
the lover discreet. They would make a prudent and
frugal pair.
AFTON WATER.
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 gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
, r
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring 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 ev'ning weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
48
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely 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.
The pastoral feeling, which Burns infused into this
Bweet song, is in strict conformity with nature. The
woodland primrose, the scented birk, the note of the
blackbird, the call of the lapwing and the cushat, the
flowery brae, and a fair heroine, are found now, as they
were then, on the banks of this little stream. Time,
which works such havoc with pastoral landscape, can
take nothing away from Afton Water, unless it dries up
the stream and strikes the ground with barrenness.
Afton Water is in Ayrshire, and is one of the numerous
streams which augment the Nith. The song was written
in honour of Mrs. Dugald Stewart of Afton Lodgean
accomplished lady, and excellent lyric poetess ; and the
first person of any note who perceived and acknow
ledged the genius of Burns.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
49
HER FLOWING LOCKS.

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing,
Adown her neck and bosom hing ;
How sweet unto that breast to cling,
And round that neck entwine her !
Her lips are roses wet wi' dew !
O, what a feast, her bonnie mou !
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
A crimson still diviner !
These are eight beautiful lines. They are too few to
sing, too good to cast away, and too peculiar and happy
ever to be eked out by a hand inferior to the hand of
their author, Robert Burns. They will long continue as
a fragment.
". *'''.> A-- .'.'
,,,,![..
>
. if, ... .
- . ".' .''' (far A
FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE.
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes that former thoughts renew ;
Now a sad and last adieu.
Bonnie Doon, sae sweet at gloamin,
Fare thee weel before I gang,
Bonnie Doon, whare, early roaming,
First I wove the rustic sang.
VOL. IV.
50
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Bowers, adieu ! where love decoying
First enthrall'd this heart o' mine ;
There the saftest sweets enjoying,
Sweets that memory ne'er shall tine :
Friends, so near my bosom ever,
Ye hae render'd moments dear ;
But, alas ! when forced to sever,
Then the stroke, oh ! how severe !
i
Friends, that parting tear reserve it,
Though 'tis doubly dear to me ;
Could I think I did deserve it,
How much happier would I be.
Scenes that former thoughts renew ;
Now a sad and last adieu !
Richard Grail wrote this song. When it first ap

peared it was called Burns's Farewell to Ayrshire, and
passed for some time as the production of the silent poet.
This, indeed, was doubted by many, for it was not in
such a feeble and unimpassioned way that Burns re
called and dwelt upon the scenes of his early youth.
But sweetness of versification and natural feeling will
always obtain notice, and sometimes keep it, and this
song has done both. It was first published in Johnson's
Musical Museum.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE.

'Twas eventhe dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang ;
The Zephyr wanton'd round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang :
In every glen the mavis sang,
All nature, listening seem'd the while,
Except where green-wood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.
With careless step I onward stray'd,
My heart rejoiced in nature's joy,
When musing in a lonely glade
A maiden fair I chanced 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 flowery May,
And sweet is night in Autumn mild,
When roving thro' the garden gay,
Or wandering in the lonely wild :
But woman, nature's darling child !
There all her charms she does compile ;
Ev'n there her other works are foil'd
By the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle, .
b2
51
52
SCOTTISH SONGS.
O, had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Though shelter'd in the lowliest shed
That ever rose in Scotland's plain !
Through weary winter's wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture, I would toil ;
And nightly to my bosom strain
The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.
Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep,
Where fame and honours lofty shine ;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward 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 bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.
The lady, in whose praise this fine song was written,

was Miss Alexander of Ballochmyle, in Ayrshire. Burns,
during one of his fits of solitary musing on the banks of
his native stream, met with this west-country beauty
among the woods, and her charms occasioned the song,
which he enclosed to her in a letter written with much
romantic respect and delicacy. The lass of Balloch
myle, like many other maidens on whom the folly of
poets has lavished lasting verse, was cold or insensible,
and Burns had not the fortitude to be silenthe com
plained of her neglect. Dr. Currie excuses the lady
with singular infelicity : " Her modesty might prevent
SCOTTISH SONGS.
her from perceiving that the muse of Tibullus breathed
in this nameless poet." I hope Miss Alexander listened
to the doctor's defence as she did to the poet's strains,
with " silent modesty and dignified reserve."
THE STOWN GLANCE O' KINDNESS.

'Twasna 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.
Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest,
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest !
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter !
To a lady with blue eyes and flaxen ringlets, Burns
seems largely indebted for his inspiration in song ; and I
am afraid that the poet persisted in pouring out his praise
long after the lady had no other charm than personal
attractions left. One of the flaxen-tressed heroines of
Burns contrived to cast suspicion upon her chastity
54
SCOTTISH SONGS.
before her beauty was well budded : but it would be

discourteous to insist upon purity with a lady who had
the weakness, or the boldness, never to care any thing for
a virtue so sensitive and troublesome.
BONNIE LESLEY.
O saw ye bonnie Lesley,
As she gaed o'er the border ?
She's gane, like Alexander,
To spread her conquests further.
To see her is to love her,
And love but her for ever ;
For nature made her what she is,
And 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 deil he cou'd na scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee,
He 'd look into thy bonnie face,
And say, I canna wrang thee !
The powers aboon will tent thee ;
Misfortune sha'na steer thee ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
55
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely,

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
Return again, fair Lesley,
Return to Caledonie !
That we may brag, we hae a lass
There's nane again so bonnie.
Mr. Thomson sought to stay the march of " Mace
donia's madman" into the region of Scottish song, but
Burns was unexpectedly obstinate, and Alexander keeps
his place; though all who sing the song must wonder
what he is doing there. The heroine, Miss Lesley
Baillie of Ayrshire, now Mrs. Cuming of Logie, was
on her way to England through Dumfries ; Burns ac
companied her towards the border, and on his way home
made this song in her honour, and an exquisite song it
is. The poet believed that he had parodied an old song,
beginning with
My bonnie Lizie Bailie,
I '11 rowe thee in my plaidie ;
but the resemblance exists only in the first verse, and in
the bard's imagination. It was to such casual inspira
tions that we owe many of his finest songs.
56
SCOTTISH SONGS.
GUDEWIFE, COUNT THE LAWIN.

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night,
But we'll ne'er stray for faut o' light,
For ale and brandy's stars and moon,
And blude-red wine's the rising sun.
Then, gudewife, count the lawin,
The lawin, the lawin ;
And bring a coggie mair.
There's wealth and ease for gentlemen,
And semple-folk maun fecht and 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 heals the wounds o' care and dool ;
And pleasure is a wanton trout
An' ye drink but deep, ye '11 find him out.
Good drinking songs are few in number ; and Eng
land, with all her admiration of her brown ale and her
SCOTTISH SONGS.
57
wine, has poured but little drunken inspiration into

verse. The ancient verses which suggested this song
to Burns are not unknown, nor do they deserve to be
forgotten.
O, ilka day my wife tells me,
That ale and brandy will ruin me ;
But though gude drink shou'd be my dead,
Ise have this written on my head :
O, gudewife, count the lawin,
The hero of the old song seems resolved not to settle
with the hostess over an empty measure, and it is evi
dent he will as little rise from a full one.
THE BONNIE WEE THING.

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 and languish
In that bonnie face o' thine ;
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish,
Lest my wee thing be na mine.
58
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Wit, and grace, and love, and 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.
" Composed on my little idol, the charming, lovely

Davies :" such are the words of Burns which accompany
this song in the Reliques. The song corresponds with
the character which he draws, it is very brief and very
beautiful. To the same lady the poet addresses one of
his most laboured letters he is apologizing for his in
dolence. " In vain remorse rears her horrent crest, and
rouses all her snakes : beneath the deadly-fixed eye and
leaden hand of indolence, their wildest ire is charmed
into the torpor of the bat, slumbering out the rigours of
winter in the chink of a ruined wall." The ease and
nature of his verse seldom found the way into the poet's
prose ; and . though many passages of his letters are
written with great ease and animation, and sparkling
with poetic imagery, yet, on the whole, they are la
boured and cumbrous, compared with his inimitable
verse.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
EVAN BANKS.
Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires,
The sun from India's shore retires ;
To Evan banks, with temp'rate ray,
Home of my youth, he leads the day.
O banks to me for ever dear !
O stream whose murmurs still I hear !
All, all my hopes of bliss reside
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde.
And she, in simple beauty drest,
Whose image lives within my breast ;
Who trembling heard my parting sigh,
And long pursued me with her eye ;
Does she, with heart unchanged as mine,
Oft in the vocal bowers recline ?
Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde ?
Ye lofty banks that Evan bound ;
Ye lavish woods that wave around,
And o'er the stream your shadows throw,
Which sweetly winds so far below ;
What secret charm to memory brings,
All that on Evan's border springs ?
Sweet banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side :
Blest stream ! she views thee haste to Clyde.
59
60
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Can all the wealth of India's coast
Atone for years in absence lost ?
Return, ye moments of delight,
With richer treasures bless my sight !
Swift from this desert let me part,
And fly to meet a kindred heart !
Nor more may aught my steps divide
From that dear stream which flows to Clyde.
I found this song, when I was a boy, in an old Ma

gazine, in a shepherd's shiel among the moorlands of
Nithsdale, and I was so charmed with its descriptive
beauty, that it was impressed on my memory at a couple
of readings. It was printed in Burns's Reliques, by
mistake, for one of his productions ; this was corrected
by one of the Reviews, which took the song from Burns
and gave it to Miss Williams.
And she, in simple beauty drest,
Whose image lives within my breast ;
Who trembling heard my parting sigh,
And long pursued me with her eye.
These are sweet and delicate lines, and worthy of the
great poet to whom the song was erroneously imputed.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE CRADLE SONG.

Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing,
O saftly close thy blinkin' e'e !
For thou art doubly dear to me.
Thy daddie now is far awa,
A sailor laddie o'er the sea ;
But hope ay hechts his safe return
To you my bonnie lamb an' me.
Thy face is simple, sweet an' mild,
Like ony summer e'ening fa' ;
Thy sparkling e'e is bonnie black ;
Thy neck is like the mountain snaw.
O but thy (laddie's absence lang
Would break my dowie heart in twa,
61
62
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Wert thou na left a dautit pledge,
To steal the eerie hours awa !
The highland Baloo, or nursing song, is of a martial

character, and very unlike this sweet little effusion from
the pen of Richard Gall.
Hey balou, my sweet wee Donald,
Image of the great Clanronald ;
Brawly kens our wanton chief
Wha gat my young highland thief.
Leeze me on thy bonnie craigie !
An' thou live thou '11 steal a naigie,
Travel the country through and through,
And bring me hame a Carlisle cow.
Through the lowlands, o'er the border,
Weel, my babie, mayest thou furder ;
Herry the loons o' the low countrie,
Syne to the highlands hame to me.
The highland virago sees in imagination her son re
turning victorious from a foray, and rejoices in the re
semblance which he bears to the head of the clan who
had honoured her with his caresses. The more gentle
lowland dame seeks to hush her own feelings and her
child at the same time with the hope of her husband's
return, the fair looks tff her offspring, and the conti
nuance of her love.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE LAMMIE.
Whar hae ye been a' day,
My boy Tammy ?
I've been by burn and flow'ry brae,
Meadow green and mountain gray,
Courting o' this young thing
Just come frae her mammy.
And whar gat ye that young thing,
My boy Tammy ?
I gat her down in yonder howe,
Smiling on a broomy 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.
I held her to my beating heart,
My young, my smiling Lammie !
I hae a house, it cost me dear,
I've wealth o' plenishen and gear ;
Ye'se get it a' wer't ten times mair,
Gin ye will leave your mammy.
63
64
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The smile gade aff her bonnie face
I maunna leave my mammy.
She's gi'en me meat, she's gi en me claise,
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 mak her fain,
My ain kind-hearted Lammie !
We'll gie her meat, we'll gie her claise,
We'll be her comfort a' her days.
The wee thing gie's 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 :
But O ! she's but a young thing,
Just come frae her mammy.
Tammie has been praised for his singleness of heart ;

the Lammie for her simplicity ; and the old woman for
kindliness of nature and warmth of affection. I cannot
feel that all this is deserved : the simplicity of Maeneill
is without manliness; his lovers are somewhat con
ceited and silly; and their language belongs to that
period which precedes the dawn of love. The following
ludicrous variation was often sung along with the song,
and passed with many for a part of it :
SCOTTISH SONGS.
65
How auld may thy young thing be,

My boy Tammie ?
How auld may thy young thing be,
My kind hearted Lammie ?
She's twice six, twice seven,
Twice twenty and eleven ;
Yet she's but a young thing
Just come frae her mammie.
This verse holds a riddle within it which I once heard
solved : some of my readers may be able to pick the
loop of the rustic enigma.
THE AULD MAN.

But lately seen in gladsome green
The woods rejoice the day,
Through gentle showers the laughing flowers
In double pride were gay :
But now our joys are fled
On winter blasts awa !
Yet maiden May, in rich array,
Again shall bring them a'.
But my white pow, nae kindly thowe
Shall melt the snaws of age ;
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield,
Sinks in time's wintry rage.
VOL. IV.
66
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Oh, age has weary days,
And nights o' sleepless pain !
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime,
Why com'st thou not again !
Burns wrote the Auld Man in one of those moments

when he was, to use his own glowing words
On the past too fondly pondering,
O'er the hapless future wandering.
But weary days of old age and nights of sleepless pain
he was not doomed to suffer. The song was composed
to an East Indian air : it has never been a favourite.
Youth wishes to enjoy the golden time upon its hands,
and age is far from fond of chanting of declining
strength, white pows, and general listlessness.
ANNIE.
By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove,
While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi :
The winds were whispering through the grove,
The yellow corn was waving ready :
I listen 'd to a lover's sang,
And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony ;
And ay the wild-wood echoes rang
O, dearly do I love thee, Annie !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
67
O, happy be the woodbine bower,

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie ;
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,
The place and time I met my dearie !
Her head upon my throbbing breast,
She, sinking, said, I'm thine for ever !
While mony a kiss the seal imprest,
The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever.
The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae,
The simmer joys the flocks to follow ;
How cheery through her shortening day
Is autumn in her weeds o' yellow !
But can they melt the glowing heart,
Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure,
Or through each nerve the rapture dart,
Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ?
" I walked out with the Museum," says Burns, " in
my hand ; and turning up ' Allan Water,' the words
appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air : so I
sat and raved under the shade of an old thorn till I
wrote one to suit the measure. The ancient name of
the tune, Ramsay says, is ' Allan Water,' or ' My love
Annie's very bonnie:' this last has certainly been a line
of the original song. So I took up the idea, and as you
will see have introduced the line in its place." Burns
was certainly correct in his conjecture, that the line
which gave a name to Ramsay's song belonged to an old
lyrie. The Allan is a northern stream ; and Benledi is
a mountain west of Strathallan, three thousand and nine
feet high.
68
, SCOTTISH SONGS.
BONNIE BELL.
The smiling spring comes in rejoicing,
And surly winter grimly flies :
Now crystal clear are the foiling waters,
And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ;
Fresh o'er the mountain breaks forth the morning,
The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell :
All creatures joy in the sun's returning,
And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell.
The flowery spring leads sunny summer,
And yellow autumn presses near,
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter,
Till smiling spring again appear.
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing,
Old time and nature their changes tell ;
But never ranging, still unchanging,
I adore my bonnie Bell.
I once saw a copy of this beautiful song, to which some
weak hand had added a couple of strange stanzas. They
were out of all keeping with the character of Burns's
Verses ; and the peasantry for whose acceptance they
had been composed soon separated the impure clay from
the beaten gold.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE DEIL'S AWA WI' THE EXCISEMAN.

The deil cam fiddling through the town,
And danc'd awa wi' the exciseman ;
And ilka wife cry'd, Auld Mahoun,
We wish you luck o' the prize, man.
We'll make our maut, and brew our drink,
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man ;
And mony thanks to the muckle black deil
That danc'd awa wi' the exciseman.
There's threesome reels, and foursome reels,
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ;
But the ae best dance e'er cam to our Ian',
Was the deil's awa wi' the exciseman.
We'll make our maut, and brew our drink,
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man ;
And mony thanks to the muckle black deil
That danc'd awa wi' the exciseman.
At a convivial meeting of the excisemen at Dumfries,
Burns was called on for a song : the poet had a strong
and manly, but not a very melodious voice. He de
clined singing ; but handed this very characteristic song
to the chairman written on the back of a letter : it was
sung with great enthusiasm. Burns was much esteemed
in his official capacity for his moderation and kindness
of heart. .All the country shopkeepers and ale-house
70
SCOTTISH SONGS.
wives delight in recalling him to their remembrance.

Some of the more devout add to their commendations of
the poet as an excise officer" He was warst to himsel,
pnir fellow."
THE GLOOMY NIGHT.

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 ripening 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 billow's roar,
'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore ;
Though death in ev'ry shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear :
SCOTTISH SONGS.
71
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.
" I had been for some days skulking from covert to

covert under all the terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised
people had uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at
my heels. I had taken the last farewell of my few
friends ; my chest was on the road to Greenock ; and I
had composed the last song I should ever measure in
Caledonia
The gloomy night is gathering fast."
Such is the history which Burns gives of this touching
lyricone of the most mournful of all his compositions,
inasmuch as we associate it with his early history and
his untimely death.
72
SCOTTISH SONGS.
O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM.

They snool me sair, and haud me down,
And gar me look like bluntie, Tam !
But three short years will soon wheel roun',
And then comes ane and twenty, Tam.
An O for ane and twenty, Tam,
An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tam !
I'll learn my kin a rattlin sang
An I saw ane and twenty, Tam.
A glebe o' land, a claut o' gear,

Was left me by my auntie, Tom ;
At kith or kin I needna spier,
They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof,
Though I myscl hae plenty, Tam ;
But hear'st thou, laddie ? there's my loof,
I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam.
An O for ane and twenty, Tam,
An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tam !
I'll learn my kin a rattlin sang
Tam had the good fortune to be beloved by a very
lively and opulent young lady. Her account of her
hopes and her affections is very confidential, and her
SCOTTISH SONGS.
73
confidence has been rewarded by public favour. The

" Moudiework," from which this admirable song ac
cepted only the aid of the air, is a very old and very
free lyric ; which cannot well be quoted, and certainly
can far less be sung. " This song is mine," is the
brief claim which Burns makes to this production in
the Reliques.
THE LASS OF ARRANTEENIE.

Far lone, amang the Highland hills,
'Midst Nature's wildest grandeur,
By rocky dens, and woody glens,
With weary steps I wander :
The langsome way, the darksome day,
The mountain mist sae rainy,
Are nought to me, when gaun to thee,
Sweet lass of Arranteenie.
Yon mossy rose-bud down the howe,
Just op'ning fresh and bonnie,
Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel bough,
And's scarcely seen by ony :
Sae sweet amidst her native hills
Obscurely blooms my Jeanie,
Mair fair and gay than rosy May,
The flower of Arranteenie.
74
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Now, from the mountain's lofty brow,
I view the distant ocean ;
There avarice guides the bounding prow,
Ambition courts promotion.
Let fortune pour her golden store,
Her laurell'd favours many,
Give me but this, my soul's first wish,
The lass of Arranteenie.
I suspect that the " Lass of Arranteenie" is one of

those aerial damsels whom lyric poets create as the
Egyptians make godsfor the express purpose of falling
down and worshipping the work of their own hands.
He who sings of the charms of an imaginary maiden
must share in the reproach with which the poet assails
the Romish church :
Thus Romish bakers praise the deity
They chipp'd , while yet in its paniety.
This is one of poor Tannahill's songs, and contains a
pretty picture of modest love and quiet affection.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
MY NANNIE-O.
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 and shill,
The night's baith mirk and 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, wet 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 they 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.
75
76
SCOTTISH SONGS.
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-o.
Come weel, come woe, I carena by,
111 tak what Heav'n will send me-o ;
Nae ither care in life have I,
But live, an' love my Nannie-o.
Burns was fond of his native hills and streams ; the

rivers and rivulets of Ayrshire are remembered in many
a moving song. A very pretty stream, with a very
strange name, once flowed in the commencing line of
" My Nannie-o :" the poet listened to the complaint of
some fastidious singer, and removed Nannie's native
stream, and replaced it with the Lugar. Such changes
lessen our belief in the local truth of lyric verse ; but
perhaps Burns exclaimed with Prior, when he sought
to excuse himself from the charge of more serious levities,
" Ye gods, must one swear to the truth of a song !" The
poet, it will be remembered, changed his name from
Burness to Burns, a kind of deliberate whim which de
prived a very ancient name of an increase of honour.
Those who live on the banks of the stream of Stinchar
will think of the fame of which the poet deprived them
by displacing it for the Lugar.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
LORD GREGORY.
O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,
And loud the tempest's roar ;
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r
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 mayna 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 fond heart, itsel sae true,
It ne'er mistrusted thine.
Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,
And flinty is thy breast :
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by,
O wilt thou give me rest !
Ye mustering thunders from above,
Your willing victim see !
But spare, and pardon my fause love,
His wrongs to heaven and me !
77
78
SCOTTISH SONGS.
This song, by Burns, and also a song of the same name

by Wolcot, were suggested by a very old lyric, called
" The Lass of Lochroyan," which far excels them both
in poetry and pathos. Wolcot complained with some
bitterness of the unkindness of Burns in selecting the
same subject as himself, and imputed it to envy. They
have both written fine songs : the English verse is the
more elegantthe Scottish the more natural. Dr.
Currie claims the merit of originality for Wolcot ; and
Burns disclaims all wish to enter into competition :
"My song," he modestly says, "though much inferior
in poetic merit, has, I think, more of the ballad sim
plicity about it."I wonder if he ever read " The Lass
of Lochroyan ?"
A RED, RED ROSE.

O, my hive's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June :
O, my luve's like the mclodie
That's sweetly play'd 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 :
SCOTTISH SONGS.
79
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.
There is an old Nithsdale song which seems to have
suggested to Burns some part of this delightful little
lyrie. The heroine loses her lover, and exclaims
O where's he gone whom I love best ?
And has left me here to sigh and mourn ;
O I shall wander the world over
Till once I see if my love return.
The seas shall drythe fishes fly
The rocks shall melt down wi' the sun
The labouring man shall forget his labour ;
The blackbird shall not sing, but mourn,
If ever I prove false to my love
Till once I see if he will return.
If all the song had equalled this specimen, it would have
merited a place in any collection.
80
SCOTTISH SONGS.
O POORTITH CAULD.
O poortith cauld, and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye ;
Yet poortith a' I could forgive,
An 't werena for my Jeanie.
O why should fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands untwining ?
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.
Her een sae bonnie blue betray
How she repays my passion ;
But prudence is her o'erword aye,
She talks of rank and fashion.
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sic a lassie by him ?
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am ?
SCOTTISH SONGS.
81
How blest the wild-wood Indian's fete !

He woos his simple dearie ;
The sillie bogles, wealth and state,
Can never make them eerie.
O why should Fate sic pleasure have
Life's dearest bands untwining ?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on Fortune's shining ?
" Poortith cauld" was sent to George Thomson un
accompanied by any remarks from Burns : it is a sweet
and a touching song. The old words are of a gay and a
pleasant character : the hero who " had a horse and had
nae mair" was a man of a different stamp from the hero
of the present song. In uniting the air to sadder words,
Burns perhaps was conscious that he was disobeying
the warning spirit of the old melody : but his mind was
not always in a mirthful mood ; and, I confess, I love
his pathos more than his humour. I have followed the
poet's first version of the song in the last verse, as more
natural than the amended copy. The "humble cottar"
has his visions of wealth and importance as well as the
most lordly. The " wild-wood Indian" is living in what
Alexander Peden called "black nature,"a state of
irreclaimable barbarism.
82
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THRO' CRUIKSTON CASTLES LONELY

WA'S.
Thro' Cruikston Castle's lonely wa's
The wintry wind howls wild and dreary ;
Tho' mirk the cheerless e'ening fa's,
Yet I ha'e vow'd to meet my Mary.
Yes, Mary, tho' the winds shou'd rave
Wi' jealous spite to keep me frae thee,
The darkest stormy night I'd brave
For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.
Loud o'er Cardonald's rocky steep
Rude Cartha pours in boundless measure ;
But I will ford the whirling deep
That roars between me and my treasure.
Yes, Mary, tho' the torrent rave
With jealous spite to keep me frae thee,
Its deepest flood I'd bauldly brave
The watch-dog's howling loads the blast,
And makes the nightly wand'rer eerie ;
But when the lonesome way is past,
I'll to this bosom clasp my dearie.
Yes, Mary, tho' stern winter rave
With a' his storms to keep me frae thee,
The wildest dreary night I'd brave
SCOTTISH SONGS.
88
This is another of Robert Tannahill's songs, and one

well worthy of the favour which it has obtained. In
deed, had the unhappy author received only a tithe of
the admiration, whilst he was living, which has been
poured so vehemently over his grave, he would not so
soon have been numbered among the " sons of the morn
ing." It is safe to sympathise in a poet's fortune when
the sod is above himhe will not rise to ask the opulent
mourner for a favour.
SWEET FAS THE EVE ON CRAIGIE-BURN.

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn,
And blythe awakes the morrow,
But a' the pride o' spring's return
Can yield me nought but sorrow :
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.
o2
84
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I see thee gracefu', straight, and tall,
I see thee sweet and bonnie ;
But, oh ! what will my torments be
If thou refuse thy Johnie !
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.
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.
There are several variations of this song, and they

are all so good that they have become popular. The
heroine was one of the ladies to whose personal charms
the Muse of Burns did frequent acts of homage, under
the name of " Chloris," " The Lassie wi' the lintwhite locks," and " The Lass of Craigie-burn." She was
as condescending as she was beautiful. It is written in
the measure of an old song, of which the chorus is still
popular:
O to be lying beyond thee, dearie,
O to be lying beyond thee :
How light and sweet would be his sleep
Who lay in the bed beyond thee !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
85
NAEBODY.
I hae a wife o' my ain,
I'll partake wi' naebody ;
I'll tak cuckold frae nane,
I'll gie cuckold to naebody.
I hae a penny to spend,
Therethanks to naebody ;
I hae naething to lend,
I'll borrow frae naebody.
I am naebody 's lord,
I'll be slave to naebody ;
I hae a gude braid sword,
I'll take dunts frae naebody.
I'll be merry and free,
I'll be sad for naebody ;
If naebody care for me,
I'll care for naebody.
This little, lively, lucky song was written at Ellisland.
Burns had built his househe had committed his seedcorn to the groundhe was in the prime, nay the morn
ing of lifehealth, and strength, and agricultural skill
were on his sidehis genius had been acknowledged by
his country, and rewarded by a subscription more ex
tensive than any Scottish poet ever received before ; no
wonder, therefore, that he broke out into voluntary
86
SCOTTISH SONGS.
song expressive of his sense of importance and inde

pendence. The poet, however, modulated his chant by
the sentiment and measure of an old rustic bard, who
sung with less vigour, but with equal truth :
I hae a wife o' my ain,
I'll be behadin to naebodie ;
I hae a pat and a pan,
I'll borrow frae naebody.
I'LL AY CA' IN BY YON TOWN.

I'll ay ca' in by yon town,
And by yon garden green again ;
And see my bonnie Jean again.
There's nane shall ken, there's nane shall guess,
What brings me back the gate again,
But she, my fairest faithfu' lass,
As stowlins we shall meet again.
She'll wander by the aiken-tree,
.
When trystin-time draws near again ;
And when her lovely form I sec,
O haith, she's doubly dear again !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
87

And by yon garden green again ;
And see my bonnie Jean again.
Popular report has dedicated this charming little song
to more than one beauty. The air was one of Burns's
favourites, and the subject had caught his fancy, for he
has indulged us with another song of the same cha
racter, of greater length, but not of greater loveliness.
An old song supplied him with a few words :
I'll gang nae mair to yon town,
Na, never a' my life again ;
To seek a wilfu' wife again.
COUNTRY LASSIE.
In simmer when the hay was mawn,
And corn wav'd green in ilka field,
While clover blooms white o'er the lea,
And roses blaw in ilka bield,
Blithe Bessie, in the milking shiel,
Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will ;
Out spake a dame in wrinkled eild,
O' gude advisement comes nae ill.
38
SCOTTISH SONGS.
It's ye hae wooers mony a ane,And, lassie, ye're but young, ye ken ;
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale
A routine but, a routhie ben :
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen,
Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ;
, ,., Take this frae me, my bonnie hen,
It's plenty beets the lover's fire.
For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen
I dinna care a single Hie ;
He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye,
lie has nae love to spare for me :
But blithe's the blink o' Robie's e'e,
And weel I wat he lo'es me dear ;
Ae blink o' him I wadna gie
For Buskie-glen an' a' his gear.
O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught ;
The canniest gate, the strife is sair ;
But ay fu' han't is fechtin best ;
A hungry care's an unco care :
But some will spend, and some will spare,
An' wilfu' fouk maun hae their will ;
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair,
Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill.
O gear will buy me rigs o' land,
And gear will buy me sheep and kye ;
But the tender heart o' lecsome hive
The gowd and siller canna buy.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
89
We may be poor, Robie and I ;

Light is the burden love lays on :
Content and love bring peace and joy ;
What mair hae queens upon a throne ?
I wish Burns had written more of his songs in this
lively and dramatic way. The enthusiastic affection of
the maiden, and the suspicious care and antique wisdom
of the " dame of wrinkled eild," animate and lengthen
the song without making it tedious. Robie has indeed
a faithful and eloquent mistress, who vindicates true
love and poverty against all the insinuations of one
whose speech is spiced with very pithy and biting pro
verbs.
MY MARY.
My Mary is a bonnie lass,
Sweet as the dewy morn,
When Fancy tunes her rural reed,
Beside the upland thorn.
She lives ahint yon sunny knowe,
Where flow'rs in wild profusion grow,
Where spreading birks and hazels throw
Their shadows o'er the burn.
90
SCOTTISH SONGS.
'Tis not the streamlet-skirted wood,
Wi' a' its leafy bow'rs,
That gars me wait in solitude
Among the wild-sprung flow'rs ;
But aft I cast a hinging e'e
Down frae the bank out-owre the lea ;
There haply I my lass may see,
As through the broom she scours.
Yestreen I met my bonnie lassie
Coming frae the town,
We raptur'd sunk in ither's arms,
And prest the brekans down ;
The pairtrick sung his e'ening note,
The rye-craik rispt his clamorous throat,
While there the heavenly vow I got,
That erl'd her my own.
The heroine of this song is surrounded with such

captivating landscape, that I am at a loss whether to
admire the lady or the land she lives in most. The
lover himself seems to have been so sensible of the
charms of inanimate nature, that he thinks it necessary
to warn us that he lingers among the burns and bowers
for another purpose. It is one of Tannahill's songs, and
a very beautiful one.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
91
HAD I A CAVE.
Had I a cave oil some wild distant shore,
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar,
There would I weep my woes,
There seek my lost repose,
Till grief my eyes should close,
Ne'er to wake more.
Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare
All thy fond plighted vows fleeting as air ?
To thy new lover hie,
Laugh o'er thy perjury,
Then in thy bosom try,
What peace is there !
Good fortune, much more than lyric genius, must
assist the poet who seeks to supply the crinkum-crankum
tune of Robin Adair with verses meriting the name of
poetry. The ancient song, too, is as singular as the
air:
You're welcome to Paxton,
Young Robin Adair ;
You're welcome, but asking,
Sweet Robin Adair !
92
SCOTTISH SONGS.
How does Johnie Mackerel do ?
Aye, and Luke Gardener too ?
Come love me, and never rue,
Robin Adair.
The unfortunate termination of a friend's courtship

suggested this song to Burns : the concluding verse is
happy and vigorousthere is much said in few words.
BLITHE WAS SHE.

Blithe, blithe and merry was she,
Blithe was she but and ben ;
Blithe by the banks of Era,
And blithe in Glenturit glen.
By Ochtertyre 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 summer morn ;
She tripped by the banks of Ern,
As light's a bird upon a thorn.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
93
Her bonny 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 wide,
And o'er the Lawlands I hae been ;
But Phemie was the blithest lass
That ever trode the dewy green.
Burns says, " I composed these verses while I stayed
at Ochtertyre with Sir William Murray. The lady,
who was also at Ochtertyre at the same time, was the
well known toast, Miss Euphemia Murray of Lentrose,
who was called, and very justly, the Flower of Strathmore." To this notice by the poet, I have only to add,
that his Muse called to the aid of the lady's charms an
old song, of the same measure, from which the first lines
of the present beautiful lyric are borrowed.
CONTENTED WI' LITTLEContented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair,

Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care,
I gie them a skelp as they're creepin' alang,
Wi' a cog o' gude swats, and an auld Scottish sang.
94
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I whiles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought ;

But man is a sodger, and life is a fought :
My mirth and gude humour 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' gude fellowship sowthers it a' :
When at the blithe end o' 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 isWelcome, and welcome again !
Burns wrote this little gay and happy song to an air
of which he confesses himself very fond " Lumps o'
Pudding." He has written nothing of a joyous nature
more felicitously. The old proverbial lore lends wisdom
to the verse, the love of freedom is delicately expressed
and vindicated, the sorrows of life are softened by song,
and drink seems only to flow to set the tongue of the
Muse a-moving. The poet accounts for his inspiration,
on another occasion :
Just ae half mutchkin does me prime,
Aught less is little ;
Then back I rattle on the rhyme,
As gleg's a whittle.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
95
AULD ROB MORRIS.

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
He's the king o' gude fellows and wale of auld men ;
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.
She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ;
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay ;
As blithe and as artless as the lamb on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my ee.
But oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and 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.
O, had she but been of a lower degree,
I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me !
O, how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express !
" Auld Rob Morris" has made mirth in Scotland for
96
SCOTTISH SONGS.
many generations. The first " Robert" was coarse, free,

and graphic ; the second " Robert " came with an in
crease of humour from the hand of Ramsay, and with
some abatement of the grossness ; and " Robert" the
third came forth a discreet, and delicate, and thoughtful
personage from the hand of Robert Burns. The dra
matic form of Ramsay's song adds greatly to its life and
buoyancy ; much of it was borrowed from the ancient
lyric, and from the same place Burns took the two com
mencing lines of the present song.
MY JEANIE.
Come, let me take thee to my breast,
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ;
And I shall spurn as vilest dust
The warld's wealth and grandeur !
And do I hear my Jeanie own
That equal transports move her ?
I ask for dearest life alone
That I may live to love her.
Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure ;
I'll seek nae mair o* heaven to share,
Than sic a moment's pleasure :
SCOTTISH SONGS.
97
And by thy een, sue bonnie blue,

I swear I'm thine for ever !
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never. ,
Burns, in a letter to George Thomson, imputes the
composition of this song to the benevolence of Coila, the
muse of his native district : he imagines she followed
him to the banks of the Nith, and poured the song on
his glowing fancy.
AULD LANG SYNE.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min' ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne ?
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll take a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu'd the gowans fine ;
But we've wander'd mony a weary foot
Since auld lang syne.
VOL. IV.
98
SCOTTISH SONGS.
We twa hae paidlet i' the bum,
Frae morning sun till dine :
But seas between us braid hae rotir'd
Since auld lang syne.
And here's a hand, my trusty fere,
And gie's a baud o' thine ;
And we'll tak a right gude-willie waught
For auld lang syne.
And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup.
And surely I'll be mine ;
And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
" Auld lang syne" owes all its attractions, if it owes

not its origin, to the muse of Burns. So exquisitely
has the poet eked out the old with the new, that it
would puzzle a very profound antiquary to separate
the ancient from the modern. The original song was well
known in Allan Bamsay's days, but its original spirit
was unfelt, since he failed in his attempt to imitate or
rival it. Burns, alluding to the old verses, exclaims,
" Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven-inspired
poet who composed this glorious fragment ! There is
more of the lire of native genius in it, than in half a
dozen of modern English bacchanalians." He elsewhere
says, " It is the old song of the olden times, and has never
been in print, nor even in manuscript, till I took it down
from an old man's singing." Few such " old men" are
now to be met with.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
99
CALEDONIA.
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 brekan,
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom.
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen ;
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers,
A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.
Though rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys.
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ;
Their sweet-scented 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 Caledonian views wi' disdain ;
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save Love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean.
Love of country and domestic affection have combined
to endear this song to every bosom. The charms of the
poet's Jean, and his love for old Scotland, contend for
mastery ; and we can hardly conclude which of them
Burns admires most. It was written in honour of Mrs.
Bums.
m2
100
SCOTTISH SONGS.
BONNIE JEAN.
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 mammies wark,
And aye she sang sae merrilie:
The blithest 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 dane'd 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 stream
The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en ,
So trembling, pure, was tender love
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
101
And now she works her mammie's wark,

And ay she sighs wi' care and pain ;
Yet wistna what her ail might be,
Or what wad make her weel again.
But didna Jeanie's heart loup light,
And didna 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 her's he fondly prest,
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love:
O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ;
O 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 shaltna 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 blush'd a sweet consent,
And love was ay between them twa.
Burns was one of those poets who imagined it was
necessary to have a visible and living image of female
loveliness before him, to supply him with the glowing
103
SCOTTISH SONGS.
colours and fascinating forms of lyric composition. The

heroine of this song was, in 1 793, a young and lovely lady,
Miss Macmurdo of Drumlanrig, now Mrs. Crawford.
The poet was a welcome visitant at her father's house.
He painted her in the dress and character of a cottager ;
and this has induced many people to believe that he
was the hero himself, and his wife the heroine. It was
from Mrs. Burns's voice that the fine air of the song
was noted down.
WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR?

Wha is that at my bower door ?
O wha is it but Findlay ?
Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here !
Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay.
What make ye here sae like a thief?
O come and see, quo' Findlay
Before the morn ye'll work mischief !
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
Gif I rise and let you in
Let me in, quo' Findlay
Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din
SCOTTISH SONGS.
103
In my bower if ye should stay

Let me stay, quo' Findlay
I fear ye'll bide till break o' day !
Here this night if ye remain
I'll remain, quo' Findlay
I dread ye'll learn the gate again !
What may pass within this bower
Let it pass, quo' Findlay
Ye maun conceal till your last hour ! Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
Mr. Cromek was assured by Gilbert Burns, that
" Wha's that at my bower door" was suggested early in
life to his brother's fancy by the song of " Widow, are
ye waukin," in Ramsay's collection. That clever old
lyric was frequently sung to the poet in his youth by
Jean Wilson, a widow of Tarbolton, remarkable for sim
plicity and naivete of character, and for singing curious
old-world songs. She had outlived all her children, yet
when she performed domestic worship, she still imagined
them all around her, and gave out each line of the psalm
with an audible voice, as though she had an audience.
104
SCOTTISH SONGS.
WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO.

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' !
He's always compleenin
Frae mornin to e'enin,
He hoasts and he hirples
The weary day lang :
He's doylt and he's dozin.
His blude it is frozen ;
O, dreary's the night
Wi' a crazy auld man !
He hums and he hankers,
He frets and he cankers ;
I never can please him
Do a' that I can ;
He's peevish and jealous
Of a' the young fellows :
O, dool on the day
I met wi' an auld man .'
SCOTTISH SONGS.
105
My auld auntie Katie

Upon me takes pity ;
I'll do my endeavour
To follow her plan ;
I'll cross him, and wrack him,
Until I heart-break him,
And then his auld brass
Will buy me a new pan.
The name of an old song suggested these happy
verses to Burns : they were written for Johnson's Mu
seum. The original lyric made the blooming heroine
threaten her ancient wooer with a number of personal
penalties if he succeeded in making her his wife; but I
think the more delicate heroine of Burns took a surer
way to send the gray hairs of her old lover in sorrow to
the grave. Her system seems certain and effectuala
regular, organised plan of domestic annoyance. This
counsel comes from the lips of an auntone of those
calculating dames whom lyric poets employ in giving
good or evil advice according as the demon of worldly
interest prevails. Some sage lady, of " wrinkled eld,"
perhaps, made the match, which another seeks to dis
solve by a process as sure as a parliamentary divorce.
106
SCOTTISH SONGS.
GLOOMY WINTER'S NOW AWA'.

Gloomy winter's now awa',
Saft the westlin breezes blaw :
'Mang the birks o' Stanely-shaw
The mavis sings fu' cheerie-o.
Sweet the craw-flower's early bell
Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell,
Blooming like thy bonnic sel',
My young, my artless dearie-o.
Come, my lassie, let us stray,
O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae,
Blithely spend the gowden day
Midst joys that never wearie-o.
Tow'ring o'er the Newton woods,
Lavrocks fan the snaw-white clouds ;
Siller saughs, wi' downie buds,
Adorn the banks sae brierie-o.
Round the sylvan fairy nooks,
Feath'ry brekans fringe the rocks,
'Neath the brae the burnie jouks,
And ilka thing is cheerie-o.
Trees may bud, and birds may sing,
Flow'rs may bloom, and verdure spring,
Joy to me they canna bring,
Unless wi' thee, my dearie-o.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
107
The admirers of Tannahill consider " Gloomy Win

ter" to be one of his most successful songs. The
poet has indeed given us a beautiful landscapehe has
strewn the stream of his verse with the natural flowers
of the seasonthe name of every place on which he
glances his eye mingles as naturally with the love of
his mistress as the hills mingle with the vales, or the
song of the thrush with the sound of the running water ;
but he nearly loses his love in the exuberance of land
scape.
THE LEA-RIG.
When o'er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo ;
And owsen frae the furrow'd field
Return sae dowf and wearie-o ;
Down by the burn, where scented birka
WT dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,
In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie-o,
If through that glen I gaed to thee,
Although the night were ne'er sae wild,
And I were ne'er sae wearie-o,
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,
108
SCOTTISH SONGS.
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 ;
Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray,
It makes my heart sae cheerie-o,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
The " Lea-Rig" is the first song which Burns wrote

for the work of George Thomson, and Dr. Currie sup
poses it to have been in some measure suggested to the
poet's fancy by the very clever old song of the " Plough
man." There is a slight resemblance in words, but cer
tainly none in sentiment. The oral versions of that old
song are very variable :
When my ploughman comes hame at e'en,
He's often wet and weary :
Cast off the wet, put on the dry,
And gae to bed, my dearie.
This verse is very inaccurate ; the song to which it be
longs is in this collection. Burns was dissatisfied with
his own success, and observes, with reference to the in
equalities of the old songs, " But who shall rise up and
say, go to, I will make a better ? I could make no
thing more of the " Lea-rig" than the following, which,
heaven knows ! is poor enough."
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE POOR AND HONEST SODGER.
When wild war's deadly blast was blawn,

And gentle peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning ;
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.
A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder ;
And 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, and 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.
109
110
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,
0 ! happy, happy may he be,
That's dearest to thy bosom !
My purse is light, I've far to gang,
And fain wad be thy lodger ;
I've serv'd my king and country lang ;
Take pity on a sodger.
Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,
And lovelier was than ever :
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed,
Forget him shall I never :
Our humble cot, and namely fare,
Ye freely shall partake it ;
That gallant badge, the dear cockade,
Ye're welcome for the sake o't.
She gaz'dshe redden'd like a rose
Syne pale like ony lily
She sank within my arms, and cried,
Art thou my ain dear Willie ?
By Him who made yon sun and sky,
By whom true love's regarded,
1 am the man ; and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded.
The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted ;
Though poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair we'se ne'er be parted.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Ill
Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd,

A mailen plenish'd fairly ;
And come, my faithful 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 honour :
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger ;
Remember he's his country's stay
In day and hour of danger.
" The Poor and Honest Sodger" laid hold at once on
the public feeling, and it was every where sung with an
enthusiasm which only began to abate when Campbell's
'' Exile of Erin" and "Wounded Hussar" were pub
lished. Dumfries, which sent so many of its sons to the
ware, rung with it from port to port; and the poet,
wherever he went, heard it echoing from house and hall.
I wish this exquisite and useful song, with the song of
" Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled," " The Song of
Death," and " Does haughty Gaul invasion threat,"
all lyrics which infuse a love of country and a martial
enthusiasm into men's breasts, had obtained some re
ward for the poet. His perishable conversation was re
membered by the rich to his prejudicehis imperishable
lyrics were rewarded only by the admiration and tears of
his fellow-peasants.
112
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE.

The Catrine woods were yellow seen,
The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea ;
Nae lavrock sang on hillock green,
But nature sicken'd on the e'e ;
Through faded groves Maria sang,
Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while ;
And ay 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 with'ring 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 Ballochmyle
Burns lamented the departure of the amiable family
of the Whitefords from Ballochmyle, in these two beau
tiful verses. Catrine is the seat of Dugald Stewart,
Esq. and Ballochmyle is the residence of Boyd Alex
ander, Esq. To the charms of an Alexander we owe
the "Lass of Ballochmyle;" and I have heard it said, that .
to the coldness of the heroine of that exquisite song we
SCOTTISH SONGS.
113
are indebted for the present lyrie. He perhaps sought

to set off the beauty and courtesy of one lady against
the charms and coldness of another.
THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.

The day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet ;
Though winter wild in tempest toil'd,
Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet.
Than a' the pride that loads the tide,
And crosses o'er the sultry line ;
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,
Heaven gave me moreit made thee mine.
While day and night can bring delight,
Or nature aught of pleasure give ;
While joys above my mind can move,
For thee, and thee alone, I live .'
When that grim foe of life below
Comes in between to make us part,
The iron hand that breaks our band,
It breaks my bliss it breaks my heart.
Burns wrote this song in compliment to Robert
Riddell of Glenriddell, and his lady. The poet was
VOL. IV.
114
SCOTTISH SONGS.
their frequent and welcome guest and the air of the

song was the composition of Glenriddell. The Friar's
Carse, where they resided, is a lovely place. I have often
felt the fragrance of the numerous flowers with which
the garden is filled, and the fields covered, wafted over
the Nith as I* walked along its banks on a summer Sun
day morning. The Hermitage, when I saw it last in
1808, was a refuge for cattle. The floor was littered
deep with filth ; the shrubs which surrounded it were
browzed upon or broken down ; the hand of a Londoner,
in endeavouring to abstract a pane of glass on which
Burns had written some lines, had shivered it into frag
ments, which were strewn about the floorI turned
away in sorrow. It is now the property of Mrs.
Crichton ; and the haunt of the poet is respected.
OCH HEY, JOHNIE LAD.

Och hey, Johnie lad,
Ye're no sae kind's ye should ha'e been !
Ye didna keep your tryste yestreen !
I waited lang beside the wood,
Sae wae an' weary a' my lane ;
It was a waefu' night yestreen !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
115
I looked by the whinny knowe,

I looked by the firs sae green,
I looked o'er the spunkie howe,
An' ay I thought ye wad hae been.
The ne'er a supper crost my craig,
The ne'er a sleep has clos'd my een ;
Ye're no sae kind's ye should ha'e been !
Gin ye war waiting by the wood,
It's I was waiting by the thorn ;
I thought it was the place we set,
An' waited maist till dawning morn.
But be nae vext, my bonnie lass,
Let my waiting stan' for thine ;
We'll awa' to Craigton shaw,
An' seek the joys we tint yestreen.
" Johnie lad" is an imitation of an old lively free
song of the same name, which makes the heroine lament
the insensibility of her lover to the advantage which a
lonely place and a dark night gave him over her. Tannahill, in making the lovers mistake the place of tryste,
has varied the story of the song at the expense of pro
bability ; but there is much truth and vivacity in the
verses.
i2
116
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE.

The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,
And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene,
While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin,
To muse on sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.
How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom !
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green ;
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,
Is lovely young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.
She's modest as onie, and blithe as she's bonnie,
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain :
And far be the villain, divested of feeling,
Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flow'r o' Dum
blane.
Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening ;
Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen :
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
Is charming young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.
How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie !
The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain ;
I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,
Till charm 'd wi' sweet Jessie, the flow'r of Dum
blane.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
117
Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,

Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain,
And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour,
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.
There is less originality in the " Flower of Dum
blane" than in most of Tannahill's songs. There is little
said but what has been said as well before : the bloom
of the brier, the bud of the birk, the song of the mavis,
are all sweet things, but as common to lyric poetry as
they are to nature.
I WINNA GANG BACK.

I winna gang back to my mammy again,
I'll never gae back to my mammy again ;
I've held by her apron these aught years an' ten,
But I'll never gang back to my mammy again.
Young Johnie came down i' the gloamin' to woo,
Wi' plaidie sae bonny, an' bonnet sae blue :
O come awa' lassie, ne'er let mammy ken !
An' I flew wi' my laddie o'er meadow an' glen.
He ca'd me his dawtie, his dearie, his dow,
An' press'd hame his words wi' a smack o' my mou' ;
While I fell on his bosom, heart-flichter'd an' fain,
An' sigh'd out, O Johnie, I'll aye be your ain !
118
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Some lassies will talk to the lads wi' their e'e,

Yet hanker to tell what their hearts really dree ;
Wi' Johnie I stood upon nae stappin-stane ;
Sae I'll never gang back to my mammy again.
For mony lang year, sin' I play'd on the lea,
My mammy was kind as a mither could be ;
I've held by her apron these aught years an' ten,
But I'll never gang back to my mammy again.
The natural beauty and buoyancy of this little song
is impaired by an air of affectation and childishness
which Gall, as well as Macneill, mistook for the most
engaging and endearing simplicity and singleness of
heart. A young lady of eighteen, ambitious of domestic
rule, and of becoming a wife and mother, would never
prattle of her lover in this light-headed manner.
O TELL ME HOW TO WOO THEE.

If doughty deeds my lady please,
Right soon I'll mount my steed ;
And strong his arm, and fast his seat,
That bears frae me the meed.
I'll wear thy colours in my cap,
Thy picture in my heart ;
And he that bends not to thine eye
Shall rue it to his smart.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
119
Then tell me how to woo thee, love ;

0 tell me how to woo thee !
For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,
Though ne'er another trow me.
If gay attire delight thine eye,
I'll dight me in array ;
I'll tend thy chamber door all night,
And squire thee all the day.
If sweetest sounds can win thy ear,
These sounds I'll strive to catch ;
Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysel',
That voice that nane can match.
But if fond love thy heart can gain,
1 never broke a vow ;
Nae maiden lays her skaith to me ;
I never lov'dbut you.
For you alone I ride the ring,
For you I wear the blue ;
For you alone I strive to sing
O tell me how to woo !
The late Mr. Graham of Gartmore wrote this elegant
and chivalrous song. The chorus is the echo of a frag
ment of old verse, and might be omitted, like many other
supplemental rhymes of the same nature which are scat
tered among our lyrics, without offering any injury to the
song.
ISO
SCOTTISH SONGS.
MY HEARTS IN THE HIGHLANDS.

My heart's in the highlands, my heart is not here ;
My heart's in the highlands a-chasing 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 valour, 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 !
Fareweirto^the forests and wild-hanging 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-chasing the deer:
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the highlands, wherever I go.
The first half stanza of this song is old, the rest is the
work of Burns. Of the old song I am sorry I can give
no larger specimen. It was the lamentation, I under
stand, of a highland lady who, wedded to some churlish
lowland lord, languished for her green glens, her bound"
less hills, and her sylvan liberty.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
1*1
O GIN MY LOVE WERE YON RED ROSE.

O gin my love were yon red rose
That grows upon the castle wa',
And I mysel' a drap o' dew,
Into its bonnie breast to fa' !
Oh, there beyond expression blest,
I'd feast on beauty a' the night ;
Seal'd on its silk-saft faulds to rest,
Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light.
O were my love yon lilac fair,

Wi* purple blossoms to the spring ; '
And I a bird to shelter there,
When wearied on my little wing :
How I wad mourn, when it was torn
By autumn wild, and winter rude !
But I wad sing on wanton wing,
When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.
The first eight lines of this song are very old, very
beautiful, and very generally admired. The succeeding
eight lines are by Burns; but they fail in continuing
without abatement the exquisite original feeling and
delicacy of the old. The poet, after expressing his ad
miration of the fragment, says, " I have often tried to
eke a stanza to it, but in vain : after balancing myself
for a musing of five minutes on the hind legs of my
122
SCOTTISH SONGS.
elbow chair, I produced the following, which are far

inferior to the foregoing, I frankly confess." The pea
santry, in whose hands all old verses are diversified by
numerous variations, have attempted in vain to imitate
the starting sentiment :
O were my love yon lily white
That grows within the garden green,
And I were but the gardener lad,
I wad lie near its bloom at e'en.
Another variation substitutes a leek for the lily, which
may indicate that the lover was of Welsh descent. There
are varieties without end, and stray verses without
number, all echoing in a fainter or ruder way the senti
ment of the ancient verse.
BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL.

O leeze me on my spinning wheel,
O leeze me on my rock and reel,
Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien,
And haps me feal and warm at e'en !
I'll sit me down and sing and spin,
While laigh descends the simmer sun,
Blest wi' content, and milk, and meal
O leeze me on my spinning wheel !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
123
On ilka hand the burnies trot,

And meet below my theekit cot ;
The scented birk and 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 blithe I turn my spinning wheel.
On lofty aiks the cushats wail,
And echo cons the doolfu' tale ;
The lintwhites in the hazel braes,
Delighted, rival ither's lays :
The craik amang the clover hay,
The pairtrick whirrin o'er the ley,
The swallow jinkin round my shicl,
Amuse me at my spinning wheel.
Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy,
Aboon distress, below envy,
O wha wad leave this humble state,
For a' the pride of a' the great ?
Amid their flaring, idle toys,
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys,
Can they the peace and pleasure feel
Of Bessy at her spinning wheel ?
The old song of " The Lass and her spinning wheel"
must have been present to Burns's mind when he wrote
this sweeter and gentler strain. The early song is ani
1*4
SCOTTISH SONGS.
mated by love : the present song by domestic thrift, and

an affection for hill, and tree, and stream. Household
industry seldom lent any inspiration to the Muse : over
sewing, spinning, and knitting ; kneading cakes, and
pressing cheese ; shaking straw, and winnowing corn ;
and all the range of in-door and out-door occupation, no
Muse was appointed to presidethe more's the pity !
LOGAN WATER.
O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide
That day I was my Willie's bride ;
And years sinsyne hae 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 and Logan braes.
Again the merry month o' May
Has made our hills and valleys gay ;
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
The bees hum round the breathing flowers ;
Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye,
And evening's tears are tears of joy :
My soul delightless a' surveys,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
125
Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,

Amang her nestlings, sits the thrush ;
Her faithfu' mate will share hear toil,
Or wi' his song her cares beguile :
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here,
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
0 wae upon you, men o' state,
That brethren rouse to deadly hate !
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn,
Sae may it on your heads return !
How can your flinty hearts enjoy
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ?
But soon may peace bring happy days,
And Willie, hame to Logan braes !
Logan Water has found many poets ; but the most
successful of all its minstrels is John Mayne, Esq.
whose song of that name echoes back the pure senti
ments and glad feelings of the olden days of the Muse
with great feeling and truth. The song of Mayne, as
well as that of Burns, is founded on some old verses ;
but the poet has only employed them in creating some
thing more beautiful and delicate. Of the earlier song,
the following may suflice for a specimen :
Ae simmer night, on Logan braes,
1 helped a bonnie lassie on wi' her claes ;
126
SCOTTISH SONGS.
First wi' her stockings, and syne wi' her shoon ;
But she gied me the glaiks when a' was done.
Had I kenn'd then what I ken now
The hero goes on to make the public his confidant ; but

the confession seems adapted for the secret and discreet
ear of a father-confessor.
THE POSIE.
0 luve will venture in where it daurna weel be seen,
O luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been ;
But I will down yon river rove, amang the woods sae
green,
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.
The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year,
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear,
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a
peer;
And 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 balmy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou' ;
The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
127
The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,

And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ;
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air ;
The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller grey,
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day,
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna take
away ;
The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near,
And the diamond draps <>' dew shall be her een sae
clear ;
The violet's for modesty, which weel she fa's to wear ;
I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' love,
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above,
That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er
remove ;
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May.
The air of this song was taken down from the voice
of Mrs. Burns, who sang and danced in her earlier days
with great beauty and grace. The old words which be
longed to the tune have no great merit ; they commence
thus
There was a pretty May, and a-milking she went,
With her red rosie cheeks and her coal-black hair.
188
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Burns has pulled all the fairest flowers of garden and

field, and showered them on his mistress. The song is
a favourite.
THE BRAES O' GLENIFFER.

Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Gleniffer,
The auld castle turrets are cover'd wi' snaw ;
How chang'd frae the time when I met wi' my lover
Amang the broom bushes by Stanley green shaw !
The wild flow'rs o' simmer were spread a' sae bonnie,
The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree ;
But far to the camp they hae march'd my dear Johnie,
And now it is winter wi' nature and me.
Then ilk thing around us was blithesome and cheerie,
Then ilk thing around us was bonnie and braw ;
Now naething is heard but the wind whistling drearie,
And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw.
The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie ;
They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they
flee;
And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnie ;
'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me.
Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain,
And shakes the dark firs on the steep rocky brae,
While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded
fountain,
That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
129
It's no its loud roar, on the wintry wind swellin',

It's no the cauld blast brings the tear i' my e'e ;
For, O ! gin I saw but my bonnie Scots callan,
The dark days o' winter were simmer to me.
The second verse of the " Braes o' Gleniffer" is exceed
ingly beautiful and natural. The season of flowers was
departed, the song of the mavis was mute, and nothing
was seen but a waste of snow and the birds, as they
chirped and flitted from bough to bough, shaking the
snow-drift from their wings. The chief excellence, and
the greatest fault, of Tanuahill are exemplified in this
song. His inanimate nature is far too luxuriant for his
animated naturehe smothers his heroes and heroines
in the very garments with which more judicious poets
seek only to dress them.
MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL.

O meikle thinks my love o' my beauty,
And meikle thinks my love o' my kin ;
But little thinks my love I ken brawlie
My tocher's the jewel has charms for him.
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ;
It's a' for the honey he'll cherish the bee :
My laddie's sae meikle in love wi' the siller,
He canna hae love to spare for me.
VOL. IV.
130
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Your proffer o' love's an airle-penny,
My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ;
But an ye be crafty, I am cunning,
Sae ye wi' anither 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 frae me like a knotless thread,
And ye'll crack your credit wi' mair nor me.
Burns has painted the heroine of this clever song as a

shrewd and considerate damsel. Her acquaintance with
the saving-knowledge of proverbs, and her natural acuteness, enable her to penetrate into the views of her lover :
she is not so unwilling to become his wife, as she is ex
asperated at the attempt to overreach a lady of her sa
gacity. His craft is confronted by her cunning ;what a
treat their conversation must have been ! But I am for
getting that they are only imaginary personages,in
such natural and lively colours has the poet painted
them. In the last verse the poet seems to have remem
bered some old lines :
Where will our gudeman lie
Till he shoot o'er the simmer ?
Up aboon the hen bawks
Among the rotten timmer.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
181
THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE.

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 ee.
O this is no my ain lassie,
Fair though the lassie be ;
O weel ken I my ain lassie,
Kind love is in her ee.
She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall,
And lang has had my heart in thrall ;
And aye it charms my very saul,
A thief sae pawkie is my Jean,
To steal a blink, by a' unseen ;
But gleg as light are lover's een,
When kind love is in the ee.
It may escape the courtly sparks,
It may escape the learned clerks ;
But weel the watching lover marks
Burns imagined that he had bis propitious season for
k2
132
SCOTTISH SONGS.
lyric composition. Autumn, he confessed, exercised a

strong influence over his spirit ; and that whenever the
corn ripened, and the reapers assembled, he ascended
into the region of song. A mind naturally poetic, like
that of Burns, had the elements of verse ever ready for
use, had an earnest call been made : a genius which
flourishes only during a particular season seems like a
flower which gives its bloom to the spring, and its wi
thered leaves to the rest of the year. This song is one
of his autumnal productions ; and indeed it is worthy of
any season. It parodies, for the chorus, the old song of
" This is no my ain house," but it carries the resem
blance no farther ; and were the chorus dismissed alto
gether, the song would be no sufferer.
TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.

Yestreen I met you on the moor,
Ye spakna, but gaed by like stoure ;
Ye geek at me because I'm poor ;
But Gent a hair care I.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day
Ye would na been sae shy ;
For lack o' gear ye lightly me,
But, trouth, I carena by.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I doubtna, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye hae the name o' clink,
That ye can please me at a wink,
Whene'er ye like to try.
But sorrow take him that's sae mean,
Although his pouch o' coin were clean,
Wha follows ony saucy quean
That looks sae proud and high.
Although a lad were e'er sae smart,
If that he want the yellow dirt,
Ye'll cast your head anither airt,
And answer him fu' dry.
But if he hae the name o' gear,
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier,
Though hardly he for sense or lear
Be better than the kye.
But, Tibbie, lass, take my advice ;
Your daddy's gear makes you sae nice :
The deil a ane wad spier your price
Were ye as poor as I.
There lives a lass in yonder park,
I wouldna gie her in her sark
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark ;
Ye need na look sae high.
188
134
SCOTTISH SONGS.
" Tibbie, I hae seen the day," is the earliest of all the
lyric compositions of Burns. It has none of those fe
licitous touches and happy and vigorous thoughts, for
which he became afterwards so much distinguished;
yet it is lively and clever, and well worthy of a place.
Who the saucy maiden was we may now perhaps inquire
in vain. Happy is the lady on whom the sun of his fancy
shone, for she will live long in light. I wish he had been
more fastidious in his heroines.
O, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN ?

O, wat ye wha's in yon town
Ye see the e'enin sun upon ?
The fairest dame's in yon town
That e'enin sun is shining on.
Now haply down yon gay green shaw
She wanders by yon spreading tree :
How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw.
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e !
How blest ye birds that round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming year !
And doubly welcome be the spring,
The season to my Lucy dear !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
135
The sun blinks blithe on yon town,

And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ;
But my delight in yon town,
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.
Without my love, not a' the charms
O' Paradise could yield me joy ;
But gie me Lucy in my arms,
And welcome Lapland's dreary sky.
My cave wad be a lover's bower,
Though raging winter rent the air ;
And she a lovely little flower
That I wad tent and shelter there.
0 sweet is she in yon town
Yon sinking sun's gaun down upon ;
A fairer than's in yon town
His setting beam ne'er shone upon.
If angry fate is sworn my foe,
And suffering I am doom'd to bear,
1 careless quit aught else below ;
But spare me, spare me, Lucy dear.
For while life's dearest blood is warm,
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart ;
And sheas fairest is her form,
She has the truest, kindest heart.
136
SCOTTISH SONGS.
It seems unlikely that Burns dedicated these fine

verses to the honour of more than one lady ; yet tra
dition is so perversely blind as to impute them to the
influence of Mrs. Burns, while at the same time the
name of the heroine, and authority of a far less du
bious nature than any thing traditional, assign them to
the charms of Lucy Johnstone, the accomplished lady
of Mr. Oswald of Auchencruive. Like many of the
poet's songs, it commences by imitating an ancient lyric ;
but the Muse only uses the old verse as a kind of van
tage ground from which she may ascend into the region
of original song with greater readiness : no one who reads
it will imagine that it owes any of its beauty to
O never a' my life again.
Some copies omit the name of Luey, and substitute
Jeanie, and the fourth verse presents the following
variation :
The sun blinks blithe on yon town.
And on yon bonnie braes sae green ;
But my delight in yon town,
And dearest pleasure, is my Jean.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
187
LANGS YNE, BESIDE THE WOODLAND

BURN.
Langsyne, beside the woodland burn,
Amang the broom sae yellow,
I leau'd me 'neath the milk-white thorn,
On nature's mossy pillow ;
A' round my seat the flow'rs were strew'd,
That frae the wild wood I had pu'd,
To weave mysel' a summer snood,
To pleasure my dear fellow.
I twin'd the woodbine round the rose,
Its richer hues to mellow ;
Green sprigs of fragrant birk I chose,
To busk the sedge sae yellow.
The crow-flow'r blue, and meadow-pink,
I wove in primrose-braided link ;
But little, little did I think
I should have wove the willow.
My bonnie lad was forc'd afar,
Tost on the raging billow ;
Perhaps he's fa'en in bloody war,
Or wreck'd on rocky shallow.
Yet ay I hope for his return,
As round our wonted haunts I mourn ;
And often by the woodland burn
I pu' the weeping willow.
138
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The weeping willow, I am afraid, seldom hangs its

long and melancholy boughs in natural Scottish land
scape ; and in this very pretty song, we must either
consider it as an intruder or a figure of speech. The
crown of sedge and the garland of willow are green in
many an ancient poem and song ; but I am sorry that
Tannahill injured the effect of this beautiful composition
by introducing them : they give the air of affectation to
verses otherwise very natural and sweet.
1 LOVE MY JEAN.
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 :
Where wild woods grow, and rivers row,
Wi' mony a hill between ;
Both day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,
Sae fragrant, sweet, and fair :
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
Whose songs charm a' the air :
SCOTTISH SONGS.
139
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.
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 ay sac neat and clean ;
Ae blink o' her would banish care,
Sae lovely is my Jean.
What sighs and vows, amang the knowes,
Hae past atween us twa !
How fain to meet, how wae to part,
That day she gaed 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.
" I composed this song," says Burns, " out of com
pliment to Mrs. Burns;it was during the honey-moon."
Such is the brief and lively way in which our great lyric
bard informs us of the willing homage which his Muse
paid to faithful domestic love and wedded affection. If
I am asked the reason why the two rirst verses of this
exquisite pastoral are only printed in his works, I can
140
SCOTTISH SONGS.
give no satisfactory answer. All the four have been long

popular, and are well known to have come from the
poet's pen. In poetical beauty and truth they are all
alike, and I hope they will never more be separated.
WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT.
O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut,

And Rob and Allan came to pree ;
Three Wither hearts, that lee-lang night,
Ye wadna find in Christendie.
We arena fou, we're no that fou,
But just a drappie in our e'e ;
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And ay we'll taste the barley bree.
Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys I trow are we ;
And mony a night we've merry been,
And mony mae we hope to be !
Yon is the moon, I ken her horn,
That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ;
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But by my sooth she'll wait a wee !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
141
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 !
The three heroes celebrated in this song are William
Nicol, Allan Masterton, and Robert Burns. They met
at the farm-house of Laggan in Nithsdale, the property
of Nicol, and gave " one day's discharge to care" over
the punch-bowl. This memorable house-heating was
celebrated by Robert and Allan in their own peculiar
way. The latter wrote the music, and the former the
song, while Nicol rewarded them with " wine and was
sail." All the three found early graves.
Burns himself was a most hospitable and convivial
man. His famous punch-bowl, while he resided at
Ellisland, was frequently filled to his own satisfaction,
and emptied to the delight of his friends. After his
death it was presented to Alexander Cunningham of
Edinburgh by the poet's family, as a mark of esteem and
gratitude. Cunningham went the way of the poet, and
the bowl passed from beneath the auctioneer's hammer,
at the price of eighty pounds, into the hands of a specu
lating tavern-keeper, and from thence into the pawn
shop ; out of which place it was redeemed, at more than
the original cost, by my friend Archibald Hastie, Esq.
of West-place, London. I am glad that it has at last
found sanctuary with one who, while he watches over it
as a zealous catholic would watch over the " true bloody
142
SCOTTISH SONGS.
stone of Thomas-a-Becket," submits it cheerfully at set

times and seasons to the curiosity of his friends, reeking
to the brim with the fragrant liquid which its first great
owner loved. The bowl is made of black Scottish marble,
brimmed and bottomed with silver.
GALLA-WATER.
There's braw braw lads on Yarrow braes,
That wander through the blooming heather ;
But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws
Can match the lads o' Galla-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' Galla-water.
Although his daddie was nae laird,
And though I hae nae meikle tocher ;
Yet rich in kindest, truest love,
We'll tent our flocks by Galla-water.
It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth,
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure ;
The bands and bliss o' mutual love,
O that's the chiefest warld's treasure !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
143
" Braw braw Lads of Galla-water" is the name of an

ancient song, of which too little remains, and even that
little seems of a mingled yarn.
Braw braw lads of Galla-water,
Braw braw lads of Galla-water ;
I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee,
And follow my love through the water.
A merrier eye, a whiter foot,
Ne'er shone, and ne'er was wet in water,
As had the lass who followed me,
In fair moonlight, through Galla-water.
I imagine that the original song celebrated the bravery
of the young men from the banks of the Galla, a district
which sent to the field many gallant warriors. The
song of Burns is sweet, but the air is sweeter still ; and
who can hope to match with suitable words the divinest
of all the airs of Caledonia ?
144
SCOTTISH SONGS.
MARY.
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
And leave auld Scotia's shore ?
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
Across th' Atlantic's roar ?
0 sweet grows the lime and the orange,
And the apple on the pine ;
But a' the charms o' the Indies
Can never equal thine.
1 hae sworn by the heavens to my Mary,
I hae sworn by the heavens to be true ;
And sae may the heavens forget me,
When I forget my vow !
O plight me your faith, my Mary,
And plight me your lily-white hand !
O plight me your faith, my Mary,
Before I leave Scotia's strand.
We hae 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 !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
145
Of this song Burns says, " In my early years, when I

was thinking of going to the West Indies, I took the
following farewell of a dear girl. You must know that
all my earlier love songs were the breathings of ardent
passion ; and though it might have been easy in aftertimes to have given them a polish, yet 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 simplicity was,
as they say of wines, their race."
PHILLIS THE FAIR.

While larks with little wing
Fann'd the pure air,
Tasting the breathing spring,
Forth I did fare :
Gay the sun's golden eye
Peep'd o'er the mountains high ;
Such thy morn ! did I cry,
Phillis the fair.
In each bird's careless song
Glad did I share ;
While yon wild flowers among
Chance led me there :
VOL. IV.
146
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Sweet to the opening day,
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ;
Such thy bloom ! did I say,
Phillis the fair.
Down in a shady walk,
Doves cooing were,
I mark'd the cruel hawk
Caught in a snare :
So kind may Fortune be,
Such make his destiny,
Him who would injure thee,
Phillis the fair !
" Phillis the fair" was no imaginary lady with a

pastoral name, but Miss Phillis Macmurdo of Drumlanrig, a young lady of great accomplishments, on whom
Clarke, the friend of Burns, lavished many praises, and
the poet himself another set of verses. She was sister
to " Bonnie Jean." He wrote another song to the same
airthat song so full of pathetic reproach :
Had I a cave on some wild distant shore.
The heroine whose fickleness it laments was a Miss
Stuart, and the forsaken hero was Alexander Cunning
ham, the poet's friend.
SCOTTISH SONGS,.
SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD.

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed,
The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie ;
Willie was a wabster gude,
Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony bodie ;
He had a wife was dour and din,
0 Tinkler Madgie was her mither ;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
1 wadna gie a button for her.
She has an e'e, she has but ane,
The cat has twa the very colour ;
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 ;
I wadna gie a button for her.
She's bow-hough'd, she's hem-shinn'd,
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 ;
i2
14m
148
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Auld baudrons by the ingle sits,
An' wi' her loof her face is washin ;
But Willie's wife is nae sa trig,
She dights her grunzie wi' a hoshen ;
Her walie nieves like midden-creels,
Her face wad fyle the Logan-water ;
A ditty which contained the chorus lines of this

sprightly and graphic song was once well known among
the peasantry. There was a slight but curious variation :
I wadna gie a bodle for her.
The measure and value price which this little obsolete
Scottish coin gives, is now less easily understood than
formerly ; and a button supplies its place, and illustrates
the worth of Willie's spouse as near as metal can come.
Willie Wastle occurs in some old vaunting rhymes :
I 'm Willie o' the Wastle ;
I'll bide in my castle ;
And a' the dogs i' your town
Canna ding my castle down.
Who the unhappy Willie Wastle of Burns was, is of
no importance to know, and it is in vain to inquire ; for
perhaps Linkumdoddie and tinkler Madgie never had
a name and local habitation except in song.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
TO MARY IN HEAVEN.
Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usherest in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary ! clear departed shade !
Where is thy place of blissful rest ?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?
That sacred hour can I forget ?
Can I forget the hallow'd 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 kiss'd his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green ;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twin'd amorous round the raptured scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.
149
150
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,

And fondly broods with miser care !
Time but the impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade !
Where is thy place of blissful rest ?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ?
Hcar'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?
The pleasant past and melancholy present are mingled
by Burns very touchingly in this song. Of Mary Camp
bell, to the remembrance of whose charms this lyric is
attributed, much has been said ; but if truth could be
separated from fiction, I imagine little would still be
known. The story of the poet and his love standing on
each side of a small brook, and laving their hands in the
stream, and vowing eternal fidelity over the bible, has
been told by Mr. Cromek, a zealous inquirer into all
matters illustrative of the poet's verse and personal
history ; and it is certainly very striking and romantie.
The poet himself gives no embellished picture of their
affection. " After a pretty long tract of the most ardent
reciprocal affection, we met, by appointment, on the
second Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot by the
banks of Ayr, where we spent a day in taking a farewell
before she should embark for the West Highlands to
arrange matters among her friends for our projected
change of life. At the close of Autumn following she
crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, where she had
scarce landed when she was seized with a malignant
SCOTTISH SONGS.
151
fever, which hurried my dear girl to her grave in a few

days, before I could even hear of her illness." During
the first year of the poet's residence at Ellisland, when
the anniversary of her death arrived, he was seized with
extreme dejection and agitation of mind, and, retiring
from his family, he threw himself down beside a cornstack, and conceived this pathetic song to Mary in
Heaven.
ANNIE.
It was upon a Lammas night,
When corn rigs are bonnie,
Beneath the moon's unclouded light,
I held awa to Annie :
The time flew by wi' tentless heed,
Till, 'tween the late nd early,
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed
To see me thro' the barley.
i
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 kenn'd her heart was a' my ain ;
I loved her most sincerely ;
I kiss'd her owrc and owre again
Amang the rigs o' barley-
152
SCOTTISH SONGS.
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 bliss that happy night
Amang the rigs o' barley.
I hae been blithe wi' comrades dear ;
I hae been merry drinkin ;
I hae been joyfu' gath'ring gear ;
I hae been happy thinkin :
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,
Tho' three times doubled fairly,
That happy night was worth them a',
Amang the rigs o' barley.
The air of the "Corn-rigs," to which Burns composed

this song, had, in earlier times, the burthen to bear of
very rude and very ridiculous verses :
There was a piper had a cow,
And he had nought to give her ;
He took his pipes and play'd a spring,
And bade the cow consider :
The cow consider'd very well,
And gave the piper a penny
To play the same tune o'er again,
Corn rigs are bonnie.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
153
The choice of the cow is very natural. The old song

escaped the research of Herd, and the clutch of Johnson.
JOHN ANDERSON MY JO.

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 held, John,
Your locks are like the snaw ;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.
We clamb the hill thegither ;
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither :
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,
And we'll sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.
Tradition has bestowed on the ancient John Anderson
of Scottish song the lucrative situation of piper to the
town of Kelso ; no wonder, therefore, that we find him
listening to the invitation of a Kelso dame to partake
of a sheep's-head pie. The old verses which introduce
154
SCOTTISH SONGS.
honest John to our notice are rude and graphic. The

reformers inoculated them with a controversial and sa
tiric meaning, and took them into the service of the
kirk :see how they tear off the scarlet robes from the
Roman lady.
Come in as ye come by,
And ye shall get a sheep's head
Weel baken in a pie ;
Weel baken in a pie, John,
A haggis in a pat ;
Come in and yese get that.
And how do ye do, cummer
How have ye thriven
And how many bairns have ye ?
Quoth the cummer, seven.
Are they a' your ain gudeman's ?
Quoth the cummer, nu,
For five o' them were gotten
When he was far awa.
The two lawful bairns were Baptism and the Lord's
Supper ; the spurious progeny were Penance, Confirma
tion, Extreme unction, Ordination, and Marriage. Those
five illegitimate bairns of the scarlet lady were all re
jected by the reformers.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
155
PEGGY ALISON.
Ilk care and fear, when thou art near,
I ever mair defy them ;
Young kings upon their hansel throne
Are no sae blest as I am !
I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
An' I'll kiss thee o'er again,
An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
My bonnie Peggy Alison !
When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure,
I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share,
Than sic a moment's pleasure !
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue,
I swear I'm thine for ever ;
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never !
The name of Peggy Alison gives an air of truth and
reality to this little warm and affectionate song, which
the classical name of Chloe, Chloris, or Daphne, would
fail to bestow. We imagine that the heroine has lived
and breathed among us, and repaid the admiration of the
poet by a smile and a salutebut we have no such lively
feeling concerning the ladies of pastoral romance. The
song is by Burns, and one of his early compositions.
156
SCOTTISH SONGS.
CHEROKEE INDIAN DEATH SONG.

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day,
But glory remains when their lights fade away.
Begin, ye tormentors ; your threats are in vain,
For the son of Alknomook will never complain.
Remember the arrows he shot from his bow ;
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low.
Why so slow ? Do you wait till I shrink from the pain ?
No ! the son of Alknomook shall never complain.
Remember the wood where in ambush we lay,
And the scalps which we bore from your nation away.
Now the flame rises fast ; ye exult in my pain ;
But the son of Alknomook can never complain.
I go to the land where my father is gone :
His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son.
Death comes like a friend, to relieve me from pain ;
And thy son, O Alknomook, has scorn 'd to complain !
The original power and happy genius of this song are
universally felt. The tranquil heroism, the calm en
durance and dignity of nature of the son of Alkno
mook, take possession of our hearts : we cannot forget,
SCOTTISH SONGS.
157
if we would, the savage hero whose virtues the Muse of

Campbell has dashed off in one happy line :
A stoic of the woods, a man without a tear.
It is the composition of Anne Home, wife of the cele
brated John Hunter, and sister to Sir Everard Home,
Bart.
THE EVENING STAR.

How sweet thy modest light to view,
Fair, star !to love and lovers dear ;
While trembling on the falling dew,
Like beauty shining through the tear ;
Or hanging o'er that mirror-stream
To mark each image trembling there,
Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam
To see thy lovely face so fair.
Though blazing o'er the arch of night,
The moon thy timid beams outshine,
As far as thine each starry night
Her rays can never vie with thine.
Thine are the soft enchanting hours,
When twilight lingers on the plain,
And whispers to the closing flow'rs
That soon the sun will rise again.
158
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Thine is the breeze that, murmuring, bland
As music, wafts the lover's sigh,
And bids the yielding heart expand
In love's delicious ecstasy.
Fair star ! though I be doom'd to prove
That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain ;
Ah ! still I feel 'tis sweet to love
But sweeter to be lov'd again.
A poetic mind of no common order perished when

John Leyden, the author of this pretty ode, died in the
East. A slow and consuming illness seized upon him,
and his laborious mind and conscientious heart would not
allow his body proper repose. His happiest moments
were when he recalled the hills and streams of his native
Tiviotdale to his fancy. Sir John Malcolm, a country
man and a man of genius, sat down by his bed-side, and
read him a letter from Scotland describing the enthu
siasm of the volunteers of Liddisdalesummoned from
their sleep by sound of drum and beacon-lightmarch
ing against an imaginary enemy, to the warlike border
air of " Wha dare meddle wi' me" Leyden's face
kindled ; he started up, and, with strange melody and
wild gesticulation, sang aloud
Wha dare meddle wi' me ?
Wha dare meddle wi' me ?
SCOTTISH SONGS.
TAM GLEN.
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 fallow,
In poortith I might make a fen' ;
What care I in riches to wallow,
If I manna marry Tam Glen ?
There's Lowrie the laird o' Drumeller,
Gude-day to you, 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 sae o' Tam Glen ?
My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him,
He'll gie me gude hunder marks ten :
But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him,
O wha will I get but Tam Glen ?
Yestreen at the Valentines' dealing,
My heart to my mou gied a sten ;
For thrice I drew ane without failing,
And thrice it was written, Tam Glen.
159
160
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The last Halloween I was waukin
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ;
His likeness came up the house staukin
The very grey breeks o' Tam Glen !
Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry ;
I'll gie you my bonnie black hen,
Gif ye will advise me to marry
The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen.
How much the old song of " Tam Glen" lent to the
conception of the new it is now in vain to inquire ; for
the ancient strain has fairly passed away, and the name
only remains behind. Burns submitted his song to his
brother Gilbert as the work of the eldern Muse, and
heard its naivete warmly praised before he acknowledged
it for his own offspring. It seems ordained indeed that
the lady should become Mrs. Glenfate and affection
formed an alliance far too strong for the blandishments
of Lowrie the laird, or the counsel of aunts, or the ad
monition of mothers. The first four lines of the con
cluding verse are emblazoned with the superstition and
the simplicity of old Scotland.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
161
CHLORIS.
My Chloris, mark how green the groves,
The primrose banks how fair :
The balmy gales awake the flowers,
And wave thy flaxen hair.
The lav'rock shuns the palace gay,
And o'er the cottage sings :
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween,
To shepherds as to kings.
Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string
In lordly lighted ha' :
The shepherd stops his simple reed,
Blithe, in the birken shaw.
The princely revel may survey
Our rustic dance wi' scorn ;
But are their hearts as light as ours
Beneath the milk-white thorn ?
The shepherd, in the flowery glen,
In shepherd's phrase will woo :
The courtier tells a finer tale, .
But is his heart as true ?
These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck
That spotless breast o' thine !
The courtiers' gems may witness love
But 'tisna love like mine.
VOL. IV.
162
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The beauty of Chloris has added many charms to

Scottish song; but that which has increased the re
putation of the poet has lessened the fame of the man.
Chloris was one of those ladies who believed in the
dispensing power of beauty, and thought that love
should be under no demure restraint, and own no law
but that of nature. Burns sometimes thought in the
same way himself; and it is not wonderful therefore
that the poet should celebrate the charms of a liberal
lady who was willing to reward his strains, and who
gave him many nocturnal opportunities of catching in
spiration from her presence.
O WHA IS SHE THAT LO'ES ME.

O wha is she that lo'es me,
And has my heart a-keeping ?
O sweet is she that lo'es me,
As dews o' simmer weeping,
In tears the rose-buds steeping.
O that's the lassie o' my heart,
No lassie ever dearer ;
O that's the queen o' womankind,
And ne'er a ane to peer her.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
If thou shalt meet a lassie,
In grace and beauty charming,
That e'en thy chosen lassie,
Ere while thy breast sae wanning,
Had ne'er sic powers alarming ;
If thou hadst heard her talking,
And thy attentions plighted,
That ilka body talking,
But her, by thee is slighted,
And thou art all delighted':
If thou hast met this fair one ;
When frae her thou hast parted,
If every other fair one,
But her, thou hast deserted,
And thou art broken-hearted ;
m2
163
164
SCOTTISH SONGS.
This song was found among the manuscripts of Burns

the air of " Morag," to which it is sung, the poet
was passionately fond of. The chorus is an encumbrance,
as all choruses are ; but here I cannot dispense with it,
for the continuation of the sense requires its presence.
The chorus, in lyric composition, is capable of great
diversity. The story and the sentiment of the song
might be infused into it.
THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER.

Loud blaw the frosty breezes,
The snaws the mountains cover ;
Like winter on me seizes,
Since my young Highland Rover
Far wanders nations over.
Where'er he go, where'er he stray,
May Heaven be his warden ;
Return him safe to fair Strathspey,
And bonnie Castle-Gordon !
The trees now naked groaning,
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging,
SCOTTISH SONGS.
165
The birdies dowie moaning,

Shall a' be blithly singing,
And every flower be springing.
Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day,
When by his mighty warden
My youth's return'd to fair Strathspey,
And bonnie Castle-Gordon.
" The Young Highland Rover" is imagined to have
been Prince Charles Stuart. Burns was inoculated
with Jacobitism during his northern tour, and his Muse
in one of her retrospective fits conceived the present
song. The Stuarts have all gone down in sorrow to the
grave ; and over their unhappy dust the delicate bene
volence of George the Fourth has placed a noble monu
ment.
166
SCOTTISH SONGS.
LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE ?

Louis, what reck I by thee,
Or Geordie on his ocean ?
Dyvor, beggar louns to me,
I reign in Jeanie's bosom.
Let her crown my love her law,
And in her breast enthrone me :
Kings and nations, swith awa !
Reif randies I disown ye !
" Louis, what reck I by thee ?" is one of the shortest
and happiest of all the lyrics of Burns. It is an early
composition : the King of France was on his tottering
throne, Geordie was reigning on his ocean, and Jean
was in the bloom of youth, when the poet owned her love
for his law, took her bosom for his throne, and did
homage. Geordie still reigns on his ocean, and none of
the four winds of heaven can waft an enemy against him
who can brave him for a moment.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
167
LAST MAY, A BRAW WOOER.

Last May, a braw wooer came 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 spake o' the darts in my bonnie black een,
And vow'd for my love he was dying ;
I said he might die when he liked for Jean :
But Gude forgie me for lying, for lying,
But Gude forgie me for lying !
A weel-stocked 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 hae waur offers, waur offers,
But thought I might hae waur offers.
But what wad ye think ? in a fortnight or less,
The deil tak his taste to gae near her !
He up the Gateslack to my black cousin Bess,
Guess ye how, the jaud ! I could bear her, could bear
her,
Guess ye how, the jaud ! I could bear her.
168
SCOTTISH SONGS.
But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care,

I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock,
And 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 gae him a blink.
Lest neebors 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.
I speer'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet,
Gin she had recover'd her hearin,
And how my auld shoon fitted her shauchled feet
Gude save us ! how he fell a swearin, a swearin,
Gude save us ! how he fell a swearin.
He begged, for Gudesake ! I wad be his wife,
Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow :
So e'en to preserve the poor body in life,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow.
The old song of " The Queen of the Lothians came
cruising to Fife" had some share in the composition of
this admirable lyrie. It furnished the measure, the
subject, and the general outline of the story ; but it is
bald, meagre, and unembellished ; there are no sallies of
SCOTTISH SONGS.
169
wit, no seasonings of humour, and no varieties of in

cident in it. The conclusion can bear quoting :
The mither cried butt the house, Jockie ! come here,
Ye've naething to do but the question to speer :
The question was speered, and the bargain was struck,
The neighbours came in and wished them good luck.
Dalgarnock, now incorporated with Closeburn, was
the name of a small and beautiful little parish, ex
tending along the banks of the Nith ; its ruined kirk
and lonesome burial ground are often visited by the
old people of the neighbourhoodhuman affection
clings anxiously to paternal dust. It was here that
" Old Mortality" was found repairing the martyr's
tombstones ; and in the vicinity is Creehope-linn,
which gave many a Cameronian shelter, and afforded
refuge to Burley when he fought single-handed with
Satan. Burns, in the course of his song, employs a
proverbial expression in a way which persuades me that
he did not understand it. When a lady dismisses her
lover, the unfortunate swain is called her " auld shoon"
she wore him while she pleased, and then put him off.
For one girl to wear the " auld shoon" of another is, in
the rude figurative language of the peasantry, to accept
the addresses of the other's discarded lover. In this way
the vaunt in an old song is explained :
Ye may tell the coof that gets her,
How he gets but my auld shoon.
170
SCOTTISH SONGS.
In Burns, the first inquiry of the lady for her cousin

Bess is sufficiently malicious :
I speer'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet,
Gin she had recover'd her hearin.
But the next question is utterly unintelligible" and
how her new shoon suited her shauchled feet"unless we
suppose that she meant to insinuate only that the feet of
her cousin were " shauchled," or ill formed. By a slight
alteration, I have made the line allude satirically to
her cousin's situation with the discarded lover ; and I
imagine I have restored it to the sense which Burns
intended.
OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST?

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea ?
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee.
Or did misfortune's bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a', to share it a'.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
171
Or were I in the wildest waste,

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o' the globe,
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
In Burns's manuscripts, among which this sweet
little song was found, it is called " Address to a Lady."
The repetitions of the second, fourth, sixth, and eighth
lines of each verse make it echo the air of " The Lass
of Livingstone."
ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY.

How can my poor heart be glad,
When absent from my sailor lad ?
How can I the thought forego,
He's on the seas to meet the foe ?
Let me wander, let me rove,
Still my heart is with my love ;
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day
Are with him that's far away.
172
SCOTTISH SONGS.
When in summer's noon I faint,
As weary flocks around me pant,
Haply in this scorching sun
My sailor's thund'ring at his gun :
Bullets, spare my only joy !
Bullets, spare my darling boy !
Fate, do with me what you may,
Spare but him that's far away !
At the starless midnight hour,
When winter rules with boundless power ;
As the storms the forest tear,
And thunders rend the howling air,
Listening to the doubling roar,
Surging on the rocky shore,
All I canI weep and pray,
For his weal that's far away.
Peace, thy olive wand extend,
And bid wild war his ravage end,
Man with brother man to meet,
And as a brother kindly greet :
Then may heaven with prosp'rous gales
Fill my sailor's welcome sails,
To my arms their charge convey,
My dear lad that's far away.
Burns was a zealous lover of his country, and has

stamped his patriotic feelings on many a lasting verse.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
ITS
He was dazzled indeed with the first bright outburst of

the French Revolution, and hailed in common with
millions of men the fabric of an old and formidable de
spotism, crumbled at the touch of national liberty. But
he lived not to see a martial tyranny aspiring to univer
sal conquestfilling the world with bloodshed, and
teaching the rights of man with bayonet and- cannon.
Had he seen this, he would have loved liberty more
fondly, since he saw she was a native of his own glens
and hills ; and he would have poured out patriotic songs
to inspire us both by land and wave.
BANKS OF THE DEVON.

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 !
O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,
With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn !
174
SCOTTISH SONGS.
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, meandering flows.
Of the origin of " The Banks of the Devon," Burns
says, " These verses were composed on a charming girl,
Miss Charlotte Hamilton, who is now married to James
Adair, physician. She is sister to my worthy friend
Gawin Hamilton of Mauchline, and was born on the
banks of the Ayr, but was residing when I wrote these
lines at Harveyston in Clackmannanshire, on the ro
mantic banks of the little river Devon." To this lady
Burns addressed a dozen of his finest letters, which, in
an hour of carelessness or vexation, were committed to
the fire.
THE CHEVALIERS LAMENT.

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale ;
The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning,
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale :
SCOTTISH SONGS.
175
But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,

While the lingering moments are number'd by care ?
No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing,
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.
The deed that I dar'd could it merit their malice,
A king and a father to place on his throne ?
His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys,
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find
none.
But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn ;
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn :
Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial,
Alas ! can I make you no better return ?
When Prince Charles Stuart saw that utter ruin had
fallen on all those who loved him and fought for him
that the axe and the cord were busy with their persons,
and that their wives and children were driven desolate,
he is supposed by Burns to have given utterance to his
feelings in this touching lament.
176
SCOTTISH SONGS.
O ARE YE SLEEPING, MAGGIE?

Mirk and rainy is the night,
No a st urn in a' the carry ;
Lightnings gleam athwart the lift,
And winds drive wi' winter's fury.
O are ye sleeping, Maggie ?
O are ye sleeping, Maggie ?
Let me in, for loud the linn
Is roaring at the warlock craigie.
Fearfu' soughs the boortree bank,
The rifted wood roars wild and drearic ;
Lond the iron yate does clank,
And cry o' howlets makes me eerie.
A boon my breath I daurna speak,
For fear I rouse your waukrife daddie ;
Cauld's the blast upon my cheek ;
O rise, rise, my bonnie lady !
She opt the door, she let him in,
He coost aside his dreeping plaidic :
Hlaw your warst, ye rain and win',
Since, Maggie, now I'm in aside ye.
Now since ye're waking, Maggie,
Now since ye're waking, Maggie !
What care I for howlet's cry,
For boortree bank, or warlock craigie !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
177
The " Sleeping Maggie" of our ancestors was a song

of a very different stamp from this little clever lyric by
Tannahill. It abounded in images of rustic mirth and
enjoyment ; and the language which embodied them was
not the most select. Of the song nothing exists but the
name ; but the name is sure to survive as long as the
people of Dumfriesshire continue to dance : for " Sleep
ing Maggie" is a favourite tune when the barn-floor is
swept, the youths and maidens are assembled, and the
fiddler slants his cheek over the strings.
THE GOVVDEN LOCKS OF ANNA.

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine,
A place where body saw na' ;
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine
The gowden locks of Anna.
The hungry Jew in wilderness
Rejoicing o'er his manna,
Was naething to my hinny bliss
Upon the lips of Anna.
Ye monarchs, take the east and west,
Frae Indus to Savannah !
Gie me within my straining grasp
The melting form of Anna.
VOL. IV.
178
SCOTTISH SONGS.
There I'll despise imperial charms,
An empress or sultana,
While dying raptures in her arms
I give and take with Anna !
Awa, thou flaunting god o' day !
Awa, thou pale Diana !
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray
When I'm to meet my Anna.
Come, in thy raven plumage, Night,
Sun, moon, and stars, withdrawn a' ;
And bring an angel pen to write
My transports wi' my Anna.
It was seldom that Burns strained and laboured to

express love and rapture ; but here his Muse taxes her
self to three verses of song, rather as a penance than a
pleasure. I believe, however, that Anna with the golden
locks was no imaginary person : like the dame in the old
song, " She brewed gude ale for gentlemen ;" and while
she served the bard with a pint of wine, allowed her
customer leisure to admire her, " as hostler wives should
do." The " Lass with the gowden locks" was a liberal
lady, like the " Lassie with the lintwhite locks." A
note imputed to Burns in the Museum says, " I think
this is the best love song I ever composed." If the poet
wrote this, I am sorry for it. I hope that the words
are apocryphal ; and I believe they are.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
179
MY BONNIE MARY.
Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
An' 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
Would make me langer wish to tarry ;
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar,
It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.
In the notes on Johnson's Museum, Burns claims all
this song as his composition except the first four lines.
It is written to the old air, called " The silver tassie,"
and has more of the chivalrous ballad style about it than
what was customary with the poet. He seldom went
back into old times and old feelings : he stamped off the
passing spirit of the moment with unequalled vigour ;
the vision of ancient war which the hero saw at Ber
wick-law came not frequently upon his fancy.
k2
180
SCOTTISH SONGS.
WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY

LAD.
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad ;
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad :
Though father and mither and a' should gae mad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.
But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ;
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see,
And come as ye were na comin to me.
At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me,
Gang by me as though that ye car'd na a flie :
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black ee,
Yet look as ye were na lookin at me.
Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me,
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ;
But court na anither, though joking ye be,
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
181
" Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad," owes its

poetry to Burns, and its tune to John Bruce, a musician
of Dumfries, an admirable fiddler, a vehement Jacobite,
and a fiery highlander. An old song of the same name
once existed : the title was more peculiarly Scottish,
" Whistle, and I'll come till ye, my lad ;" and it seems
to have lent the chorus and the character to the present
song. Burns amended the fourth line thus :
Thy Jeanie will venture wi' ye, my lad ;
and he vindicates the alteration. " A dame whom the
graces have attired in witchcraft, and whom the loves
have armed with lightning,a fair oneherself the
heroine of the song, insists on the amendmentand dis
pute her commands if you dare !" I have restored the
original line. Jeanie's taste was sometimes as incorrect
as the poet's love.
THE RANTIN DOG THE DADDIE O'T.

O wha my babie-clouts will buy ?
Wha will tent me when I cry ?
Wha will kiss me whare I lie ?
Wha will own he did the faut ?
Wha will buy my groanin-maut ?
Wha will tell me how to ca't ?
188
SCOTTISH SONGS.
When I mount the creepie-chair,
Wha will sit beside me there ?
Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair,
Wha will crack to me my lane ?
Wha will make me fidgin fain ?
Wha will kiss me o'er again ?
To illustrate this song I ought to make a drawing of

the " stool of repentance," and place Burns upon it, ap
pearing to listen with a grave if not with a repentant
spirit, while inwardly resolving to resent this moral dis
cipline in satiric verse. The poet wrote and sent the
song to a young lady whom he had furnished with a
very good reason for singing
When I mount the creepie-chair,
Wha will sit beside me there ?
Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair,
The rantin dog the daddie o't.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
183
NANCY.
Thine am I, my faithful fair,
Thine, my lovely Nancy ;
Ev'ry pulse along my veins,
Ev'ry roving fancy.
To thy bosom lay my heart,
There to throb and languish :
Though despair had wrung its core,
That would heal its anguish.
Take away these rosy lips,
Rich with balmy treasure :
Turn away thine eyes of love,
Lest I die with pleasure.
What is life when wanting love ?
Night without a morning :
Love's the cloudless summer sun.
Nature gay adorning.
In autumn, his propitious season for song, Burns
wrote this lyric : the first verse is in his own impas
sioned and vigorous way ; the second is more delicate
and feeble. Like many writers of love songs, he some
times went to a sacred source for his sentiments ; but
the simple beauty of " Take away thine eyes from me,
for they have overcome me," has not been improved
either by Burns or Thomson.
184
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA'.

O how can I be blithe and glad,
Or how can I gang brisk and braw,
When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best
Is o'er the hills and far awa' ?
It's no the frosty winter wind,
It's no the driving drift and snaw ;
But ay the tear comes in my e'e,
To think on him that's far awa'.
My father pat me frae his door,
My friends they hae disown'd me a',
But I hae ane will take my part,
The bonnie lad that's far awa'.
A pair o' gloves he gae to me,
And silken snoods he gae me twa ;
And I will wear them for his sake,
The bonnie lad that's far awa'.
The weary winter soon will pass,
And spring will cleed the birken-shaw ;
And my sweet babie will be born,
And he'll come hame that's far awa'.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
185
Nothing can well surpass the artless, the simple, and

pathetic complaint of this deserted lady. The starting
verse alone is old : all the rest came fresh from Burns's
heart and imagination ; and it must sink into every
heart that sings or reads it.
GOOD NIGHT, AND JOY BE WI' YOU A\

Good night, and joy be wi' ye a' ;
Your harmless mirth has cheer'd my heart :
May life's fell blasts out o'er ye blaw ;
In sorrow may ye never part !
My spirit lives, but strength is gone ;
The mountain-fires now blaze in vain :
Remember, sons, the deeds I've done,
And in your deeds I'll live again !
When on yon muir our gallant clan
Frae boasting foes their banners tore,
Wha show'd himself a better man,
Or fiercer wav'd the red claymore ?
But when in peacethen mark me there
When through the glen the wand'rer came,
I gave him of our lordly fare,
I gave him here a welcome hame.
186
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The auld will speak, the young maun hear ;

Be cantie, but be good and leal ;
Your ain ills ay hae heart to bear,
Anither's ay hae heart to feel.
So, ere I set, I'll see you shine,
I'll see you triumph ere I fa' ;
My parting breath shall boast you mine
Good night, and joy be wi' ye a'.
This " Good night" was written by Sir Alexander
Boswell, and it catches the spirit and seizes a stray line
from an old song which began and ended with the same
words. Burns wrote masonic verses to the air ; but
masonic songs are of too dark and mystic a nature
to be felt by an unenlightened multitude ; and I must
consign all such compositions to the exclusive use of
the " Children of light," the " Brethren of the mystic
level."
SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE.
She's fair and fause that causes my smart,

I lo'ed her meiklc and lang :
She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart,
And I may e'en gae hang.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
187
A coof cam' in wi' rowth o' gear,

And I hae tint my dearest dear ;
But woman is but warld's gear,
Sae let the bonnie lass gang.
Whae'er ye be that woman love,
To this be never blind,
Nae ferlie 'tis though fickle she prove,
A woman has't by kind :
O woman lovely, woman fair !
An angel form's faun to thy share,
'Twad been o'er meikle to've gien thee mair,
I mean an angel mind.
The natural mixture of sorrow and satire in this little
song makes it one of the happiest of the many lyric com
positions of Burns. His studied and elaborate efforts
were directed to the embellishment of the truly splendid
work of George Thomson, while his more hasty, and, it
must not be disguised, less discreet sallies were dedi
cated to the service of an humbler productionthe Mu
seum. But some of those hasty things are conceived in
the poet's happiest manner ; and they who look into
Johnson will see many gems of antique verse, many
native pearls of price, and many pieces of virgin gold
glittering before them. The fickleness of a lady of the
name of Stuart occasioned this song. She had deserted
the poet's friend.
188
SCOTTISH SONGS
MARY OF CASTLE-CARY.
Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my aiu thing,
Saw ye my true love down on yon lea
Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming,
Sought she the burnie where flowers the hawtree ?
Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-white,
Dark is the blue of her soft rolling e'e :
Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses,
Where could my wee thing wander frae me ?
I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing,
Nor saw I your true love down by yon lea ;
But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloaming,
Down by the burnie where flowers the hawtree :
Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milk-white,
Dark was the blue of her soft rolling e'e ;
Red were her ripe lips and sweeter than roses
Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me.
It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain thing,
It was nae my true love ye met by the tree :
Proud is her leal heart, modest her nature,
She never loved ony 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, were't fifty times fairer,
Young bragger she ne'er wad gic kisses to thee-
SCOTTISH SONGS.
189
It was then your Mary, she's frae Castle-cary,

It was then your true love I met by the tree ;
Proud as her heart is and modest her nature,
Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me.
Sair gloomed his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew,
Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling e'e :
Ye'se rue sair this morning your boasts and your scorn
ing.
Defend ye fause traitor, fu' loudly ye lie.
Away wi' beguiling, cried the youth smiling
Off went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee,
The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing,
Fair stood the loved 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 forgie me, your heart's constant to me,
I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee.
" Mary of Castle-cary" has been admired as one of
our first-rate songs. But no song that Hector Maeneill
ever wrote has any right to such a distinction. Still it
is one of the author's best songs : the story is indeed im
probable ; but the language is happy, and the narrative
dramatie. I wish the poet had called down the cloud
of night to assist the indiscreet maiden in her deception.
The quick eye and the acute ear of love are too keen not
to have penetrated through the disguise. Yet I like
much the swaggering presumption of the lass of Castlecary, and the honourable disbelief and passion of her
admirer.
190
SCOTTISH SONGS.
WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE ?

Wilt thou be my dearie ?
When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart,
Wilt thou let me cheer thee ?
By the treasure of my soul,
That's the love I bear thee !
I swear and vow that only thou
Shalt ever be my dearie.
Only thou, I swear and vow,
Shalt ever be my dearie.
Lassie, say thou lo'es me ;
Or if thou wiltna be my ain,
Sayna thou'lt refuse me :
If it winna, canna be,
Thou for thine may choose me,
Let me, lassie, quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo'es me.
Lassie, let me quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo'es me.
The old song of the " Sutor's daughter," which lends
its air to these beautiful verses, gave no other aid to the
poet. By many of the admirers of the old songs, Burns
has been accused of misleading the current of ancient
verse into a channel of his ownof turning the mirth
ful into the serious, and the gay into the pathetie. If
SCOTTISH SONGS.
191
what he found woollen he converted into silk ; if to a

velvet sleeve he added a velvet garment ; and if he
plaited the tresses and lowered the nether garments of
the antique Scottish Muse, he rendered an acceptable
service to his country.He has done all this, and much
more.
HIGHLAND MARY.
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 unfald her robes,
And 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 light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
192
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender ;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder ;
But Oh ! fell death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early !
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary !
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly !
And closed for ay the sparkling glance,
That dwelt on me sae kindly !
And mould'ring now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly !
But still within my bosom's core,
Shall live my Highland Mary.
When Burns received an extensive order for songs for

the work of Thomson, he seems to have laid all his
earlier affections, all his domestic love, and all the beauty
in the district under contribution for rosie cheeks, blue
eyes, shining tresses, and beautiful shapes. His choice
was sometimes happy, and often injudicious : some of
his heroines were well worthy of his Muse ; others can
not be remembered without lamenting the infirmity of
the poet's taste : their names I am willing to forget ;
for who would wish to know to what prostituted shape
a Canova or a Chantrey are indebted for the exquisite
SCOTTISH SONGS.
193
forms with which they have endowed marble ? The

Muse has in this indiscriminate choice mingled ranks
together ; for poesie, as well as love, is a leveller : she
has also linked the virtuous with the vile ; for poesie
has her sensual feelings and her grosser regards : she has
also preferred the couch of purchased pleasure to the pure
bed of wedlock. This is in exceeding bad taste; for
though she sips ethereal nectar nigh the stars, and stoops
at midnight to quaff a gross and forbidden cup, it is
unwise to sing openly of her own impurity, and lend to
her shame the unwearied wings of lyric verse. Of
Highland Mary I have spoken before: she was the
poet's love before he was well ripened into manhood ;
and she died too early to save him by her sense and her
spirit from those courses of indulgence, the offspring of
disappointed hope.
THE BANKS O' DOON.

Ye banks and braes of bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair !
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary, fu' of care !
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons through the flowering thorn :
Thou mindst me of departed joys,
Departed, never to return.
VOL. iv.
194
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine ;
When ilka bird sang of its luve,
And fondly sae did I of mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ;
And my fause luver stole my rose,
But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me.
Burns wrote an earlier and more simple version of

the " Banks of Doon," which is printed in the Reliques,
and I certainly prefer it to the present copy. But it
would be unwise to seek to divorce the song from the
fine air to which it is united. Other verses have been
added which I have omitted ; they are not by Burns
who can mistake water for wine ?
BEWARE O' BONNIE ANN.

Ye gallants bright, I rede you 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 jimpy lac'd her genty waist,
That sweetly ye might span.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
195
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 rede you a',
Beware o' bonnie Ann.
The " Bonnie Ann" of this song is the daughter of
Allan Masterton, one of the early friends of Burns, and
the wife of John Derbyshire, Esq. a surgeon in London.
The Muse of the poet was ever ready at the call of
beauty or friendshipand here the call was double.
I AM A SON OF MARS.
I am a son of Mars,
Who have been in many wars,
And show my cuts and scars
Wherever I come ;
This here was for a wench,
And that other in a trench,
When welcoming the French
At the sound of the drum.
o2
19G
SCOTTISH SONGS.
My prenticeship I past
Where my leader breath'd his last,
When the bloody die was cast
On the heights of Abra'm :
I served out my trade
When the gallant game was played,
And the Moro low was laid
I lastly was with Curtis
Among the floating batteries,
And there I left for witness
An arm and a limb.
Yet let my country need me,
With Elliot to head me,
I'd clatter on my stumps
And now, though I must beg,
With a wooden arm and leg,
And wi' mony a tatter'd rag
Hanging over my bum ;
I'm as happy with my wallet,
My bottle and my callet,
As when I used in scarlet
To follow the drum.
What, though with hoary locks,
I must stand the winter shocks
SCOTTISH SONGS.
197
Beneath the woods and rucks,

Oftentimes for a home ;
When the tother bag I sell,
And the tother bottle tell,
I could meet a troop of hell
In the house of " Posie Nancie," a liberal hostlerwife in Kilmarnock, Burns gathered together, in imagi
nation, one Saturday night, a band of mendicants, to
" toom their powks and pawn their duds," and drink,
and drab, and act in character. Nothing can exceed
the life and gaiety, and wild naivete of the whole per
formance. The festive vagrants are all distinguished
from each other by their personal appearance, and by
the way in which they take up their parts in the living
drama of vulgar life. They all resemble each other,
however, in their open defiance of social order and
decorum, and in their wish of enjoying the world in
common, and their open scorn of the law, the kirk, and
the king. It is, perhaps, the bitterest satire ever
written on the wild principles of animal liberty which
the French Revolution made popular ; which made
many a lady a mother without the constraint of wed
lock, and sought to introduce a free and tolerant system
of intercourse between the sexes. To this motley
crowd a maimed soldier, with his knapsack on his back,
and his doxy in his arms, chants this song of his own
adventures, and I know not where to find the like
specimen of military licence and animation.
198
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.

The lovely lass o' Inverness,
Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ;
For e'en and morn she cries, alas
And ay the saut tear Wins her e'e.
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day,
A waefu' day it was to me ;
For there I lost my father dear,
My father dear and brethren three.
Their winding sheet the bloody clay,
Their graves are growing green to see,
And by them lies the dearest lad
That ever blest a woman's e'e !
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
A bloody man I trow thou be ;
For mony a heart thou hast made sair,
That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee.
It has been often said, though probably not written,
that, in some half dozen of songs, Burns surpasses all
other lyric poets. For my own part, I think thi3 pre
eminence may as well be claimed for twenty as for six ;
and among either of the selections I should have little
hesitation in placing his Lass of Inverness. It is not
what critics call a catching or dashing song, but it
has a tone of subdued sorrow, inexpressibly mournful :
SCOTTISH SONGS.
199
the heroine reproaches the author of her woes with a

pathetic gentleness ; and she brings tears to eyes which
more clamorous or passionate grief would fail to
moisten.
VISION OF LIBERTY.
As I stood by yon roofless tower,
Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air,
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight moon her care ;
The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky,
The fox was howling on the hill
The distant-echoing glens reply.
The stream, adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's,
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's.
The cauld blue north was streaming forth
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ;
Athort the lift they start and shift,
Like fortune's favours, tint as won.
By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,
And, by the moon-beam, shook to see
200
SCOTTISH SONGS.
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,

Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.
Had I a statue been o' stane,
His daring look had daunted me ;
And on his bonnet grav'd was plain
The sacred posyLibertie.
And frae his harp sic strains did flow.
Might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear ;
But oh ! it was a tale of woe,
As ever met a Briton's ear !
He sang wi' joy his former day,
He weeping wail'd his latter times :
But what he said it was nae play,
I winna venture't in my rhymes.
For the splendid vision which the imagination of
Burns evoked from the ground he was probably unable
to find a strain sublime and lofty enough : the song
of freedom has, therefore, remained unsung. He seems
to have begun his verses without any precise aim, and
the phantom to have arisen on him as he proceeded.
Was ever a song of that stamp loaded with so dissimilar
a chorus ?
A lassie all alone was making her moan,
Lamenting our lads beyond the sea,
In the bloody wars they fa', and our honour's gane
and a',
And broken-hearted we maun die.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
201
The poet, too, has resorted to a common and clumsy

mode of letting us into the mystery of his Spirit, by
printing " liberty" on the head-gear ; like Rubens,
with his Virtues rowing the boat to Mary of Medici,
with their names in labels at their sides. It is, how
ever, a noble production. When the Minstrel Spirit of
Liberty wept his former day, I cannot be sure to what
period he refers ; did he think on the time when the
voluptuous nuns were expelled for sinning against their
vows, by the stern Lord Douglas ? It seems probable
that the scene was not laid in Lincluden College, but in
Sweetheart Abbey. The wall-flower and the ivy, the
distant Nith, and the fox howling on his hill, all belong
to the latter. On the former there is no ivyno wall
flower scents the airthe hill is too remote to hear the
cry of the fox, and Nith is within a good stone cast.
But the Muse might array the one in the costume of the
other.
.
SONGS
OF
LIVING LYRIC POETS.
PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,

Pibroch of Donuil,
Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan Conuil.
Come away, come away,
Hark to the summons !
Come in your war array,
Gentles and commons.
Come from deep glen, and
From mountain so rocky ;
The war-pipe and pennon
Are at Inverlochy.
Come every hill plaid, and
True heart that wears one ;
Come every steel blade, and
Strong hand that bears one.
206
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Leave the deer, leave the steer,
Leave nets and barges ;
Come with your fighting geer,
Broad-swords and targes.
Leave untended the herd,
The flock without shelter ;
Leave the corpse uninterr'd,
The bride at the altar.
Come, as the winds come, when
Forests are rended :
Come, as the waves come, when
Navies are stranded.
Faster come, faster come ;
Faster and raster :
Chief, vassal, page, and groom,
Tenant and master !
Fast they come, fast they come ;
See how they gather :
Wide waves the eagle plume,
Blended with heather.
Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
Forward each man set ;
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,
Now for the onset !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
HOHENLINDEN.
THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.
On Linden, when the sun was low,

All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow ;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array 'd,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And, furious, every charger neigh'd
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills, with thunder riv'n ;
Then rush'd the steed, to battle driv'n ;
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden's hills of stained snow ;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
207
208
SCOTTISH SONGS.
'Tis morn ; but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens.On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave !
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry !
Few, few shall part where many meet ;
The snow shall be their winding sheet ;
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast !
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
O for a soft and gentle wind !
I heard a fair one cry ;
But give to me the swelling breeze,
And white waves heaving high :
The white waves heaving high, my lads,
The good ship tight and free ;
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud ;
And hark the music, mariners !
The wind is wakening loud.
The wind is wakening loud, my boys,
The lightning flashes free
The hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.
PULL AWAY, JOLLY BOYS.

JAMES HOGG.
Here we go upon the tide,

Pull away, jolly boys,
With heaven for our guide,
Pull away.
vol. iv.
809
210
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Here's a weather-beaten tar,
Britain's glory still his star,
He has borne her thunders far ;
To yon gallant man of war,
Pull away.
We've with Nelson ploughed the main,
Now his signal flies again,
Pull away.
Brave hearts, then let us go,
To drub the haughty foe,
Who once again shall know,
That our backs we never show,
Pull away.
We have fought, and we have sped,
Pull away, gallant boys,
Where the rolling wave was red,
Pull away.
We've stood many a mighty shock,
Like the thunder-stricken oak,
We've been bent, but never broke,
Pull away, gallant boys ;
We ne'er brooked a foreign yoke,
Pull away.
Here we go upon the deep,
Pull away, gallant boys.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
211
O'er the ocean let us sweep,

Pull away.
Round the earth our glory rings,
At the thought my bosom springs,
That where'er our pennant swings,
Pull away, gallant boys,
Of the ocean we're the kings,
Pull away.
WELCOME BAT AND OWLET GRAY.

JOANNA BAIXLIK.
O welcome bat and owlet gray,

Thus winging low your airy way ;
And welcome moth and drowsy fly,
That to mine ear come humming by ;
And welcome shadows long and deep,
And stars that from the pale sky peep !
O welcome all ! to me ye say,
My woodland love is on her way.
Upon tne soft wind floats her hair,
Her breath is in the dewy air,
Her steps are in the whisper'd sound
That steals along' the stilly ground.
p2
212
SCOTTISH SONGS.
O dawn of day, in rosy bower,
What art thou to this witching hour !
O noon of day, in sunshine bright,
What art thou to the fall of night !
GOOD NIGHT, GOOD NIGHT i

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 I
The bride into her bower is sent,
And ribald 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,
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The clansmen 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 !
LOW GERMANIE.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
As I sail'd past green Jura's isle,

Among the waters lone,
I heard a voicea sweet low voice,
Atween a sigh and moan :
With ae babe at her bosom, and
Another at her knee,
A mother wail'd the bloody wars
In Low Germanie.
Oh woe unto these cruel wars
That ever they began,
For they have swept my native isle
Of many a pretty man :
21 S
214
SCOTTISH SONGS.
For first they took my brethren twain,
Then wiled my love frae me.
Woe, woe unto the cruel wars
In Low Germanie
I saw him when he sail'd away,
And furrow'd far the brine ;
And down his foes came to the shore,
In many a glittering line :
The war-steeds rush'd amang the waves,
The guns came flashing free,
But could nae keep my gallant love
From Low Germanie.
Oh say, ye maidens, have ye seen,
When swells the battle cry,
A stately youth with bonnet blue
And feather floating high,
An eye that flashes fierce for all,
But ever mild to me ?
Oh that's the lad who loves me best
In Low Germanie.
Where'er the cymbal's sound is heard,
And cittern sweeter far,
Where'er the trumpet blast is blown,
And horses rush to war,The blithest at the banquet board,
And first in war is he.
The bonnie lad, whom 1 love best.
In Low Germanie.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I sit upon the high green land,
When mute the waters lie,
And think I see my true-love's sail
Atween the sea and sky.
With ae bairn at my bosom, and
Another at my knee,
I sorrow for my soldier lad
In Low Germanie.
NORAS VOW.
SIR WALTEB SCOTT.
Hea* what highland Nora said':

The Earlie's son I will not wed,
Should all the race of nature die,
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands, both far and near,
That ever valour lost or won,
I would not wed the Earlie's son.
A maiden's vows, old Galium spoke,
Are lightly made and lightly broke.
The heather on the mountain's height
Begins to bloom in purple light ;
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae ;
215
216
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Yet, Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the Earlie's son.
The swan, she said, the lake's clear breast
May barter for the eagle's nest ;
The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben-Cruachan fall and crush Kilchurn ;
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly :
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie's son.
Still in the water-lily's shade
Her wonted nest the wild swan made,
Ben-Cruachan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river,
To shun the clash of foeman's steel
No highland brogue has turned the heel ;
But Nora's heart is lost and won,
She's wedded to the Earlie's son.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
LOGAN BRAES.
JOHN MAYNE, ESQ.
By Logan's streams, that rin sae deep,

Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep ;
I've herded sheep, or gather'd slaes,
Wi' my dear lad, on Logan braes.
But waes my heart, thae days are gane,
And I, wi' grief, may herd alane ;
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
Nae mair at Logan kirk will he
Atween the preachings meet wi' me ;
Meet wi' me, or whan its mirk,
Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk.
I weel may sing thae days are gane
Frae kirk and fair I come alane,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes !
At e'en, when hope amaist is gane,
I dauner dowie and forlane ;
I sit alane, beneath the tree
Where aft he kept his tryste wi' me.
O ! cou'd I see thae days again,
My lover skaithless, and my ain !
Belov'd by friends, rever'd by faes,
We'd live in bliss on Logan braes.
217
SCOTTISH SONUS.
THE SAILORS LADY.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Come busk you gallantlie,

Busk and make you ready,
Maiden, busk and come,
And be a sailor's lady.
The foamy ocean's ours,
From Hebride to Havanir.il),
And thou shalt be my queen,
And reign upon it, Anna.
See my bonnie ship,
So stately and so steady ;
Thou shalt be my queen,
And she maun be my lady- :
The west wind in her wings,
The deep sea all in motion,
Away she glorious goes,
And crowns me king of ocean.
The merry, lads are mine,
From Thames, and Tweed, and Shannon ;
The Bourbon flowers grow pale
When I hangout my pennon ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
219
I'll win thee gold and gems,

With pike and cutlass clashing,
With all my broad sails set,
And all my cannon flashing.
Come with me and see
The golden islands glowing,
Come with me and hear
The flocks of India lowing :
Thy fire shall be of spice,
The dews of eve drop manna,
Thy chamber floor of gold,
And men adore thee, Anna.
THE EXILE OF ERIN.

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill,
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing,
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill ;
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion
He sung the bold anthem of Erin go Bragh.
220
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Sad is my fate ! said the heart-broken stranger,

The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,
But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not to me.
Never again in the green sunny bowers
Where my fore-fathers liv'd shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin go Bragh.
Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
But alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken,
And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more.
Oh, cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me
In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me ?
Never again shall my brothers embrace me,
They died to defend me, or live to deplore.
Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood ?
Sisters and sire, did you weep for its fall ?
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood ?
And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all ?
Oh, my sad heart ! long abandon'd by pleasure,
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ?
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.
Yet all its sad recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw,
SCOTTISH SONGS.
221
Erin, an exile, bequeaths thee his blessing,

Land of my forefathersErin go Bragh !
Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean,
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion
Erin mavourneen, Erin go Bragh !
SATURDAY'S SUN.
ALLAN
CUNNINGHAM.
0 Saturday's sun sinks down with a smile

On one who is weary and worn with his toil !
Warmer is the ldss which his kind wife receives,
Fonder the look to his bonnie bairns he gives ;
His gude mother is glad, though her race is nigh run,
To smile wi' the weans at the setting of the sun :
The voice of prayer is heard, and the holy psalm tune,
Wha wadna be glad when the sun gangs down ?
Thy cheeks, my leal wife, may not keep the ripe glow
Of sweet seventeen, when thy locks are like snow ;
Though the sweet blinks of love are most flown free
thy e'e,
Thou art fairer and dearer than ever to me.
1 mind when I thought that the sun didna shine
On a form half so fair or a face so divine ;
222
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Thou wert woo'd in the parlour, and sought in the ha' ;

I came and I won thee frae the wit of them a'.
My hame is my mailen, weel stocket and fu',
My bairns are the flocks and the herds which I lo'e ;
My wife is the gold and delight of my ee,
And worth a whole lordship of mailens to me.
O, who would fade away like a flower in the dew,
And no leave a sprout for kind Heaven to pu' ?
Who would rot 'mang the mools like the stump of a tree,
Wi' nae shoots the pride of the forest to be ?
'MONG SCOTIA'S GLENS.

JAMKS HOGG.
'Mong Scotia's glens and mountains blue.

Where Gallia's lilies never grew,
Where Roman eagles never flew,
Nor Danish lions rallied ;
Where skulks the roe in anxious fear,
Where roves the stately, nimble deer,
There live the lads to freedom dear,
By foreign yoke ne'er galled.
There woods grow wild on every hill ;
There freemen wander at their will ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Sure Scotland will be Scotland still,
While hearts so brave defend her.
Fear not, our sov'reign liege, they cry,
We've flourish'd fair beneath thine eye ;
For thee we'll fight, for thee we'll die,
Nor aught but life surrender.
Since thou hast watch'd our every need,
And taught our navies wide to spread,
The smallest hair from thy gray head
No foreign foe shall sever :
Thy honour'd age in peace to save,
The sternest host we'll dauntless brave,
Or stem the fiercest Indian wave,
Nor heart nor hand shall waver.
Though nations join yon tyrant's arm,
.While Scotia's noble blood runs warm
Our good old man we'll guard from harm,
Or fall in heaps around him.
Although the Irish harp were won,
And England's roses all o'er-run,
'Mong Scotia's glens, with sword and gun,
We'll form a bulwark round him.
22S
84
SCOTTISH SONGS.
JOCK OF HAZELDEAN.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Why weep ye by the tide, ladye

Why weep ye by the tide ?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye shall be his bride ;
And ye shall be his bride, ladye,
Sae comely to be seen
But ay she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.
Now let this wilful grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale,
Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And lord of Langley-dale :
His step is first in peaceful ha',
His sword in battle keen
A chain of gold ye shall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair,
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk.
Nor palfrey fresh and fair ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
And you the foremost of them a',
Shall ride our forest queen
The kirk was deck'd at morning tide,
The tapers glimmer'd fair,
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And knight and dame are there :
They sought her both by bower and ha',
The ladye was not seen
She's o'er the border, and awa'
Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.
THE HAMEWARD SONG.

HUGH AINSLIE.
Each whirl of the wheel,

Each step brings me nearer
The hame of my youth
Every object grows dearer.
Thae hills and thae huts,
And thae trees on that green,
Losh ! they glowre in my face
Like some kindly auld frien'.
VOL. IV.
22S
226
SCOTTISH SONGS.
E'en the brutes they look social
As gif they would crack,
And the sang of the bird
Seems to welcome me back.
O, dear to our hearts
Is the hand that first fed us,
And dear is the land
And the cottage that bred us.
And dear are the comrades
With whom we once sported,
And dearer the maiden
Whose love we first courted :
Joy's image may perish,
E'en grief die away,
But the scenes of our youth
Are recorded for ay.
AWAKE, MY LOVE.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Awake, my love ! ere morning's ray

Throws off night's weed of pilgrim gray ;
Ere yet the hare, cower'd close from view,
Licks from her fleece the clover dew ;
Or wild swan shakes her snowy wings,
By hunters roused from secret springs ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Or birds upon the boughs awake,
Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake !
She comb'd her curling ringlets down,
Laced her green jupes and clasp'd her shoon,
And from her home by Preston burn
Came forth, the rival light of morn.
The lark's song dropt, now lowne, now hush
The gold-spink answered from the bush
The plover, fed on heather crop,
Call'd from the misty mountain top.
'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day
Grows into gold from silvery grey,
To hearken heaven, and bush, and brake,
Instinct with soul of song awake
To see the smoke, in many a wreath,
Stream blue from hall and bower beneath,
Where yon blithe mower hastes along
With glittering scythe and rustic song.
Yes, lovely one ! and dost thou mark
The moral of yon caroling lark ?
Tak'st thou from Nature's counsellor tongue
The warning precept of her song ?
Each bird that shakes the dewy grove
Warms its wild note with nuptial love
The bird, the bee, with various sound,
Proclaim the sweets of wedlock round.
Q2
227
228
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE POET'S MORNING.

JAMES HOOC.
"Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken !

Over gorse, green broom, and broken,
From her sieve of silken blue,
Dawning sifts her silver dew ;
Hangs the emerald on the willow,
Lights her lamp below the billow,
Bends the brier and branchy braken
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken !
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken !
Deep the morn her draught has taken
Of the babbling rivulet sheen,
Far beyond the Ochel green ;
From her gauzy veil on high,
Trills the laverock's melody ;
Round and round, from glen and grove,
Pour a thousand hymns to love.
The quail harps loud amid the clover,
From the mountain whirrs the plover ;
Bat has hid, and heath-cock crowed,
Courser neigh'd, and cattle lowed ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Swifter still the dawn advances,
In the light the wood-fly dances ;
See, the sun is on the billow
Rouse thee, slumberer, from thy pillow !
Wake theelife is but a day,
Gay its morn, and short as gay ;
Day of evilday of sorrow,
Hope, bright hope, can paint no morrow ;
Noon shall find thee faint and weary,
Night shall find thee pale and dreary
Rise, O rise ! to toil betake thee
Wake thee, drowsy slumberer, wake thee.
THE RETURN OF SPRING.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Cauld winter is awa', my love,

And spring is in her prime ;
The breath of Heaven stirs a' to life,
The grasshoppers to chime.
The birds canna contain themsel's
Upon the sprouting tree,
But loudlie, loudlic sing of love :
A theme which pleaseth me.
229
230
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The blackbird is a pawky loon,
An' kens the gate of love ;
Fu' weel the sleekit mavis kens
The melting lilt maun move.
The gowdspink woos in gentle note,
And ever singeth he,
Come here, come here, my spousal dame !
What says the sangster rose-linnet ?
His breast is beating high,
Come here, come here, my ruddie mate,
The way of love to try !
The lavrock calls his freckled mate,
Frae near the sun's ee-bree,
Make on the knowe, our nest, my love !
The hares hae brought forth twins, my love,
Sae has the cushat doo ;
The raven croaks a softer way,
His sooty love to woo :
And nought but love, love breathes around
Frae -hedge, frae field, and tree,
Soft whispering love to Jeanie's heart :
O lassie ! is thy heart mair hard
Than mavis on the bough ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Say, maun the hale creation wed,
And Jean remain to woo ?
Say, has the holie lowe of love
Ne'er lighten'd in your ee ?
O ! if thou canstna feel for pain,
Thou art nae theme for me !
THE BLACK COCK.

JOANNA BAILLIK.
Good morrow to thy sable beak,

And glossy plumage, dark and sleek ;
Thy crimson moon and azure eye,
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy !
I see thee slily cowering through
That wiry web of silver dew,
That twinkles in the morning air
Like casement of my lady fair.
A maid there is in yonder tower,
Who, peeping from her early bower,
Half shows, like thee, with simple wile,
Her braided hair and morning smile.
The rarest things, with wayward will,
Beneath the covert hide them still ;
The rarest things, to light of day
Look shortly forth and shrink away.
231
^32
SCOTTISH SONGS.
A fleeting moment of delight
I sunn'd me in her cheering sight ;
And short, I ween, the term will be
That I shall parley hold with thee.
Through Snowdon's mist red beams the day,
The climbing herd-boy chants his lay ;
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring
Thou art already on the wing.
THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.

Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube

Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er :
O whither, she cried, hast thou wander'd, my true love,
Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore ?
What voice have I heard ? 'twas my Henry that sigh'd :
All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far,
When bleeding and low, on the heath, she descried,
By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar.
From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was stream
ing,
And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar,
And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,
That incited in love, and that kindled in war.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
233
How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight !

How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war !
Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night,
To cheer the lone heart of thy wounded Hussar ?
Thou shalt live, she replied : Heaven's mercy relieving
Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn.
Ah ! no, the last pang in my bosom is heaving ;
No light of the morn shall to Henry return :
Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true !
Ye babes of my love, that await me afar !
His faltering tongue scarce could murmur, Adieu 1
When he sank in her arms, the poor wounded Hussar.
ROLAND CHEYNE.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
The sun upon a summer morn,

The dark cloud when it snows,
The woods all in their fragrant leaves,
The green grass as it grows,
Are fair to seeyet fairer far
Seems ocean's simmering brine,
Through which comes sailing thy good ship.
My gallant Roland Cheyne.
234
SCOTTISH SONGS.
1 saw the gloomy ocean laugh,
As suns laugh in April ;
I saw thy canvas catch the breeze
With more of sigh than smile.
And, Oh ! my heart leap'd like to burst
My silken laces nine,
As I lost sight of thy good ship,
My gallant Roland Cheyne.
All by the salt sea-wave I sat
And as its snowy foam
Sang at my foot, I sigh'd, and said,
O when wilt thou come home !
Brown are the giddy dames of France,
And swarthy those of Spain ;
Old Scotland's maids are lily white
Return, my Roland Cheyne.
THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL.

MRS. DUGALD STEWART.
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.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
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'd between,
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 flatt'ring veil is rent aside ;
The flame of love burns to destroy.
In vain does memory renew
The hours once ting'd 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 ;
235
236
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Ungenerous youth ! thy boast how poor,
To win a heartand break it too.
No cold approach, no alter'd mien,
Just what would make suspicion start ;
No pause the dire extremes between,
He made me blestand broke my heart.
From hope, the wretched's anchor, torn,
Neglected and neglecting all ;
Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn,
The tears I shed must ever fall.
THE HILLS O' GALLOWA'.

THOMAS CUNNINGHAM.
Aiming the birks sae blythe an' gay,

I met my Julia hameward gaun ;
The linties chauntit on the spray,
The lammies loupit on the lawn ;
On ilka howm the sward was mawn,
The braes wi' gowans buskit bra',
An gloamin 's plaid o' gray was thrawu
Out owre the hills o' Gallowa'.
Wi' music wild the woodlands rang,
An' fragrance wing'd alang the lea,
SCOTTISH SONGS.
As down we sat the flowers amang,
Upon the banks o' stately Dee.
My Julia's arms encircled me,
An' saftly slade the hours awa',
Till dawin coost a glimmerin e'e
Upon the hills o' Gallowa'.
It isna owsen, sheep, an' kye,
It isna goud, it isna gear,
This lifted e'e wad hae, quoth I,
The warld's drumlie gloom to cheer
But gie to me my Julia dear,
Ye powers wha rowe this yirthen ba'.
An' O ! sae blythe thro' life I'll steer,
Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.
Whan gloamin' dauners up the hill,
An' our gudeman ca's hamc the yowes,
Wi' her I'll trace the mossy rill
That owre the muir meand'ring rowes ;
Or tint amang the scroggy knowes,
My birken pipe I'll sweetly blaw,
An' sing the streams, the straths, and howes,
The hills an' dales o Gallowa'.
An' whan auld Scotland's heathy hills,
Her rural nymphs an' jovial swains,
Her flow'ry wilds an' wimpling rills,
Awake nae mair my canty strains ;
237
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Whare friendship dwells an' freedom reigns,
Whare heather blooms an' muircocks craw,
O ! dig my grave, and hide my banes
Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.
ADELGITHA.
The ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded,

And sad pale Adelgitha came,
When forth a valiant champion bounded,
And slew the slanderer of her fame.
She wept, deliver'd from the danger ;
But when he knelt to claim her glove.
Seek not, she cried, O gallant stranger.
For hapless Adelgitha's love !
For he is in a foreign far land,
Whose arm should now have set me free ;
And I must wear the willow garland
For him that's dead, or false to me.
Nay, say not that his faith is tainted !
He raised his visorat the sight
She fell into his arms and fainted
It was indeed her own true knight.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
GENTLE HUGH HERRIES.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Go seek in the wild glen

Where streamlets are falling,
Go seek on the lone hill
Where curlews are calling,
Go seek when the clear stars
Shine down without number,
For there will ye find him
My true love in slumber.
They sought in the wild glen
The glen was forsaken ;
They sought on the mountain,
'Mang lang lady-bracken ;
And sore, sore they hunted
My true love to find him,
With the strong bands of iron
To fetter and bind him.
Yon green hill I'll give thee,
Where the falcon is flying,
To show me the den where
This bold traitor's lying
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SCOTTISH SONGS.
0 make me of Nithsdale's
Fair princedom the heiress,
Is that worth one smile of
My gentle Hugh Herries?
The white bread, the sweet milk,
And ripe fruits I found him,
And safe in my fond arms
I clasp'd and I wound him ;
1 warn you go not where
My true lover tarries,
For sharp smites the sword of
My gentle Hugh Herries.
They rein'd their proud war-steeds,
Away they went sweeping,
And behind them dames wail'd, and
Fair maidens went weeping ;
But deep in yon wild glen,
'Mang banks of blae-berries,
I dwell with my loved one,
My gentle Hugh Herries.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE SHEPHERDS SON.

JOANNA HAILI.IE.
The gowan glitters on the sward,

The lavrock's in the sky,
And Colley on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.
Oh no ! sad and slow !
I hear nae welcome sound,
The shadow of our trysting bush
It wears sae slowly round.
My sheep-bell tinkles from the west,
My lambs are bleating near,
But still the sound that I lo'e best,
Alack ! I canna hear.
Ah no ! sad and slow !
The shadow lingers still,
And like a lanely ghaist I stand
And croon upon the hill.
I hear below the water roar,
The mill with clacking din ;
And Lucky scolding frae her door,
To bring the bairnies in.
These are nae sounds for me ;
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SCOTTISH SONGS.
The shadow of our trysting bush
It creeps sae drearilie.
I coft yestreen frae chapman Tam
A snood o' bonnie blue,
And promised, when our trysting cam,
To tye it round her brow.
The time it winna pass ;
The shadow of that weary thorn
Is tether'd on the grass.
Oh ! now I see her on the way !
She's past the witches' knowe ;
She's climbing up the brownie's brae
My heart is in a lowe !
Oh no ! 'tis not so !
. 'Tis glaumrie I hae seen ;
The shadow of the hawthorn bush
Will move nae mair till e'en.
My book of grace I'll try to read,
Tho' conn'd wi' little skill,
When Colley barks I'll raise my head,
And find her on the hill !
Oh, no ! sad and slow !
The time will ne'er be gane ;
The shadow of the trysting bush
Is fix'd like ony stane.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
248
CARLE, NOW THE KING'S COME!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.
The news has flown frae mouth to mouth,

The North for ance has bang'd the South ;
The deil a Scotsman's die of drouth,
Carle, now the King's come !
Auld England held him lang and fast ;
And Ireland had a joyfu' cast ;
But Scotland's turn is come at last
Carle, now the King's come ! Auld Reikic, in her rokela gray,
Thought never to have seen the day ;
He's been a weary time away
But, Carle, now the King's come !
She's skirling frae the Castle-hill ;
The Carline's voice is grown sae shrill
Ye'll hear her at the Canon-mill,
Up, bairns ! she cries, baith grit and sma',
And busk ye for the weapon-shaw !
Stand by me, and we'll bang them a' !
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SCOTTISH SONGS.
Come from Ncwbattle's ancient spires,

Bauld Lothian, with your knights and squires,
And match the metal of your sires,
Carle, jiow the King's come !
You're welcome hame, my Montague !
Bring in your hand the young Buccleuch ;
I'm missing some that I may rue,
Come, Haddington, the kind and gay,
You've graced my causeway tnony a day ;
I'll weep the cause if you should stay,
Come premier duke, and carry doun,
Frae yonder craig, his ancient croun ;
It's had a lang sleep and a soun'
But, Carle, now the King's come !
Come, Athole, from the hill and wood,
Bring down your clansmen like a cloud ;
Come, Morton, show the Douglas' blood ;
Come, Tweeddale, true as sword to sheath ;
Come, Hopetoun, fear'd on fields of death ;
Come, Clerk, and give yon bugle breath ;
Come, Wemyss, who modest merit aids ;
Come, Roseberry, from Dalmeny shades ;
Breadalbane, bring your belted plaids ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Come, stately Niddrie, auld and true,
Girt with the sword that Minden knew ;
We have ower few such lairds as you
King Arthur's grown a common crier,
He's heard in Fife and far Cantyre,
Fie, lads, behold my crest of fire !
Saint Abb roars out, I see him pass
Between Tantallon and the Bass !
Calton, get out your keeking-glass,
The Carline stopp'd ; and, sure I am,
For very glee had ta'en a dwam,
But Oman help'd her to a dram
DONALD MACDONALD.
JAMBS HOGG.
My name it is Donald Macdonald,

I live in the Highlands so grand ;
I've follow'd our banner, an' will do,
Wherever my Maker has land.
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SCOTTISH SONGS.
When ranked amang the blue bonnets,

Nae danger can fear me ava ;
I ken that my brethren around me
Are either to conquer or fa'.
Brogues an' brochen an' a',
Brochen an' brogues an' a' ;
An' is na the laddie weel aff,
Wha has brogues an' brochen an' a' ?
Short syne we were wonderfu' cantie
Our friends an' our country to see ;
But since the proud consul's grown vauntie,
We'll meat him by land or by sea.
Wherever a clan is disloyal,
Wherever our king has a foe,
He'll quickly see Donald Macdonald,
Wi' his highlanders a' in a row.
Guns an' pistols an' a',
Pistols an' guns an' a' ;
He'll quickly see Donald Macdonald,
Wi' guns an' pistols an' a'.
What though we befriendit young Charlie ?
To tell it I dinna think shame ;
Poor lad ! he cam' to us hut barely,
And reckon'd our mountains his hame.
'Tis true that our reason forbade us,
But tenderness carried the day :
Had Gcordie come friendless amang us,
Wi' him wc had a' gane away.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Sword an' buckler an' a',
Buckler an' sword an' a ,
For George we'll encounter the devil,
Wi' sword an' buckler an' a'.
An Oh ! I wad eagerly press him
The keys o' the East to retain,
For should he gic up the possession,
We'll soon hae to force them again :
Than yield up an inch wi' dishonour,
Though it were my finishin' blow,
He aye may depend on Macdonald,
Wi's highlandmen all in a row.
Knees an' elbows an' a',
Elbows an' knees an' a' :
Depend upon Donald Macdonald,
His knees an' elbows an' a'.
If Bonaparte land at Fort-William,
Auld Europe nae Linger shall grane ;
I laugh when I think how we'll gall him
Wi' bullet, wi' steel, an' wi' stane :
Wi' rocks o' the Nevis an' Gairy
We'll rattle him aff frae the shore,
Or lull him asleep in a cairney,
And sing him Lochaber no more !
Stanes an' bullets an' a',
Bullets an' stanes an' a' ;
We'll finish the Corsican callan'
Wi' stanes an' bullets an' a'.
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SCOTTISH SONGS.
The Gordon is gude in a hurry,

An' Campbell is steel to the bane,
An' Grant, an' Mackenzie, an' Murray,
An' Cameron will hurkle to mine.
The Stuart is sturdy and wannel,
An' sae is Macleod an' Mackay ;
An' I their gude-brither Macdonald
Sail never be last in the fray.
Brogues an' brochen an a',
Brochen an' brogues an' a' ;
An' up wi' the bonny blue bonnet.
The kilt an' the feather an' a'.
THE THISTLE'S GROWN ABOON THE

ROSE.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Full white the Bourbon lily blows,

And fairer haughty England's rose ;
Nor shall unsung the symbol smile,
Green Ireland, of thy lovely isle.
In Scotland grows a warlike flower,
Too rough to bloom in lady's bower ;
His crest, when high the soldier bears,
And spurs his courser on the spears,
SCOTTISH SONGS.
0 there it blossomsthere it blows,
The thistle's grown aboon the rose.
Bright like a stedfast star it smiles
Aboon the battle's burning files ;
The mirkest cloud, the darkest night,
Shall ne'er make dim that beauteous light ;
And the best blood that warms my vein
Shall flow ere it shall catch a stain.
Far has it shone on fields of fame,
From matchless Bruce till dauntless Graeme,
From swarthy Spain to Siber's snows ;
What conquer'd ay, what nobly spared,
What firm endured, and greatly dared ?
What redden'd Egypt's burning sand ?
What vanquish'd on Corunna's strand ?
What pipe on green Maida blew shrill ?
What dyed in blood Barossa hill ?
Bade France's dearest life-blood rue
Dark Soignies and dread Waterloo ?
That spirit which no terror knows ;
1 vow and let men mete the grass
For his red grave who dares say less
Men kinder at the festive board,
Men braver with the spear and sword,
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SCOTTISH SONGS.
Men higher famed for truth more strong
In virtue, sovereign sense, and song,
Or maids more fair, or wives more true,
Than Scotland's, ne'er trode down the dew.
Round flies the songthe flagon flows,
THE NORMAN HORSESHOE.

SIR WALTER sCOTT.
Red glows the forge in Striguil's bounds,

The hammers din, and anvil sounds,
And armourers with iron toil
Barb many a steed for battle's broil :
Foul fall the hand that bends the steel
Around the courser's thundering heel,
That e'er shall dint a sable wound
On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground !
From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of morn,
Was heard afar the bugle-horn ;
And forth in banded pomp and pride
Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
They swore their banners broad should gleam
In crimson light on Rymney's stream ;
They vowed Caerphilly's sod should feel
The Norman charger's spurning heel.
And sooth they sworethe sun arose,
And Rymney's wave with crimson glows :
For Clare's red banner floating wide
Rolled down the stream to Severn's tide.
And sooth they vowedthe trampled green
Showed where hot Neville's charge had been ;
In every sable hoof-tramp stood
A Norman horseman's curdling blood.
Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil
That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian broil :
Their orphans long the art may rue
For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe.
No more the tramp of armed steed
Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead ;
Nor trace be there in early spring,
Save of the fairies' emerald ring.
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SCOTTISH SONGS.
SONG.
JOANNA BAILLIE.
Tho' richer swains thy love pursue,

In Sunday gear and bonnets new ;
And every fair before thee lay
Their silken gifts with colours gay :
They love thee not, alas ! so well
As one who sighs and dare not tell ;
Who haunts thy dwelling, night and noon,
In tatter'd hose, and clouted shoon.
I grieve not for my wayward lot,
My empty folds, my roofless cot ;
Nor hateful pity, proudly shown,
Nor alter'd looks nor friendship flown ;
Nor yet my dog with lanken sides,
Who by his master still abides ;
But how will Nan prefer my boon,
In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE GREEN BOWERS OF BARGENY.

HUGH AINSI.IE.
I left ye, Jennie, blooming fair

'Mang the bourocks of Bargeny ;
I've found ye on the banks of Ayr,
And sair ye're alter'd, Jennie :
I left ye 'mang the woods sae green,
In rustic weed befitting ;
I've found ye buskit like a queen,
In painted chambers sitting.
I left ye like a wanton lamb
That plays 'mang Haydart heather ;
I've found ye now a sober dame,
A wife, and eke a mither.
Ye're fairer, statelier, I can see ;
Ye're wiser, nae doubt, Jeanie ;
But Oh ! I'd rather met wi' thee
'Mang the green bowers of Bargeny.
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SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE BROKEN HEART OF ANNIE.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Down yon green glen, in yon wee bower,

Lived fair and lovely Annie :
Ere she saw seventeen simmer suns,
She waxed wond'rous bonnie.
Young Lord Dalzell at her bower door
Had privily been calling,
When she grew faint, and sick of heart,
And moanings fill'd her dwalling.
I found her as a lily flower,
When dew hangs in its blossom,
Wet were her cheeks, and a sweet babe
Hung smiling at her bosom.
Such throbs ran through her frame, as seem VI
Her heart and soul to sever ;
In no one's face she look'dher bloom
Was fadingand for ever.
Thou hast thy father's smile, my babe,
Maids' eyes' to dim with grieving,
His wyling glance, which woman's heart
Could fill with fond believing ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
A voice that made his falsest vows
Seem breathings of pure heaven,
And get, from hearts which he had broke,
His injuries forgiven.
My false love came to me yestreen,
With words all steep'd in honey,
And kiss'd his babe, and said, Sweet wean,
Be as thy mother bonnie.
And out he pull'd a puree of gold,
With rings and rubies many
I look'd at him, but could not speak,
Ye've broke the heart of Annie !
It's not thy gold and silver bright,
Thy words like dropping honey,
Thy silken scarfs, and bodice fine,
And caps all laced an' bonnie,
Can bring me back the peace I've tint,
Or heal the heart of Annie ;
Speak to thy God of thy broken vows,
For thou hast broken many.
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SCOTTISH SONGS.
A WEARY LOT IS THINE.

Sill WALTER SCOTT.
A weary lot is thine, fair maid,

A weary lot is thine !
To pull the thorn, thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine.
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,
A doublet of the Lincoln green,
No more of me you knew,
My love !
No more of me you knew.
This morn is merry June, I trow ;
The rose is budding fain ;
But it shall bloom in winter snow
Ere we two meet again.
He turned his charger as he spake,
Upon the river shore ;
He gave his bridle reins a shake,
Said, Adieu ! for evermore,
My love !
And, adieu, for evermore.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
WAKEN, LORDS AND LADIES GAY.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Waken, lords and ladies gay,

On the mountain dawns the day ;
All the jolly chase is here,
With hawk and horse and hunting spear.
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling ;
Merrily, merrily, mingle they
Waken, lords and ladies gay !
The mist has left the mountain gray ;
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming ;
And foresters have busy been
To track the buck in thicket green :
Now we come to chant our lay
To the greenwood haste away :
We can show you where he lies
Fleet of foot and tall of size ;
We can show the marks he made
When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed ;
You shall see him brought to bay :
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SCOTTISH SONGS.
Louder, louder chant the lay,
Tell them, youth and mirth and glee
Run a course as well as we.
Time, stern huntsman ! who can balk ?
Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk :
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay.
MILES COLVINE.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
O mariner, O mariner,
When will our gallant men
Make our cliffs and woodlands ring
With their homeward hail agen ?
Full fifteen paced the stately deck,
And fifteen stood below,
And maidens waved them from the shore
With hands more white than snow ;
All underneath them flash'd the wave,
The sun laugh'd out aboon
Will they come bounding homeward
By the waning of yon moon ?
SCOTTISH SONGS.
259
O maid, the moon shines lovely down,

The stars all brightly burn,
And they may shine till doomsday comes,
Ere your true love return ;
O'er his white forehead roll the waves,
The wind sighs lowne and low,
And the cry the sea-fowl uttereth
Is one of wail and woe ;
So wail they onI tell thee, maid,
One of thy tresses dark
Is worth all the souls who perish'd
In that good and gallant bark.
O mariner, O mariner,
It's whisper'd in the hall,
And sung upon the mountain side
Among our maidens all,
That the waves which fill the measure
Of that wide and fatal flood
Cannot cleanse the decks of thy good ship,
Or wash thy hands from blood ;
And sailors meet, and shake their heads,
And, ere they sunder, say,
God keep us from Miles Colvine,
On the wide and watery way !
And up then spoke he, Miles Colvine,
His thigh thus smiting soon,
By all that's dark aneath the deep,
By all that's bright aboon,
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SCOTTISH SONGS.
By all that's blessed on the earth,
Or blessed on the flood,
And by my sharp and stalwart blade
That revel'd in their blood,
I could not spare them ; for there came
My loved one's spirit nigh,
With a shriek of joy at every stroke
That doom'd her foes to die.
0 mariner, O mariner,
There was a lovely dame
Went down with thee unto the deep,
And left her father's hame.
His dark eyes, like a thunder cloud,
Did rain and lighten fast,
And, oh ! his bold and martial face
All grimly grew and ghast :
1 loved her, and those evil men
Wrong'd her as far we ranged ;
But were ever woman's woes and wrongs
More fearfully avenged ?
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE BRAES OF BALLAHUN.

THOMAI CUNNINGHAM.
Now smiling summer's balmy breeze,

Soft whispering, fans the leafy trees :
The linnet greets the rosy morn,
Sweet in yon fragrant flowery thorn ;
The bee hums round the woodbine bower,
Collecting sweets from every flower ;
And pure the crystal streamlets run
Amongst the braes of Ballahun.
0 blissful days, for ever fled,
When wand'ring wild as Fancy led,
1 ranged the bushy bosom 'd glen,
The scroggie shaw, the rugged linn,
And mark'd each blooming hawthorn bush,
Where nestling sat the speckled thrush ;
Or careless roaming, wandered on,
Why starts the tear, why bursts the sigh,
When hills and dales rebound with joy ?
The flowery glen and lilied lea
In vain display their charms to me.
I joyless roam the heathy waste,
To soothe this sad, this troubled breast ;
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SCOTTISH SONGS.
And seek the haunts of men to shun
The virgin blush of lovely youth,
The angel smile of artless truth,
This breast illum'd with heavenly joy,
Which lyart time can ne'er destroy :
O Julia dear !the parting look,
The sad farewell we sorrowing took,
Still haunt me as I stray alone
Among the braes of Ballahun.
SAY, SWEET CAROL !

JOANNA BAILLIE.
Say, sweet carol ! who are they

Who cheerly greet the rising day !
Little birds in leafy bower ;
Swallows twitt'ring on the tower ;
Larks upon the light air borne ;
Hunters rous'd with shrilly horn ;
The woodman whistling on his way ;
The new-wak'd child at early play,
Who barefoot prints the dewy green,
Winking to the sunny sheen ;
And the meek maid who binds her yellow hair,
And blithely doth her daily task prepare.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
263
Say, sweet carol? who are they

Who welcome in the evening gray ?
The housewife trim, and merry lout,
Who sit the blazing fire about ;
The sage a conning o'er his book ;
The tired wight in rushy nook,
Who, half asleep, but faintly hears
The gossip's tale hum in his ears ;
The loosen'd steed in grassy stall ;
The hunters feasting in the hall ;
But most of all the maid of cheerful soul
Who fills her peaceful warrior's flowing bowl.
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

Our bugles sung truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,

And the centinel stars set the watch in the sky,
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die ;
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
In the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And twice ere the cock crew I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far had I roam'd on a desolate track,
864
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Till nature and sunshine disclos'd the sweet way

To the house of my fathers, that welcom'd me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields, travell'd so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ;
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And well knew the strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledg'd we the wine cup, and fondly I swore
Prom my home and my weeping friends never to part ;
My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart
Stay, stay with us, restthou art weary and worn !
And fain was the war-broken soldier to stay ;
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
THE DOWNFAL OF DALZELL.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
The wind is cold, the snow falls fast,

The night is dark and late,
As I lift aloud my voice and cry
By the oppressor's gate.
There is a voice in every hill,
A tongue in every stone ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The greenwood sings a song of joy,
Since thou art dead and gone ;
A poet's voice is in each mouth,
And songs of triumph swell,
Glad songs, that tell the gladsome earth
The downfal of Dalzell.
As I raised up my voice to sing
I heard the green earth say,
Sweet am I now to beast and bird.
Since thou art past away ;
I hear no more the battle shout,
The martyrs' dying moans ;
My cottages and cities sing
From their foundation stones ;
The carbine and the culverin's mute
The death-shot and the yell
Are turn'd into a hymn of joy,
For thy downfal, Dalzell.
I've trod thy banner in the dust,
And caused the raven call
From thy bride-chamber, to the owl
Hatch'd on thy castle wall ;
I've made thy minstrels' music dumb,
And silent now to fame
Art thou, save when the orphan casts
His curses on thy name.
Now thou may st say to good men's prayers
A long and last farewell :
265
SCOTTISH SONGS.
There's hope for every sin save thine
Adieu, adieu, Dalzell !
The grim pit opes for thee her gates,
Where punish'd spirits wail,
And ghastly death throws wide her door,
And hails thee with All hail !
Deep from the grave there comes a voice,
A voice with hollow tones,
Such as a spirit's tongue would have
That spoke through hollow bones :
Arise, ye martyr'd men, and shout
From earth to howling hell ;
He comes, the persecutor comes !
All hail to thee, Dalzell !
O'er an old battle-field there rush'd
A wind, and with a moan
The sever'd limbs all rustling rose,
Even fellow-bone to bone.
Lo ! there he goes, I heard them cry,
Like babe in swathing band,
Who shook the temples of the Lord,
And pass'd them 'neath his brand !
Curs'd be the spot where he was born,
There let the adders dwell,
And from his father's hearth-stone hiss :
All hail to thee, Dalzell !
I saw thee growing like a tree
Thy green head touch'd the sky
SCOTTISH SONGS.
But birds far from thy branches built,
The wild deer pass'd thee by ;
No golden dew dropt on thy bough,
Glad summer scorned to grace
Thee with her flowers, nor shepherds wooed
Beside thy dwelling place :
The axe has come and hewn thee down,
Nor left one shoot to tell
Where all thy stately glory grew :
An ancient man stands by thy gate,
His head like thine is gray ;
Gray with the woes of many years,
Years fourscore and a day.
Five brave and stately sons were his ;
Two daughters, sweet and rare ;
An old dame, dearer than them all,
And lands both broad and fair :
Two broke their hearts when two were slain,
And three in battle fell
An old man's curse shall cling to thee :
And yet I sigh to think of thee,
A warrior tried and true
As ever spurr'd a steed, when thick
The splintering lances flew.
I saw thee in thy stirrups stand,
And hew thy foes down fast,
267
268
SCOTTISH SONGS.
When Grierson fled, and Maxwell fail'd,
And Gordon stood aghast,
And Graeme, saved by thy sword, raged fierce
As one redeem'd from hell.
I came to curse theeand I weep :
So go in peace, Dalzell.
THE EMIGRANTS FAREWELL.

THOMAS PRINGLE, ESQ.
Our native land, our native vale,

A long and last adieu !
Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,
And Cheviot mountains blue !
Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
And streams renown'd in song !
Farewell, ye braes and blossom'd meads,
Our hearts have lov'd so long !
Farewell, the blithesome broomy knowes,
Where thyme and harebells grow !
Farewell, the hoary, haunted, howes,
O'erhung with birk and sloe !
The mossy cave and mouldering tower
That skirt our native dell
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The martyr's grave, and lover's bower,
We bid a sad farewell !
Home of our love ! our father's home !
Land of the brave and free !
The sail is flapping on the foam
That bears us far from thee !
We seek a wild and distant shore,
Beyond the western main
We leave thee to return no more,
Nor view thy cliffs again !
Our native land, our native vale,
A long and last adieu !
Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,
And Scotland's mountains blue !
269
870
SCOTTISH SONGS.
LAST NIGHT A PROUD PAGE.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Last night a proud page came to me :

Sir Knight, he said, I greet you free ;
The moon is up at midnight hour,
All mute and lonely is the bower ;
To rouse the deer my lord is gone,
And his fair daughter's all alone,
As lily fair, and as sweet to see
Arise, Sir Knight, and follow me.
The stars stream'd out, the new-woke moon
O'er Chatsworth hill gleam'd brightly down,
And my love's cheeks, half-seen, half-hid,
With love and joy blush'd deeply red :
Short was our time, and chaste our bliss,
A whisper'd vow and a gentle kiss ;
And one of those long looks, which earth
With all its glory is not worth.
The stars beam'd lovelier from the sky,
The smiling brook flow'd gentlier by ;
Life, fly thou on ! I'll mind that hour
Of sacred love in greenwood bower :
SCOTTISH SONGS.
271
Let seas between us swell and sound,

Still at her name my heart shall bound ;
Her namewhich like a spell I'll keep,
To soothe me and to charm my sleep.
THE MARINER.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
It's sweet to go with hound and hawk,

O'er moor and mountain roamin';
It's sweeter to walk on the Solway side,
With a fair maid at the gloamin';
But its sweeter to bound o'er the deep green sea,
When the flood is chafed and foamin' ;
For the seaboy has then the prayer of good men,
And the sighing of lovesome woman.
The wind is up, and the sail is spread,
And look at the foaming furrow
Behind the bark, as she shoots away
As fleet as the outlaw's arrow !
And the tears drop fast from lovely eyes,
And hands are wrung in sorrow ;
But when we come back, there is shout and clap,
And mirth both night and morrow.
872
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE FORAY.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
The last of our steers on the board has been spread,

And the last flask of wine in our goblets is red
Up, up, my brave kinsmen ! belt swords and begone,
There are dangers to dare and there's spoil to be won !
The eyes, that so lately mixed glances with ours,
For a space must be dim, as they gaze from the towers,
And strive to distinguish through tempest and gloom
The prance of the steed and the toss of the plume.
The rain is descending, the wind rises loud,
The moon her red beacon has veiled with a cloud
'Tis the better, my mates, for the warder's dull eye
Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are nigh.
Our steeds are impatientI hear my blithe gray,
There is life in his hoof-clang and hope in his neigh :
Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane
Shall marshal your march through the darkness and rain.
The drawbridge has dropp'd, and the bugle has Mown ;
One pledge is to quaff yetthen mount and be gone :
To their honour and peace that shall rest with the slain !
To their health and their glee that see TeViot again !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE SOCIAL CUP.

CHARLES GRAY, ESQ.
The gloamin' saw us a' sit down,

An meikle mirth has been our fa' ;
But ca' the tither toast aroun',
Till chanticleer begin to craw.
The auld kirk bell has chappit twa",
Wha cares tho' she had chappit twa !
We're light o' heart, an' winna part,
Though time an' tide shou'd rin awa'
Tut, never speir how wears the morn,
The moon's still blinkin' i' the sky ;
An' gif like her we fill our horn,
I dinna doubt we'll drink it dry.
Then fill we up a social cup,
An' never mind the dapple dawn :
Just sit a while, the sun may smile,
An' light us a' across the lawn.
VOL. IV.
273
274
SCOTTISH SONGS.
ON Wr THE TARTAN.
HUGH AINSLIE.
Do ye like, bonnie lassie,

The hills wild and free,
Where the song of the shepherd
Gaurs a' ring wi' glee ;
Or the steep rocky glens
Where the wild falcons bide ?
Then on wi' the tartan,
And, fy, let us ride.
Do ye like the knowes, lassie,
That ne'er were in riggs ;
Or the bonnie lowne howes
Where the sweet robin biggs ;
Or the sang of the linnet
When wooing his bride ?
Do ye like the burn, lassie,
That loups aiming linns ;
Or the sunny green holms
Where it leisurely rins,
Wi' a cantie bit housie
Built snug by its side ?
SCOTTISH SONGS.
875
THE EVENING STAR.

Star, that bringest home the bee,

And sett'st the weary labourer free :
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou
That send'st it from aboveAppearing when heaven's breath and brow
Are sweet as hers we love.
Come to the luxuriant skies,
Whilst the landscape's odours rise ;
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,
And songs, when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd
Curls yellow in the sun.
Star of love's soft interviews !
Parted lovers on thee muse ;
Their remembrancer in heaven
Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven
By absence from the heart.
T '-'
276
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE MOON WAS A-WANING.

JAMES HOGG.
The moon was a-waning,

The tempest was overFair was the maiden,
And fond was the lover ;
But the snow was so deep,
That his heart it grew weary,
And he sunk down to sleep
In the moorland so dreary.
0 soft was the bed
She had made for her lover,
Fu' white were the sheets,
And embroidered the cover ;
But his sheets are more white,
And his canopy grander ;
And sounder he sleeps
Where the hill-foxes wander.
Alas, pretty maiden,
What sorrows attend you !
1 see you sit shivering
With lights at your window :
But long may you wait,
Ere your arms shall enclose him ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
For still, still he lies
With a wreath on his bosom.
How painful the task,
The sad tidings to tell you,
An orphan you were
Ere this misery befel you ;
And far in yon wild,
Where the dead tapers hover,
O cold, cold and wan
Lies the corse of your lover !
OUR LADYE'S BLESSED WELL.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
The moon is gleaming far and near,

The stars are streaming free,
And cold comes down the evening dew
On my sweet babe and me.
There is a time for holy song,
An hour for charm and spell,
And now's the time to bathe my babe
In our ladye's blessed well.
O thou wert born as fair a babe
As light ere shone aboon,
And fairer than the gowan is,
Born in the April moon :
277
278
SCOTTISH SONGS.
First like the lily pale ye grew,
Syne like the violet wan ;
As in the sunshine dies the dew,
So faded my fair Ann.
Was it a breath of evil wind
That harm'd thee, lovely child ?
Or was't the fairy's charmed touch
That all thy bloom defiled?
I've watch'd thee in the mirk midnight,
And watch'd thee in the day,
And sung our ladye's sacred song
To keep the elves away.
The moon is sitting on the hill,
The night is nigh its prime,
The owl doth chase the bearded bat,
The mark of witching time ;
And o'er the seven sister stars
A silver cloud is drawn,
And pure the blessed water is
To bathe thee, gentle Ann !
On a. far sea thy father sails
Among the spicy isles ;
He thinks on thee, and thinks on me,
And as he thinks, he smiles
And sings, while he his white sail trims,
And severs swift the sea,
About his Anna's sunny locks,
And of her bright blue e'e.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
O blessed fountain, give her back
The brightness of her brow !
O blessed water, bid her cheeks
Like summer roses glow !
Tis a small gift, thou blessed well,
To thing divine as thee,
But kingdoms to a mother's heart,
Fu' dear is Ann to me.
MY AIN BONNIE MAY.

WILLIAM NICHOLSON.
O will ye go to yon burn side,

Amang the new-made hay,
And sport upon the flowery swaird,
My ain bonnie May ?
The sun blinks blithe on yon burn side,
Whare lambkins lightly play ;
The wild bird whistles to his mate,
My ain bonnie May.
The waving woods, wi' mantle green,
Shall shield us in the bower,
Whare I'll pu' a posie for my May,
O' mony a bonnie flower.
My father maws ayont the burn,
To spin my mammy's gane ;
And should they see thee here wi' me,
I'd better been my lane.
879
280
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The lightsome lammie little kens
What troubles it await :
Whan ance the flush o' spring is o'er,
The fause bird lca'es its mate.
The flow'rs will fade, the woods decay, '
And lose their boirnie green ;
The sun wi' clouds may be o'ercast,
Before that it be e'en.
Ilk thing is in its season sweet ;
So lore is, in its noon :
But cank'ring time may soil the flow'r,
And spoil its bonnie bloom.
O, come then, while the summer shines,
And love is young and gay ;
Ere age his with'ring, wintry blast
Blaws o'er me and my May.
For thee I'll tend the fleecy (locks,
Or haud the halesome plough,
And nightly clasp thee to my breast,
And prove ay leal and true.
The blush o'erspread her bonnie face,
She had nae mair to say,
But ga'e her hand, and walk'd alang,
The youthfu' bloomin' May.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE BRIDE OF ALLANBAY.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Upon the bonnie mountain side,

Upon the leafy trees,
Upon the rich and golden fields,
Upon the deep green seas,
The wind comes breathing freshly forth
Ho ! pluck up from the sand
Our anchor, and go shooting as
A wing'd shaft from the land !
The sheep love Skiddaw's lonesome top,
The shepherd loves his hill,
The throstle loves the budding bush,
Sweet woman loves her will ;
The lark loves heaven for visiting,
But green earth for her home ;
And I love the good ship singing
Through the billows in their foam.
My son ! a gray-hair'd peasant said,
Leap on the grassy land,
And deeper than five fathom sink
Thine anchor in the sand ;
And meek and humble make thy heart ;
For ere yon bright'ning moon
Lift her wondrous lamp above the wave
Amid night's lonely noon,
281
282
SCOTTISH SONGS.
There shall be shriekings heard at sea,
Lamentings heard ashore
My son ! go pluck thy mainsail down,
And tempt the heav'n no more.
Come forth and weep, come forth and pray,
Grey dame and hoary swain
All ye who have got sons to-night
Upon the faithless main.
And wherefore, old man, should I turn ?
Dost hear the merry pipe,
The harvest bugle winding
Among Scotland's corn fields ripe ?
And see her dark-eyed maidens dance,
Whose willing arms alway
Are open for the merry lads
Of bonnie Allanbay ?
Full sore the old man sigh'd, and said,
Go bid the mountain wind
Breathe softer, and the deep waves hear
The prayers of frail mankind,
And mar the whirlwind in his might :
His hoary head he shook,
Gazed on the youth, and on the sea,
And sadder wax'd his look.
Lo, look ! here comes our lovely bride
Breathes there a wind so rude
As chafe the billows when she goes
In beauty o'er the flood ?
SCOTTISH SONGS.
283
The raven fleece that dances

On her round and swan-white neck ;
The white foot that wakes music
On the smooth and shaven deck ;
The white hand that goes waving thus,
As if it told the brine
Be gentle in your ministry,
O'er you I rule and reign ;
The eye that looks so lovely,
Yet so lofty in its sway
Old man ! the sea adores them
So adieu, sweet Allanbay !
HABBIE'S FRAE HAME.

JAMES TURNER.
By the side of yon cleugh, whare the burnie rins shill,

A lassie sat sighing and spinning her lane :
O gin the waes of my heart wad lie still !
There'll never be joy till our Habbie come hame.
My wheel it gaes round, and my lint tap I spread,
Lint that I mean for bibs to my bairn ;
The warp shall be blue and the waft shall be red,
An' how bra we'll be a' when our Habbie comes hame.
884
SCOTTISH SONGS.
That morning he left us, our cock never crew,

Our gray clocking hen she gaed keckling her lane ;
The gowk frae the craft never cried cuckoo,
That wearyfu' morning our Habbie left hame.
When the wind blaws loud and tirls our strae,
An' a' our house sides are dreeping wi' rain,
An' ilka burn rows frae the bank to the brae,
I weep for our Habbie who rows i' the main.
When the wars are owre, an' quiet is the sea,
On board the Culloden our Hab will come hame :
My slumbers will then be as sweet as the Dee,
An' how blythe we'll be a' when our Habbie comes
hame.
THE BONNIE BARK.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
O come, my bonnie bark,

O'er the waves let us go,
With thy neck like the swan,
And thy wings like the snow
Spread thy plumes to the wind,
For a gentle one soon
Maun welcome us home,
Ere the wane of the moon.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The proud oak that built thee
Was nursed in the dew
Where my gentle one dwells,
And stately it grew.
I hew'd its beauty down ;
Now it swims on the sea,
And wafts spice and perfume,
My fair one, to thee.
O sweet, sweet's her voice,
As a low warbled tune ;
And sweet, sweet her lips,
Like the rose-bud of June.
She looks to sea and sighs,
As the foamy wave flows,
And treads on men's strength,
As in glory she goes.
O haste, my bonnie bark,
O'er the waves let us bound,
As the deer from the horn,
Or the hare from the hound.
Pluck down thy white plumes,
Sink thy keel in the sand,
Whene'er ye see my love,
And the wave of her hand.
285
2S6
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE WIDOW'S LAMENT.

JAMES HOGG.
Oh, thou art lovely yet, my hoy,

Even in thy winding sheet !
I canna leave thy comely clay,
And features calm and sweet.
I have no hope but for the day
That we shall meet again,
Since thou art gane, my bonnie boy,
And left me here alane.
I hoped thy sire's loved form to see,
To trace his looks in thine ;
And saw, wi' joy, thy sparkling e'e
Wi' kindling vigour shine :
I thought, when I was fail'd, I might
Wi' you and yours remain ;
But thou art fled, my bonnie boy,
Now closed and set that sparkling e'e,
Thy breast is cauld as clay ;
And a' my hope, and a' my joy,
Wi' thee are reft away.
Ah, fain wad I that comely clay
Reanimate again !
But thou art fled, my bonnie boy,
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The flower now fading on the lea,
Shall fresher rise to view ;
The leaf just falling frae the tree,
The year will soon renew ;
But lang may I weep o'er thy grave
Ere thou revivest again,
For thou art fled, my bonnie boy,
And left me here alane ! .
ALLAN-A-MAUT.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Good Allan-a-Maut lay on the rigg,

One call'd him bear, one call'd him bigg ;
An old dame slipp'd on her glasses : Aha f
He'll waken, quoth she, with joy to us a'.
The sun shone out, down dropp'd the rain,
He laugh' d as he came to life again ;
And carles and carlins sung who saw't,
Good luck to your rising, Allan-a-Maut.
Good Allan-a-Maut grew green and rank,
With a golden beard and a shapely shank,
And rose sae steeve, and wax'd sae stark,
He whomelt the maid, and coupit the clark ;
The sick and lame leap'd hale and weel,
The faint of heart grew firm as steel,
The douce nae mair call'd mirth a faut,
Such charms arc mine, quoth Allan-a-Maut.
287
288
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE CAPTIVE HUNTSMAN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.
My hawk is tired of perch and hood,

My idle greyhound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall.
I wish I were as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forests green,
With bended bow and bloodhound free,
For that's the life is meet for me.
I hate to learn the ebb of time,
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,
Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,
Inch after inch, along the wall.
The lark was wont my matin ring,
The sable rook my vespers sing;
These towers, although a king's they be,
Have not a hall of joy for me.
No more at dawning morn I rise,
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew ;
A blithesome welcome blithely meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wing of glee
That life is lost to love and me.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
289
JEAN'S BRIGHT EEN.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Our gudewife's awa',

Now's the hour to woo,
For the lads like lasses,
And the lasses lads too.
The moon's beaming bright,
And the gowan's in dew,
And my love's by my side,
And we 're a' happy now.
I have wale of loves :
Nancie rich and fair,
Bessie brown and bonnie,
And Kate wi' curling hair,
And Bell young and proud,
Wi' gold aboon her brow ;
But my Jean has twa een
That glower me thro' and thro'.
Sair she slights the lads
Three lie like to die,
Pour in sorrow listed,
And five flew to the sea.
Nigh her chamber door
Lads watch a' night in dool
VOL. IV.
290
SCOTTISH SONG8.
Ae kind word frae my love
Would charm frae yule to yule.
Our gudewife's come hame
Mute now maun I woo ;
But my love's bright glances
Shine a' the chamber through.
O sweet is her voice
When she sings at her wark,
Sweet the touch of her hand,
And her vows in the dark.
EARL MARCH.
Earl March look'd on his dying child,

And smit with grief to view her
The youth, he cried, whom I exiled
Shall be restored to woo her.
She's at the window many an hour,
His coming to discover ;
And her love look'd up to Ellen's bower,
And she look'd on her lover.
But ah ! so pale, he knew her not,
Though her smile on him was dwelling.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
291
And am I then forgotforgot ?

It broke the heart of Ellen.
In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,
Her cheek is cold as ashes ;
Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes
To lift their silken lashes.
PHEMIE IRVING.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Gay is thy glen, Corrie,

With all thy groves flowering ;
Green is thy glen, Corrie,
When July is showering ;
And sweet is yon wood where
The small birds are bowering,
For there dwells the sweet one
Whom I am adoring.
Her round neck is whiter
Than winter when snowing ;
Her meek voice is milder
Than Ae in its flowing ;
The glad ground yields music
Where she goes by the river ;
One kind glance would charm me
For ever and ever.
u2
999
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The proud and the wealthy
To Phemie are bowing ;
No looks of love win they
With sighing or suing ;
Far away maun I stand
With my rude wooing,
She's a flow'ret too lovely
To bloom for my pu'ing.
O were I yon violet,
On which she is walking I
O were I yon small bird,
To which she is talking !
Or yon rose in her hand,
With its ripe ruddy blossom !
Or some pure gentle thought,
To be blest with her bosom !
MY JOHNIE.
JOHN MAYNE, ESQ.
Jenny's heart was frank and free,

And wooers she had mony, yet
Her sang was ay, Of a' I see,
Commend me to my Johnie yet.
For, air and late, he has sic gate
To mak' a body cheeric, that
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I wish to be, before I die,
His ain kind dearie yet.
Now Jenny's face was fa' o' grace,
Her shape was sma' and genty-like,
And few or nane in a' the place
Had gow'd and gear mair plenty yet ;
Though war's alarms, and Johnie's charms,
Had gart her aft look eerie, yet
She sung wi' glee, I hope to be
My Johnie's ain dearie yet.
What tho' he's now gaen far awa',
Where guns and cannons rattle, yet
Unless my Johnie chance to fa'
In some uncanny battle, yet
Till he return, my breast will burn
Wi' love that weel may cheer me yet,
For I hope to see, before I die,
His bairns to him endear me yet-
293
294
SCOTTISH SONGS.
ALLAN-A-DALE.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Allan-a-dale has no faggot for burning ;

Allan-a-dale has no furrow for turning ;
Allan-a-dale has no fleece for the spinning,
Yet Allan-a-dale has red gold for the winning.
Come read me my riddle, come hearken my tale,
And tell me the craft of bold Allan-a-dale.
The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,
And he views his domains upon Arkindale side ;
The mere for his net, and the land for his game ;
The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame ;
Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale,
Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allan-a-dale.
Allan-a-dale was ne'er belted a knight,
Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright ;
Allan-a-dale is no baron or lord,
Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word ;
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail,
Who at Rerecross, on Stanmore, meets Allan-a-dale.
Allan-a-dale to his wooing is come,
The mother, she ask'd of his household and home .
SCOTTISH SONGS.
295
Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill,

My hall, quoth bold Allan, shows gallanter still,
'Tis the blue vault of heaven with its crescent so pale,
And with all its bright spangles ! said Allan-a-dale.
The father was steel, and the mother was stone ;
They lifted the latch, and they bade him begone ;
But loud on the morrow, their wail and their cry !
He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonny black eye,
And she fled to the forest to hear a love-talc,
And the youth it was told by was Allan-a-dale.
THE LASS OF PRESTON-MILL.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
The lark had left the evening cloud,

The dew fell soft, the wind was lowne,
Its gentle breath amang the flowers
Scarce stirr'd the thistle's top of down ;
The dappled swallow left the pool,
The stars were blinking o'er the hill,
When I met among the hawthorns green
The lovely lass of Preston-mill.
Her naked feet amang the grass
Shone like two dewy lilies fair ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Her brow bewn'd white aneath her locks
Black curling o'er her shoulders bare ;
Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth,
Her lips had words and wit at will,
And heaven seem'd looking through her een,
Quoth I, fair lass, wilt thou gang wi' me,
Where black-cocks crow, and plovers cry ?
Six hills are woolly wi' my sheep,
Six vales are lowing wi' my kye.
I have look'd long for a weel-faur'd lass,
By Nithsdale's holms, and many a hill
She hung her head like a dew-bent rose,
I said, sweet maiden, look nae down,
But gie's a kiss, and come with me ;
A lovelier faee O ne'er look'd up,
The tears were dropping frae her e'e.
I hae a lad who's far awa',
That weel could win a woman's will ;
My heart's already full of love,
Quoth the lovely lass of Preston-mill.
Now who is he could leave sic a lass,
And seek for love in a far countree ?
Her tears dropp'd down like simmer dew ;
I fain wad kiss'd them frae her ee.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
297
I took ae kiss o' her comely cheek

For pity's sake, kind sir, be still ;
My heart is full of other love,
She streek'd to heaven her twa white hands,
And lifted up her watery ee
Sae king's my heart kens aught o' God,
Or light is gladsome to my ee ;
While woods grow green, and burns run clear,
Till my last drop of blood be still,
My heart shall haud nae other love,
There's comely maids on Dee's wild banks,
And Nith's romantic vale is fu' ;
By Ae and Clouden's hermit streams
Dwells many a gentle dame, I trow.
O ! they are lights of a bonnie kind,
As ever shone on vale and hill,
But there 's ae light puts them all out,
298
SCOTTISH SONGS.
TAKE TENT NOW, JEAN.

IVAN.
Tak' tent now, Jean,ye mind yestreen

The tap that raised ye frae your wheel ;
Your wily ce, that glanced on me,
Ha ! lass, the meaning I kent weel.
But I hae tint thy kindly glint,
And lightly now ye geek at me ;
But, lass, tak' heed, ye '11 rue the deed,
When aiblins we'll be waur to 'gree.
Tak' tent now, Jean,the careless mien,
And cauldrife look, are ill to dree ;
It's sair to bide the scornfu' pride
And saucy leer o' woman's ee.
Ah ! where is now the bosom-vow,
The gushing tear of melting love,
The heav'nly thought, which fancy wrought,
Of joy below, and bliss above?
Tak' tent now, Jean,thae twa sweet een
Fu' light and blithely blink I trow ;
The hinney drop on the red-rose top
Is nae sae sweet as thy wee mou' :
But though thy fair and faithless air
Hath wrung the bosom-sigh frae me ;
A changing mind, and heart unkind.
May chill a breast as dear to thee.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE CHARMED BARK.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
The tree that built my bonnie bark

Grew in a haunted glen,
In the west nook of an old kirk-yard,
Among the bones of men
Among the bones of men, my lads,
And the axe that laid it low
Was temper' d in a dead man's blood,
And I dread no winds that blow.
Look on yon cloud, an old man said,
No larger than my hand ;
And hearken to that sweeping blast,
That shakes the sea and land
That shakes the sea and land, my lads,
And makes the waters foam ;
A wise man when he looks on these
Would wish himself at home.
When I was late on Lapland's shore
I bought a gentle gale,
That sung around me on the sea,
And murmur'd in my sail ;
29P
300
SCOTTISH SONGS.
That murmur'd in my milk-white sail,
With a friendly voice, and low :
A man who sails a charmed ship
Need fear no blasts that blow.
The hand which holds the winds at will
Will guide us while we roam :
When stormy heaven is burning bright,
And the wild sea in a foam
And the wild sea in a foam, my lads,
While, sobbing sad and low,
The mother wails her sailor-boy
As she hears the tempest blow.
AE HAPPY HOUR.
ALEXANDER LAING.
The dark gray o' gloaming,

The lone leafy shaw,
The coo o' the ringdove,
, .. -T
The scent o' the haw,
The brae o' the burnie,
rt A
A' blooming in flower,
An' twa faithfu' lovers,
Make ae happy hour.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
A kind winsome wifie,
A clean canty hame,
An' sweet smiling babies
To lisp the dear name ;
Wi' plenty o' labour,
An' health to endure,
Make time row around ay
The ae happy hour.
Ye lost to affection,
Whom ay'rice can move,
To woo, an' to marry,
For a' thing but love ;
Awa' wi' your sorrows,
Awa' wi' your store,
Ye ken na the pleasures
O' ae happy hour.
PEGGIE.
JAMES HOGG.
The bittern's quavering trump on high,

The beetle's drowsy distant hum,
Have sung the daylight's lullaby,
And yet my Peggie is not come.
The golden primrose from the wood,
The scented hawthorn's snowy flower,
Mixed with the laurel's buds, I've strewed
Deep in my maiden's woodland bower.
301
302
SCOTTISH SONGS.
O come, my love, the branches link
Above our bed of blossoms new,
The stars behind their curtains wink.
To spare thine eyes so soft and blue.
No human eye, nor heavenly gem,
With envious smile our bliss shall see ;
The mountain ash his diadem
Shall spread to shield the dews from thee.
O let me hear thy fairy tread
Come gliding through the broomwood still,
Then on my bosom lay thy head,
Till dawning crown the distant hill.
And I will watch thy witching smile,
List what has caused thy long delay,
And kiss thy melting lips the while,
Till die the sweet reproof away.
BONNIE LADY ANN.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
There's kames of honey 'tween my love's lips,

And gold amang her hair,
Her breasts arc lapt in a holie veil ;
Nae mortal een look there.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
303
What lips dare kiss, or what hand dare touch,

Or what arm of love dare span
The honey lips, the creamy palm,

Or the waist of Lady Ann !
She kisses the lips of her bonnie red rose,
Wat wi' the blobs of dew ;
But nae gentle lip, nor semple lip,
Maun touch her Lady mou.
But a broider'd belt, wi' a buckle of gold,
Her jimpy waist maun span
O she's an armfu' fit for heaven,
My bonnie Lady Ann !
Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers,
Tied up wi' silver thread,
An' comely sits she in the midst,
Men's longing een to feed.
She waves the ringlets frae her cheek,
Wi' her milky, milky han',
An' her cheeks seem touch 'd wi' the finger of God,
My bonnie Lady Ann !
The morning cloud is tassel'd wi' gold,
Like my love's broider'd cap,
An' on the mantle which my love wears
Is monie a golden drap.
Her bonnie eebrow's a holie arch
Cast by no earthlie han' ;
And the breath of God's atween the lips
Of my bonnie Lady Ann !
304
SCOTTISH SONGS.
I am her father's gardener lad,
An' poor, poor is my fa' ;
My auld mither gets my sair-won fee,
Wi' fatherless bairnies twa.
My een are bauld, they dwall on a place
Where I darena mint my han',
But I water, and tend, and kiss the flowers
Of my bonnie Lady Ann.
MY AIN COUNTREE.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
The sun rises bright in France,

And fair sets he ;
But he has tint the blythe blink he had
In my ain countree.
O ! gladness comes to many,
But sorrow comes to me,
As I look o'er the wide ocean
To my ain countree.
O ! it's not my ain ruin
That saddens ay my ee,
But the love I left in Galloway,
Wi' bonnie bairns three ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
305
My hamely hearth burn'd bonnie,

And smiled my fair Marie,
I've left a' my heart behind me,
In my ain countree.
The bud comes back to summer,
An' the blossom to the bee,
But I win backoh never !
To my ain countree.
I'm leal to the high heaven,
Which will be leal to me ;
An' there I'll meet ye a' soon,
Frae my ain countree.
POVERTY PARTS GUDE COMPANIE.

JOANNA BAILLIE.
When white was my oerlay as foam of the linn,

And siller was chinking my pouches within ;
When my lambkins were bleating on meadow and brae,
A s I gaed to my love in new cleeding 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 burnt bright,
VOL. IV.
306
SCOTTISH SONGS.
And linked in my hand was the maiden sae dear,

As she footed the floor in her holiday geer.
Woe is me, and can it then be,
That poverty parts sic companie ?
We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk,
We met in the sunshine, we met in the mirk ;
And the sound 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 hae won and a kiss of the bride ;
And loud was the laughter gay fellows among,
When I uttered my banter or chorused my song.
Dowie to dree are jesting and glee,
When poverty parts gude companie.
Wherever I gaed the blithe lasses smiled sweet,
And mithers and aunties were mair than discreet,
While kebbuck and beaker were set on the board,
But now they pass by me, and never a word.
So let it befor the worldly and slie
Wi' poverty keep nae companie.
But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart ;
The spae-wife has tauld me to keep up my heart ;
For wi' my last sixpence her loof I hae cross'd,
And the bliss that is fated can never be lost.
Cruelly though we ilka day see
How poverty parts dear companie.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
307
COME, TOOM THE STOUP.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Come, tootn the stoup ! let the merry sun shine

On sculptured cups and the rich man's wine ;
Come, toom the stoup ! from the bearded here,
And the heart of corn, comes our life-drink dear.
The reap-hook, the sheaf, and the flail for me ;
Away with the drink of the slave's vine tree !
The spirit of malt, sae free and sae frank,
Is my minted money and bonds in the bank.
Come, toom up the stoup ! what must be, must ;
I'm cauld and canker'd, and dry as dust ;
A simmering stoup of this glorious weet
Gives soaring plumes to time's leaden feet :
Let yon stately madam, so mim and so shy,
Arch her white neck proud, and sail prouder by ;
The spirit of malt, so frank and so free,
Is daintier than midnight madam to me.
Drink fills us with joy and gladness, and soon
Hangs canker'd care on the horns of the moon ;
Is bed and bedding ; and love and mirth
Dip their wings in drink ere they mount from the earth.
x2
308
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Come, toom the stoup ! it's delightful to see

The world run round, like to whomel on me ;
And yon bonnie bright starby my sooth it's a shiner,
Ilka drop that I drink it seems glowing diviner.
Away with your lordships of mosses and mools,
With your women, the plague and the plaything of
fools !
Away with your crowns, and your sceptres, and mitres !
Lay the parson's back bare to the rod of the smiters :
For wisdom wastes time, and reflection is folly,
Let learning descend to the score and the tally.
Lo ! the floor's running round, the roof's swimming in
And I have but breath for to finish my story.
SONG OF THE ELFIN MILLER.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Full merrily rings the millstone round,

Full merrily rings the wheel,
Full merrily gushes out the grist ;
Come taste my fragrant meal.
As sends the lift its snowy drift,
So the meal comes in a shower ;
Work, fairies, fast,for time flies past ;
I borrow' d the mill an hour.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
309
The miller he's a worldly man,

And maun have double fee ;
So draw the sluice of the churl's dam,
And let the stream come free.
Shout, fairies, shout ! see, gushing out,
The meal comes like a river ;
The top of the grain on hill and plain
Is ours, and shall be ever.
One elf goes chasing the wild bat's wing,
And one the white owl's horn,
One hunts the fox for the white o' his tail,
And we winna have him till morn ;
One idle fay, with the glow-worm's ray,
Runs glimmering 'mang the mosses,
Another goes tramp wi' the will-o'-wisp's lamp,
To light a lad to the lasses.
O haste, my brown elf, bring me corn
From bonnie Blackwood plains ;
Go, gentle fairy, bring me grain
From green Dalgonar mains ;
But, pride of a' at Closeburn ha',
Fair is the corn and fatter ;
Taste, fairies, taste, a gallanter grist
Has never been wet with water.
Hilloah ! my hopper is heaped high ;
Hark ! to the well-hung wheels,
They sing for joy ;the dusty roof,
It clatters and it reels.
310
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Haste, elves, and turn yon mountain burnBring streams that shine like siller ;
The dam is down, the moon sinks soon,
And I maun grind my meller.
Ha ! bravely done, my wanton elves,
That is a roaming stream ;
See how the dust from the mill-ee flies,
And chokes the cold moon-beam.
Haste, fairies ! fleet come baptized feet,
Come sack and sweep up clean,
And meet mc soon, ere sinks the moon
In thy green vale, Dalveen.
MARMION.
SHI WALTER SCOTT.
Where shall the lover rest,

Whom the fates sever,
From his true maiden's breast
Parted for ever ?
Where, through groves deep and high,
Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die,
Under the willow.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
There, through the summer day,
Cool streams are laving,
There, while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving ;
There thy rest shalt thou take,
Parted for ever,
Never again to wake,
Never, O never.
Where shall the traitor rest,
He the deceiver,
Who could win maiden's breast,
Ruin, and leave her ?
In the lost battle,
Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle
With groans of the dying.
Her wing shall the eagle flap
O'er the false hearted ;
His warm blood the wolf shall lap,
Ere life be parted ;
Shame and dishonour sit
By his grave ever ;
Blessing shall hallow it
Never, O never.
Sll
312
SCOTTISH SONGS.
SONG OF RICHARD FAULDER.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
It's merry, it's merry, among the moonlight,

When the pipe and the cittern are sounding,
To rein, like a war-steed, my shallop, and go
O'er the bright waters merrily bounding.
It's merry, it's merry, when fair Allanbay
With its bridal candles is glancing,
To spread the white sails of my vessel, and go
Among the wild sea-waters dancing.
And it's blithesomer still, when the storm is come on,
And the Solway's wild waves are ascending
In huge and dark curlsand the shaven masts groan,
And the canvas to ribbons is rending ;
When the dark heaven stoops down unto the dark deep,
And the thunder speaks 'mid the commotion :
Awaken and see, ye who slumber and sleep,
The might of the Lord on the ocean !
This frail bark, so late growing green in the wood
Where the roebuck is joyously ranging,
Now doomed for to roam o'er the wild fishy flood,
When the wind to all quarters is changing
SCOTTISH SONGS.
313
Is as safe to thy feet as the proud palace floor,

And as firm as green Skiddaw below thee ;
For God has come down to the ocean's dread deeps,
His might and his mercy to show thee.
YOUNG LOCHINVAR.
SIE WALTEE SCOTT.
O, young Lochinvar has come out of the west,

Through all the wide border his steed was the best ;
And, save his good broad sword, he weapons had none,
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He cross'd the Eske river where ford there was none ;
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late :
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Helen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers and all ;
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,
" O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young lord Lochinvar?'
314
SCOTTISH SONGS.
" I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied ;

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."
The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took it up,
He quaffd off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar
" Now tread we a measure I" said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace ;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnetand plume;
And the bride-maidens whisper' d, 'twere better by far
To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach'd the hall door, and the charger stood
near;
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung !
She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow, quoth young Loch-
SCOTTISH SONGS.
315
There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby

clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they
ran ;
There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?
THE KING'S LANDING AT LEITH.

JOHN MAYNE, ESQ.
O ! busk ye, busk ye, lad and lass ;

Busk ye, busk ye, man and woman !
Make haste and see our nobles pass
The king and all his train are coming !
O ! heard ye not the cannons roar,
Proclaiming loud to lord and lady,
The King is landing on our shoreHe's landed down at Leith already !
He comes ! he comes in gallant trim,
Wi' robes of state, and banners streaming ;
And thousands, till their sight grows dim,
Wi' tears of rapt'rous joy are beaming !
316
SCOTTISH SONGS.
O, welcome ! welcome to this land
This land where all the Virtues blossom !
Our men shall guard thee, heart and hand
Our ladies press thee to their bosom !
THE CYPRESS WREATH.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.
O lady, twine no wreath for me,

Or twine it of the cypress tree :
Too lively glow the lilies light,
The varnish'd holly's all too bright ;
The mayflower and the eglantine
May shade a brow Jess sad than mine :
But, lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the cypress tree !
Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine ;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due :
The myrtle bough bids lovers live,
But that Matilda will not give ;
Then, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Let merry England proudly rear
Her blended roses, bought so dear ;
Let Albin bind her bonnet blue
With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew ;
On favour'd Erin's crest be seen
The flower she loves of emerald green
But, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree !
Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair ;
And, while his crown of laurel-leaves
With bloody hand the victor weaves,
Let the loud trump his triumph tell ;
But when you hear the passing bell,
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the cypress tree !
Yes ! twine for me the cypress bough :
But, O Matilda, twine not now !
Stay till a few brief months are past,
And I have look'd and lov'd my last !
When villagers my shroud bestrew
With pansies, rosemary, and rue
Then, lady, weave a wreath for me,
And weave it of the cypress tree !
317
318
SCOTTISH SONGS.
STARS, DINNA PEEP IN.

Bright stars, dinna peep in,
To see me wi' Mary,
An' O thou bright an' bonniemoon,
Don't at her window tarry.
Sair yestreen ye scared me,
Sair yestreen ye barred me,
Frae kisses kind ye marred me,
Ye peep'd sae in on Mary.
Mary's a winsome quean,
Light as ony fairy ;
Mary's a gentle quean,
Oh I daute her dearly.
An' when the moon is moving,
She loves to go a roving,
An' then she's leal an' loving.
My ain sweet Mary.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
319
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 treeYet the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.
Soft tapping at eve to her window I came,
And loud bayed the watch dog, loud scolded the dame.
For shame, silly Lightfoot, what is it to thee,
Though the maid of Llanwelly n smiles sweetly on me ?
Rich Owen will tell you with eyes full of scorn,
Threadbare is my coat, and my hosen are torn :
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 and fair,
And 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 blithe as the urchin at holiday play,
And meek as the matron in mantle of gray,
And trim as the lady of noble degree
Is the maid of Llanwellyn who smiles upon me.
320
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE GALLANT AULD CARLE.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
A gallant auld carle a-courting came,

And ask'd with a cough, was the heiress at hame ;
He was shaven smooth, with love-knots in his shoon,
And his breath was as cauld as the 1 1 allowmass moon :
He has twa top-coats on, and a gray plaid ;
Be kind to him, maiden, he's weel arrayed ;
His lairdship lies by the kirk-yard dyke,
For he'll be rotten ere I be ripe.
The carle came ben with a groan and a cough,
And I was sae wilful and wicked as laugh :
He spoke of his lands, and his horses, and kye,
They were worth nae mair than a blink of my eye ;
He spake of his goldhis locks, as he spake,
From the gray did grow to the glossy black :
And I scarce could say to the carle's gripe,
I doubt ye'll be rotten ere I be ripe.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
321
LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A chieftain, to the highlands bound,

Cries, Boatman, do not tarry,
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry.
And who be ye would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water ?
Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this lord Ullin's daughter.
And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together ;
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
His horsemen hard behind us ride
Should they our steps discover,
' Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover ?
Outspoke the hardy highland wight,
I'll go, my chiefI'm ready :
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady.
VOL. IV.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
And by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry ;
So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row ye o'er the ferry.
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking ;
And in the scowl of heaven, each face
Grew dark as they were speaking :
But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.
O haste thee, haste ! the lady cries :
Though tempests round us gather,
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her ;
When oh, too strong for human hand,
The tempest gather'd o'er her !
And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing.
Lord Ullin reach' d that fatal shore,
His wrath was chang'd to wailing :
For sore dismayed thro' storm and shade
His child he did discover ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
923
One lovely hand she strctch'd for aid,

And one was round her lover.
Come back, come back, he cried in grief,
Across this stormy water;
And I'll forgive your highland chief
My daughter !oh, my daughter !
'Twas vain ; the loud waves lash'd the shore,
Return, or aid preventing :
The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.
THE PIRATES SONG.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
O lady, come to the Indies with me,

And reign and rule on the sunny sea ;
My ship's a palace, my deck's a throne,
And all shall be thine the sun shines on.
A gallant ship, and a boundless sea,
A piping wind and the foe on our lee,
My pennon streaming so gay from the mast,
My cannon flashing all bright and fast.
v2
324
SCOTTISH SONGS.
The Bourbon lilies wax wan as I sail ;
America's stars I strike them pale :
The glories of sea and the grandeur of land,
All shall be thine for the wave of thy hand.
Thy shining locks are worth Java's isle
Can the spices of Saba buy thy smile ?
. Let kings rule earth by a right divine,
Thou shalt be queen of the fathomless brine.
HALUCKET MEG.
RBV. J. NICOL.
Meg, muckin' at Geordie's byre,

Wrought as gin her judgment was wrang ;
Ilk daud o' the scartle struck fire,
While loud as a lavrock she sang !
Her Geordie had promis'd to marrie,
An' Meg, a sworn fae to despair,
Not dreamin' the job cou'd miscarrie,
Already seem'd mistress an' mair !
My neebours, she sang, aften jeer me,
An' ca' me daft, halucket Meg,
An' say, they expect soon to hear me
I' the kirk, for my fun, get a fleg !
SCOTTISH SONG .
An' now, 'bout my marriage they clatter,
An' Geordie, poor fallow ! they ca'
An auld doit it hav'rel !Nae matter,
He'll keep me aye brankin an' braw !
I grant ye, his face is kenspeckle,
That the white o' his e'e is turn'd out,
That his black beard is rough as a heckle,
That his mou to his lug's rax'd about ;
But they needna let on that he's crazie,
His pike-stan" wull ne'er let him fa' :
Nor that his hair's white as a daisie,
For fient a hair has he ava !
But a weel-plenish'd mailin has Geordie,
An' routh o' gude goud in his kist ;
An' if siller comes at my wordie,
His beautie I never wull miss't !
Daft gouks, wha catch fire like tinder,
Think love-raptures ever wull burn !
But wi' poortith, hearts het as a cinder
Wull cauld as an iceshugle turn !
There'll just be ae bar to my pleasure,
A bar that's aft fill'd me wi' fear,
He's sic a hard, near-be-gawn miser,
He likes his saul less than his gear !
But though I now flatter his failin',
An' swear nought wi' goud can compare,
325
886
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Glide sooth ! it sail soon get a scailin' !
His bags sail be mouldie nae inair !
I dreamt that I rade in a chariot,
A flunkie ahint me in green ;
While Geordie cry'd out, he was harriet,
An' the saut tear was blindin' his een ;
But though 'gainst my spendin' he swear aye,
I'll hae frae him what scr's my turn ;
Let him slip awa whan he grows wearie,
Shame fa' me ! gin lung I wad mourn !
But Geordie, while Meg was haranguin,
Was cloutin his breeks i' the banks.
An' whan a' his failins she brang in,
His Strang, hazle pike-staff he taks,
Designin to rax her a lounder :
He chane'd on the lather to shift,
An' down frae the bauks, flat's a flounder,
Flew like a shot-starn frae the lift !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Sill
THOU HAST VOW'D BY THY FAITH, MY

JEANIE.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Thou hast vow'd by thy faith, my Jeanie,

By that pretty white hand of thine,
And by all the lowing stars in heaven,
That thou wad aye be mine :
And I have sworn by my faith, my Jeanie,
And by that kind heart of thine,
By all the stars sown thick o'er heaven,
That thou shalt aye be mine.
Foul fa' the hands wad loose sic bands,
And the heart wad part sic love ;
But there's nae hand can loose the band,
But the finger of Him above.
Though the wee wee cot maun be my bield,
And my clothing e'er sae mean,
I should lap up rich in the faulds of love
Heaven's armfu' of my Jean.
Thy white arm wad be a pillow to me,
Far softer than the down ;
And love wad winnow o'er us his kind kind wings,
And sweetly we'd sleep and soun'.
3S8
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Come here to me, thou lass whom I love,

Come here and kneel wi' me,
The morning is full of the presence of God,
And I cannot pray but thee.
The wind is sweet amang the new flowers,
The wee birds sing saft on the tree,
Our goodman sits in the bonnie sunshine,
And a blithe auld bodie is he ;
The Beuk maun be ta'en when he comes hame,
Wi' the holie psalmodie,
And I will speak of thee when I pray,
And thou maun speak of me.
MY NANIE-O.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Red rowes the Nith 'tween bank and brae,

Mirk is the night and rainie-o,
Though heaven and earth should mix in storm,
I'll gang and see my Nanie-o ;
My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o ;
My kind and winsome Nanie-o,
She holds my heart in love's dear bands,
And nanc can do't but Nanie-o-
SCOTTISH SONGS.
In preaching time sae meek she stands,
Sae saintly and sae bonnie-o,
I cannot get ae glimpse of grace
For thieving looks at Nanie-o ;
The world's in love with Nanie-o ;
That heart is hardly worth the wear
That wadnae love my Nanie-o.
My breast can scarce contain my heart,
When dancing she moves finely-o;
I guess what heaven is by her eyes,
They sparkle so divinely-o ;
My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o;
The flower o' Nithsdale's Nanie-o ;
Love looks frae 'neath her long brown hair,
And says, I dwell wi' Nanie-o.
Tell not, thou star at gray day light,
O'er Tinwald-top so bonnie-o,
My footsteps 'mang the morning dew
When coming frae my Nanie-o ;
None ken o' me and Nanie-o ;
The stars and moon may tcll't aboon,
They winna wrong my Nanie-o.
329
330
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE ROSE OF SHARON.

JAMES HOGG.
Oh saw ye the rose of the east

In the valley of Sharon that grows ?
Ye daughters of Judah, how blest
To breathe in the sweets of my rose.
Come., tell me, if yet she's at rest
On her couch with the lilies inwove ?
Or if wantons the breeze with her breast ?
For my heart it is sick for my love.
I charge you, ye virgins unveiled,
That stray 'mong the pomegranate trees,
By the roes and the hinds of the field,
That ye wake not my love till she please.
The garden with flowers is in blow,
And roses unnumbered are thereThen tell how thy love we shall know,
For the daughters of Zion are fair.
A bed of frankincense her cheek ;
A wreath of sweet myrrh is her hand ;
Her eye the bright gem that they seek
By the rivers and streams of the land ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Her smile from the morning she wins ;
Her teeth are the lambs on the hill ;
Her breasts two young roes that are twins,
And feed in the valleys at will.
As the cedar that smiles o'er the wood ;
As the lily mid shrubs of the heath ;
As the tower of Damascus that stood
Overlooking the hamlets beneath ;
As the moon that in glory you see,
Mid the stars and the planets above
Even so among women is she,
And my bosom is ravished with love.
Return with the evening star,
And our couch on Amana shall be :
From Shinar and Hermon afar,
Thou the mountain of leopards shalt see.
O Shulamite ! turn to thy rest,
Where the olive o'ershadows the land
As the roc of the desert make haste,
For the singing of birds is at hand.
831
3S2
SCOTTISH SONGS
LORD RANDAL.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
A cold wind and a starless sky,

Hills white with sifted snaw ;
A lady weeping at midnight,
By a lone castle wa' !
Oh ! come, Lord Randal, open your door,
Oh ! open and let me in ;
The snaw hangs in my scarlet robe,
The sleet dreeps down my chin.
Oh ! open that I may see
Ae glance but of that bonnie blue eye
That charm'd my heart frae me :
Or speak, that I may know
Once mair the music of that tongue
That wrought me all my woe.
Her voice sank low as the tender babe's
That makes its gentle moan,
A cry still heard by that castle wa'
In midnight mirk and lone :
Lord Randal called his true love thrice,
And wept and paused to hear ;
But, ah ! ne'er mortal voice again
Might win that lady's ear.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE MARINER.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Ye winds which kiss the groves' green tops,

And sweep the mountain hoar,
O, softly stir the ocean waves
Which sleep along the shore ;
For my love sails the fairest ship
That wantons on the sea :
O, bend his masts with pleasant gales,
And waft him hame to me.
O leave nae mair the bonnie glen,
Clear stream, and hawthorn grove,
Where first we walked in gloaming gi ay,
And sigh'd and look'd of love ;
For faithless is the ocean wave,
And faithless is the wind
Then leave nae mair my heart to break,
'Mang Scotland's hills behind.
333
334
SCOTTISH SONGS.
PEGGIE.
WILLIAM NICHOLSON.
Whan first I forgather'd wi' Peggie,

My Peggie an' I were young ;
Sae blithe at the bught i' the gloamin'
My Peggie an' I ha'e sung,
My Peggie an' I ha'e sung,
Till the stars did blink sae hie ;
Come weel or come wae to the biggin',
My Peggie was dear to me.
The stately aik stood on the mountain,
And tower'd o'er the green birken shaw ;
Ilk glentin' wee flow'r on the meadow
Seem'd proud o' bein' buskit sae braw,
Seem'd proud o' bcin' buskit sae braw,
When they saw their ain shape i' the Dec J
'Twas there that I courted my Peggie,
Till the kirk it fell foul o' me.
Though love it has little to look for
Frae the heart that's wedded to gear,
A wife without house or a haudin'
Gars ane look right blate like an' queer ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Gars ane baith look blate like an' queer,
But queerer when twa turns to three ;
Our frien's they ha'e foughten an' flyten,
But Peggie's ay dear to me.
It vex'd me her sighin' an' sabbin',
Now nought short o' marriage wou'd do ;
An' though that our prospects were dreary,
What could I but e'en buckle to ?
What cou'd I but e'en buckle to,
An' dight the sa't tear frae her e'e ?
The warl's a wearifu' wister ;
But Peggie's ay dear to me.
SING ON, SING ON.

R. M'C.
Sing on, sing on, thou little bird

That wing'st the balmy air ;
Sing out thy sang, thou blithesome bird,
That tells thou'rt free of care.
It's glide to ha'e a lightsome heart,
A heart that's fu' of glee ;
And I would bless thy gladsome notes,
Though sorrow dwells with me.
335
336
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Thou sings to see the gowans bloom,
And leaves that clead the tree,
Thou sings, to woo thy gentle mate,
A sang that's dear to me.
And wilt thou, gentle, win her love,
By methods such as these,
Nor ever learn, as I hae done,
How hard it is to please.
O dinna langer strain thy throat,
Sweet sangster of the grove
I, too, hae sung as gay a note,
To win a woman's love ;
And, as thy gentle mate does now,
She listen'd to the lay,
And I sang on, and she proved false
O cease thy roundelay.
O MY LOVE IS A COUNTRY LASS.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
O my love is a country lass,

And I am but a country laddie ;
But true love is nae gentleman,
And sweetness is nae lofty lady.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
337
I make my bed 'mang brackens green ;

My light's the moon, round, bright, an' bonnie ;
And there I muse the summer night
On her, my leal and lovely Jeanie.
Her gown spun by her ain white hand ;
Her coat sae trim of snowy plaiden ;
Is there a dame in all the land
Sae lady-like in silk and satin ?
Though minstrel lore is all my wealth ;
Let gowks love gold and mailens many,
I'm rich enough when I have thee,
My witty, winsome, lovely Jeanie.
O ! have you seen her at the kirk,
Her brow with meek devotion glowing ?
Or got ae glance of her bright eye,
Free 'neath her tresses dark and flowing ?
Or heard her voice breathe out such words
As angels usesweet, but not many ?
And have ye dream'd of aught sinsyne,
Save her, my fair, my lovely Jeanie ?
VOL. IV.
S38
SCOTTISH SONGS.
THE LORD'S MARIE.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
The lord's Marie has kepp'd her locks

Up wi' a golden kame,
An' she has put on her net-silk hose,
An' awa to the tryste has gane.
O saft, saft fell the dew on her locks.
An' saft, saft on her brow ;
Ae sweet drap fell on her strawberrie Up,
An' I kiss'd it off, I trow !
O wharc gat ye that leal maiden,
Sae jimpy laced an' sma' ?
O wharc gat ye that young damsel,
Wha dings our lasses a' ?
O whare gat ye that bonnie, bonnie lass,
Wi' heaven in her e'e ?
Here's ae drap o' the damask wine ;-
Sweet maiden, will ye pree ?
Fu' white, white was her bonnie neck,
Twist wi' the satin twine,
But ruddie, ruddie grew her throat,
While she supp'd the blude-red wine.
Come, here's thy health, young stranger doo,
Who wears the golden kame ;
SCOTTISH SONGS.
389
This night will many drink thy health,

An ken na wha to name.
Play me up " Sweet Marie," I cry'd,
An' loud the piper blew,
But the fiddler play'd ay strunlum strum,
An' down his bow he threw :
Here's thy kind health i' the ruddie red wine,
Fair dame o' the stranger land !
For never a pair o' een before
Could mar my gude bow-hand.
Her lips were a cloven honey-cherrie,
Sae tempting to the sight ;
Her locks owre alabaster brows
Fell like the moming light.
An' O ! her honey breath lift her locks,
As through the dance she flew,
While love laugh'd in her bonny blue ce,
An' dwelt on her comely mou'Loose hings yere broider'd gold garter,
Fair ladie, dare I speak ?
She, trembling, lift her silky hand
To her red, red flushing cheek.
Ye've drapp'd, ye've drapped yere broach o' gold,
Thou lord's daughter sae gay !
The tears o'erbrimm'd her bonnie blue ee,
O come, O come away !
z2
340
SCOTTISH SONGS.
O maid, unbar the silver bolt,
To my chamber let me win ;
An' take this kiss, thou peasant youth,
I daur na let ye in ;
An' take, quo' she, this kame o' gold,
Wi' my lock o' yellow hair,
For meikle my heart forebodes to me
I never maun meet ye mair !
SONG OF SNORRO.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Come, haste from the mountain ;

Come, leap like the roe ;
Like the sea-eagle, come ;
Or the shaft from the bow :
Cast away the wet oar,
And the gleaming harpoon ;
Leave the love-tale half told,
And the sweet harp in tune ;
Leave the broad banner flying
Upon the rough flood ;
Leave the ships' decks unswept
From the Orkney-men's blood.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
And why should we leave thus
The whale when he's dying,
Our ships' decks unswept,
And our broad banners flying ?
And why leave our loves
With their white bosoms swelling,
When their breath lifts their locks
While the soft tale we're telling ?
The cloud when it snows,
And the storm in its glory,
Shall cease ere we stay,
Ancient bard, for thy story.
Bow all your heads, dames,
Let your bright eyes drop sorrow ;
Hoar heads, stoop in dust,
Said the sweet voice of Snorro.
Fear not for the Norsemen,
The brand and the spear ;
The sharp shaft and war-axe
Have sober'd their cheer :
But dread that mute sea,
With its mild waters leaping ;
Dread Hecla's green hill
In the setting sun sleeping.
It was seen in no vision,
Reveal' d in no dream,
For I heard a voice crying
From Tingalla's stream
341
342
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Green Heck shall pour
Its red fires through Oddo,
And its columns of name
Through- the Temple of Lodo.
Where the high land shall sink,
Lo, the deep sea shall follow,
And. the< whale shall spout bloed
Between Scalholt and Hola.
The bard wept)in his palms
His sad face he conceal'd ;
And a wild wind awaken'd,
The huge mountain reel'd ;
Beneath came a shudder,
Above a loud rattle,
Earth moved to and fro
Like a banner in battle ;
The great deep raised its voice,
And its, dark flood flow'd higher,
And far flash 'd ashore
The foam mingled with fire.
O spare sunny Scalholt,
And crystal Tingalla !
O spare merry Oddo,
And pleasant old Hola .'
The bard said no more,
For the deep sea came dashing ;
The green hill was oleft
And its fires came flashing.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
But matron and maiden
Shall long look, in sorrow,
To dread Hecla, and sing thus
The sad song of Snorro.
THE LASS OF DELORAINE.

JAMfcS HOGG.
Still must my pipe lie idly by,

And worldly cares my mind annoy r
Again its softest notes I'll try,
So dear a theme can never cloy.
Last time my mountain harp I strung,
'Twas she inspired the simple strain
That lovely flower so sweet and young,
The bonnie lass of Deloraine.
How blest the breeze's balmy sighs
Around her ruddy lips that blow,
The flower that in her bosom dies,
Or grass that bends beneath her toe !
Her cheeks endowed with powers at will,
The roses' richest shade to drain ;
Her eyes what soft enchantments fill,
343
344
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Let A thole boast her birchen bowers,
And Lomond of her isles so green,
And Windermere her woodland shores,
Our Ettrick boasts a sweeter scene.
For there the evening twilight swells
Wi' many a wild and melting strain ;
And there the pride of beauty dwells,
If heaven shall keep her ay as good
And bonnie as she wont to be,
The world may into Ettrick crowd,
And nature's first perfection see.
Glencoe has drawn the wanderer's eye,
And Staffa on the western main ;
These natural wonders ne'er can vie
Wi' the bonnie lass of Deloraine.
May health still bless her beauteous face,
And round her brow may honour twine.
And heaven preserve that breast in peace,
Where meekness, love, and duty join !
But all her joys shall cheer my heart,
And all her griefs shall give me pain ;
For never from my soul shall part
SCOTTISH SONGS.
BRIGNAL BANKS.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
O Brignal banks are wild and fair,

And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there,
Would grace a summer queen.
And as I rode by Dalton-hall,
Beneath the turret high,
A maiden on the castle wall
Was singing merrily,
O Brignal banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green ;
I'd rather rove with Edmund there
Than reign our English queen.
If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,
To leave both tower and town,
Thou first must guess what life lead we,
That dwell by dale and down.
And if thou canst that riddle read,
As read full well you may,
Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed
As blithe as queen of May.
Yet sung she, Brignal banks are fair,
And Greta woods are green :
I'd rather rove with Edmund there
Than reign our English queen.
345
346
SCOTTISH SOWOS.
I read you, by your bugle horn,
And by your palfrey good,
I read you for a ranger sworn,
To keep the king's green wood.
A ranger, lady, winds his horn,
And 'tis at peep of light :
His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night.
Yet suDg she, Brignal banks are fair,
And Greta woods are gay ;
I would I were with Edmund there,
To reign his queen of May !
With burnish'd brand and musquetoon,
So gallantly you come,
I read yon for a bold dragoon,
That lists the tuck of drum.
I list no more the tuck of drum,
No more the trumpet hear ;
But when the beetle sounds his hum,
My comrades take the spear.
And O though Brignal banks be fair,
And Greta woods be gay ;
Yet mickle must the maiden dare,
Would reign my queen of May !
Maiden ! a nameless life I lead,
A nameless death I'll die;
The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead,
Were better mate than I !
SCOTTISH SONGS.
8*T
And when I'm with my comrades met,

Beneath the greenwood bough,
What once we were we all forget,
Nor think what we are now.
Yet Brignal banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green ;
And you may gather garlands there,
Would grace a summer queen.
LUCYS FLITTIN\
WALTER LA1DLAW.
Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in,
And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year,
That Lucy roVd up her wee kist wi' her a' in,
And left her auld master, and neibours sae dear.
For Lucy had serv'd i' the glen a' the simmer ;
She cam there afore the flow'r bloom'd on the pea ;
An orphan was she, an' they had been gude till her,
Sure that was the thing brought the tear in her ee.
She gacd by the stable, wharc Jamie was stannin',
Right sair was his kind heart the flittin' to see ;
Fare ye weel, Lucy ! quo' Jamie, and ran in.
The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae her ee.
As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' her flittin',
Fare ye weel, Lucy ! was ilka bird's sang ;
She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin',
And robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang.
348
SCOTTISH SONGS.
0 what is't that pits my poor heart in a flutter?

And what gars the tear come sae fast to my ee ?
If I was nae ettled to be onie better,
Then what gars me wish onie better to be ?
I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither ;
Nae mither nor frien' the poor lammie can see ;
1 fear I hae left my bit heart a' thegither,
Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my ee.
Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon,
The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie ga'e me :
Yestreen when he ga'e me't, and saw I was sabbin',
I'll never forget the wae blink o' his ee.
Tho' now he said naething, but Fare ye weel, Lucy !
It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see :
He could na say mair, but just Fare ye weel, Lucy !
Yet that I will mind to the day that I die.
The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it's droukit ;
The hare likes the brake, and the braird on the lee ;
But Lucy likes Jamie ;she turn'd and she lookit ;
She thought the dear place she wad never mair see.
Ah ! weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless,
And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn !
His bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless,
Lies cauld in her grave, and will never .return.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
DONALD CAIRD.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Donald Caird can lilt and sing,

Blithely dance the Hieland fling ;
Drink till the gudeman be blind,
Fleech till the gudewife be kind :
Hoop a leglen, clout a pan,
Or crack a pow wi' ony man :
Tell the news in burgh and glen,
Donald Caird's come again.
Donald Caird can wire a maukin,
Kens the wiles o' dun-deer staukin ;
Leister's kipper makes a shift
To shoot a moor-fowl in the drift :
Water-bailiffs, rangers, keepers,
He can wauk when they are sleepers ;Not for bountith or reward,
Dare ye mell wi' Donald Caird.
Donald Caird can drink a gill
Fast as hostler wife can fill ;
Ilka ane that sells gude liquor
Kens how Donald bends a bicker :
349
350
SCOTTISH SONGS.
When he's fou, he's stout and saucy,
Keeps the cantle o' the causey ;
Highland chief and Lowland laird
Maun gie roam to Donald Caird.
Steek the auinrie, lock the kist,
Else some gear may weel be mist ;
Donald Caird finds orra things,
Where Allan Gregor fand the tings :
Dunts of kebbuck, taits of woo,
Whiles a hen, and whiles a sow ;
Webs or duds frae hedge or yard
Ware the wuddie, Donald Caird !
On Donald Caird the doom was stern,
Craig to tether, legs to airn :
But Donald Caird, wi' mickle study,
Caught the gift to cheat the wuddie.
Rings of aim, and bolts of steel,
Fell like ice frae hand and heel !
Watch the sheep in fauld and glen,
Donald Caird's come again.
SCOTTISH SONUS.
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
Ye mariners of England !
Who guard our native seas ;
Whose flag has brav'd, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze !
Your glorious standard launch again,
To match another foe !
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow ;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave !
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave :
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow ;
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow :
While the battle rages loud and long,
351
352
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep ;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow ;
When the battle rages loud and long,
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn ;
Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors !
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow ;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceas'd to blow.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
353
THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

Of Nelson and the North,

Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone ;
By each gun the lighted brand,
In a bold determin'd hand,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on.
Like Leviathans, afloat,
Lay their bulwarks on the brine ;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line :
It was ten of April morn by the chime.
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death ;
And the boldest held his breath,
For a time.
But the might of England flush'd
To anticipate the scene ;
And her van the fleeter rush'd
O'er the deadly space between.
VOL. IV.
AA
354
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Hearts of oak ! our captains cried ; when each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.
Again ! again ! again !
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back ;
Their shots along the deep slowly boom,
Then cease and all is wail,
As they strike the shatter'd sail ;
Or in conflagration pale
Light the gloom.
Out spoke the victor then,
As he hail'd them o'er the wave ;
Ye are brothers ! Ye are men !
And we conquer but to save ;
So peace instead of death let us bring :
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our king.
Then Denmark blest our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose ;
And the sounds of joy and grief,
From her people, wildly rose,
SCOTTISH SONGS.
355
As death withdrew his shades from the day.

While the sun look'd smiling bright,
O'er a wide and woful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.
Now joy, Old England, raise !
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,
While the wine-cup shines in light ;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore !
Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant, good Riou ;
Soft sigh the winds of heav'n o'er their grave !
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave.
aa 2
356
SCOTTISH SONG&
DE BRUCE, DE BRUCE.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
De Bruce ! De Bruce !with that proud call

Thy glens, green Galloway,
Grow bright with helm, and axe, and glaive,
And plumes in close array :
The English shafts are loosed, and 6ee
They fall like winter sleet ;
The southern nobles urge their steeds,
Earth shudders 'neath their feet
Flow gently on, thou gentle Oit,
Down to old Solway's flood,
The ruddy tide that stains thy stream
Is England's richest blood.
Flow gently onwards, gentle Orr,
Along thy greenwood banks
King Robert raised his martial cry,
And broke the English ranks ;
Black Douglas smiled and wiped his blade,
lie and the gallant Graeme ;
And, as the lightning from the cloud,
Here fiery Randolph came ;
And stubborn Maxwell too was here,
Who spared nor strength nor steel,
With him who won the winged spur
Which gleams on Johnstone's heel.
SCOTTISH SONGS.
357
De Bruce ! De Bruce !yon silver star,

Pair Alice, it shines sweet
The lonely Orr, the good greenwood,
The sod aneath our feet,
Yon pasture mountain green and large,
The sea that sweeps its foot
Shall dieshall dryshall cease to be,
And earth and air be mute ;
The sage's word, the poet's song,
And woman's love, shall be
Things charming none,when Scotland's heart
Warms not with naming thee.
De Bruce ! De Bruce ! on Dee's wild banks,
And on Orr's silver side,
Far other sounds are echoing now
Than war-shouts answering wide :
The reaper's horn rings merrily now ;
Beneath the golden grain
The sickle shines, and maiden's songs
Glad all the glens again.
But minstrel-mirth, and homely joy,
And heavenly libertie
De Bruce ! De Bruee ! we owe them all
To thy good sword and thee.
Lord of the mighty heart and mind,
And theme of many a song !
Brave, mild, and meek, and merciful,
I see thee bound along,
358
SCOTTISH SONGS.
Thy helmet plume is seen afar,
That never bore a stain,
Thy mighty sword is flashing high,
Which never fell in vain.
Shout, Scotland, shout'till Carlisle wall
Gives back the sound agen,
De Bruce ! De Bruce ! less than a god,
But noblest of all men !
THE SPRING OF THE YEAR.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Gone were but the winter cold,

And gone were but the snow,
I could sleep in the wild woods
Where primroses blow.
Cold's the snow at my head,
And cold at my feet ;
And the finger of death's at my een,
Closing them to sleep.
Let none tell my father,
Or my mother so dear,
I'll meet them both in heaven
At the spring of the year.
Conclusion*
The spell which bound me to the subject of Scottish

Song has begun to dissolve ; and as I cannot expect my
pages to hold the same charm over my readers as they
have done over me, it is time, and more than time, to
conclude. It is not, however, from want of materials
that I close the leaf of my labours : good songs are still
abundant, and lyric fragments of great beauty are yet
plentiful enough for those who have skill and leisure to
render them worthy of public acceptance. But I feel,
and perhaps ought sooner to have felt, that success, un
certain in any mental labour, is still more unsure in a
work requiring much general knowledge and Scottish
lore, more leisure than I can command, more patience
than I possess, more sagacity in critical emendation than
I dare lay claim to, and a happy skill and lucky nicety
in language and poetry which few possess, and to which
I cannot pretend. Scotland is fruitful at present in men
with learning, and leisure, and genius for such a task :
to their nod the spell-bound doors of noble libraries
would have flown open, and to their wish all the oral
lyric riches of Scotland would have been gathered to
360
SCOTTISH SONGS.
gcther as rapidly as the wizard in the wild tale charmed

the gold and pearls out of the mud of the Solway for a.
bridal gift. I had no such aid ; and the shame of ill
success will be the less, since I have neither enjoyed nor
abused any man's liberality.
My original wish has been but imperfectly fulfilled
to select all the best of the national songs of Scotland :
to amend, eke out, renovate, purify, and illustrate them
with characteristic notices, has indeed been attempted ;
but my faith is weak in the worthiness of my own la
boursthe execution is unequal to my conception and
my wishes. As I am not unconscious of the imperfections
of the work, neither am I insensible to its proper merits.
There are many fine songs scattered about these volumes
which can be found nowhere else in the same perfect
state ; many old verses of pathos or of mirth, which have
found suitable companions ; and many matters, critical
and traditional, unknown to any other collection.
No country has so many lyrical publications as Scot
land, yet few of them are excellent or complete. It is
no easy task to assign to each their own peculiar merit.
Five Collections seem to deserve the particular attention
of all who wish to acquire an -intimate knowledge of
national songthose of Allan Ramsay, David Herd,
James Johnson, George Thomson, and James Hogg.
The Tea Table Miscellany is the first great sanctuary
in which Scottish Song found refuge. The poet forsook
for a time the pleasures of original composition1 for the
painful and inglorious task of collecting, collating, and
SCOTTISH SONGS.
86i
editing the songs which embodied the mirth or the sor

row of our ancestors. He was first in the field,. and
had the harvest to himself. That he left rich gleanings
succeeding works sufficiently testify ; but that he ignorantly or wantonly destroyed or defaced what he
deemed unworthy of his sickle, remains, and will' re
main, matter of mere conjecture. His collection is
valuable, and popular.
To David Herd we are indebted for our knowledge
of many genuine native verses. The rough, the polished,
the rude, the courtly, the pure, the gross, the imperfect,
and the complete, were all welcome to honest and indiscriminating Davidhe loved them all, and he pub
lished them all. He seemed to have an art of his own
in finding curious old songs: he was not a poet, and
could not create them ; he was no wizard, and could not
evoke them from the dust ; yet he had the good fortune
to find them, and the courage to publish them without
mitigation or abatement. Whatever contained a vivid
picture of old manners, whatever presented a lively
image of other days, and whatever atoned for its freedom
by its humour, or for its indelicacy by its well flavoured
wit, was dear to the good old Scotchman.
James Johnson followed Herd, and availing himself
of the treasures of his predecessors, and of the genius
and activity of Burns, he produced a work worthy of
Scotland for music and for poetry. I know of no work
more thickly bestrewn with the jewels which sparkled
on the tiara of the olden Muse. The Museum, indeed,
is rather a rich heap than a well arranged collection,
362
SCOTTISH SONGS.
where all the crums and fragments are framed and

mounted and labelleda heap where the rubbish is out
weighed by pure gold, by native pearls, and by precious
stones. It is quite impossible to imagine what sort of
person the Editor was. He seems to have obeyed a de
vout impulse in one page, and submitted to n wilder
feeling in the next : one day he admitted nought but
what was harmless, and holy, and dull ; next morning
all his scruples vanished, and the Muse, with her zone
unloosed, and her garments disordered, was welcomed
with her free and indecorous strains. The pen of Burns
is every where visible after the first volume ; and many
of his cleverest songs and happiest snatches of verse
adorn the pages. He died before the work was com
pleted : and the Editor, from ignorance or design, added
the name of Burns to most of his communications, though
many of them were avowedly old or amended songs. An
illustrated edition of the Musical Museum has been long
promised by Air. Blackwood, the bookseller, which, from
the known skill and research of Mr. Steuhouse, the
Editor, is expected to throw much light on our national
music and poetry.
The Select Scottish Melodies of George Thomson is a
work of great external beauty, and, what is far better, of
greater internal delicacy, elegance, and genius. The
Scottish Muse was in her happiest and sedatest mood
when she taxed her powers to adorn his pages ; her
mirth is modest, and her humour discreet. Burns con
tributed largely, and laid an obligation upon himself to
sing only in his hours of highest inspiration ; and such
SCOTTISH SONGS.
363
was his fertility, that he left few good airs to accept of

poetic clothing from succeeding spirits. Scott, and
Campbell, and Joanna Baillie, have all in their turns
listened to the persuasions of the chief musician, and
contributed to the fame of his work : " And I, the
meanest of them all," have added a verse or two.
James Hogg limited his Collection to the Jacobite
Lyrics ; and such has been the mutability of party feel
ing, that he obtained praise and reward in 1819, for a
publication which some seventy years before would have
placed his person in some danger. His work is very
valuable : and though many of the songs are stingless
in their sarcasm, and weak in their wit, numbers are
stamped with the full broad image of indignant, sa
tirical, and sympathising genius. Some men had wished,
but none before had dared to gather from the dust the
tear-wetthe bloody and dishonoured garlands which the
poets of the house of Stuart had strewn o'er the battle
field and the gory grave. Cromek had hazarded a few :
and as the exiled family dropt away, and their cause
declined, men sung them more boldly, and published
them more freely, till at length the illustrious family
against whose ancestors the Muse had directed her bit
terest shafts, sanctioned and encouraged the publication.
A more judicious selection of the songs, and greater
frugality of historical illustration, would render the Ja
cobite Relics a standard work.
Throughout the works of Sir Walter Scott, Thomas
Campbell, Esq. and Joanna Baillie, many exquisite
songs are scattered, and numerous snatches of great ori
864
SCOTTISH SONGS.
ginal beauty bestrew the glowing pages of the Scottish

novels. Of Sir Walter's songs, those of a festive and
martial nature are most numerous. Donuil Dhu, Allana-dale, and Donald Caird, belong to three separate kinds
of song: the first surpasses all other songs in military
enthusiasm, the second renews the days of Robin Hood
with its happy old Sherwood Forest glee, and the third
draws an original and living picture of a swaggering
thief and sturdy mendicant.
The songs of Campbell unite the vigour and anima
tion of our old lyrics with the polished grace and ela
borated melody of modern verse. The nicety of the
polish lessens not the strength : for a vigorous thought,
like a good steel blade, is the better for the burnishing.
The songs of Copenhagen and Hohenlinden are of the
highest order of martial odesthey are glowing with
the grandest imagery, and animated with the noblest
sentiments. They are serene, lofty, and heroic ; calm
in their dignity, and tranquil in their strength.
The lyrics of Joanna Baillie are filled with the
sweetest images of domestic love, fireside joy, and know
ledge of life, humble and high. They are all stamped
with the legible impress of original thoughtthey have
all a dramatic cast of narrative, and a subtle and comic
penetration into the heart and purposes of man.
THE END.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITErRIAHS.
w-
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J.
*
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n..ll. mil Hill Hill f
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The Songs of Scotland Ancient and Modern

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This is a reproduction of a library book that was digitized

by Google as part of an ongoing effort to preserve the

AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES,

historical ani CCritfcal,

CHARACTERS OF THE LYRIC POETS.

Ah the poor shepherd's mournful fate

Coming through the rye

Ca' the yowes to the knowes

Cauld kail in Aberdeen

Down the burn, Davie

For ever, fortune, wilt thou prove

Gin ye meet a bonnie lassie

Hamc never came he

It was a' for our righiiV king

Lass wi' a lamp o' land

Now Phoebus advances on high

Our gudeman came liauie at e'en

Patie and Peggie

The braes of Yarrow

The last time I came o'er the moor

The las of Patic's mill

The bush aboon Traquair

The birks of Invermay

Tow is do my ain house

The sold wife beyont the fire

The young Maxwell

The waes of Scotland

The smiling plains, profusely gay

The wayward wife

Up in the morning early

Widow, are ye waukin

HAME NEVER CAME HE.

Eight lines of this song may be found in Finlay's

COMING THROUGH THE RYE.

I know of no song, with the exception of Johnie

MY LOVER HAS LEFT ME.

I cannot find an older copy of this touching song than

UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.

Some love the din o' the dancer's feet,

period it has been augmented by other hands. The idea

Much idle controversy has arisen respecting the

THE AULD MAN'S MARE'S DEAD.

The auld man's mare's dead,

THE RINAWAY BRIDE.

And when they came to Kelso town,

OUR GUDEMAN CAME HAME AT E'EN.

How came these boots here

Our gudeman came hame at e'en,

0 how came this coat here

The concluding lines of this excellent old song lead

THERE WENT A FAIR MAID FORTH

There were oft pausings in their walk

THE REEL OF STUMPIE-O.

All that antiquity can claim of this song amounts

This is a lucky effusion of the rustic Muse. The

Kev. Dr. Strachan of Carnwatha clever man and a

MY LADY'S GOWN THERE'S GAIRS

In the Museum this clever song is wholly ascribed to

MALLIE'S MEEK, MALLIE'S SWEET.