■ Qlorncll Hniaetattg Uthrary Jtfjaca, SJ«n f nrk BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE FISKE ENDOWMENT FUND THE BEQUEST OF WILLARD FISKE LIBRARIAN OF THE UNIVERSITY 1868-1883 1905 Cornell University Library PR8661.L8S69 Songs of Scotland, chronologically arrang 3 1924 013 511 690 111 The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 351 1 690 SONGS OF SCOTLAND. THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED, INTRODUCTION AND NOTES. GLASGOW: MAURICE OGLE AND COMPANY. 1871. 4 The meal was dear short syne ... ... ... SO The midges dance aboon the burn ... ... ... 332 The moon had climbed the highest hill ... ... 144 The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae ... ... 390 The moon was fair, saft was the air ... ... ... 102 The murmur of the merry brook ... ... ... 489 The news frae Moidart cam' yestreen ... ... 537 The nicht is mirk, and the wind blaws sehill ... ... 485 The pawkie auld carle came o'er the lea ... ... 1 The piper came to our town ... ... ... ... 542 The ploughman he's a bonnie lad ... ... ... , 52 The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning ... ... 612 The smiling morn, the breathing spring ... ... 124 The smiling plain profusely gay ... ... ... 186 The spring time returns, and plothes the gay plain ... 121 The storm is raging o'er the Kyle ■■*' ... ... 570 The sun has gone down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond ... 312 The sun raise, sae rosy the green hills adorning ... ... 305 The standard on the braes o' Mar ... ... ... 519 The tears I shed must ever fall ... ... ... ... 384 The Thames flows proudly to the sea ... ... 247 The widow can bake, an' the widow can brew ... ... 79 The wind comes frae the land I love ... ... ... 538 The winter sat lang on the spring o' the year ... ... 292 The wren scho lyes in care's bed ... ... ... 26 The year is wearin' to the wane ... ... ... ... 416 The yellow haired laddie sat down on yon brae ... ... 59 The youth that should hae been our King ... ... ... 579 Their groves of sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon ... 210 There are twa bonnie maidens ... ... ... ... 571 There cam a braw lad to my daddie's door ... ... 166 There dwelt a man into the west ... ... ... 448 There grows a bonnie brier bush in our kail yard ... 552 There Eved a lass in Inverness ... ... ... ... 564 There lives a landart laird in Fife ... ... ... 367 There lives a lassie on the brae ... ... ... ... 185 There liveB a young lassie ... ... ... ... 439 There was a lad was born in Kyle ... ... ... 195 There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg ... ... ... 215 There was a wife wonn'd in a glen ... ... ... 64 There was an auld wife had a wee pickle tow ... ... 171 There was anes a maid and she loo'd na men ... ... 57 There were twa doos sat in a dookit ... ... ... 279 There's Auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen ... ... 253, There's braw braw lads on Yarrow braes ... ... 219 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. There's Canld Kail in Aberdeen ... ... ... 130 There's Cauld Kail in Aberdeen ... ... ••• 347 There's fowth o' braw Jockies and Jennies ... ... 146 There's kames o' hinnie 'tween my love's Hpes ... ... 442 There's nae laddie comin' for thee, my dear Jean ... 420 There's nae covenant now lassie ... ... ... 453 There's nought but care on every han' ... ... 201 There's some say that we wan ... ... ... ... 620 There's waefu' news in yon town ... ... ... 272 There's was a wee bit wifukie was comin' frae the fair ... 268 They lighted a taper at the dead of night ... ... 463 They say that JockeyTl speed well o't ... ... ... 172 Thickest night o'erhangs my dwelling ... ... 221 This is no mine ain house ... ... ... ... 78 Tho' summer smiles on bank and brae ... ... 337 Thou art gane awa', thou art gane awa' ... ... ... 262 Thou bonnie wood o' Craigielea ... ... ... 317 Thou cauld gloomy FeberVar ... ... ... 337 Thou dark winding Carron once pleasing to see ... 312 Thou hast left me ever Jamie, thou hast left me ever ... 227 Thou ling'ring star with less'ning ray ... ... 205 Though dpwie's the winter sae gloomy and drear ... ... 468 Though Gcordie reigns wi' Jamie's stead ... ... 578 Through Crookston Castle's lanely wa's ... ... ... 315 Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue ... ... ... 271 Tibby has a store of charms ... ... ... ... 90 Tibbie Fowler o' the glen ... ... ... ... 140 'Tis hinna ye heard man o' Barrochan Jean ... ... 329 'Tis no very lang sinsyne ... ... ... ... 167 Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly ... ... ... 183 To curb usurpation by th' assistance of France ... ... 340 To daunton me, to daunton me ... ... ... ... 497 To daunton me, an' me sae young ... ... ... 641 To your arms, to your arms, my bonnie Highland lads ... 551 To the Lords of Convention, 'twas Claverhouse spoke ... ... 493 Touch once more a sober measure ... ... ... 458 Turn again, thou fair Eliza ... ... ... ... 205 'Twas even, the dewy fields were green ... ... 207 'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin ... ... 247 'Twas on a Monday morning ... ... 549 'Twas on a summer afternoon ... ... 283 'Twas summer, and saftly the breezes were blowing ... 149 'Twas summer tide I the Cushat sang ... ... 408 'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in ... 397 Up amang yon cliffy rocks ... ... ... 340 Op, and rin awa', Hawley ... ... ... '" 554 Dp in the morning's no for me 230 Upon a summers afternoon ... ... 402 Was ever old warrior of sufferings so weary ... 419 Weary fa' you Duncan Gray ... ... '" 260 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. We'll hap and row, we'll hap and row ... ... ... 288 We'll meet heside the dusky glen, on yon burnside ... 331 Wha the deil hae we gotten for a king ... ... ... 508 Wha wadna be in love ... ... ... ... 32 Wha wadna fight for Charlie ... ... ... ... 536 Wha will ride wi gallant Murray ... ... ... 534 WhaTl buy my caUer herrin' ... ... ... ... 277 Whar hae ye been a' day ... ... ... ... 308 Whare hae ye been sae braw lads ... ... ... 496 What beauties does Flora disclose ... ... ... 101 What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie ... ... 227 What gude the present day can gie ... ... ... 274 What ails you now my daintie Pate ... ... ... 289 What's this wi' voice o' music sweet ... ... ... 273 Where live ye my bonnie lass ... ... ... ... 263 When a' ither baimies are hush'd to their hame ... 466 When cities of old days ... ... ... ... 465 When first I cam' to be a man of twenty years or so ... 181 When first my dear laddie gaed to the greenhill ... ... 95 When France had her assistance lent ... ... 533 When gloamin o'er the welkin steals ... ... ... 381 When gowans sprinkled a' the lea ... ... ... 383 When I began the world first ... ... ... ... 179 When I hae a saxpence under my thumb ... ... 49 When innocent pastime our pleasures did crown ... ... 87 When I think on the* sweet smiles o' my lassie ... ... 364 When I t hink on the world's pelf ... ... ... 61 When I upon thy bosom lean ... ... ... 187 When I was a miller in Fife ... ... - ... ... 449 When I left thee bonnie Scotland ... ... — 560 When John and me were married ... ... ... 333 When Katie was scarce out nineteen ... ... ... 357 When lonely thou wandered along by the wildwood ... ... 384 When Maggie and me were acquaint ... 58 When my flocks upon the heathy hill are lying a' at rest ... 477 When o'er the Mil the eastern star ... ... ... 243 When our ancient forefathers agreed with the laird ... ... 188 When Phoebus bright the azure skyes ... ... 33 When poortith cauld, and sour disdain ... ... ... 330 When Eosie was faithful how happy was I ... ... 335 When shall the lover rest ... ... ... ... 392 When summer comes the swains on Tweed ... ... 117 When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye a' at hame ... 270 When trees did bud and' fields were green ... ... 106 When we gaed to the braes o' Mar ... ... ... 526 When we think on the days of auld ... ... ... 501 When white was my o'erlay as foam 0' the linn ... ... 350 When wild war's deadly blast was blawn ... ... 235 Where Cart rins rowin to the sea ... ... ... 209 Where is your daddie gane, my little May ... _... 563 Where Quair rins sweet amang the flowers ... ... 298 INDEX OP FIRST LINES. PAGE. While fops in saft Italian verse ... ... ... ... 108 While frequent on Tweed and on Tay ... ... 143 While the gray pinioned lark early mounts to the skies ... 323 Why hangs that cloud upon thy brow ... ... 114 Why, my Charlie, dost thou leave me ... ... ... 575 Why weep ye by the tide, ladye ... .... ... 385 Wi' a hundred pipers an' a' an' a' ... ... ... 552 Will ye gae to the ewe buchts, Marion ... ... 53 Will ye gang o'er the lea rig ... ... ... ... 148 Will ye gang wi' me, lassie ... ... ... ... 414 Will ye gang wi' me, Lizzie Lindsay ... ... ... 259 Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary ... ... ... 202 Will ye come to the board I've prepared for you ... ... 322 Willie was a wanton wag ... ... ... ... 98 Willie Wastle dwelt on Tweed ... ... ... ... 240 Willy's rare, and Willy's fair ... ... ... 118 With broken words and downcast eyes ... ... ... 92 With tuneful pipe and hearty glee ... ... ... 157 With waefu' heart and sorrowing e'e ... ... ... 334 Ye banks and braes, and streams around ... ... 204 Ye banks and braes 0' bonnie Doon ... ... ... 208 Ye echoes that ring 'round the woods of Bowgrgen ... 320 Ye gales, that gently wave the sea ... ... ... 84 Ye gallants bright, I rede ye right ... ... ... 253 Ye gods was Strephon's picture blest ... ... ... 113 Ye rivers so limpid and clear ... ... ... 174 Ye shepherds and nymphs that adorn the gay plain ... ... 113 Ye sunny braes that skirt the Clyde ... ... ... 327 Ye watchful guardian of the fair ... 93 Ye whigs are a rebellious crew ... ... 509 Ye wooer lads wha greet and grane ... ... 319 Ye'll a' ha'e heard tell 0' Eab Eoryson's bonnet ... 322 You may sing 0' your Wallace, and brag 0' your Bruce 401 Young Charlie is a gallant lad ... ... ... "' 541 Young Peggie blooms our bonniest lass ... ... 214 Youre welcome, whigs, from Bothwell Brigs ... 492 You've surely heard 0' famous Neil ... "" '355 INTRODUCTION. A song is generally the earliest form in which the literary taste of a nation is to be fotmd, and the collected songs of a country placed before a critical reader is probably the most severe test of its excellence in literature. To write a mere song, or words to accompany a given air is a comparatively easy matter, but to write one which will touch the heart or the passions, and stand the test of time, after all the best test of poetic merit, is a gift comparatively rare. To be popular with the masses, its language must be simple and unaffected: nothing, in Scotish Song es- pecially, is more nonsensical than the introduction of Phillis, Adonis, Miranda, or Strephoh, or any of these classical beauties and exquisites. To be remembered, it must be short ; and its sentiments whether amdrous, bacchanalian, warlike, or domestic, must not be extravagant, but rather given with subdued power, while to please the critical reader its rhyme must be smooth and its rhythm faultless. That these conditidns are fulfilled by the majority of our best Scotch songs may be seen by glancing at the collection here submitted to the public. To select a few, what could be finer or more pleasing to Critics and readers than " waly waly up the bank," "Auld Robin Gray," " I've heard a lilting," " Brume o' the Cowdenknowes," "Tarn, Glen," "My Nannie's awa," "Land o' the Leal," "Lucy's .Flittin'," and many others? There is one thing which cannot fail to strike the reader of these songs, and it is the fact that the great majority of our best songs are from the pens of writers bornin the poorer ranks Of society, and whose education was generally Comparatively imperfect. Ramsay, Burns, Allan Cunningham, Mayne, Tanha- hill, Hogg, Gall, Laidlaw, may serve to illustrate this in the later period of the annals of our song. For the earlier period the song writers are generally unknown, but from Various circum- stances we must infer that the same fact is visible here also, especially when we remember that in the works of Sir David Lindsay, Gawain Douglas, or Dunbar, we do not find any piece which could be included in a collection of Scotish song ; and assuredly these writers give us no name distinguished in their time for excellence in this department of their craft. Why this should be, we leave some future investigator into the Curi- osities of Literature to determine. INTRODUCTION. We purpose devoting this introduction to au examination of the remains of our early songs, so as to give the reader such an idea of our earliest pieces as may be derived from an enumeration of the titles, which is almost wholly all that has come down to us. Where a fragment has been fortunate enough to escape the fate of its fellows, we shall faithfully and gladly give it. _ We will also take a glance at the most important printed collections, from Eamsay's Tea Table Miscellany onward. The songs of Scotland, so far as they are left to us, begin at the period when the ancient minstrels, on whose social position so much valuable time, paper, and temper has been wasted, had fallen into the deepest disgrace, and were classed in Acts of Parliament along with beggars, rogues, and vagabonds. The decline of their influence, and in all likelihood the comparative worthlessness of their later compositions, caused the people gen- erally to cherish more fondly the songs and ballads that had arisen amongst themselves, no one could tell how, and which better assisted their varying mood than the long rhymes of the strplling bard, and enabled them to keep men of the questionable character, which the representatives of the old minstrels had won for themselves, away from their dwellings and merry meetings. The pastoral life which, in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, was followed by the majority of the people of the lowlands, would also favour the growth of song ; and in each little community one man's success doubtless excited the emulation of his neighbour, and each would strive to be reckoned best at rhyming, 1 particularly if some rustic beauty were the prize to be won. However it may be, there is now hardly a village, river, or glen without a song in its honour ; all the favourite names of the lassies, Mary, Kate, Jean, Meg, or Annie, are duly enshrined : every battlefield has been celebrated or wailed, while the popular enemies of the country, whether internal or external, are bedecked in satire which , justly or not, has sent them down to all posterity with an evil prominence that can never be removed. A collection like this can only deal with the songs of the Low- lands. Could the Highland minstrelsy be collected and edited, it would be seen that the north is not behind the south in little pieces that touch the heart and fire the soul. Many of the Gaelic Airs especially, convey the impressions of love, sorrow, grief, and triumph in a manner at once beautiful, musical, and impressive. 8 Prior to the publication of the Tea Table Miscellany in 1725, Scotish Song was preserved only in the precarious keeping of 1 We know how well pleased the Ettriek Shepherd was at the title given him by the country lassies of " Jamie the Foeter." 2 The bagpipe is commonly put down by Englishmen as a nuisance, but they never heard the pipers at a grave side, where, as each dull thud of earth falls on the coffin lid, a low plaintive wail is given forth at once touching and heart-rending. INTRODUCTION. the people, who, with each succeeding generation, altered the songs bequeathed by them to suit their own tastes. The words of course were first altered, then the ideas, till often the mere name of the original song given to us as the original name of an air, is all that remains to afford us an idea of the early words. Sufficient evidence of this will be given further on, when we detail thef titles of the old tunes to which words in keeping with the titles cannot now be produced. The earliest scrap of song which has been preserved occurs in Wynton's Orygynale Cronykil (which is supposed to have been written early in the fifteenth century), and seems to form part of a lament for the death of Alexander III., a.d. 1285 : — "Quhen Alysander oure kynge wes dede That Scotland led in luwe and le, Away wes sons off ale and brede Off wyne and wax, off gamyn and glo ; Oore gold was changyd into lede, Cryst, borne into vergynyte, Succour Scotland and remede, That stad in his perplexite." With the death of Alexander began the intrigues of the English king for the sovereignty of Scotland, and the next scrap we have refers to the first expedition of Edward I. into the northern kirigdom. The town of Berwick-on-Tweed was in the possession of the Scotch and uras strongly garrisoned by them. This of course had to be taken and was besieged. The inhabitants were so much elated at a temporary success (the burning of two English ships, assisting in the attack from the sea side), that the following was sung by them in derision at the attempts of the English : — Wend Kyng Edewarde, with his lange shankes, To have gete Berwicke, al our unthankes ? Gas pikes hym, And after Gas dikes hym. 1 " This pleasantry, however,'' says Bitson, " was in the present instance somewhat ill-timed; for as soon as the King heard of it, he assaulted the town with such fury that he carried it with the loss of 25,700 Scots." The battle of Bannockburn, fought July, 1314, was naturally the subject of a great rejoicing in' Scotland, and we have a short fragment of a song which appears to have been popular at the time : — 1 Harleian MSS. quoted by Eitson. Mr. Chambers, Songs of Scotland, vol. L p. 5., suggests that the word Oat is an error for Oar, a suggestion very likely to be INTRODUCTION. Maydens of Englande sore may ye mome For your le mmana ye have lost at Banokysborne, With heue a lowe What wenyfch the Kynge of Englande To have got Scotlohde Wyth rumbylbwe 1 l That a song was a very popular method of celebrating a victory is made known to us by a reference in Barbour's Bruce, where the poet forbears to enter into particulars, as Quhas liks they may her Young women, quhen thai will play, Syng it amang thaim ilk day. 2 The feeling against the English was not removed by the marriage of a Scotish King with an English Prineess, for in 1328 at the time of the marriage of David II. with the Princess Jane, this pasquil was in great favour with the Scotch : — Long beerdis hartles, Paynted hoodes wytles, Gray cottes graceles, Maketh Englande thryfteless. We now come to the reign of James I., lineiuestionably the ablest of all the Stewart racfe of kings. As is well known to every reader of Scotish History, James!, while on his way to France, to which court he was sent fbr his education, was captured by an English Cruiser and detained for nineteen years a prisoner in England. During his captivity he received the best education that could be given, and which, if not far beyond what he would have had in France, was at least greatly superior to that of any of his predecessors on the throne. He returned to Scotland with ideas as to government and refine- ment far beyond his, age. He was also, so far as we know, the best Scotch poet of his age ; and although the " Kimgis Quair " is the only work we can ascribe to him with any degree of cer- tainty, still it is but reasonable to believe that other pieces came from his pen, and from his love of music that these pieces comprised many songs. Fordun, a cbntempbrary historian, has highly extolled his talents as a musician, and Mr. Tytler, one of his editors and biographers, says " From the genius of King James, his profound skill in the principles of music, and great performance on the harp; we may esteem him the inven- tor and reformer of the Scottish Vocal Music." 3 ' Preserved in the Chronicle of St. Alban's. The words Heualogh and Bom- belogh were probably, aa remarked by Ritson, an ordinary burden for ballads in the time. 2 Barbour's Bruce. Jamieson's ed. Glasgow, 1869. 3 Works of King James I. ; Glasgow, 12mo, no date, page 273. INTRODUCTION. Major in his De G-estis Scotorum, mentions two songs by- King James entitled — Yas Sen. 1 At Beltayn.', In one of the poems attributed to the king, entitled Peblis to the Play, two songs are mentioned as being struck lip by the merry-makers — Their f urd * ane man to the holt * Theft sail be mirth at our meiting yet. 6 A curious poem entitled Cockelbie's Sow (which will be found printed in Laing's Select Eemains of the Ancient Popular Poetry of Scotland ; Edinburgh, 1822, 4to), seems to have been written about the year 1450. A man called Cockelbie had a sow " which he sold for the reasonable sum of threepence ; and a detail of the various effects connected with the disbursement of this sum, constitutes the substance of the poem." 6 One of the pennies was lost, and was found by a woman who determined to expend it to the best advantage, by buying a pig with it and inviting her acquaintances to partake. The pig, however, escaped before being killed. The fortunes of the other two pennies, are treated in their turn in the poem, but it is with the first only we have at present to deal. Th6 list of the parties invited by the woman to discuss the pig is very curious, and contains also the following list of songs, which were given at the meeting : — Joly Lemmane. Tras and Trenass. The Bass. Perdolly. Trolly Lolly.? Cok thou craws quhill day. Twysbank. 8 Terway. Lincolne. Lindsay. Joly Lemmane dawis it not day. 1 Supposed to be the song printed in Pinkerton's Ancient Scottish Poems, vol. ii, page 2U, and Sibbald's Chrpnicle, voL iv., page 66, beginning " Sen that [the] eyne that worlds my weilfair." If this, however, be the case, the piece in question can hardly be called a song, consisting as it does of thirteen stanzas of nine lines each. 2 In all likelihood, as has been remarked by Eitson, Chambers, and others, this refers to the poem of "Peblis to the Play," which begins, "At Beltane when ilk body bound is." 3 Went. 4 Wood. * All trace of the words of these songs is now unfortunately lost. B Irving's History of Scotish Poetry, edited by Carlyle, Edinburgh, 1861 ; 8vo, page 170. 7 Mr. Chambers thinks this is the same as " Trollee lollee lemmando," mentioned in the Complaynt of Scotland, and to be the same as that printed under the same title by Eitson in his ancient songs. 8 Supposed to be the same piece as the ballad preserved in the Bannatyne MB., and printed in Laing's Ancient Popular Poetry. INTRODUCTION. Be yon wodsyd. Late, late in evinnyngis. Joly Martene with a mok. Lulalow lute Cok. My deir derling. 1 In 1513, Gawin Douglas, Bishop of Dunkeld, completed his celebrated translation of Virgil's JEneid, the first translation of a classic which appeared in Britain. Poetical prologues to each book were added by the translator, and these prologues are now considered, and that justly, as the most interesting part of the work. To these prologues we are indebted for the names of four old songs : — " The ship sails ower the saut faem, Will bring thir merchants and my lemman hame." " I will be blythe and licht, My heart is lent upon sae guid a wicht." " I come hidder to wow," * " The joly day now dawis."' In one of his poems, Dunbar mentions a tune, entitled — Into June, but no vestige of it remains. King James V., whose reign covers what has been termed the Augustan age of early Scotish Poetry, is credited with two songs — , The Gaberlnnzie Man.* The Jolly Beggars. 5 1 This is given as the name of a dance, but probably appropriate words were at* tached to the air. 2 In all likelihood this refers to an early version of the favourite song, "I ha'e laid three herring in saut." 3 This appears to have been always a favourite in Scotland. It is mentioned by Dunbar. Montgomery has a song of a similar character, see page 3 of this collec- tion. In the Muses' Threnodie, 1774, the words are quoted as the title of a cele- brated old song ; and in the poem on the " Life and Death of Habbie Simpson" (Watson's collection, part i., 1706), it is asked — " Now wha shall play, the day it dawis." Kitson expresses a doubt as to whether the "song or tune" be actually, or at least originally, Scotish, as he found in the Fairfax MSS. (circa 1600) a song of two stanzas, written in praise of Queen Elizabeth, beginning — This day day dawis, This gentil day dawis, And I must gone home ; but we see no reason for the doubt, as it is quite as likely that the English poet was acquainted with the Scotish song. He also admits that the music which accompanies the English song is poor, "so that it would seem as if either the English harmonist had entirely spoiled the Scotish tune, or the Scotish piper had improved the English one." 4 See page 1 of this collection. 5 This song we were reluctantly obliged to omit on account of its indecency • and besides, we had great doubts as to its ascribed authorship being correct It seems to us to have been written long after the time of James V. though it is likely intended to illustrate one of his wandering exploits. INTRODUCTION. In 1549 was published at St. Andrews the now celebrated Complaynt of Scotland, a work to which inquirers into early Scotish song and music are more indebted than to any other early production. The author of this production is quite un- known ; Leyden, who edited, the work in 1801, claiming it for Sir David Lindsay, while others ascribe it to James Inglis, Abbot of Culross, and to David Wedderburn of Dundee. It is probable that the question will never now be satisfactorily settled. Besides being remarkable for the knowledge it gives us of domestic life in Scotland, it is deeply valuable to the antiquary as being an excellent specimen of early Scotch prose, and to the book-worm as the earliest prose work printed in Scotland. The plan of the work is very curious. " It is divided," says Leyden, " into three parts, of which the first may be properly denominated the complaint of the author ; the second, the monologue of the author ; and the third, the dream of the author, or the complaynt of Scotland. In the first, the author, deeply afflicted by the miseries of his country, begins to speculate concerning their cause. In the second, which has little connection with the first or third, a variety of rural scenes and occupations are depicted, which are ingeniously diversified with a sea-fight, and a disser- tation on Natural Philosophy. This diversion is terminated by. the author going into a profound sleep, during the unsuccessful experiment of shutting his eyes and looking through his eyelids ; and in the third part he relates his dream or vision. The subject of the third part is the same with that of the first— the miseries of Scotland; but the description is more particular, and the machinery more allegorical." ' Nothing could be more tedi- ous to an ordinary reader than a perusal of the piece, but it conveys a valuable legacy to the student of Scotish song, containing, as it does, the titles of thirty-seven songs, popular in their time. The author, tired of study, goes to the fields for relaxation, and there meets with some shepherds, who, for his amusement, sing to him a great number of their favourite songs ; and in the work we have a list of their titles, as under : — Pastance with gude cumpanye, 2 The breir byndis me soir. > Stil vnder the leyais grene.' 1 The Complaynt of Scotland ; edited by John Leyden : 8vo, 1801 ; Intro., p. 74. 2 Said to be a song composed by Henry VIII., Eitson having a manuscript of that time where a song is printed, entitled "The King's Ballet," beginning— Passetyme with good cumpanye, I love and shall vnto I dye ; we are, however, far from being convinced by this that " The King's Ballet " is the song referred to in the Complaynt. • There is a song or poem in the Maitland MSS. {Pirikerton's Ancient Scotish Poena vol. ii, p. 205) entitled "The Murning Maidin," which is supposed to be the piece referred to. It is a poem of eighteen stanzas, of nine lines each, descriptive of a neglected damsel mourning the loss of her swain in the woods. She is over- heard by the poet, who makes love to her and is accepted. INTRODUCTION. Con thou me the raschis grene. 1 Allace I vyit your twa f ayr ene. Gode you gude day vil boy. King Villyamis Note. 3 The lang, noune nou.? The Cheapel-valk. 4 r Faytht is there none. Skald a bellis nou> The Ahirdenis nqo.« Brume, brume on hil. 7 AUone I veip in grit distress. Trolee lollee lemmendou. 8 Bille, vil thou cum by a Me 'and belt thee in Sanct Francis cord, 9 The frog Cam' to the myl dur, 10 The sang of Gilquhiskar Eycht soirly musing in my mynde, God sen the Due, hed byddin in France, 1 And Delabaute had neuyr cum hame, 11 ) 1 There la an oid English song Of which "Colle to me the rysshes gxene" is the chorus. 2 This is supposed to be the song sung by Hendy Nicholas, in Chaucer's Miller's Tale. "And after that he song the kingis note, ' Ful often blessed was his mery throte." — Ritson. Leyden in his Introduction to the Complaynt considers this Suggestion improbable. 3 Probably a part of the chorus of a song. Mr. Robert Chambers seems to con- sider it equal to "Sing niddle, sing noddle, sing »oto, reow; now." 4 Supposed by Mr. Chambers to be identical with Henryson's poem of " The Abbey Walk." 5 , '■ Probably popular burdens tb songs. 7 This song is mentioned by Laheham, describing the literary collections of Captain Cos, the Mason of Coventry. And Mr. Ritson quotes from an old authority the following lines : — " Brome, brome On nil, The gentil brome On fail, hil, Brome, brome on hiue hil, . The gentil brome on hiue hil, The brome stands oh MUe hil" — Leyden. 8 See note 7 page 5. Probably an old Chorus. 6 In Constable's Cantus, it is stated by Leyden, two lines of this song are intro- duced in a piece — Billie, will ye come by a lute, Ahd tuick it with your pin trow low. 10 This is probably the beginning of a childish ballad. There is a ballad beginning- There lived a puddy in a well, And a merry mouse in a mill, printed in the Ballad Book, 1824. And Leyden quotes one which he himself heard, beginning — The frog sat in the mill door, spin, spin, spinning, When by cum the little mouse, rin, rin, rinnlng. 11 "John, Duke of Albany, regent during the minority of James V., being sent for into France, left in Ms place Sir Andrew D'Arcy, a Frenchman called the chevalier De la Beaute, who appears to have been a very gallant and amiable character, and was savagely murdered, nea* Dunbar, by the Laird of Wedderburn and others in 1517."— Ritson. The two Hnes quoted seem to be the betrinnine of a ballad on the event. INTRODUCTION. XXIX Al musing of meruellis a myshef I gon, 1 Maistres fayr ye vil for foyr. lustye maye vith Flora Queen. 2 mine hart, hay this is my sang. The battel of the Hayrlau.' The Hunttis of Cheuet. 4 Sal I go vitht you to Rumbelo fayr. Greuit is my sorow. 6 Turne the sueit vilje to me. My lufe is lyand seik. Send him ioy, ioy. The Persee and the Mongumerye met That day, that gentil day.e My luf is laid apon ane knycht. AUace that samyn snet face. In ane mirthful morow. My hart is leinit on the land. The author of the Complaynt also gives us the following list of Dances and Airs. All Christin Mennis Dance, The North of Scotland, Huntis Up, The Comont entray, Lang plat fut of Gariau : Bobene Hude, Thorn of Lyn, The Loch of Slene, The Gossip Dance, Leuis Grene, The Lemnes Wynd, Cum Kittil me nakyt wantounly, Baglap and al, Johne Ermestrangis dance, The bace of Voragon, Schaik a trot, &c Sir Bichard Maitland, of Lethington, Lord Privy Seal, and Judge in the Court of Session (born 1496, died 1586), was one of the principal poets of the period, and is entitled to notice in this introduction on account of the manuscript collection of Scotch Poetry compiled by him, or under his auspices, about 1555. This collection, now in the Pepysian Library, Cambridge, con- tains pieces by Dunbar, Gawain Douglas, Schaw, Arbuthnot, and others, besides a large number of pieces by Maitland him- self. Pinkerton, the celebrated antiquary, published a selection from the manuscript, with copious introductions and notes in 1 Mr. Leyden discovered, what he considered a verse of this song, in Constable's Cantus- All musing of mervelles in the mid morne Through a slunk in a slaid, amisse have I gone ; I heard a song me beside, that reft from me my sprite, But through my dream, as I dream'd this was the effect. 2 First printed in 1608, by Chepman and Myllar. It also appears in the Aberdeen Cantos, 1666. In the Bannatyne MS. it is ascribed to Alexander Scott. It will be found on page 6 of the present collection with its Orthography slightly altered. 3 Supposed to be the still popular ballad of that name (see Ballad Minstrelsy of Scotland.) 4 Supposed to be the old ballad entitled "Chevy Chace." 5 See Bitson's Ancient Songs, page 93; where is printed a piece entitled "The Dying Maiden's Complaint," supposed to be the song here mentioned. 6 Probably a ballad on the battle of Otterbourne. INTRODUCTION. 1786, and from this work we have extracted the following list of songs : — Wa worth Maryage. 1 Sang upon a maist melancholia aventure. 2 Sang on absence. 9 A welcum to eild. 4 The Lament of a pure courtman. 5 God gif I war wedo now. 8 The mnrning maidin. 7 The Bankis of Helicon. 8 Luve sang on honp. 1 Attributed to Clapperton, a poet, of whose life we have no particulars, even his christian name being unknown. He is supposed to have been contemporary with Dunbar. The Bong, which Pinkerton praises very highly, details the woes of a damsel who, being married to "ane schrew," regrets her position. It is too long for insertion here. 2 A Love Song in four stanzas, unflt for quotation. The author is unknown. 3 A Song in thirteen stanzas, of 9 lines each. 4 A not very contented welcome to age as may be gathered from a reading of the last stanza — My curland hair, my cristel ene, Am beld, and bleird, as all may se, My bak that sumtyme brent has bene Now cruikis lyk ane camok tree, Be me your sampil ye may se, For so said wourthy Solomon, Elding is end of erthlie glie ; "Welcum eild, for youth is gone. » The Lament of a courtier. He tells how his two brothers have occupied good positions, one being a "Prelot of Pryde," and the other, having carried a nack hi* attained great wealth; while he, devoting his attention and talents to the service of the court, has been left in great poverty. Beyond exemplifying the " old saw » nf Put not your trust in princes," it is of little moment. The lament of a married man for the loss of his freedom. 7 Alluded to before. Note 3 page 7. * \ V } e k °J. d |™ I V itanzM %. the # yle of " The Ch This air is almost the same as that of the ballad of Johnnie Faa, the Gipsie Laddie, on which the well-known beautiful air of Glen's equally beautiful song of Waes me for Prince Charlie is founded. The story of Lady Cassellis will be found entered fully into in the companion volume to this work, Tht Ballad Minstrelsy of Scotland. 1 A similar aii to that of Clout the Caldron. 3 This seems to have been a very popular air, and Kitty is still celebrated amongst us in the form of a nursery rhyme. King James VL, in Scott's Fortunes of Nigel, is made to say that "a man may lawfully dance Chrichty Bairdie, or any other dance in a tavern, but not inter parietes ecclesite." t The air is that of the more modern song of Dumbarton's Drums. 5 Mr. Dauney is careful to point out that this is not to be taken literally, that is, in terms of reminder that a clean shirt is essential at least once a week, but that it is a gathering cry to be ready for action by putting on their armour, Monday being generally the day on which the weapon schaws were held. 6 Supposed to be the song mentioned in the Complaynt, as "The frog cam' to the myl dur." ' Probably a corruption of the old name of Surdastruma, drum. The air is similar to that of "Steer her up and haud her gaun." * See p. 56 of the present collection. INTRODUCTION. The Hemlock is the best o' seed That any man may sow, When bairnies greet after breid Give them a home to blow. Come reke me to the Rowan tree. Come row me round about, bony, dowie. I and my cumner, my cumner and I Shall never part with our mouth so dry. All the mane that I make says the guidman ; Who's to have my wife, deid when I am ? Care for thy winding sheet, false lurdun, For I shall get ane other when thow art gone. 1 We have now exhausted the majority of the early sources of fragments of our songs, and will conclude this essay by a glance at our principal printed collections. It cannot but be painful to any literary antiquary to contemplate the baldness of these early remains, and to reflect that the songs prior to the middle of the seventeenth century, which delighted our ancestors and assisted them in their merry-meetings, and emboldened them in love or war, have with few exceptions passed away with them, leaving only the titles of a small number, to register, like tomb- stones in an auld kirk-yard, that such things were. No one can fully appreciate the amount of knowledge of the daily life of the singers, their little troubles and doings, the appearance of their homes, their dress, sentiments, education, and other objects far beneath the dignity of history to chronicle which have thus been lost to us, never to be recovered I The fragments we have only enable us to see that the song was a favourite species of literature, that the airs which were current were often of the most beautiful description, and to surmise that the words to which they were allied were often equal to the beauty of the tune, and that is all. The Aberdeen Cantus published at thecity of Bonaccord in 1666, contains about fifty songs with their tunes, of which only some half-a-dozen are Scotish, and these of the most dubious de- scription : amongst others, Alexander Scot's Lusty Maye, with Flora Queen, is there set to music. WatsoVs collection of Scofs poems published at Edinburgh in 1706, 1709, and 1711, is the first collection of Scotish poetry we have, and is supposed to have been compiled by John Spottiswood, editor of Hope's Minor Practicks. It contains for the first time, " Py let us a' to the Bridal," the version of Old Long Syne, attributed to Ayton ; several pieces by the Marquis of Montrose, etc. 1 A complete list of the scraps in this cantus will be found in the introduction to Hi. Chambers's Scotish Songs, 1829, vol. L INTRODUCTION. X H The first of our collections of songs is the TeaTable Miscellany of Allan Ramsay, the first volume of which appeared in 1724. Scotish music had become fashionable about that time, and Allan Eamsay the bookseller, considered a collection of the Songs of his country would answer as a publishing speculation, while his own talents as a poet and those bf his friends, would assist him in making a respectable-sized volume. The work has been a perfect mine to all future collectors and editors of song, and its extent may be learned from the fact that -it gives us upwards of twenty presumably old songs, upwards of a dozen old songs altered, and about one hundred by Allan himself, Crawford, Hamilton, and others ; we ako have a great number of names of old airs to which the new songs were directed to be sung, and a host of the popular English songs of the day. As an editor, Eamsay has been much blamed by antiquaries for preferring to give his own songs rather than the old versions on which he based some of his pieces, but surely these gentlemen do not reflect sufficiently on the character of a great majority of these old songs. When Ramsay set about collecting, he had a task before him at once delicate and dangerous. He required to prune the old songs of indelicacies before submitting them to the taste of " Ilka lovely British lass, Frae ladies Charlotte, Ann, and Jean, Down to ilk bonnie singing lass, Wha dances barefoot on the green." He dared not present any thing which would be,flouted as im- moral at the rigidly righteous tea-meetings which then abounded, and as a poet he exerted his skill in covering over these blemishes, 1 in providing new verses to fill up obvious gaps, and to furnish totally new songs in place of old ones at once worthless and wicked. A trenchant editor, certainly, for the antiquary; but no lover of poetry can regret the cause which drew so many fine songs from the best Scotch poets of the time. Hamilton, Crawford, and Ramsay himself,' gave not a bad ex- change, for songs in all likelihood trashy and licentious, and we have sufficient confidence in Ramsay's judgment to believe, that no piece at all worthy of preservation which came under his notice in its entirety was not duly preserved. Herd's Collection, issued in 1770, and afterwards with ad- ditions in 1776, .attends more to the taste of the antiquary. Very little is known of the life of Honest David, and even the editorship of the two celebrated volumes cannot with certainty be given to him. All that is known is that he was a native of 1 Since Ramsay's time public refinement has so far advanced, that no editor would dare to print in a popular work a great number of the songs given in the Tea Table Miscellany, a fact which may be confirmative that Eamsay did not use too much liberty with the old pieces — certainly no more than what made them presentable. xlii INTRODUCTION. St. Cyrus, in Kincardineshire, that he was for many years a clerk to an accountant in Edinburgh, and died in June, 1810, aged 78 years. A notice of his death appeared in the Scots Magazine for July, 1810, and included the following sketch : — " He was a most active investigator of Scottish Literature and Antiquities, and enjoyed the friendship of nearly all the eminent artists and men of letters who have flourished in Edinburgh within these fifty years. Eunciman, the painter, was one of his most intimate friends; and with Ruddiman, Gilbert Stuart, Fergusson, and Robert Burns, he was well acquainted. His information regard- ing the History of Scotland was extensive. Many of his remarks have appeared in periodical publications ; and the notes appended to several popular works are enriched by materials of his own collecting. He was a man truly of the old school, inoffensive, modest, and unambitious, and in an extraordinary degree forming in all these respects a very striking contrast to the forward puff- ing and ostentatious disposition of the present age." Sir "Walter Scott informs us that " His hardy and antique mould of coun- tenance and his venerable grizzled locks procured him, amongst his acquaintances, the name of Qreysteil." George Paton, who appears to have been co-editor of the Collection, was in the Cus- tom-house. He carried on a most extensive correspondence with many of the most celebrated antiquarians of his time, amongst, others BiBhop Percy, Gough, and Joseph Ritson. 1 Herd's Collection, as it is commonly called, was arranged in several divisions according to the subject of the pieces,. and a glance at the pages of the present volume will show how much old Scotish Song has been indebted to it for preservation. Herd and Paton, so far as we know, were model editors for antiquarians : Scraps and Fragments were printed exactly as they found them, as well as complete -songs, without the slightest regard to rhyme or metre, decency or beauty. 8 What must always be esteemed as the most valuable collec- tion of the early Songs and Music of Scotland, " Johnson's Scots Musical Museum," was begun at Edinburgh in 1786. James Johnson was a Music Seller and Engraver in Edinburgh, and was the first who used Pewter plates for engraving music. The work seems to have been projected by William Tytler, of Wood- houselee, the celebrated antiquary (whose "Dissertation on Scotish Song and Music" was long the standard authority on the subject, though now but of little use), Dr. Blacklock, and 1 A Selection of Letters received by Paton from Percy, Herd, and Callender of Craigforth, were published by Mr. Maidment, at Edinburgh, in 1830, and forms one of the most valuable contributions which that zealous antiquary has given to Scotish Literature. 2 Herd's Collection was reprinted twice during 1869, one at Edinburgh being produced under the editorial care of Mr. Sidney Gilpin, while the other, published in Glasgow, is a mere reprint. INTRODUCTION. xliii Samuel Clark who appears to have acted as musical editor. Prom the note addressed " To the True Lovers of Caledonian Music and Song," prefixed to the first volume, we find that the work originated from " A just and general complaint, that among all the music books of Scots Songs which have been hitherto offered to the public, not even altogether can be Said to have merited the name of what may be called a complete collection ; having been published in detached pieces and par- cels ; amounting however on the whole to more than twice the price of this publication ; attended moreover with this further disadvantage, that they have been printed in such large unport- able sizes that they could by no means answer the purpose of being pocket-companions, which is no small encumbrance, es- pecially to the admirers of social music." Each volume was to contain one hundred songs with music, &c. In the second volume, the authors' names so far as known were given, and several of the old pieces marked as such. The work would probably not have reached a third volume had not Eobert Burns entered into the scheme. Burns had been introduced to John- son in Edinburgh, and contributed two original songs to the first volume. To the second volume he contributed largely, and continued to furnish the publisher with songs original, or collected, or half of each. He informed a friend that he had ' ' col- lected, begged, borrowed, and stolen, all the songs" he had met with, and this enthusiasm continued to the last. Without his aid in rousing contributors, finding material, old or new, the Scots Musical Museum would have been on a level with Thomson's Orpheus Caledonius, instead of occupying the important position it now enjoys in the literature of our song. The work finished with the sixth volume. One thing was wanted, as Johnson left it, to make it complete, and that was, a series of good and trustworthy notes. This was undertaken by William Stenhouse, an accountant in Edinburgh who died in 1827, leaving his task unfinished. Mr. David Laing next took up the work, and with the assistance of Mr. Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, gave a series of additional notes illus- trative and corrective of those of Stenhouse, added prefaces and in- dexes, and in 1853 gave all lovers of Scotish Song an edition of Johnson, the value of which is immeasurable. To it we gratefully acknowledge our obligations for much and valuable information. In 1794 the celebrated antiquary, Joseph Eitson, published a collection of Scotish Songs with the music in two volumes. The collection itself so far as the songs were concerned, was of little consequence, the Scotch words being very incorrectly printed, and the music in a great number of instances being left blank. Its principal value lies in the Introductory Essay, the first dissertation on our Songs and Music written in a fitting manner, and to it the student is indebted for a careful in- vestigation into the early remains of our Song. There, xliv INTRODUCTION. are of course many things in it now allowed to be incorrect, and at least one of his critical opinions will be laughed at; 1 but in spite of this Eitson's Essay at once occupied and still holds the position of being the best historical sketch we have of our early songs. To its pages every succeeding writer and editor has been largely indebted, and we have also to award it our homage. Thomson's Select Melodies of Scotland has been characterised in this work as " a sort of drawing-room edition," of the Scots Musical Museum. Its publication was begun in 1793, by Mr. George Thomson, Clerk to the Board of Trustees, Edinburgh. Mr. Thomson's idea was to give the favourite airs accompanied where possible by the words. When, from their character, these were unfitted for the perusal Of ladies he proposed to print original verses. He also gave symphonies and accompaniments to the airs by the best composers of his time, as Haydn, Beet- hoven, and Pleyel ; and, greatest of all, he secured for the literary portion the services of Bobert Burns, who entered into the spirit of the work with the greatest enthusiasm and enriched it with a great number of original songs, maity of them being the best that came from his pen, and given to Thomson without fee or reward. Sir Walter Scott, Sir Alexander Boswell, Johanna Baillie, Thomas Campbell, and many others contributed to the work, and as it also contained a selection of the best of the old songs, with the music carefully given, the work was altogether a noble undertaking, well planned and carried out. In 1829, Mr. Bobert Chambers published his collection of Scotish songs in two volumes, with an Introductory Essay. It is needless at the present time to reiterate Mr., Chambers's numerous services to the literature and antiquities of Scotland. On the subject of songs and ballads, Mr. Chambers has always been considered, and justly so, as one of our foremost critics, while in the " Book of Days," " Popular Annals of Scotland," and his Histories of the Bebellions, he has made a name for himself in the popular elucidation of our History and Antiquities. Mr. Chambers in his essay on Scotish Song principally follows the authority of Bitson, adding much valuable information resulting from his own inquiries. The songs are well selected, but print- ed without any attempt at arrangement, a fact which we cannot too deeply deplore. In the notes affixed tp the songs, Mr. Chambers adds greatly to our knowledge of their history, and we have to acknowledge with pleasure the obligations we are under to them. In a few instances we have had to dissent from several ,of Mr. Chambers's speculations, but we have done 1 We allude to the passage where he says of Burns, that "he does not appear to his usual advantage in song." INTRODUCTION. slv bo only after very careful consideration and with very great regret.' A few words on a peculiar branch of our subject, and we con- clude. Scotch Music became very popular in England about the middle of the seventeenth century, and in 1719 Thomas D'Urfey issued his celebrated " Pills to purge Melancholy," a Collection of Songs, &c, containing a great number of Scotch airs and imitations, with Scotch words specially written for the collection by D'Urfey, and his Grub-street compeers. Why the Scotch words were rejected we cannot say, certainly it was not on grounds of morality, for a more filthy series of volumes could hardly have been issued; nor on grounds of poetry, for we might as well compare Boucicault to Shakspere, aB the Songs in D'Urfey's collection to their Scotish Models. But it is cer- tain that the work was highly popular in England, and is now one of the rarest gems in the Ballad Collector's Library. Nothing can be more distasteful to any lover of the ring of 1 It may increase the usefulness of this work to give a list of some'of the minor collections and works illustrative of the subject which have appeared. Thomson's Orpheus Caledonius, 1725 folio, and 2 vols. 8vo, 1733, is the first collec- tion of Scotch Music styled such. It is of but little importance now, and only prized by collectors. The Charmer, "'a collection of songs chiefly such as are eminent for poetical merit ; among which are many originals and others that were never before printed in a song book," 2 vols., Edinburgh, 1762 ; "The Lark," Edin- burgh, 1740. Sir Walter Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scotish Border, though principally treating of Ballads, contained a number of songs. Jamieson's Popular Ballads and Songs, 2 vols., Edinburgh, 1806 ; Cromek's Select Scotish Songs, ancient and modern, with Critical and Biographical Notes by Robert Burns, 2 vols., London, 1810: Gilchrist's Select Scotish Ballads, Tales and Songs, with explanatory notes and observations, 2 vols., Edinburgh, 1815 ; Campbell's Albyns Anthology, Edinburgh, 1816. Hogg's Jacobite Belies of Scotland, 2 vols., Edinburgh, 1819-21, deals as its title imports exclusively with the songs relating to the Rebellions, and, in place of a better, must rank as the best collection. Struthers's Harp of Caledonia, 3 vols., Glasgow, 1819 ; Smith's Modern Scotish Minstrel, 6 vols., Edinburgh, 1820-24, a fine collection, the music given with much care and taste, as would be expected from the composer of 'the air of "Jessie the flower o' Dunblane." C. K. Sharpe's "Ballad Book," a tiny volume of which only thirty copies were printed in 1824, contains a few traditionary scraps of song, as does also Maidment's North Countrie Garland, the impression of which was also limited to thirty copies issued in the same year. Allan Cunningham's Songs of Scotland, 4 vols., 1826, was a most ambitious perform- ance, but of little use. In 1836, Peter Cunningham edited a small volume of songs which gave the public, for the first time, the pieces arranged in the only satisfac- tory manner — according to their age. It is one of the best of the minor collections. Mr. George F. Graham edited " The Songs of Scotland," adapted to their appropriate melodies, in three volumes 1854-6. This work is undoubtedly the most popular drawing-room edition of the songs, and deservedly so. In 1845, Mr. "William Whitelaw edited "The Book of Scotish Song," a work which aimed at compre- hensiveness in the early and latter period. Original songs were freely admitted, and the consequence is that we have a pretty full collection of early song printed side by side with the effusions of every petty poetaster ; in short, the editor's boast that his work comprised upwards of twelve hundred original songs, seems to us the greatest blemish of the work. To do Mr. Whitelaw every justice, his notes displayed great research, and his pieces are, aB a rule, correctly printed, but we have them without any arrangement, a vast heterogeneous mass. The modern Scotish Minstrel, edited by Dr. Charles Rogers in 1856, is a valuable contribution, dealing as it does with the poets of the first half of the present century and containing memoirs of many minor poets. We have to acknowledge our indebtedness to it for much information for the later part of our work Xlvi INTRODUCTION. our old Songs than to read these poor rhymes, and yet for a long time they passed current in England, if not to a great ex- tent among the educated Scotchmen of their time as veritable Scotish productions: Bamsay.'s Tea TableMiscellany, Herd's Col- lection, and Johnson's Museum, trill be found to contain a large number of them. In latertimes several southern writers have "tried their handB," and succeeded so well that it was with great regret that the plan of the present collection could not allow the Editor to in- clude a number in it. But from the outset, the plan was to give only veritable native productions, and we have now to be content with drawing attention to the names of two of these writers. Richard Hewit, a native of Cumberland, who was for some time Secretary to Dr. Blacklock, the admirer of Burns, wrote the following beautiful song ' : — ROSLIN CASTLE. 'Twas in that season of the year, When all things gay and sweet appear, That Colin with the morning ray, Arose and song his rural lay, Of Nanny's charms the shepherd sung, The hills and dales with Nanny rung, While Boslin Castle heard the swain, And echoed hack the cheerful strain. Awake sweet muse ! the breathing spring With rapture warms ; awake and sing ! Awake and join the vocal throng, Who hail the morning with a song, To Nanny raise the cheerful lay, 1 bid her haste and come away, In sweetest smiles herself adorn, And add new graces to the morn. hark, my love, on ev'ry spray Each f eather'd warbler tunes his lay j 'Tis beauty fires the ravish'd throng, And love inspires the melting song. Then let my raptur'd notes arise, Por beauty darts from Nanny's eyes, And love my rising bosom warms, And fills my soul with sweet alarms. come, my love ! thy Colin's lay, With rapture calls, come away, Come_ while the muse this wreath shall twine, Around that modest brow of thine, 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 ! 1 From Johnson' Museum. INTRODUCTION. xlvii Miss Susanna Blamire, another native of Cumberland (died 1795), wrote a number of Scotch Songs of which the following is at once the best and most popular : — THE SILLER CROHN. And ye sail walk in silk attire, And siller hae to spore, Gin yell consent to be his bride Nor think o' Donald mair. Oh ! wha wad buy a silken goun Wi' a puir broken heart ; Or what's to me a siller croun, Gin frae my love I part ? The mind wha's every wish is pure Far dearer is to me, And ere I'm forced to break my faith, I'll lay me down and dee ; For I hae pledged my virgin troth Brave Donald's fate to share, And he has gi'en to me his heart, Wi' a' its virtues rare. His gentle manners wan my heart, He gratefu' took the gift, Could I but think to seek it back It wad be waur than theft ; For langest life can ne'er repay The love he bears tome, And ere I'm forced to break my troth 111 lay me down and dee. Towards the conclusion of his Essay on Scotish Song, Ritson indulges in the following literary prophecy : — " The era of Scotish Music and Scotish Song is now passed. The pastoral simpli- city and natural genius of former age", no longer exist ; a total change of manners has taken place in all parts of the country, and servile imitation usurped the place of original invention. All, therefore, which now remains to be wished is, that industry should exert itself to retrieve and illustrate the relics of depart- ed genius." Never was judgment more erroneously pronounced, or prophecy more easily shown to be false, so far as the Songs are concerned, than this. On the contrary, the brightest period in this branch of our literature is that of Bitson's own time, or immediately after, as the names of Robert Burns, Lady Nairne, Lady Ann Barnard, Hector Macneill, and Robert Tannahill, as the authors of some of our finest and most popular pieces suffi- ciently prove. And though the singers have not been so great as the past merges nearer the present, still we can point to more than sufficient to show that the grand roll of our lyric xlviii INTBODUCTION. bards is not yet at an end. Boswell, Hogg, Scott, Johanna Baillie, Allan Cunningham, Biddell, and Motherwell, have all contributed to our treasures, what; we would not willingly let die ; and their successors, our own contemporaries, have given us many proofs that the harp will not rest eyen in our day, but that the Halls and Villages, Hills and Bivers, Lads and Lasses, Mcill still continue to be celebrated, rousing depths of love and passion hitherto unknown, and fanning patriotism into a still purer and brighter flame. Glasgow, November, 1870. .THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. PAET I. From James V. to the Union, 1702. THE GABEBLUNZIE MAN. Attributed to King James V., and supposed to be an account of one of his exploits while amusing himself by travelling in disguise among the country folks. It appears in the Tea Table Miscellany. The pawkie auld carle came o'er the lea, Wi' mony gude e'ens and days to me, Saying, Gudewife, for your courtesie, Will you lodge a silly poor man ? The nicht was cauld, the carle was wat, And down ayont the ingle he sat ; My daughter's shouthers he 'gan to clap, And cadgily ranted and sang. wow ! quo' he, were I as free, As first when I saw this countrie, How blythe and .merry wad I be ! And I wad never think lang. He grew canty, and she grew fain ; But little did her auld minny ken What thir slie twa together were say'ng, When wooing they were sae thrang. And ! quo' he, an' ye were as black As e'er the crown of my daddy's hat, 'Tis I wad lay thee by my back, And awa' wi' me thou should gang, And ! quo' she, an' I were as white, As e'er the snaw lay on the dike, I'd deed me braw and lady like,_ And awa' wi' thee I would gang. THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Between the twa was made a plot ; They raise a wee before the cock, And wilily they shot the lock, And fast to the bent are they gane. Up in the morn the auld wife raise, And at her leisure pat- on her claise ; Syne to the servant's bed she gaes, To speer for the silly poor man. She gaed to the bed where the beggar lay, The strae was cauld, he was away, She clapt her hands, cry'd, Waladay ! For some of our gear will be gane. Some ran to coffer, and some to kist, But nought was stown that cou'd be mist, She danc'd her lane, cry'd, Praise be blest ! I have lodg'd a leal poor man. Since naething's awa', as we can learn, The kirn's to kirn, and milk to earn, Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn, And bid her come quickly ben. The servant gade where the daughter lay, The sheets were cauld, she was away, And fast to the gudewife 'gan say, She's aff" wi' the gaberlunzie man. fy gar ride, and fy gar rin, -And haste ye find these traytors again ; For she's be burnt, and he's be slain, The wearifu' gaberlunzie man. Some rade upo' horse, some ran a fit, The wife was wud, and out o' her wit ; She cou'd na gang, nor yet cou'd she sit, But aye she curs'd and she ban'd. Mean time far hind out o'er the lee, Fu' snug in a glen, where nane could see, The twa wi' kindly sport and glee, Cut frae a new cheese a whang : The priving was good, it pleas'd them baith, To lo'e her for aye, he ga'e her his aith, Quo' she, To leave thee I will be laith, My winsome gaberlunzie man. kend my minny I were wi' you, Hl-far'dly wad she crook her mou', Sic a poor man she'd never trow, After the gaberlunzie man. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. My dear, quo' he, ye're yet o'er young, And ha'e nae learn'd the beggar's tongue, To follow me frae town to town, And carry the gaberlunzie on. Wi' cauk and keel I'll win your bread, And spindles and whorles for them wha need, Whilk is a gentle trade indeed, To carry the gaberlunzie on. I'll bow my leg, and crook my knee, And draw a black clout O'er my ei'e, A cripple or blind they will ca' me, While we shall be merry and sing. HEY NOW THE DAT DAWIS. captain Alexander MONTGOMERY, Author of the " Cherrie and the Slae." Like many other of our old Scots poets litttle is known of the events of his life. THe date of his birth has not been proved, but it is supposed to have been about the middle of the Sixteenth Century. He enjoyed a pension from Bang James VI., with whom he seems to have been a favourite. In his latter years he shared the usual fate of poets — want and bitterness. His pension was stopped, and he appears even to have been the inmate of a prison on account of poverty. His death is supposed to have taken place between 1597 and 1615. His poems have been collected and published under the able Editorship of Mr. David Laing. Hat ! nou the day dawis ; The jolie cok crauis, Nou shrouds the shauis Throu natur anone. The Thrisell-cok oryis' On louers wha lyis, Nou skaillis the skyis ; The nicht is neir gone. The fields ou'rflouis With gouans that grouis ; Quhair lilies lyk lou is, Als rid als the rone : The Turtill that treu is, With nots that reneuis Hir pairtie perseuis, The nicht is neir gone. Nou Hairts with Hynds, Conforme to thair kynds, Hie tursis thair tynds, On grund vhair they grone. THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Nou Hurchonis, with Hairs, Ay passis in pairs ; Quhilk deuly declare The nioht is neir gone. The sesone excellis Thrugh susetness that smellis, Nou Cupid compells Our hairts echone. On Venus vha vaiks To muse on our maiks, Syn sing for thair saiks, The nioht is neir gone. All curageous knichts Aganis the day diohts, The hreist-plate, that bright is, To feght with thair sone. The stoned stampis Throu curage and orampis, Syn on the land lampis, The nioht is neir gone. The freiks on Feildis That wicht wapins wieldes, With shyning bright shields At Titan in trone. Stiff speirs in reists Ouer cursors crists, Ar brok on their breists, The night is neir gone. So hard ar thair hittis, Some sueyis, some sittis, And some perforce fttttis On grund vhill they grone. Syn grooms that gay is, On blonks that brayis With suords assayis, The nicht is neir gone. FIENT A CEUM OF THEE SHE PAWS. ALEXANDER SCOTT. One of our minor poets'of the reign of Queen Mary. Of his life nothing is known, and it is to the Bannatyne manuscript that we are indebted for the. few poems we have of this " Scottish Anacreon." His best pieces are those of an amatory cast, his muse getting jaded when instructing Queen Mary in a "New Year's Gift, when sche came first hame, 1562," CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. and his " Justing betwixt Adamsone and Sym," serves only to make us admire its model, "Christ's Kirk on the Green," the more. For his love " ballats'," however, he well merits the title which his admirers have bestowed upon him. Return thee hameward, heart, again, And bide where thou was wont to be ; Thou art ane fule, to suffer pain For luve of her that luves not thee : My heart, let be sic fantasie, Luve nane but as they mak thee cause ; And let her seek ane heart for thee ; For fient a crum of thee she faws. To what effect should thou be thrall But thank, sin' thou has thy free will ? My heart be not sae bestial, But knaw wha does thee guid or ill. Bemain with me and tarry still, And see wha playis best their paws, And let fillock gae fling her fill, For fient a crum of thee she faws. Though thou be fair, I will not fenzie She is the kind of others mae ; For why ? there is a fellow Menzie That seemis guid and are not sae. My heart, tak nowthir pain nor wae, For Meg, for Marjorie, or yet Mause, But be thou glad and let her gae ; For fient a crum of thee she faws. Because I find she took in ill, At her departing thou mak nae care ; But all beguiled go where she will, Ashrew the heart that mane maks mair ! My heart be merry late and air, ■ This is the final end and clause ; And let her fallow ane filly fair, For fient a crum of thee she faws. A RONDEL OF LOVE. ALEXANDER SCOTT." Lo, what it is to lufe, Lerne ye that list to prufe, Be me I say, that no wayis may, The grund of greif remufe ; Bot still decay, both nicht and day ; Lo what it is to lufe. THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Lufe is ane fervent fyre, Kendillit without desyre ; Sohort plesour, lang displesour, Repentance is the hyre ; Ane pure tressour, without mesour; Lufe is ane fervent fyre. To lufe and to be wyiss, To rege with gude ad wyiss ; Now thus, now than, so gois the game, Incertane is the dyiss, Thair is no man, I say, that can Both Infe and to be wyiss. Fie alwayis frome the snair, Lerne at 'me to be ware ; It is ane pane, and dowbill trane, Of endless wo and cair ; For to refrane, that denger plane, Fie alwayis frome the snair. LTJSTIE MAT. ALEXANDER SCOTT. (?) Prom the Aberdeen Cantos, 1666. It also appears in the Bannatyne manuscript. O lustie May, with Flora quene, The balmy drops from Phoebus sheene Prelucent beam before the day ; By thee Diana groweth green, Through gladness of this lusty May. Then Aurora that is so bright To woful hearts she casts great light, Right pleasantly before the day, And shows and sheds forth of that light, Through gladness of this lusty May. Birds on the boughs, of every sort, Send forth their notes, and make great mirth On banks that bloom, and every brae ; And fare and flee ower every firth, Through gladness of this lusty May. And lovers all that are in care To their ladies they do repair, In fresh morning before the day; And are in mirth aye mair and mair, Through gladness of this lusty May. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. Of everie moneth in the year To mirthful May there is no peer ; Her glistering garments are so gay ; Tou lovers all make merry cheer Through gladness of this lusty May. WOOING OF JOCK AND JENNY. The Bannatyne manuscript contains a version of this in an older style, which will be found in the introduction to this work, we here give the more modernised version adopted by Eamsay (and except in a very few instances by Herd). The principal merit of the song lies in the compre- hensive inventory it presents of the worldly " guids and gear " of a Scottish farmer of the time. Bob's Jock cam' to woo our Jenny, On ae feast day when we were fou ; She brankit fast, and made her bonnie, And said Jock, come ye here to woo ? She burnist her, baith breast and brou, And made her clear as ony clock ; Then spak' her dame, and said, I trou Ye come to woo our Jenny, Jock. Jock said, Porsuith, I yearn fu' fain, To luk my head, and sit down by you : Then spak' her minny, and said again, My bairn has tocher enough to gi'e you, Tehie 1 quo' Jenny ; Keik, keik, I see you ; Minny, yon man makes but a mook, Deil hae the Hers, fu leis me o' you, I come to woo your Jenny, quo' Jock. My bairn has tocher of her ain ; A guse, a gryce, a cock and hen, A stirk, a staig, an acre sawin, A bake-bread, and a bannock-stane, A pig, a pot, and a kirn there ben, A kame but and a kaming stock ; With cogs and luggies nine or ten : Come ye to woo'our Jenny, Jock? A wecht, a peat-creel, and a cradle, A pair of clips, a graip, a flail, An ark, an ambry, and a laidle, A milsie,and a sowen-pail, A rousty whittle to shear the kail, And a timber-mell the bear to knock, Twa shelfs made of an auld fir-dale ; Come ye to woo our Jenny, Jock? THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND A furm, a furlet, and a peck, A rock, a reel, and a wheel-band, A tub, a barrow, and a seek, A spurtle-braid, and an elwand. Then Jock took Jenny by the hand, And cry'd, A feast I and slew a cock, And made a bridal upo' land, Now I ha'e got your Jenny, quo' Jock, Now dame, I have your dochter married, And tho' ye mak' it ne'er sae tough, I let you wit she's nae miscarried, It's well kend I ha'e gear enough ; An auld gawd gloyd fell owre a heugh, A spade, a speet, a spur, a sock : Withouten owsen I have a pleugh : . May that no ser your Jenny, quo' Jock? A t'reen truncher, a ram-horn spoon, Twa bits of barket blasint leather, A graith that ganes to coble shoon, And a thrawcruck to twyne a teather, Twa crocks that moup amang the heather, A pair of branks and a fetter lock, A teugh purse made of a swine's blether, To haud your tocher, Jenny, quo' Jock. Good elding for our winter fire, A cod of caff wad fill a cradle, A rake of iron to claut the byre, A deuk about the dubs to paddle; The pannel of an auld led-saddle, And Rob my eem hecht me a stock, Twa lusty lips to lick a laiddle, May this no gane your Jenny, quo' Jock?- A pair of hems and brechom fine, And without bitts a bridle renzie, A sark made of the linkome-twine, A grey green cloke that will not Btenzie ; Mair yet in store — I needija fenzie, Five hundred flaes, a fendy flock ; And are not thae a wakrife menzie, To gae to bed with Jenny and Jock ? Tak'thir for my part of the feast, It is well knawin I am weel bodin : Ye needna say my part is least, Were they as meikle as they're lodin'. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. The wife speer'd gin the kail was sodin, When we have done, tak' hame the brok, The roast was teugh as raplooh hodin, With which they feasted Jenny and Jock. MUIRLAND WILLIE. Tea Table Miscellany. — " It is certainly a composition of considerable antiquity, probably from style and structure of verse by the author of the ' Gaberlunzie Man.' " — Robert Chambers. Harken, and I will tell you how Young Muirland Willie came to woo, Tho' he could neither say nor do ; The truth I tell to you. But ay he crys, whate'er betide, Maggy I'se ha'e to be my bride, With a fal, dal, &c. On his gray yade as he did ride, With durk and pistol by his side, He prick'd her on wi' meikle pride, Wi' meikle mirth and glee ; Out o'er yon moss, out o'er yon muir, Till he came to her dady's door, With a fal, dal, &c. Goodman, quoth he, be ye within, I'm come your doughter's love to win ; I care no for making meikle din, What answer gi' ye me ? Now, wooer, quoth he, wou'd ye light down, I'll gie ye my doughter's love to win, With a fal, dal, &c. Now, wooer, sin ye are lighted down, Where do ye win, or in what town ? I think my doughter winna gloom On sic a lad as ye. The wooer he step'd up the house, And wow but he was wond'rous crouse, With a fal, dal, &c. I have three owsen in a plough, Twa good ga'en yads, and gear enough, The place they ca' it Cadeneugh ; I scorn to tell a lie : Besides, I had frae the great laird A peat pat, and a lang-kail-yard, With a fal, dal, &c. 10 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND The maid put on her kirtle brown, She was the brawest in a' the town ; I wat on him she did na gloom, But blinkit bonnilie. The lover he stended up in haste, And gript her hard about the waist, With a fal, dal, &c. To win your love, maid, I'm come here, I'm young, and hae enough o' gear, And for mysell you need na fear, Troth try me whan ye like. He took aff his bonnet, and spat in his chew, He dighted his gab, and he pri'd her mou', With a fal, dal, &c. The maiden blush'd and bing'd fu law, She had na will to say him na, But to her dady she left it a', As they twa cou'd agree. The lover he ga'e her the tither kiss, Syne ran to her dady, and tell'd him this, With a fal, dal, &c. Your doughter wad na say me na, But to yoursell she has left it a', As we cou'd gree between us twa ; Say what'll ye gi' me wi' her ? Now, wooer, quo' he, I ha'e no meikle, But sic's I ha'e ye's get a pickle, With a fal, dal, &c. A kilnfu of corn I'll gi'e to thee, Three soums of sheep, twa good milk ky, Ye's ha'e the wadding dinner free ; Troth I dow do no mair. Content, quo' he, a bargain be't; I'm far frae hame, make haste, let's do't, With a fal, dal, &c. The bridal day it came to pass, With mony a blythsome lad and lass ; But sicken a day there never was, Sic mirth was never seen. This winsome couple straked hands, Mess John ty'd up the marriage bands, With a fal, dal, &c. And our bride's maidens were na few, Wi' tap-knots, lug-knots, a' in blew, Frae tap to tae they were braw new, And blinkit bonnilie : CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. \\ Their toys and mutches were sae clean, They glanc'd in our ladses' e'en, With a fal, dal, &c. Sic hirdum, dirdum, and sic din, Wi' he o'er her, and she o'er him ; The minstrels they did never bi.hu, Wi' meikle mirth and glee. And ay they bobit, and ay they beckt, And ay their lips together met, With a fal, dal, &c. INCONSTANCY KEPBOVEI). SEK BOBEET AYTOBN. Bom at Kinaldie in Fife, in 1570. He was brought under the notice of James VI. by a Latin poem on that monarch's accession to the English Throne ; and entering the Boyal Household, became Private Secretary to the Queen, &c. He was the personal friend of many literary personages, and amongst others of Ben Jonson, Hohbes, Sir James Balfour, Earl of Stirling, Brummon'd of Hawthornden, &c. He died in 1638, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. His poetical works were collected and published in 1844. The song is here given from Watson's collection, 1711. Burns wrote a version, but without his usual success. I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee, Had I not found the slightest pray'r That lips could speak, had pow'r to move thee ; But I can let thee now alone As worthy to be lqved by none. I do confess thou'rt sweet, yet find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, Thy favours are but like the wind, Which kisseth everything it meets ; And since thou can'st love more than one Thou'rt worthy to be kissed by none. The morning rose, that untouched stands, Arm'd with her briars, how sweet she smells 1 But pluck'd, and strain'd through ruder hands, Her sweets no longer with her^iwells ; But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her one by one. Such fate ere long will thee betide, When thou hast handled been awhile, Like fair flow'rs to be thrown aside, And thou shalt sigh, when I shall smile To see thy love to every one, Hath brought thee to be lov'd by none. 12 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND TO AN INCONSTANT MISTEESS. SIB ROBERT AYTOUN. I loved thee once, I'll love no more, Thine be the grief, as is the blame, Thou art not what thou wast before, What reason I should be the same ? He that can love unlov'd again, Hath better store of love than brain; God send me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away. Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, If thou had still continued mine, Nay, if thou had remain'd thine own, I might perchance have yet been thine. But thou thy freedom did recall, That it thou might elsewhere enthrall; And, then, how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain. What new desires have conquer'd thee, And chang'd the object of thy will, It had been lethargy in me, Not constancy, to love thee still. Yea it had been a sin to go And prostitute affection so, Since we are taught no pray'rs to say, To such as must to others pray. Yet do thou glory in thy choice — Thy choi6e, of his good fortune boast, I'll neither grieve, nor yet rejoice, To see him gain what I have lost. The height of my disdain shall be To laugh at him, to blush for thee ; To love thee still, but go no more A begging at a beggar's door. OLD LONG SYNE. ASCRIBED TO SIR ROBERT AYTOUN. From Watson's Collection of Scottish Poems, part 3, but has been traced in Broadsides prior to the close of the seventeenth century (Chambers); it has also been ascribed to Francis Semple of Beltrees. This song is curious, apart from its own merits, as showing that the phrase "Auld Lang Syne" was current as early as the time of Charles L CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 13 and as the earliest known attempt to turn it into song. Allan Ramsay wrote a song under this title, and with the same sentiment, but his version, like the present, only leads us to admire more highly that of Bobert Burns. PART FIRST. Should old acquaintance be forgot, And never thought upon, The flames of love extinguished, And freely past and gone ? Is thy kind heart now grown so cold In that loving breast of thine, That thou canst never once reflect On old long syne ? Where are thy protestations, Thy vows, and oaths, my dear, Thou mad'st to me and I to thee, In register yet clear ? Is faith and truth so violate To th' immortal gods divine, That thou canst never once reflect On old long syne ? Is't Cupid's fears, or frosty cares, That makes thy spirits decay ? Or is't some object of more worth That's stolen thy heart away ? Or some desert makes thee neglect Him, so much once was thine, That thou canst never once reflect On old long syne ? Is't worldly cares, so desperate, That makes thee to despair ? Is't that makes thee exasperate, And makes thee to forbear ? If thou of that were free as I, Thou surely should be mine ; If this were true, we should renew Kind old long syne. But since that nothing can prevail, And all hope is in vain, From these dejected eyes of mine Still showers of tears shall rain : And though thou hast me now forgot, Yet I'll continue thine, And ne'er forget for to reflect On old long syne. 14 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAUD If e'er I have a house, my dear, That truly is call'd mine, And can afford but country cheer, Or ought that's good therein ; Though thou wert rebel to the king, And beat with wind and rain, Assure thyself of welcome, love, For old long syne. PART SECOND. My soul is ravish'd with delight When you I think upon ; All griefs and sorrows take their flight, And hastily are gone ; The fair resemblance of your face So fills this breast of mine, No fate nor force can it displace, For old long syne. Since thoughts of you do banish grief, When I'm from you removed ; And if in them I find relief, When with sad cares I'm moved, How doth your presence me affeGt With ecstasies divine, Especially when I reflect On old long synew Sines thou hast robb'd me of my heart, By those resistless powers Which Madam Nature doth impart To those fair eyes of yours, With honour it doth not consist To hold a slave in pyne ; Pray let your rigour, then,- desist, For old long syne. 'Tis not my freedom I do crave, By deprecating pains ; Sure, liberty he would not have Who glories in his chains : But this I wish — the gods would move That noble soul of thine To pity, if thou canst not love, For oid long syne. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 15 SCORNFU NANCY. Eamsay's Tea Table Miscellany. — Where it is marked as of unknown age. It is considered by Mr. Stenhouse to be as early as the union of the Crowns in 1603. The tune was selected by Gay for one of the songs in his Opera of " Achilles," performed in 1733. Nancy's to the greenwood gane, To hear the gowdspink chatt'ring, And Willie he has follow'd her, To gain her love by fiatt'ring : But a' that he could say or do, She geck'd and scorned at him ; And aye when he began to woo, She bade him mind wha gat him. What ails ye at my dad, quoth he, My minny, or my auntie ? With crowdy-mowdy they fed me, Langkale and ranty-tanty : With bannocks of good barley-meal, Of thae there was right plenty, With chapped stocks fu' butter'd weol ; And was not that right dainty ? Although my father was nae laird, ('Tis damn to be vaunty,) He keepit aye a good kale yard, A ha' -house, and a pantry ; A guid blue-bonnet on his head, An o'erlay 'bout his craigie ; And aye until the day he died He rade on guid shanks-naigie. Now wae and wonder on your snout, Wad ye ha'e bonnie Nancy, Wad ye compare yoursel' to me, A docken to a tansie ? I have a wooer o' my ain, They ca' him souple Sandy, And weel I wat his bonnie mou' Is sweet like sugar-candy. Wow, Nancy, what needs a' this din ? Do I no ken this Sandy ? I'm sure the chief o' a' his kin Was Eab the beggar randy ; His minny Meg upo' her back Bare baith him and his billy ; Will ye compare a nasty pack To me your winsome Willie ? 16 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND My gutcher left a good braidsword, Though it be auld and rusty, Yet ye may tak' it on my word, It is baith stout and trusty ; And if I can but get it drawn, Which will be right uneasy, I shall lay baith my lugs in pawn, That he shall get a heezy. Then Nancy turn'd her round about, And said, Did Sandy hear ye, Ye widna miss to get a clout, I ken he disna fear you : Sae haud ye'r tongue and say nae mair, Set somewhere else your fancy ; For as lang's Sandy's to the fore, Ye never shall get Nancy. TAK' YOUE AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE. One of our earliest and most popular songs. The fourth stanza is sang hy Iago in Shakspere's Othello (1611), where, however, the name of the monarch is changed from the Scottish Robert to the English Stephen. A version in a more English dress than the one here given is in Percy's folio manuscript. Amongst other variations we have " King Harry " in place of " King Robert, — the Thretty year is changed into Four and Forty, and an extra stanza is given.* Neither Dr. Percy, nor the later Editors of the manuscript, however, dispute the nationality of the song. The version here given is from the Tea Table Miscellany, collated with that given in Herd. In winter, when the rain rain'd cauld, And frost and snaw on ilka hill, And Boreas, wi' his blasts sae bauld, Was threat'niri a' our kye to kill : Then Bell, my wife, wha lo'es nae strife, She said to me richt hastilie, Get up, gudeman, save Crummie's life, And tak' your auld cloak about ye. * This Stanza, the second in the manuscript version, is as follows : — " O Bell, my wiffe I why dost thou fflyte 1 Thou kens my cloake is verry thin ; Itt is soe sore ower worne, A cricke theron cannot runn. I'll goe mnd the court within, He noe longer lend nor, borrow, lie goe ffind the court within, For He have a new cloake about me." Percy MS., vol. 2, p. 322. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 17 My Crummie is a usefu' cow, And she is come of a good kin' ; Aft has she wet the bairns's mou', And I am laith that she should tyne ; Get up, gudeman, it is fu' time, The sun shines i' the lift sae hie ; Sloth never made a gracious end ; Gae tak' your auld cloak about ye. My cloak was ance a gude gray cloak, When it was fitting for my wear ; But now it's scantly worth a groat, For I have worn't this thretty year ; Let's spend the gear that we ha'e won, We little ken the day we'll die ; Then I'll be proud, since I have sworn To ha'e a new cloak about me. In days when our King Eobert rang, His trews they cost but half a croun ; He said they were a groat ower dear, And ca'd the tailor thief and loon ; He was the king that wore a croun, And thou'rt a man of laigh degree : It's pride puts a' the country doun ; Sae tak' your auld cloak about ye. Ilka land has its ain lauch, Ilk kind o' corn has its ain hool ; I think the world is a' gane wrang, When ilka wife her man wad rule ; Do ye no see Bob, Jock, and Hab, As they are girded gallantlie, While I sit hurklin i' the ase ? — I'll ha'e a new cloak about me. Gudeman, I wat 'tis thretty year Sin' we did ane anither ken ; And we ha'e had atween us twa. Of lads and bonnie lasses ten : Now they are women grown and men, I wish and pray weel may they be ; If you would prove a gude husband, E'en tak' your auld cloak about ye. Bell, my wife, she lo'es nae strife, But she would guide me if she can ; And to maintain an easy life, I aft maun yield, though I'm gudeman : 18 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Nought's to be gain'd at woman's hand, Unless ye gi'e her a' the plea ; Then I'll leave aff where I began, And tak' my auld cloak about me. WILLIE WINKIE'S TESTAMENT. Thomson's Obphbus Caiedonius 1725. This undoubtedly early song seems to have escaped the notice of Ramsay. Its catalogue of " Guids and Gear" is interesting and amusing, and forms a good supplement to that given in the "Wooin of Jock and Jenny," from the popularity of which it, in all likelihood, had its origin. Mr daddy left me gear enough : A couter, and an auld beam-plough, A nebbed staff, a nutting-tyne, A fishing-wand with hook and line ; With twa auld stools, and a dirt-house, A jerkenet, scarce worth a louse, An auld pat, that wants the lug, A spurtle and a so wen mug. A hempen heckle, and a mell, A tar-horn, and a weather's bell, A muck-fork, and an auld peak-creel, The spakes of our auld spinning-wheel; A pair of branks, yea, and a saddle, With our auld brunt and broken laddie, A whang-bit and a sniffle-bit : Cheer up, my bairns, and dance a fit. A flailing-staff, a timmer-spit, An auld kirn and a hole in it, Yarn-winnles, and a reel, A fetter-lock, a trump of steel,' A whistle, and a tup-horn spoon, Wi' an auld pair o' clouted shoon, A timmer spade, and a gleg shear, A bonnet for my bairns to wear. A timmer tong, a broken cradle, The pinion of an auld car-saddle, A gullie-knife, and a horse-wand, A mitten for the left hand, With an auld broken pan of brass, With an auld hyeuk for cutting grass, An auld band, and a hoodling-how, I hope, my bairns, ye're a' weel now. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 19 Aft have I borne ye on my back, With a' this riff-raff in my pack ; And it was a' for want of gear, That gart me steal Mess John's grey mare : But now, my bairns, what ails ye now, For ye ha'e naigs enough to plow ; And hose and shoon fit for your feet, Cheer up, my bairns, and dinna greet. Then with mysel' I did advise, My daddie's gear for to comprise ; Some neighbours I ca'd in to see What gear my daddy left to me. They sat three-quarters of a year, Comprising of my daddy's gear ; And when they had gi'en a' their votes, 'Twas scarcely a' worth four pounds Scots. WHEEB HELEN LIES. Pennant (Tour m Scotland, V. 2, 101) describee the tradition on which this song is founded, as follows : — " In the burying-ground of Kirkconnel is the grave of the fair Ellen Irvine, and that of her lover : she was daughter of the house of Kirk- connel, and was beloved by two gentlemen at the same time ; the one vowed to sacrifice the successful rival to his resentment, and watched an opportunity while the happy pair were sitting on the hanks of the Eirtle, that washes these grounds. Ellen perceived the desperate lover on the opposite side, and fondly thinking to save her favourite, interposed ; and receiving the wound intended for her beloved, fell, and expired in his arms. He instantly revenged her death ; then fled into Spain, and served for some time against the infidels; on his return he visited the grave of his unfortunate mistress, stretched himself on it, and expiring on the spot, was interred by her side. A sword and a cross are engraven on the tomb- stone, with fficjacet Adam Fleming: the only memorial of this unhappy gentleman, except an ancient ballad of no great merit, which records the tragical event." " Which, " he adds in a note," happened either the latter end of the reign of James V., or the beginning of that of Mary." Other traditions vary in minute particulars— for instance, the heroine is sometimes described as Helen Bell — the mortal combat between the rivals takes place in Syria, &c. There are numerous versions of the song, the first here given is from Ritson's Scots Songs, the second is that adopted by Mr. Robert Chambers, and is " chiefly from the traditionary copy preserved by Mr. Charles K. Sharpe, as he had been accustomed to hear it sung in Annandale in his childhood." I wish I were where Helen lies ! Where day and night she on me cries ! I wish I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirkonnell lee I 20 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Oh Helen fair ! Oh Helen chaste I Were I with thee I would be blest 1 Where thou liest low, and at thy rest, On fair Kirkonnell lee. I wish my grave were growing green 1 My winding sheet put o'er my e'en ! I wish my grave, were growing green, On fair Kirkonnell lee I Where Helen lies ! where Helen lies I I wish I were where Helen lies I Soon may I be where Helen lies ! Who died for luve of me. SECOND VERSION. I wish I were where Helen lies, For night and day on me she cries, I wish I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirkconnell lee. Curst be the hand that shot the shot, Likewise the gun that ga'e the crack, Into my arms Burd Helen lap, And died for love o' me. Oh, think na ye my heart was sair, To see her lie and speak nae mair ! There did she swoon wi' mickle care, On fair Kirkconnell lee. I loutit down, my sword did draw, I cuttit him in pieces sma', I cuttit him in pieces sma', On fair Kirkconnell lee. Oh, Helen fair, without compare, I'll mak a garland o' thy hair, And wear the same for evermair, Ontil the day I dee. I wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet put ower my een, And I in Helen's arms lying, On fair Kirkconnell lee. Oh Helen chaste, thou were modest ; Were I with thee I wad be blest, Where thou lies low and takes thy rest, On fair Kirkconnell lee. I wish I were where Helen lies, For night and day on me she cries ; I wish I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirkconnell lee. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 21 MY DEAR AND ONLY LOVE. JAMES, FIRST MARQUIS OF MONTROSE, Bornin 1612. His short but glorious career is well known to every reader of Scottish History. Beginning his public life on the side of the Covenant, he in 1642 left their camp, and joined the standard of Charles I. His vic- tories, talent, courage and fidelity in the Royal cause gained him the title of Great. Defeated at length, he took refuge in Assint, but was betray- ed and delivered up to the Scottish Parliament. After undergoing a form of trial at Edinburgh, he was executed there in 1650. Seven poems by this nobleman appeared in the third part of Watson's choice collection of Scotch Poems, 1711, and these were probably but reprinted from Broadsides. The song here given is the first and finest of the whole. It is supposed to have been modelled on an early English song, and to be addressed by the author to his country instead of a mis- tress in real life, and this latter supposition will be allowed as correct if we consider the deep metaphorical cloud under which the poets of the period clothed their fancies. My dear and only love, I pray That little world of thee Be govern'd by no other sway, But purest monarchy ; For if confusion have a part, Which virtuous souls abhor, I'll call a synod in my heart And never love thee more. As Alexander I will reign, And I will reign alone, My thoughts did evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, Who dares not put it to the touch, To gain or lose it all. But I will reign, and govern still, And always give the law, And have each subject at my will, And all to stand in awe : But 'gainst my batt'ries if I find Thou storm or vex me sore, As if thou set me as a blind, I'll never love thee more. And in the empire of thy heart, Where I should solely be, If others should pretend a part, Or dare to share with me ; 22 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Or committees if thou erect, Or go on such a score, I'll smiling mock at thy neglect, And never love thee more. But if no faithless action stain Thy love and constant word, I'll make thee famous by my pen, And glorious by my sword. I'll serve thee in such noble ways, As ne'er were known before ; I'll deck and crown my head with bays, And love thee evermore. CLOUT THE CALDRON. Ramsay's Tea Table Miscellany. — Printed without any mark. Bums mentions a tradition that an old song, probably an older version of the words here given, was composed- by a member of the Kenmure family alluding to one of his amours. The air is sometimes styled " The Blacksmith and his apron." Have ye any pots or pans, Or any broken chandlers ? I am a tinker to my trade, . And newly come frae Flanders, As scant of siller as of grace ; Disbanded, we've a bad run ; Gar tell the lady of the place, I'm come to clout her caldron, Fa, adrie, diddle, diddle, &c. Madam, if you have wark for me, I'll do't to your contentment ; And dinna care a single flie For any man's resentment ; For, lady fair, though I appear To every, ane a tinker, Yet to yoursell I'm bauld to tell, I am a gentle jinker. Love Jupiter into a swan Turn'd for his loved Leda ; He like a bull ower meadows ran, To carry off Europa. Then may not I, as well as he, To cheat your Argus blinker, And win your love like mighty Jove, Thus hide me in a tinker? CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 23 Sir, ye appear a cunning man ; But this fine plot you'll fail in ; For there is neither pot nor pan, Of mine, you'll drive a nail in. Then bind your budget on your back, And nails up in your apron ; For I've a tinker under tack, That's used to clout my' ca'dron. FARE YE WELL MY AULD WIFE. A Fragment preserved in Herd's Collection. And fare ye weel, my auld wife ; Sing bum, bee, berry, bum ; Fare ye weel, my auld wife ; Sing bum, bum, bum. Fare ye weel, my auld wife, The steerer up o sturt and strife, The maut 's abune the meal the nicht, Wi' some, some, some. And fare ye weel; my pike-staff; Sing bum, bee; berry, bum; Fare ye weel, my pike-staff; Sing bum, bum, bum. Fare ye weel, my pike staff, Wi' you nae mair my wife I'll baff ; The maut 's abune the meal the nicht, Wi' some, some, some. GALA WATEE. From Herd's CoLracnotf, slightly collated with other copies. The earliest version extant of this celebrated song. Braw, braw lads of Gala Water, O ! braw lads of Gala Water ; I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, And follow my love through the water. Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow, Sae bonnie blue her een, and cheerie, Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou', I aften kiss her till I'm wearie. Ower yon bank, and ower yon brae, Ower yon moss amang the heather, I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, And follow my love through the water. 24 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Down amang the broom, the broom, Down amang the broom sae drearie, The lassie lost her silken snood That gart her greet till she was wearie. BONNIE KOBIN. Herd's, Collection. Mr. Chambers (Scottish Songs, Vol. 1. p. 97, 1829) conjectures this song to have been written about 1641. In 1622 "the Old Bridge of Tay at Perth, built by Eobert Bruce, gave way and was not built again till 1772. The mending or re-erection of the Bridge of Tay was a matter of agitation during the reign of Charles I., and that Sovereign when in Scotland in 1641, subscribed a hundred pounds for the purpose." Gude day now, bonnie Robin, How lang ha'e ye been here ? I've been a bird about this bush This mair than twenty year. But now I am the sickest bird That ever sat on brier ; And I wad mak my testament, Gudeman, if ye wad hear. Gar' tak' this bonnie neb o' mine, That picks upon the corn, And gie't to the duke o' Hamilton, To be a hunting-horn. Gar tak' these bonnie feathers o' mine, The feathers o' my neb, And gi'e to the lady 'o Hamilton, To fill a feather bed. Gar tak' this gude richt leg o' mine, And mend the brig o' Tay, It will be a post and pillar gude, It will neither bow nor [gae.] And tak' this other leg of mine, And mend the brig o' Weir ; It will be a post and pillar gude, It will neither bow nor steer. Gar tak' thae bonnie feathers o' mine, The feathers o' my tail, And gi'e to the lads o' Hamilton To be a barn-flail. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 25 And tak' thae bonnie feathers o' mine, The feathers o' my breast, And gi'e them to the bonnie lad, Will bring to me a priest. Now in there cam' my lady wren, Wi' mony a sigh and groan, what care I for a' the lads, If my wee lad be gone ! Then Bobin turn'd him round about, E'en like a little king ; Gae pack ye out at my chamber-door, Ye little cutty-quean. GENEKAL LESLIE'S MAECH. Tea Table Miscellany. — "It seems to have been written by some sneering cavalier as a quiz upon the Scottish army, which .marched to join the English parliamentary forces, 1644, in terms of the Solemn League and Covenant, and which was so instrumental in winning for that party the decisive battle of Longmarston Moor." — (Chamber* Scottish Songs, vol. 1, p. 172.J March, march, why the deil do ye na march ? Stand to your arms, my lads, Fight in good order ; Front about, ye musketeers all, Till ye come to the English border. Stand till't, and fight like men, True gospel to maintain ; The Parliament's] blyth to see us a coming. When to the kirk we come, We'll purge it ilka room, Frae Popish relicks, and a' sic innovations, That all the warld may see, There's nane i' the right, but we Of the auld Scottish nation. Jenny shall wear the hood, Jocky the Bark of God ; And the kist fou of whistles, That make sic a cleiro, Our piperB braw Shall hae them a* Whate'er come on it. Bask up your plaids, my lads, Cock up your bonnets. March, march, &c. 26 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND BLINK O'ER THE BURN SWEET BETTY. " Blink o'er the bourn, sweet Bettie, to me," is the beginning of a frag- ment quoted in Kin g Lear, (Act iii Se. 6.) The expression has also been traced by Dr. Bimbault as far back as the reign of Henry VJJ1. None of the fragments, however, bear any resemblance to either of the versions here given, the first from Herd's Collection, 1776 (also adopted by Ritson), and the second from Stenhonse's Illustrations, and stated there to have been written previous to 1684. I. In summer I mawed my meadow, In harvest. I shure my corn, In winter I married a widow, I wish I was free the morn I Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, Blink over the burn to me : 0, it is a thousand pities But I was a widow for thee ! II. Blink o'er the burn, sweet Betty, It is a cauld winter night ', It rains, it hails, and it thunders. The moon she gi'es nae light : It's a' for the sake o' sweet Betty, That ever I tint my way ; lassie let me creep ayont thee, Until it be break o' day. m. Betty shall. bake my bread, And Betty shall brew my ale, And Betty shall be my love, When I come over the dale ; Blink o'er the burn, sweet Betty, Blink o'er the burn to me : And while I ha'e life, my dear lassie, My ain sweet Betty thou's be. THE WREN. An old Nursery song, from Herd's Collection. The wren soho lyes, in care's bed, In care's bed, in care's bed ; The wren scho lyes in care's bed> In meikle dule and pyne, 0. When in cam' Robin Redbriest, Redbriest, Redbriest ; When in cam 1 Robin Redbriest Wi' succar-saps and wine, 0. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 27 Now, maiden, will ye taste o' this, Taste o' this, taste o' this ; Now, maiden, will ye taste o' this ? It's succar-saps and wine, 0. Na, ne'er a drap, Robin, Robin, Robin; Na, ne'er a drap, Robin, Gin it was ne'er sae fine, 0. And where's the ring that I gied ye, That I gied ! ye, that I gied ye ; And where's the ring that I gied ye, Te little cutty-quean, ? I gied it till a soger, A soger, a soger ; I gied it till a soger, A true sweetheart o' mine, 0. WE'RE A' NODDIN. In Percy's Reliques, we are presented with an early version of " John Anderson My Joe," very much after the style of that here given. The Air seems to have been always very popular, and Percy's surmise is likely correct, that his version has a political meaning, and originated solely in consequence of the popularity of the Air assisting the Reformers in venting a quiet sarcasm against their enemies. The version here given is from the Additional Note to Stenhouse's Illustrations, part 3, and were communicated by Mr. C. K. Sharpe. Hoo are ye, Kimmer, An' hoo do ye thrive ? Hoo mony bairns hae ye ? Kimmer, I hae five. An we're a' noddin, Nid, nid, noddin, An we're a' noddin At our house at hame. Are they a' Johnnie's bairns ? Na, Kimmer, na! For three o' them were gotten When Johnnie was awa ! An we're a' noddin, &c. Cats like milk, And dogs like broo ; Lads like Lassies, And Lassies Lads too. An we're a' noddin, &c. 28 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND GET UP, GUDE WIFE. From Ritson's Scots Songs, taken by him from a manuscript of the time of Charles I, in the British Mnsenm. Get up, gudewife, don on your claise, And to the market mak' you boune : ' Tis lang time sin' your neebors rase ; They're weel nigh gotten into the toune. See ye don on your better goune, And gar the lasse big on the fyre. Dame, do not look as ye wad frowne, But doe the thing whilk I desyre. I spier what haste ye hae, gudeman ! Tour mother staid till ye war born ; Wad ye be at the tother can, To seoure your throat sae sune this morn ? Gude faith, I haud it but a scorne, That ye suld with my rising mell ; For when ye have baith said and sworne, I'll do but what I like mysel'. Gudewife, we maun needs have a care, Sae lang's we wonne in neebor's rawe, 0' neeborheid to tak' a share, And rise up when the cock does crawe ; For I have heard an auld said sawe, " They that rise last big on the fyre," What wind or weather so ever blaw, Dame, do the thing whilk I desyre. Nay, what do ye talk of neeborheid ? Gif "I lig in my bed till noone, By nae man's shins I bake my breid, And ye need not reck what I have done. Nay, look to the clooting o' your shoone, And with my rising do not mell : For, gin ye lig baith sheets abune, I'll do but what I will mysel'. Gudewife, ye maun needs tak' a care To save the geare that we ha'e won : Or lye away baith plow and oar, And hang up Eing when a' is done. Then may our bairns a-begging run, To seek their mister in the myre. Sae fair a thread as we ha'e won ! Dame, do the thing whilk I require. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 29 Gudeman, ye may weel a-begging gang, Ye seem sae weel to bear the pocke ; Ye may as weel gang sune as syne, To seek your meat amang gude folke. In ilka house ye'll get a looke, When ye come whar your gossips dwell. Nay, lo you luik sae like a gowke, I'll do but what I list mysel'. Gudewife, you promised, when we were wed, That ye wad me truly obey ; Mess John can witness what you said, And I'll go fetch him in this day ; And, gif that haly man will say, Ye's do the thing that I desyre, Then sail we sune end up this fray, And ye sail do what I require. I nowther care for John nor Jacke — I'll tak' my pleasure at my ease ; I care not what you say a placke — Ye may go fetch him gin ye please. And, gin ye want ane of a mease, Ye may e'en gae fetch the deil frae helle ; I wad you wad let your japin cease, For I'll do but what I like mysel'. Well, sin' it will nae better bee, I'll tak' my share or a' bee gane : The warst card in my hand sail flee, And i' faith, I wait I can shifte for ane. I'll sell the plow, and lay to wadd the waine, And the greatest spender sail beare the bell : And then, when all the gudes are gane, Dame, do the thing ye list yoursel'. MY JO JANET. Tea Table Miscellany. — The air is of considerable antiquity, being found under the title of "Long or any old Man" in the Skene MS., 1630. Sweet sir, for your courtesie, When ye come by the Bass, then, For the love ye bear to me, Buy me a keekin' glass, then. Keek into the draw-well, Janet, Janet; There ye'll see your bonnie sell, My jo Janet. , 30 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Keekin' in the draw-well clear, What if I fa' in, sir ? Then a' my kin' will say and swear I droun'd mysell for sin, sir. Haud the better by the brae, Janet, Janet ; Haud the better by the brae, My jo Janet. Gude sir, for your courtesie,, Comin' through Aberdeen, then, For the love ye bear to me, Buy me a pair o' sheen, then. Clout the auld — the new are dear, Janet, Janet ; Ae pair may gain ye hauf a year, My jo Janet. But, what if, danoin' on the green, And skippin' like a maukin, They should see my clouted sheen, ,Of me they will be taukin. Dance aye laigh, and late at e'en, Janet, Janet ; Syne a' their fauts will no be seen, My jo Janet. Kind sir, for your courtesie, When ye gae to the cross, then, For the love ye bear to me, Buy me a pacin' horse, then. Pace upon your spinnin' wheel, Janet, Janet ; Pace upon your spinnin' wheel, My jo Janet. My spinnin' wheel is auld and stiff, The rock o't winna stand, sir ; To keep the temper-pin in tiff Employs richt aft my hand, sir. Mak' the best o't that ye can, Janet, Janet ; But like it never wale a man, My jo Janet. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 31 FY, LET US .ALL TO THE BEIDAL. FRANCIS SEMPLE, OP BELTREES, Who died about 1682, the last of a family of poets ; one of whom wrote the "Packman's Paternoster," and another immortalised Habbie Simpson, the Town Piper of Kilbarchan. The authorship of this song has also been claimed for Sir William Scott, of Thirlestane. It first appeared in Watson's Collection, 1706 ; the version here given has been altered a little. Ft, let us a' to the bridal, For there'll be liltin' there ; For Jock's to be married to Maggie, The lass wi' the gowden hair. And there'll be langkale and parridge, And bannocks o' barley meal ; And there'll be guid saut herrin' To relish a cog o' guid ale. Fy, let us a', &c. And there'll be Sandie the souter, And Will wi' the mickle mou' ; And there'll be Tarn the bluter, And Andrew the tinkler, I trow. And there'll be bow-leggit Robbie, Wi' thumless Katie's gudeman ; And there'll be blue-cheekit Dobbie, And Lawrie, the laird o' the land. And there'll be sow-libber Patie, And plookie-fac'd Wat o' the mill ; Capper-nosed Francie, and Gibbie, That wins in the howe o' the hill. And there'll be Alaster Sibbie, That in wi' black Bessie did mool ; Wi' sneevlin' Lillie, and Tibbie, The lass that sits aft on the stool. And there'll be Judan Maclowrie, And blinkin' daft Barbara Macleg ; Wi' flae-Iuggit shairnie-faced Lawrie, And shangie-mou'd haluket Meg. And there'll be happer-Jiipp'd Nancie, And fairy-faced Flowrie by name, Muck Maudie, and fat-luggit Grizzie, The lass wi' the gowden wame. And there'll be Girnagain Gibbie, And his glaikit wife Jenny Bell ; And misle-shinn'd Mungo Macapie, The lad that was skipper himsell. 32 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND There lads and lasses in pearlings Will feast in the heart o' the ha', On sybows, and reefarts, and carlins, That are baith sodden and raw. And there'll be fadges and brachen, And fouth o' gude gabbocks o' skate, Powsoudie, and drammock, and crowdie, And caller nowt-feet on a plate : And there'll be partens and buckies, And whytens and speldins enew, And singit sheep-heads and a haggis, And scadlips to sup till ye spew. And there'll be gude lapper-milk kebbucks, And sowens, and farles, and baps, Wi' swats and weel-soraped painches, And brandy in stoups and in caups ; And there'll be meal-kail and kustocks, Wi' skink to sup till ye rive ; And roasts to roast on a brander, Of flouks that were taken alive. Scrapped haddocks, wilks, dulse, and tangle, And a mill o' good sneeshin' to prie ; When weary wi' eatin' and drinkm', Weli rise up and dance till we dee. Fy, let us a' to the bridal, For there'll be liltin' there ; For Jock's to be married to Maggie, The lass wi' the gowden hair. MAGGIE LAUDER. FRANCIS SEMPLE OF BBLIEEES. (?) The Authorship of this piece has been hotly disputed by several critics " learned in ballad lore," but on very flimsy grounds. Mr. Chambers thinks it smacks of the pen which produced " Wanton Willie." Wha wadna be in love Wi' bonnie Maggie Lauder ? A piper met her gaun to Fife, And speir'd what was't they ca'd her ; — Bight scornfully she answer'd him, Begone you hallanshaker 1 Jog on your gate, you bladderskate, My name is Maggie Lauder. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 33 Maggie quo' he, and by my bags, I'm fidgin' fain to see thee ; Sit down by me, my bonnie bird, In troth I winna steer thee : For I'm a piper to my trade, My name is Eob the Banter ; The lasses loup as they were daft, When I blaw up my chanter. Piper, quo' Meg, ha'e ye your bags ? Or is your drone in order ? If ye be Bob, I've heard of you, Live you upo' the border ? The lasses a', baith far and near, Have heard o' Bob the Banter; I'll shake my foot wi' right gude will, Grif you'll blaw up your chanter. Then to his bags he flew wi' speed, About the drone he twisted ; Meg up and wallop'd o'er the green, For brawly could she frisk it. Weel done 1 quo' he — play up I quo' she; Weel bobbed I quo' Bob the Banter ; 'Tis worth my while to play indeed, When I ha'e sic a dancer. Weel ha'e you play'd your part, quo' Meg, Your cheeks are like the crimson ; There's nane in Scotland plays sae weel, Since we lost Habbie Simpson. I've lived in Fife, baith maid and wife, These ten years and a quarter ; Gin' ye should come to Anster fair, Speir ye for Maggie Lauder. LEADEB HAUGHS AND YABEOW. Is the Boxburghe Ballads this song is signed " The words of Burne the Violer," and supposed by Mr. Chambers to be Nicol Bume, a wandering minstrel of the seventeenth century. It also appeared in the Tea Table Miscellany. " This song," says Mr. Chambers, " is little better than a string of names of places, yet there is something so pleasing in it, especially to the ear of a ' South country man,' that it has long maintained its place in our collections." When Phoebus bright the azure skies With golden rays enlight'neth, He makes all nature's beauties rise, Herbs, trees, and flowers he quick'neth : 34 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Amongst all those he makes his choice, And with delight goes lihorow, With radiant beams, the silver streams Of Leader Haughs and Yarrow. When Aries the day and night In equal length divideth, And frosty Saturn -takes his flight, Nae langer he abideth ; Then Flora queen, with mantle green, Casts off her former sorrow, And vows to dwell with Ceres' sel', In Leader Haughs and Tafrow. Pan, playing on his aiten Teed, And shepherds, him attending, Do here resort, their flocks to feed, The hills and haughs commending With cur and kent, upon the bent, Sing to the sun, Good-morrow, And swear nae fields mair pleasures yield, Than Leader Haughs and Yarrow. A house there stands on Leader side, Surmounting my descriving, With rooms sae rare, and windows fair, Like Daedalus' contriving : Men passing by do aften cry, In sooth it hath no marrow ; It stands as fair on Leader side, As Newark does on Yarrow. A mile below, who lists to ride, Will hear the mavis singing ; Into St. Leonard's banks she bides, Sweet birks her head owerhinging. The lint-white loud, and Progne proud, With tuneful throats and narrow, Into St. Leonard's banks they sing, As sweetly as in Yarrow. The lapwing lilteth ower the lea, With nimble wing she sporteth ; But vows she'll flee far from the 'tree Where Philomel resorteth : By break of day the lark can say, I'll bid you a good morrow ; I'll stretch my wing, and mounting sing O'er Leader Haughs and Yarrow. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 35 Park, Wanton-wa's, and Wooden-cleuch, The East and Wester Mainses, The wood of Lauder's fair eneuch, The corns are good in the Blainslies : There aits are fine, and said by kind, That if ye search all thorough Mearns, Buchan, Marr, nane better are Than Leader Haughs and Yarrow. In Burn-mill-bog and Whitslaid Shaws, The fearful hare she haunteth ; Brig-haugh and Braidwoodsheil she knaws, And Chapel-wood frequenteth : Yet when she irks, to Kaidslie birks She rins, and sighs for sorrow, That she should leave sweet Leader Haughs And cannot win to Yarrow. What sweeter musick wad ye hear, Than hounds and beigles crying ? The started hare rins hard with fear, Upon her speed relying : But yet her strength it fails at length, Nae bielding can she borrow, In Sorrel's fields, Cleckman, or Hags, And sighs to be in Yarrow. For Bockwood, Eingwood, Spoty, Shag, With sight and scent pursue her, Till, ah ! her pith begins to flag, Nae cunning can rescue her : O'er dub and dyke, o'er seugh and syke, She'll rin the fields all thorow, Till fail'd she fa's in Leader Haughs, And bids farewell to Yarrow. Sing Brslington and Cowdenknows, Where Homes had anes commanding ; And Drygrange with the milk-white ews, 'Twixt Tweed and Leader standing.: The bird that flees through Beedpath trees, And Grledswood banks ilk morrow, May chant and sing sweet Leader Haughs, And bonny howms of Yarrow. But Minstrel-Burne cannot assuage His grief while life endureth, To see the changes of this age, That fleeting time procureth : 36 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND For mony a place stands in hard case, Where blyth fowk kend nae sorrow, With Homes that dwelt on Leader-side, ' And Scots that dwelt on Yarrow. OMNIA VINCIT AMOE. Tea Tabids Misceixakt, 1724. — A copy is also in the Koxtmrghe Col- lection, from a broadside of the period. Mr. Chambers considers it a composition of Minstrel Burne. As I went forth to view the spring, Which Flora had adorned In gorgeous raiment, everything The rage of winter scorned, I cast mine eye, and did espy A youth that made great clamour, And, drawing nigh, I heard him cry, Ah, Omnia vincit amor ! Upon his breast he lay along, Hard by a murm'ring river, And mournfully his doleful song With sighs he did deliver ; Ah I Jeany's face was comely grace, Her locks that shine like lammer, With burning rays have cut my days ; For Omnia vincit amor. Her glancy een like comets' sheen, The morning sun outshining, Have caught my heart in Cupid's net, And makes me die with pining. Durst I complain, nature's to blame, So curiously to frame her, Whose beauties rare make me with care Cry, Omnia vincit amor. Ye crystal streams that swiftly glide, Be partners of my mourning, Ye fragrant fields and meadows wide, Condemn her for her scorning ; ' Let every tree a witness be, How justly I may blame her ; Ye chanting birds, note these my words, Ah 1 Omnia vincit amor. Had she been kind as she was fair, She long had been admired, And been ador'd for virtues rare, Wh' of life now makes me tired. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 37 Thus said, his breath began to fail, He could not speak, but stammer ; He sigh'd full sore, and said no more, But Omnia vineit amor. When I observ'd him near to death, I run in haste to save him, But quickly he resign'd his breath, So deep the wound love gave him. Now for her sake this vow I'll make, My tongue shall aye defame her, While on his hearse I'll write this verse, , Ah 1 Omnia vineit amor. Straight I consider'd in my mind Upon the matter rightly, And found, though Cupid he be blind, He proves in pith most mighty. For warlike Mars, and thund'ring Jove, And Vulcan with his hammer, Did ever prove the slaves of love ; For Omnia vineit amor. Hence we may see the effects of love, Which gods and men keep under, That nothing can his bounds remove, Or torments break asunder ; Nor wise, nor fool, need go to school To learn this from his grammar : His heart's the book where he's to look For Omnia vineit amor. BARBARA ALLAN. Tea Tame Miscellany. — "I remember," says Mr. C. Kirkpatrick Sharpe, "that the peasantry of Annandale sang many more verses of this ballad than have appeared in print, but they were of no merit — con- taining numerous magnificent offers from the lover to his mistress — and, amongst others some ships, in sight, which may strengthen the belief that this song was composed near the shores of the Solway." — Additional Illustrations to Stenhouse, p. 300. It was in and about the Martinmas time, When the green leaves were a-falling, < That Sir John Graham, in the west countrie, Fell in love wi' Barbara Allan. He sent his man down through the town, To the place where she was dwallin'. Oh, haste and come to my master dear, Gin ye be Barbara Allan. 38 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Oh, hooly, hooly, rase she up To the place where he was lyin', And when she drew the curtain by, Young man, I think ye're dyin'. It's oh, I'm sick, I'm very very sick,* And its a' for Barbara Allan. Oh, the better for me ye'se never be, Though your heart's Maid were a-spillin.' Oh, dinna ye mind, young man, she said, When ye was in the tavern a-drinkin', That ye made the healths gae round and round, And slichtit Barbara Allan? He turned his face unto the wa'. And death was with him dealin' : Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a', And be kind to Barbara Allan. And slowly, slowly rase she up, And slowly, slowly left him, And sighin', said, she could not stay, Since death of life had reft him. She hadna gane a mile but twa, When she heard the deid-bell ringin', And every ,fow that the deid-bell gied, It cried, Woe to Barbara Allan. Oh, mother, mother, mak' my bed, And mak it saft and narrow, Since my love died for me to-day, I'll die for him to-morrow. CBOMLET'S LILT. The tradition on which this song is based is as follows: — Helen, daughter of William Stirling (of the family of Ardoch), was beloved by Sir James Chisholm of Cromlet, who, having to visit Prance, arranged with a friend to convey his letters to his mistress. This individual in the course of his missions to the young lady, fell in love with her himself, and, by dint of well-plied stories reflecting on Chisholm's conduct, and by withholding his letters, caused her to renounce her absent lover, and consent to become his own wife. The song here given is said to have been composed by Chisholm at this period. The tradition winds up in the good old style. On the marriage evening, while the dance went through the ha', Chisholm entered the house, killed his rival, cleared his own good name, and in due time married the lady. CHRONOLOGICALLY AKKANGED. 39 Mr. Maidment questions the supposition of the song heing written by Sir James, and probably with reason. The song appears with music in Thomson's Orpheus Caledonius, and it is generally agreed that both words and music are very ancient, and probably of the reign of James VI. Since all thy vows, false maid, Are blown to air, And my poor heart betray'd To sad despair ; Into some wilderness My grief I will express, And thy hard-heartedness, Oh) cruel fair ! Have I not graven our loves On every tree In yonder spreading grove,, Though false thou be ? Was not a solemn oath, Plighted betwixt us both, Thou thy faith, I my troth, Constant to be ? Some gloomy place I'll find, Some doleful shade, Where neither sun nor wind E'er entrance had. Into that hollow cave There will I sigh and rave, Because thou dost behave So faithlessly. Wild fruit shall be my meat, I'll drink the spring ; Cold earth shall be my seat ; For covering, I'll have the starry sky My head to canopy, Until my soul on high Shall spread its wing. I'll have no funeral fire, No tears nor sighs ; No grave do I require, Nor obsequies : The courteous red-breast, he With leaves will cover me, And sing my elegy With doleful voice. 40 THE SONGS OF SCOTtAND And when a ghost I am, I'll visit thee, Oh, thou deceitful dame, Whose cruelty- Has kill'd the kindest heart That e'er felt Cupid's dart, And never can desert From loving thee ! JOHN HAY'S BONNIE LASSIE, Said to have been written in honour of the Lady Margaret, eldest daughter of the First Marquis of Tweedale. This Lady became the wife of the Third Earl of Eoxburghe. It is supposed to have been composed about 1670. Her husband was drowned in 1682, she survived till 1753, when she died at Broomlands, near Kelso, at the ripe age of 96. The author- ship of this piece was long ascribed in Literary circles to Allan Ramsay (in whose Tea Table Miscellany it first appeared), and in the traditions of Tweedside to a working Joiner, who is supposed to have loved the lass without daring to "discover his pain." By smooth-winding Tay a swain was recliriing, Aft cried he, Oh, hey ! maun I still live pining Mysel' thus away, and daurna discover To my bonnie 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 ; May be, ere we part, my vows may content her. She's fresh as the spring, and sweet as Aurora, When birds mount and sing, bidding day a good morrow r The sward of the mead, enamell'd with daisies, Looks wither'd and dead, when twined of her graces. But if she appear where verdure invite her, The fountains run clear, and the flowers smell the sweeter* 'Tis heaven to be by, when her wit is a-flowing ; Her smiles and bright eyes set my spirits a-glowing. The mair that I gaze, the deeper I'm wounded ; Struck dumb with amaze my mind is confounded : I'm all in a fire, dear maid, to caress ye ; For a' my desires is John Hay's bonnie lassie. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 41 0, WALY, WALY! Tea Table Miscellany, where it is marked as old. Nothing definite is known as to the age or personages of this song. Mr. Stenhouse and others considered it to belong to the age of Queen Mary, and to refer to some affair of the court ; while Mr. Bobert Chambers considers it to refer to Lady Barbara Erskine, wife of John 2nd Marquis of Douglas. The lady was married in 1670, and " owing, there can be little doubt, to his lordship's unworthy conduct, the alliance was productive of misery to the lady. She had even to bewail that her own honour was brought into question, chiefly, it would appear, through the influence of a chamberlain over her husband's mind. At length, a separation, with a suitable pro- vision, left her in the worst kind of widowhood, after she had brought the marquis one son (subsequently first commander of the Cameronian regiment, and who fell at the battle of Steenkirk)." — Songs of Scotland prior to Burns, p. 280. waly, waly up the bank, And waly, waly down the brae, And waly, waly yon bnrnside, "Where I and my love wont to gae. 1 lean'd my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree, But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, Sae my true love did lightly me. waly, waly, but love be bonny A little time, while it is new ; But when 'tis auld it waxeth cauld, And fades away like the morning dew. wherefore shou'd I busk my head ? Or wherefore shou'd I kame my hair ? For my true love has me forsook, And says he'll never love me mair. Now Arthur Seat shall be my bed, The sheets shall ne'er be fyl'd by me : Saint Anton's well shall be my drink, Since my true love's forsaken me. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves off the tree ? gentle death, when wilt thou come ? For of my life I am weary. "lis not the frost that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw's inclemency ; 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my love's heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town, We were a comely sight to see ; My love was clad in the black velvet, And I mysel' in cramasie. i'2 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND But had I wist, before I kiss'd, That love had been sae ill to win, I'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold, And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin. Oh, oh, if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse's knee, And I mysel' were dead and gane, For a maid again I never shall be. KATH'RINE OGIE. Tea Table Miscellany. — Collated with a copy in Stenhouse's Illustra- tions to Johnson's Museum. This song can be traced to the time of Charles II., when it was sung by John Abell, a musical favourite of the Merry monarch. Several broadsides have been found* published with • the air about 1680. Gay wrote a song for the air for one of his operas, and a miserable parody of the words may be found in Durf ey"s " Pills to Purge Melancholy." Mr. Robert Chambers considers this an Anglo- Scottish production, like "'Twas within a mile o' Edinburgh Town; " but we cannot think that he has satisfactorily made out a case. Burns's " Highland Mary " is to the same tune. As walking forth to view the plain, Upon a morning early, "While May's sweet scent did cheer my brain, From flowers which grew so rarely, I chanc'd to meet a pretty maid, She shin'd tho' it was foggie : I ask'd her name : Kind sir, she said, My name i» Kath'rme^Qgie. I stood a while, and did admire, To see a nymph so stately : So brisk an air there did appear In a country maid so neatly : Such nat'ral sweetness she display'd, Like a lily in a bogie'; Diana's self was ne'er array'd Like this same Kath'rine Ogie. Thou flow'r of females, beauty's queen, "Who sees thee sure mupt prize thee ; Though thou art drest in robes but mean, Yet these cannot disguise thee ; Thy mind sure, as thine eyes do look, Above each clownish rogie ; Thou'rt match for laird, or lord, or duke, My bonnie Kath'rine Ogie. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 43 ! if I were some shepherd swain, To feed my flock beside thee ; And' gang with thee alang the plain, At buchtin to abide thee. More rich and happy I could be Wi' Kate, and crook, and dogie, Than he that does his thousands! see, My winsome Kath'rine Ogie. Then I'd despise th' imperial throne, And statesmen's dang'rous stations, I'd be no king, I'd wear po crown, I'd smile at conqu'ring nations, Might I caress, and still possess This lass of whom I'm vogie, For they're but toys, and still look less, Compar'd with Kath'rine Ogie. I fear for me is not decreed So fair, so fine a creature, Whose beauty rare makes her exceed All other works of nature. Clouds of despair surround my love, That are both dark, and foggie ; Pity my case, ye Powers above I I die for Kath'rine Ogie. SILLY AULD MAN. Herd's Collection — Mr. Bobert Chambers (Scottish Songs, vol. 1, p. 134) makes this song to belong to the reign, of Charles II., and gives it as the composition of one of the Covenanting clergy, who, to deceive a body of military -who were in pursuit of him, assumed the dress and air of an idiotic beggar, and after a due amount of dancing and capering in the midst of the soldiers, treated them to these verses composed " on the spur of the moment." This versatile gentleman succeeded in effect • ing his escape. What truth there he in this legend we know not, but the generality of the preachers of the Covenant are generally depicted as men of a different stamp. However, the song, as we have it, bears evident marks of antiquity. ' I am a puir silly auld man, And hirplin' ower a tree ; Yet fain, fain kiss wad L, Gin the kirk wad let me be. Gin a' my duds were aff, And guid haill claes put on, 0, 1 could kiss a young lass As weel as ony man. ii THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND THE BBIDE CAM' OUT 0' THE BYEE. Heed's Collection — although of much older date, being current in the border long before the time of Eamsay. (See Stenhouse's Illustra- tions.) The air has always been popular, and numerous versions of the song have been written. The bride cam' out o' the byre, And, 0, as she dighted her cheeks ! Sirs, I'm to be married the night, . And have neither blankets nor sheets ; Have neither blankets nor sheets, Nor scarce a coverlet too ; The bride that has a' to borrow, Has e'en right muckle ado. * Woo'd, and married, and a', Married, and woo'd, and a' ! And was she nae very weel off, That was woo'd, and married, and a' ? Out spake the bride's father, As he cam' in frae the pleugh, 0, haud your tongue, my dochter, And ye'se get gear eneugh ; The stirk stands i' th' tether, And our bra' bawsint yade, Will carry ye hame your corn — ■ What wad ye be at, ye jade ? Out spake the bride's mither, What deil needs a' this pride ? I had nae a plack in my pouch That night I was a bride ; My gown was linsy-woolsy, And ne'er a sark ava ; And ye ha'e ribbons and buskins, Mae than ane or twa. What's the matter, quo' Willie ; Though we be scant o' claes, We'll creep the closer thegither, And we'll smoor a' the fleas ; Simmer is coming on, And we'll get taits o' woo ; And we'll get a lass o' our ain, And she'll spin claiths anew. Out spake the bride's brither, As he came in wi' the kie ; Poor Willie had ne'er a' ta'en ye, Had he kent ye as weel as I ; CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 45 For you're baith proud and saucy, And no for a poor man's wife ; Gin I canna get a better, Ise never tak ane i' my life. Out spake the bride's sister, As she came in frae the byre ; gin I were but married, It's a' that I desire : But we poor fo'k maun live single, And do the best we can ; 1 dinna care what I shou'd want, If I could but get a man. ANNIE LAURIE. DODGLASS OF PINGLAND, Composed, it is said, upon one of the daughters of Sir Robert Laurie, of Maxwelton (1685), who, however, was not sufficiently charmed by the song to become his wife. First printed by Mr. C. K. Sharpe in 1824. Maxweltown banks are bonnie, Where early fa's the dew ; Where me and Annie Laurie Made up the promise true ; Made up the promise true, And never forget will I ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'll lay me down and die. She's baokit like the peacock, She's breistit like the swan, She's jimp about the middle, Her waist ye weel micht span ; Her waist ye weel mioht span, And she has a rolling eye ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'll lay me down and die. A COUNTRY LASS. Tea Table Miscellany, where it is marked as an old song. It first appears in Durfey's "Pills to Purge Melancholy," published at London about 1700, where it is directed to be sung to the tune of " Cold and Raw." Ramsay, however, refers it to " its ain tune." Although I be but a country lass, Yet a lofty mind I bear, ; And think mysel' as rich as those That rich apparel wear, ; 4G THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Although my gown be hame-spun grey, My Skin it is as saft, 0, As theirs that satin weeds do wear, And carry their heads aloft, 0. What though I keep my father's sheep, The thing that maun be done, ; With garlands o' the finest flowers, To shade me frae the sun, ? When they are feeding pleasantly, Where grass and flowers do spring, ; Then, on a flowery bank, at noon, I set me down and sing, 0. My Paisley piggy, corked with sage, Contains my drink but thin, 5 No wines did e'er my brains engage, To tempt my mind to sin, 0. My country curds and wooden spoon, I think them unco fine, ; And on a flowery bank, at noon, I set me down and dine, 0. Although my parents cannot raise Great bags of shining gold, 0, Like them whase daughters, now a-days, Like swine, are bought and sold, ; Yet my fair body it shall keep An honest heart within, ; And for twice fifty thousand crowns,. I value not a prin, 0. I use nae gums upon my hair, Nor chains about my neck, 0, Nor shining rings upon my hands, My fingers straight to deck, 0. But for that lad to me shall fa', And I have grace to wed, 0, I'll keep a braw that's worth them a' ; I mean my silken snood, 0. If cannie fortune give to me The man I dearly love, 0, Though he want gear, I dinna care, My hands I can improve, ; Expecting for a blessing still Descending from above, ; Then we'll embrace, and sweetly kiss, Eepeating tales of love, 0. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 47 THE AULD GOODMAN. Tea Table Miscellany, where it is initialed as an old song. It also ap- pears with music in Thomson's Orpheus Caledonius, 1725. The woman's comparison between her auld guidman (first husband) and her new, is very amusing, and edifying to any man about to take up the same position. Late in an evening forth I went, A little before the sun gade down, And there I chano'd by aocident To light on a battle new begun. A man and his wife was fa'in' in a strife, I canna well tell ye how it began ; But aye she wail'd her wretched life, And cry'd ever, Alake my auld goodman ! He. Thy auld goodman that thou tells of, The country kens where he was born, "Was but a silly poor vagabond, And ilka ane leugh him to scorn ; For he did spend, and make an end Of gear that his fore-fathers wan, He gart the poor stand frae the door, Sae tell nae mair of thy auld goodman. She. My heart, alake, is liken to break, When I think on my winsome John : His blinkan eye, and gate sae free, Was naething like thee, thou dosend drone ; His rosie face, and flaxen hair, And a skin as white as ony swan, Was large and tall, and comely withall, And thou'lt never be like my auld goodman. He. Why dost thou pleen ? I thee maintain, For meal and mawt thou disna want ; But thy wild bees I canna please, Now when our gear 'gins to grow scant. Of household stuff thou hast enough, Thou wants for neither pot nor pan ; Of siclike ware he left thee bare, Sae tell nae mair of thy auld goodman. She. Yes, I may tell, and fret mysell, To think on these blyth days I had, When he and I together lay In arms into a well-made bed. 48 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND But now I sigh, and may be sad, Thy courage is cauld, thy colour wan, Thou falds thy feet, and fa's asleep, And thou'lt ne'er be like my auld goodman. Then coming was the night sae dark, And gane was a' the light of day ; The carle wasfear'd to miss his mark, And therefore wad nae langer stay : Then up he gat, and he ran his way, I trowe the wife the day she wan, And ay the o'erword of the fray Was ever, Alake my auld goodman ! AULD BOB MOEBIS. Tea Tabie Miscellany, 1724, where it is marked as an old song, with additions. The air has been found in an old MS. collection, dated 1692. MOTHER. Auld Bob Morris that wons in yon glen, He's the king o' guid fallows, and wale o' auld men ; He has fourscore o' black sheep, and fourscore too ; Auld Bob Morris is the man ye maun lo'e. DAUGHTER. Haud your tongue, mother, and let that abee ; For his eild and my eild can never agree : They'll never agree, and that will be seen ; For he is fourscore, and I'm but fifteen. MOTHER. Haud your tongue, dochter, and lay by your pride, For he is the bridegroom, and ye'se be the bride ; He shall lie by your side, and kiss you too ; Auld Bob Morris is the man ye maun lo'e. DAUGHTER. Auld Bob Morris, I ken him fu' weel, His back sticks out like ony peat-creel ; He's out-shinn'd, in-kneed, and ringle-eyed too ; Auld Bob Morris is the man I'll ne'er lo'e. MOTHER. Though auld Bob Morris be an elderly man, Yet his auld brass will buy you a new pan ; Then, dochter, ye should na be sae ill to shoe, For auld Bob Morris is the man ye maun lo'e. DAUGHTER. But auld Bob Moms I never will ha'e, His back is so stiff, and his beard is grown gray ; I had rather die than live wi' him a year ; Sae mair o' Bob Morris I never will hear. CHRONOLOGICALLY AKRANGED. 49 JOCKY SALT) TO JENNY. Tea Table Miscellany, where it is marked as an old song. Jockt said to Jenny, Jenny wilt thou do't ? Ne'er a fit, quo' Jenny, for my tocher-gude ; For my tocher-gude, I winna marry thee. E'en 's ye like, quo' Johnnie ; ye may let it he ! I ha'e gowd and gear ; I ha'e land eneuch ; I ha'e seven good owsen gangin' in a pleuch ; Gangin' in a pleuch, and linkin' ower the lea : And gin ye winna tak' me, I can let ye he. I ha'e a gude ha' house, a barn, and a byre, A stack afore the door ; I'll mak' a rantin fire : I'll mak' a rantin fire, and merry shall we be : And, gin ye winna tak' me, I can let ye be. Jenny said to Jocky, Gin ye winna tell, Ye shall be the lad ; I'll be the lass mysell : Ye're a bonnie lad, and I'm a lassie free ; Xe're welcomer to tak' me than to let me be. TODLIN' HAME. Tea Table Miscellany. When I ha'e a saxpence under my thoom, Then I get credit in ilka toun ; But aye when I'm puir they bid me gang by : Oh, poverty parts gude company ! Todlin' hame, todlin' hame, Couldna my loove come todlin' hame. Pair fa' the gudewife, and send her gude sale I She gi'es us white bannocks to relish her ale ; Syne, if that her tippeny chance to be sma', We tak' a gude scour o't, and ca't awa\ Todlin' hame, todlin' hame, As round as a neep come todlin' hame. My kimmer and I lay down to sleep, Wi' twa pint stoups at our'bed's feet ; And aye when we waken'd we drank them dry : — What think ye o' my wee kimmer and I ? Todlin' butt, and todlin ben, Sae round as my loove comes todlin' hame. Leeze me on liquor, my todlin' dow, Ye're aye sae gude-humour'd when weetin' your mou' ! When sober sae sour, ye'll fecht wi' a flee, That 'tis a blythe nicht to the bairns and me, When todlin' hame, todlin' hame, When, round as a neep, ye come todlin' hame. 50 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND JENNY'S BAWBEE. Heed's Collection. And a' that e'er my Jenny had, My Jenny had, rny Jenny had ; And a' that e'er my Jenny had, Was ae bawbee. There's your plaok, and my plack And your plack, and my plaok, And my plaok, 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 birle 't a' three. MAGGIE'S TOCHEB. Tea. Table Miscellany, where it is marked as of unknown antiquity. The meal was dear short syne, We buckled us a' thegither ; And Maggie was in her prime, When Willie made courtship till her. Twa pistols charg'd by guess, To gi'e the courting shot ; And syne came ben the lass, Wi' swats drawn frae the butt. He first speir'd at the gudeman, And syne at Giles the mither, An' ye wad gie's a bit land, We'd buckle us e'en thegither. My dochter ye shall ha'e, I'll gi'e you her by the hand ; But I'll part wi' my wife, by my fae, Or I part wi' my land. Tour tocher it s'all be good, , There's nane s'all ha'e its maik, The lass bound in her snood, And Crummie wha kens her stake : Wi' an auld bedding o' claes, Was left me by my mither, They're jet black o'er wi' flaes, Ye may cuddle in them thegither. Ye speak right weel, gudeman, But ye maun mend your hand, And think o' modesty, Gin ye'll no quit your land. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 51 We are but young, ye ken, And now we're gaun thegither, A house is but and ben, And Crummie will want her fother. The bairns are coming on, And they'll ory, O their mither I We've neither pat nor pan, But four bare legs thegither. Your tocher's be good enough, For that ye needna fear, Twa good stilts to the pleugh, And ye yoursel' maun steer : Te s'all ha'e twa guid pocks That anes were o' the tweel, The tane to haud the groats, The tither to haud the meal : Wi' an auld kist made o' wands, And that sail be your coffer, Wi' aiken woody bands, And that may haud your tocher. Consider weel, gudeman, We ha'e but barrow'd gear, The horse that I ride on Is Sandy Wilson's mare ; The saddle's nane o' my ain, And thae's but borrow'd boots, And whan that I gae hame, I maun tak' to my cobts ; The cloak is Geordy Watt's, That gars me look sae crouse ; Come, fill us a cogue o' swats, We'll mak' nae mair toom roose. I like you weel, young lad, For telling me sae plain, I married whan little I had 0' gear that was my ain. But sin' that things are sae, The bride she maun come forth, Tho' a' the gear she'll ha'e 'Twill be but little worth. A bargain it maun be, Fye cry on Giles the mither ; Content am I, quo' she, E'en gar the hizzie come hither. 52 THE SONGS OP SCOTLAND The bride she gaed to her bed, The bridegroom he came till her, The fiddler crap in at the fit, And they cuddl'd it a' thegither. THE PLOUGHMAN. Heed's Coixeotion. It appears also in Johnson's Museum, re-touched by Burns. The ploughman he's a bonnie lad, • And a' his wark's at leisure, And when that he comes hame at e'en, He kisses me wi' pleasure. Then up wi't now, my ploughman lad, And hey, my merry ploughman ; Of a' the lads that I do fee, Commend me to the ploughman. Now the blooming Spring comes on, He takes his yoking early, And whistling o'er the furrowed land, He goes to fallow clearly. Then up wi't now, &o. When my ploughman comes hame at e'en, He's aften wat and weary ; Cast aff the wat, put on the dry, And gae to bed, my dearie. Then up wi't now, &c. I will wash my ploughman's hose, And I will wash his o'erlay : I will mak' my ploughman's bed, And cheer him late and early. Merry butt, and merry ben, Merry is my ploughman, Of a' the trades that I do ken, Commend me to the ploughman. Plough yon hill, and plough yon dale, Plough your faugh and fallow, Wha winna drink the ploughman's health, Is but a dirty fellow. Merry butt, and &c. CHRONOLOGICALLY AKEANGED. 53 GIN MY LOVE WERE YON BED ROSE. Fkom Herd's MS. gin my,love were yon red rose, That grows upon the castle wa', And I raysel' a drap of dew, Down on that red rose I would fa'. my love's bonnie, bonnie, bonnie ; My love's bonnie and fair to see : "Whene'er I look on her weel-far'd face, She looks and smiles again to me. gin my love were a pickle of wheat, And growing upon yon lily_ lee, And I mysel' a bonnie wee bird, Awa' wi' that pickle o' wheat I wad flee. my love's bonnie, &c. gin my love were a coffer o' gowd, And I the keeper of the key, 1 wad open the kist whene'er I list, And in that coffer I wad be. my love's bonnie, &c. THE EWE-BUCHTS, MARION. Tea Table Miscellany. Dr. Percy inserted it in his Beliques, Will ye gae to the ewe-buchts, Marion, And wear in the sheep wi' me ? The sun shines sweet, my Marion, But nae half so sweet as thee. 0, Marion's a bonnie lass, And the blythe blink 's in her e'e ; And fain wad I marry Marion, Gin Marion wad marry me. There's gowd in your garters, Marion, And silk on your white hause-bane ; Pu' fain wad I kiss my Marion, At e'en, when I come hame. There's braw lads in Earnslaw, Marion, Wha gape, and glower wi' their e'e, At kirk when they see my Marion, But nane o' them lo'es like me. I've nine milk-ewes, my Marion, A cow and a brawny quey ; I'll gi'e them a' to my Marion, Just on her bridal-day. 54 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND And ye'se get a green sey apron, And waistcoat o' London broun ; And wow but ye'se be vap'rin' Whene'er ye gang to the toun. I'm young and stout, my Marion ; Nane dances like me on the green: And, gin ye forsake me, Marion, I'll e'en gae draw up wi' Jean. Sae put on your pearlins, Marion, And kirtle o' cramasie ; And, as sune as my chin has nae hair on, I will come west, and see ye. I'LL GAR OUR GUDEMAN TROW. An early song, given by Mr. Charles Erkpatrick Sharpe, in his Ballad Book, 1824. I'll gar our gudeman trow I'll sell the ladle, If he winna buy to me A bonnie side-saddle, To ride to kirk and bridal, And round about the town ; Stand about, ye fisher jauds, And gi'e my gown room ! I'll gar our gudeman trow I'll tak' the fling-strings, If he winna buy to me Twal bonnie gowd rings ; Ane for ilka finger, And twa for ilka thoom ; Stand about, ye fisher jauds, And gi'e my gown room ! I'll gar our gudeman trow That I'm gaun to die, If he winna fee to me Valets twa or three. To bear my train up frae the dirt, And ush me through the town ; Stand about ye fisher jauds, And gi'e my gown room 1 CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 55 DUMBARTON'S DEUMS. Tea Table Miscellany: "Dumbarton's Drums" were the drams be- longing to a British regiment, which took its name from the officer who first commanded it, to wit, the Earl of Dumbarton. This nobleman was a cadet of the family of Douglas, and being commander of the Eoyal Forces in Scotland, during the reigns of Charles II. and James II., he bears a distinguished figure in the dark and blood-stained history of Scot- land during that period. — Chambers. Dumbarton's drums beat bonnie, 0, When tlrey mind me of my dear Johnnie, ; How happie am I When my soldier is by, While he kisses and blesses his Annie, ! 'Tis a soldier alone can delight me, 0, For his graceful looks do invite me, ; While guarded in his arms, I'll fear no war's alarms, Neither danger nor death shall e'er fright me, 0. My love is a handsome laddie, 0, Genteel, but ne'er foppish nor gaudy, 0. Though commissions are dear, Yet I'll buy him one this year, For he'll serve no longer a cadie, 0. A soldier has honour and bravery, 0; Unacquainted with rogues and their knavery, 0, He minds no other thing But the ladies or the king ; For every other care is but slavery, 0. Then I'll be the captain's lady, 0, Farewell all my friends and my daddy, ; I'll wait no more at home, But I'll follow with the drum, And whene'er that beats I'll be ready, 0. Dumbarton's drums sound bonnie, 0, They are sprightly like my dear Johnnie, ; How happy shall I be When on my soldier's knee,, And he kisses and blesses his Annie, 0. 56 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND BEING A' TOUR MAUT. Chambers' Scottish Songs, 1829. Sung to Mr. Robert Chambers by a friend. The chores is as old as the seventeenth century, as it appears in. a manuscript of that period, formerly in the possession of Mr. Constable, publisher. A song, entitled The Mautman, similar to this, is given by Eainsay in his Tea Table Miscellany. Some say that kissing 's a sin, But I think it's nane ava, For kissing has wonn'd in this warld, Since ever that there was twa. 0, if it wasna lawfu', Lawyers wadna allow it ; If it wasna holy, Ministers wadna do it. If it wasna modest, Maidens wadna tak' it ; If it wasna plenty, Puir folk wadna get it 1 Bring a' your maut to me, Bring a' your maut to me ; My draff ye'se get for ae pund ane, Though a,' my deukies should dee. TWEEDSIDE. LORD TESTER, Born 1645, a distinguished Statesman of his time, being one of the most active promoters of the Union in 1702. He became Marquis of Tweeddale in 1697, and died in 1713. The song first appears in Herd's Collection, 1776. The air is very beautiful, and is traditionally ascribed to the unfortunate David Kizzio. When Maggy and me were acquaint, I carried my noddle fu' hie, Nae lintwhite in a' the gay plain, Nae gowdspink sae bonnie as she ! I whistled, I piped, and I sang ; I woo'd, but I cam' nae great speed ; Therefore I maun wander abroad, And lay my banes far frae the Tweed. To Maggy my love I did tell ; My tears did my passion express : Alas ! for I lo'ed her ower weel, And the women lo'e sic a man less. Her heart it was frozen and cauld ; Her pride had my ruin decreed ; Therefore I maun wander abroad, And lay my banes far frae the Tweed. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 57 WEBE NA MY HEAET LICHT. LADY GRIZZEL BAILLTE. Boen 1665, daughter of Sir Patrick Home, Earl of Marchmont, and married in 1692, to George Baillie of Jervisewood. Her devotion to her father and her husband when both were outlawed and hunted down by King James H., gives us a picture which has not been surpassed even in romance. She died in London in 1746, at the ripe age of eighty-one. The song here given (from the Tea Table Miscellany), and the following are the only songs of this lady which have been published — though several others are said to be extant in a manuscript volume. There was anes a maid, and she loo'd na men ; She biggit her bonnie bower down i' yon glen, But now she cries dool, and well-a-day : Come down the green gate, and come here away. But now she, &c. When bonnie young Johnnie cam' ower the sea, He said he saw naething sae lovely as me ; He hecht me baith rings an monie braw things ; And were na my heart licht I wad dee. He hecht me, &c. He had a wee titty that loo'd na me, Because I was twice as bonnie as she ; She rais'd such a pother 'twixt him and his mother, That were na my heart licht I wad dee. She rais'd, &c. The day it was set, and the bridal to be : The wife took a dwam, and lay down to dee. She main'd and she graned, out o' dolour and pain, Till he vow'd he never wad see me again. She main'd, &c. His kin was for ane of a higher degree, Said, What had he to do wi' the like of me ? Albeit I was bonnie, I was na for Johnnie : And were na my heart licht I wad dee. Albeit I was bonnie, &c. They said I had neither cow nor calf, Nor dribbles o' drink rins through the draff, Nor pickles o' meal rins through the mill-e'e ; And were na my heart licht I wad dee. Nor pickles. &c. His titty she was baith wylie and slee, She spied me as I cam' ower the lea ; And then she ran in, and made a loud din ; Believe your ain een an ye trow na me. And then she ran in, &c. 58 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND His bonnet stood aye fu' round on his brow ; His auld ane look'd aye as weel as some's new ; But now he lets 't wear ony gait it will hing, And casts himself dowie upon the oorn-bing. But now he, &c. And now he gaes daundrin' about the dykeB, And a' he dow do is to hund the tykes ; The live-lang nicht he ne'er steeks his e'e ; And were na my heart licht I wad dee. The live-lang nioht, &c* Were I young for thee as I ha'e been, We should ha'e been gallopin' down on yon green, And linkin' it on yon lilie-white lea ; And wow ! gin I were but young for thee 1 And linkin' it, &c. 0, THE EWE-BUCHTIN'S BONNIE. LADY GRIZZEL BAILLIE. An air for this song was composed by Mr. Sharpe of Hoddam (father of the celebrated Antiquary), at the very early age of seven years. 0, the ewe-buohtin's bonnie, baith e'ening and morn, When our blithe shepherds play on the bog-reed and horn ; While we're milking, they're lilting, baith pleasant and clear — But my heart's like to break when I think on my dear. the shepherds take pleasure to blow on the horn, To raise up their flocks o' sheep soon i' the morn ; On the bonnie green banks they feed pleasant and free, But, alas, my dear heart, all my sighing 's for thee ! HERE AWA', THESE AWA'. Heed's CoumotiOn. Here awa', there awa', here awa', Willie ! Here awa', there awa', haud awa' hame ! Lang have I sought thee, dear have I bought thee ; Now I have gotten my Willie again. Through the lang muir I have followed my Willie ; Through the lang muir I have followed him hame Whatever betide us, nought shall divide us ; Love now rewards all my sorrow and pain. Here awa', there awa', here awa', Willie ! Here awa', there awa', haud awa' hame ! Come, love, believe me, nothing can grieve me, Ilka thing pleases, when Willie's at hame. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 59 YELLOW-HAIR'D LADDIE. Tea Table Miscellany — the air was published in 1709. Eamsay, who seems to have been fond of the airy composed two songs to it. The yellow-hair'd laddie sat doun on yon brae, Cried, Milk the yowes, lassie, let nane o' them gae ; And aye as she milkit, she merrily sang, The yellow-hair'd laddie shall be my gudeman. And aye as she milkit, she merrily sang, The yellow-hair'd laddie shall be my gudeman. The weather is oauld, and my claithing is thin, The yowes are new dipt, and they winna bucht in ; They winna bucht in, although I should dee : Oh, yellow-hair'd laddie, be kind unto me. The gudewife cries butt the house, Jennie, come ben ; The cheese is to mak', and the butter's to kirn. Though butter, and cheese, and a' should gang sour, I'll crack and I'll kiss wi' my love ae half hour. It's ae lang half hour, and we'll e'en mak' it three, Tor the yellow-hair'd laddie my husbman shall be. A COCK-LAIRD. Appeared in a more licentious form in Thomson's Obphetts Caledonius. The version here given has been altered a little, and we must say for the better. Its authorship has often been given to Eamsay, but seemingly without foundation. A cock-laied, fa' cadgie, Wi' Jennie did meet ; He hawsed, he kiss'd her, And ca'd her his sweet. Wilt thou gae alang wi' me, Jennie, Jennie ? Thou'se be my ain lemmane, Jo Jennie, quo' he. If I gae alang wi' thee', Ye maunna fail To feast me wi' caddels And guid hackit kail. What needs a' this vanity, Jennie? quo' he; Is na bannocks and dribly-beards Guid meat for thee ? 60 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Grin I gang alang wi' you, I maun ha'e a silk hood, A kirtle-sark, wyliecoat, And a silk snood, To tie up my hair in. A cockernonie. Hout ava'i thou's gane wud, I trow, Jennie ! quo' he. Gin ye'd ha'e me look bonnie, And shine like the moon, I maun ha'e katlets and patlets, And cam'rel-heel'd shoon ; Wi' craig-claiths and lug-babs, And rings twa or three. Hout the deil's in your vanity, Jennie ! quo' he. And I maun ha'e pinners, With pearlins set roun', A skirt o' the paudy, And a waistcoat o' brown. Awa' wi' sic vanities, Jennie, quo' he, For curches and kirtles Are fitter for thee. My lairdship can yield me As muckle a-year, As haud us in pottage And guid knookit hear; But, havin' nae tenants, Oh, Jennie,' Jennie, To buy ought I ne'er have A penny, quo' he. The Borrowstown merchants Will sell ye on tick ; For we maun ha'e braw things, Although they should break : When broken, frae care The fools are set free, When we mak' them lairds In the Abbey, quo' she. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 61 THE GEAR AND THE BLATHRIE O'T. A Proverb — " Shame fall the gear and the blathrie o't " is given in Kelly's Proverbs, 1721 as the burden of an old Scottish song. We have one or two other versions of this song, but the one here given appears to be accepted as the oldest. When I think on this warld's pelf, And the little wee share I ha'e o't to myself, And how the lass that wants it is by the lads forgot, May the shame fa' the gear and the blathrie o't ! Jockie was the laddie that held the pleugh, But now he's got gowd and gear enough ; He thinks nae mair o' me that wears the plaiden coat : — May the shame fa' the gear and the blathrie o't I Jenny was the lassie that mucked the byre, But now she is clad in her silken attire ; And Jockie says he lo'es her, and swears he's me forgot : — May the shame fa' the gear and the blathrie o't ! But all this shall never daunton me, Sae lang as I keep my fancy free ; For the lad that's sae inconstant he is not worth a groat : — May the shame fa' the gear and the blathrie o't 1 SAW YE NAE MY PEGGY. Herd's Collection. The air is given in Thomson's Orpheus Caledonius, 1725. Saw ye nae my Peggy, Saw ye nae my Peggy, Saw ye nae my Peggy, Coming ower the lea ? Sure a finer creature Ne'er was formed by Nature, So complete each feature, So divine is she 1 ! how Peggy charms me ; Every look still warms me ; Every thought alarms me ; Lest she lo'e nae me. Peggy doth discover Nought but charms all over : Nature bids me love her ; That's a law to me. Who would leave a lover, To become a rover ? No, HI ne'er give over, Till I happy be. 62 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND For since love inspires me, As her beauty fires me, And her absence tires me, Nought can please but she. When I hope to gain her, Fate seems to detain her ; Could I but obtain her, Happy would I be ! I'll lie down before her, . Bless, sigh, and adore her, With faint looks implore her, Till she pity me. SAW YE JOHNNY COMIN'? Supposed to be prior to the days of Eamsay, although we can find no trace of its author or precise age. The air was much admired by Burns, who heard it played in Dumfries by Mr. Thomas Fraser, oboist in the theatre there, and composed a song for it. Saw ye Johnny comin', quo' she, Saw ye Johnny comin' ; Saw ye Johnny comin', quo' she, Saw ye Johnny comin' ; Saw ye Johnny comin', quo' she, Saw ye Johnny comin' ; Wi' his blue bonnet on his head, And his doggie rinnin', quo' die, And his doggie rinnin' ? Fee him, father, fee him, quo' she, Fee him, father, fee him ; Fee him, father, fee him, quo' she, Fee him, father, fee him ; For he is a gallant lad, And a weel-doin' ; And a' the wark about the house, Graes wi' me when I see him, quo' she, Wi' me when I see him. What will I do wi' him, quo' he, What will I do wi' him ? He's ne'er a sark upon his back, And I ha'e nane to gi'e him. I ha'e twa sarks into my kist, And ane o' them I'll gi'e him ; And for a merk o' mair fee, Dinna stand wi' him, quo' she, Dinna stand wi' him. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 63 For weel do I lo'e him, quo' she, Weel do I lo'e him ; For weel do I lo'e him, quo' she, Weel do I lo'e him. 0, fee him, father, fee him, quo' she, Fee him, father, fee him ; He'll haud the pleugh, thrash in the barn, And crack wi' me at e'en, quo' she, And crack wi' me at e'en. ETTEICK BANKS. Thomson's Orpheus CaiiEdontos, 1725. On Ettrick banks, ae simmer's night, At gloamin', when the sheep drave hame, I met my lassie, braw and tight, Come wading barefoot a' her lane. My heart grew light;— I ran, I flang My arms about her lily neck, And kiss'd and clapp'd her there fu' lang, My words they were na monie feck. I said, My lassie, will ye gang To the Highland hills, the Erse to learn ? I'll gi'e thee baith a cow and ewe, When ye come to the brig o' Earn : At Leith auld meal comes in, ne'er fash, And herrings at the Broomielaw ; Cheer up your heart, my bonnie lass, There's gear to win ye never saw. A' day when we ha'e wrought eneugh, When winter frosts and snaw begin, Soon as the sun gaes west the loch, At night when ye sit down to spin, I'll screw my pipes, and play a spring : And thus the weary night will end, Till the tender kid and lamb-time bring Our pleasant simmer back again. Syne, when the trees are in their bloom, And gowans glent o'er ilka fiel', I'll meet my lass amang the broom, And lead you to my simmer shiel. Then, far frae a' their scornfu' din, That mak' the kindly heart their sport, We'll laugh, and kiss, and dance, and sing, And gar the langest day seem short. 64 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND PART n. From the Union to 1776. THE AULD WIFE AYONT THE FIRE. Tea Table Miscellany. Marked as an old song with additions. Worthy of preservation for the moral contained in the last stanza. There was a wife wonn'd in a glen, And she had dochters nine or ten, That sought the house baith butt and ben To find their mam a snishing. The auld wife ayont the fire, The auld wife aniest the fire, The auld wife aboon the fire, She died for lack of snishing. Her mill into some hole had fawn, What recks, quoth she, let it be gawn, For I maun ha'e a young gudeman, Shall furnish me wi' snishing. The auld wife, &c. Her eldest dochter said right bauld, Fy, mother, mind that now ye're auld, And if you wi' a younker wald, . He'll waste away your snishing. The auld wife, &c. The youngest dochter ga'e a shout, mother dear 1 your teeth's a' out, Besides half blind, ye ha'e the gout, Your mill can haud nae snishing. The auld wife, &c. Ye lie, ye limmers, cries auld mump, For I hae baith a tooth and stump, And will nae langer live in dump, By wanting of my snishing. The auld wife, &c. Thole ye, says Peg, that pauky slut, Mother, if ye can crack a nut, Then we will a' consent to it, That ye shall have a snishing. The auld wife, &c. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 65 The auld arte did agree to that, And they a pistol-bullet gat : She powerfully began to crack, To win hersel' a finishing. The auld wife, &o. Braw sport it was to see her chow 't, And 'tween her gums sae squeeze and row 't, While frae her jaws the slaver flow'd, And aye she curst poor stumpy. The auld wife, &c. At last she ga'e a desperate squeeze, Which brak theJang tooth by the neeze, And syne poor stumpy was at ease, But she tint hopes of finishing. The auld wife, &c. She of the task began to tire, And frae her dochters did retire, Syne lean'd her down ayont the fire, And died for lack o' snishing. The auld wife, &c. Ye auld wives, notice weel this truth, As soon as ye're past mark o' mouth, Ne'er do what's only fit for youth, And leave aff thoughts o' snishing. Else, like this wife ayotit the fire, Your bairns against you will conspire ; Nor will you get, unless you hire, A young man with your snishing. JOCKEY FOU, JENNY FAIN. Tea Table Miscellany — where it is marked as an old song, with additions. Jockey fou, Jenny fain ; Jenny was na ill to gain ; She was couthie, he was kind ; And thus the wooer tell'd his mind : Jenny, I'll nae mair be nice ; Gi'e me love at ony price : I winna prig for red or white, Love alane can gi'e delyte. Others seek they kenna what, In looks, in carriage, and a' that ; Gi'e me love for her I court : Love in love makes a' the sport. 66 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Colours mingled unco fine, Common notions lang sinsyne, Never can engage my love, Until my fancy first approve. It is nae meat, but appetite, - That makes our eating a delyte ; Beauty is at best deceit ; Fancy only kens nae cheat. HAUD AWA'. Tea Tabee Mibceixant — where it is marked as an old song, with addi- tions ; probably by Eamsay himself. The air is very old (being found in Playford's "Danoing Master," 1657), and has always been very popular, numerous songs to it being extant. DONALD. 0, come awa', come awa', Come awa' wi' me, Jenny! Sic frowns I canna bear frae ane, Whase smiles ance ravish'd me, Jenny. If you'll be kind, you'll never find That ought shall alter me, Jenny; For ye're the mistress of my mind, • Whate'er ye think of me, Jenny 1 First when your sweets enslaved my heart, Ye seem'd to favour me, Jenny ; But now, alas ! you act a part That speaks inconstancie,- Jenny. Inconstancie is sic a vice, It's not befitting thee, Jenny ; It suits not with your virtue nice, To carry sae to me, Jenny. JENNY. 0, haud awa', bide awa', Haud awa' frae me, Donald I Your heart is made ower large for ane — It is not meet for me, Donald. Some fickle mistress you may find Will jilt as fast as thee, Donald; To ilka swain she will prove kind, And nae less kind to thee, Donald : But I've a heart that's naething such ; "Kb filled wi' honestie, Donald. I'll ne'er love mony ; I'll love much ; I hate all levitie, Donald. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 67 Therefore nae mair, wi' art, pretend Your heart is cham'd to mine, Donald $ For words of falsehood ill defend A roving love like thine, Donald. First when ye courted, I must own, I frankly favour'd you, Donald ; Apparent worth, and fair renown, Made me believe you true, Donald : Ilk virtue then seem'd to adorn The man esteem'd by me, Donald ; But now the mask's faun an, I scorn To ware a thocht on thee, Donald. And now for ever haud awa', Haud awa' frae me, Donald ! Sae, seek a heart that's like your ain, And come nae mair to me, Donald : For I'll reserve mysel' for ane, For ane that's liker me, Donald. If sic a ane I canna find, I'll ne'er lo'e man, nor thee, Donald. DONALD. Then I'm the man, and fause report Has only tauld a lie, Jenny ; To try thy truth, and make us sport, The tale was raised by me, Jenny. JENNY. When this ye prove, and still can love, ' Then come awa' to me, Donald ! I'm weel -content ne'er to repent That I ha'e smiled on thee, Donald ! MEERT MAY THE MAID BE. ' SIR JOHN CLEEK, BABT., Bokn about 1680. He was appointed in 1708 one of the Barons of Exchequer in Scotland, which post he held till his death in 1755. Sir John was a profound antiquarian, and he carried on a long and learned correspond6nce with Roger Gale, the celebrated English antiquary. The song here given appeared first in The Charmer, 1751, minus the last stanza, which was afterwards added by the author. The first stanza be- longs to an old song. Merry may the maid "be That marries the miller, For foul day or fair day He's aye bringing till her ; 68 THE SONUS OF SCOTLAND Has aye a penny in his purse For dinner and for supper ; And gin she please, a good fat cheese, And lumps o' yellow butter. When Jamie first did woo me, I spier'd what was his calling : Fair maid, says he, come and see, Ye're welcome to my dwelling. Though I was shy, yet I cou'd spy The truth of what he told me, And that his house was warm and couth, And room in it to hold me. Behind the door a bag o' meal, And in the kist was plenty 0' good hard cakes his mither bakes, And bannocks were na scanty ; . A good fat sow, a sleeky cow Was standin' in the byre ; Whilst lazy puss with mealy mou's Was playing at the fire. Good signs are these, my mither says, And bids me tak the miller ; For foul day and fair day He's aye bringing till her ; For meal and maut he does na want, Nor ony thing that's dainty; And now then a keckling hen To lay her eggs in plenty. In winter when the wind and rain Blaws o'er the house and byre, He sits beside a clean hearth stane Before a rousing fire ; With nut-brown ale he tells his tale, Which rows him o'er fu' nappy : Who'd be a king— a petty thing, When a miller lives so happy ? CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 69 THE AULD MAN'S MEAE'S DEAD. PATRICK BDINIE, A well-known piper of his day. He flourished about the beginning of the eighteenth century. Allan Bamsay, in 1721, published an " Elegie on Patie Birnie," one of the stanzas of which is as follows : — " This sang he made frae his ain head, And eke ' The auld man's mare's dead — The peats and turfs and a's to lead ; ' O fy upon her! A bonny auld thing this indeed, An't like your honour." The auld man's mear's dead ; The puir body's mear's dead ; The auld man's mear's dead, A mile aboon Dundee. There was hay to ca', and lint to lead, A hunder hotts o' muck to spread, And peats and truffs and a' to lead — And yet the jaud to dee I She had the fieroie and the fleuk, The wheezloch and the wanton yeuk ; On ilka knee she had a breuk — What ail'd the beast to dee ? She was lang-tooth'd and blench-lippit, Heam-hough'd and haggis-fittit, Lang-neckit, chandler-chaftit, And yet the jaud to, dee ! EDINBTJBGH KATIE. ALLAN RAMSAY, Often styled " The restorer of Scottish Poetry," was born at Leadhills, in Lanarkshire, 15th October, 1686. His father, who was manager of Lord Hopetoun's mines, at Leadhills, died shortly after his birth, and his mother then became the wife of a petty landholder in the same district. In his fifteenth year he was sent to Edinburgh, and apprenticed by his stepfather to a wigmaker. He pursued this calling till 1718, when, encouraged by the success of a few fugitive pieces of poetry, he began business as a bookseller, in the High Street of Edinburgh. In 1721, he published a volume of his poems, and realised a very handsome profit on its sale. In 1724, the first volume of the Tea Table Miscellany (so often referred to in the course of this work) was published, and its success warranted its being succeeded by the remaining three volumes. In this publication he was assisted by Hamilton of Bangour, Mallet, Crawford, and many others. In 1724, also, he published " The Evergreen," our second collection of early Scots poetry. His masterpiece, "The Gentle Shepherd," appeared in 1725, and established his fame as a writer, not only in Scotland but in England, where Pope, Gay, and other critics, 70 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND applauded and studied it. He carried on his business as a bookseller and publisher till about 1745, when he retired. He died in 1758, and was interred in the Greyfriars Churchyard, Edinburgh. He married Christian -Boss, and had a large family. His son, Allan, rose to great eminence as a painter, holding the post of "Portrait Fainter to His Majesty" from 1767. He died in 1784. Allan Eamsay's fame as a song writer has faded 6ince the time of Bums ; but we must not forget that no small share of Burns's inspiration, and love of Scottish song, was fostered by admiration for Bamsay and his works ; and that the Tea Table Miscellakt, gathered by him, has been the means of preserving many an early gem, which, but for his care, might have been lost. As an editor, he has been blamed for tampering with the original versions, but this was generally done to cover some loose and immoral language ; and no one who is at all acquainted with the originals of some of our most popular songs wiE be inclined to concur in this censure, when they recollect that the Tea Table Miscellany was dedicated to the ladies of Great Britain. Whatever loose expressions are now to be found in it were not considered as such in the times of " Honest Allan." Now wat ye wha I met yestreen, Coming down the street, my joe ? My mistress, in her tartan screen, Fu' bonnie, braw, and sweet, my joe ! My dear, quoth I, thanks to the nicht That never wish'd a lover ill, Sin' ye're out o' your mither's sicht, Let's tak' a walk up to the hill. Oh, Katie, wilt thou gang wi' me, And leave the dinsome toun a while ? The blossom's sprouting frae the tree, And a' the simmer's gaun to smile. The mavis, nichtingale, and lark, The Meeting lambs and whistling hynd, In ilka dale, green, shaw and park, Will nourish health, and glad your mind. Sune as the clear gudeman o' day Does bend his morning draught o' dew, We'll gae to some burn-side and play, And gather flouirs to busk your brow. We'll pou the daisies on the green, The lucken-gowans frae the bog ; Between hands, now and then, we'll lean And sport upon the velvet fog. There's, up into a pleasant glen, A wee piece frae my father's tower, A canny, saft, and flowery den, Which circling birks have form'd a bower. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 71 Whene'er the sun grows high and warm, We'll to the caller shade remove ; There will I lock thee in my arm, And love and kiss, and kiss and love. KATIE'S ANSWEB. AI^LAN RAMSAY. Mr mither's aye glowrin' ower me, Though she did the same before me ; I canna get leave To look at my love, Or else she'd be like to devour me. Eight fain wad I tak' your offer, Sweet sir — but I'll tyne my tocher ; Then, Sandy, ye'll fret, And wyte your puir Kate, Whene'er ye keek in your toom coffer. For though my father has plenty Of silver, and plenishing dainty, Yet he's unco sweir To twine wi' his gear ; And sae we had need to be tenty. Tutor my parents wi' caution, Be wylie in ilka motion ; Brag weel o' your land, And there's my leal hand, Win them, I'll be at your devotion. BONNIE CHIRSTT. ALLAN RAMSAY. How sweetly smells the simmer green ; Sweet taste the peach and cherry ; Painting and order please our een, 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 wi' those of Chirsty. When wandring o'er the flow'ry park, No natural beauty wanting ; How lightsome is't to hear the lark And birds in concert chanting ! 72 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND But if my Chirsty tunes her voice, I'm rapt in admiration ; My thoughts wi' ecstasies rejoice, And drap the haill creation. Whene'er she smiles a kindly glance, I take the happy omen, And aften mint to make advance, Hoping she'll prove a woman : But, dubious o' my am desert, My sentiments I smother ; Wi' secret sighs I vex my heart, For fear she love another. Thus sang blate Edie by a burn, His Chirsty did o'er-hear him ; She doughtna let her lover mourn, But, ere he wist, drew near him. She spak' her favour wi' a look, Which left nae room to doubt her : He wisely this white minute took, And flang his arms about her. My Chirsty ! witness, bonny stream, Sic joys frae tears arising ! I wish this may na be a dream love the maist surprising I Time was too precious now for tauk, This point of a' his wishes He wadna wi' set speeches bauk, But wair'd it a' on kisses. OLD LONGSYNE. ALLAN RAMSAY. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, Though they return with scars ? These are the noble hero's lot, Objtain'd in glorious wars : Welcome, my Varo, to my breast, Thy arms about me twine, And make me once again as blest, As I was lang syne. Methinks around us on each bough, A thousand Cupids play, Whilst through the groves I walk with you, Each object makes me gay. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 73 Since your return the sun and moon With hrighter beams do shine, Streams murmur soft notes while they run, As they did lang syne. Despise the court and din of state ; Let that to their share fall, Who can esteem such slavery great, While bounded like a ball : But sunk in love, upon my arms Let your brave head recline ; We'll please ourselves with mutual charms, As we did lang syne. O'er moor and dale, with your gay friend, You may pursue the chace, And, after a blythe bottle, end All cares in my embrace : And in a vacant rainy day You shall be wholly mine ; We'll make the hours run smooth away, And laugh at lang syne. The hero, pleased with the sweet air, And signs of generous love, Which had been utter'd by the fair, Bow'd to the powers above. Next day, with consent and glad haste, They approach'd the sacred shrine, Where the good priest the couple blest, And put them out of pine. THE COLLIER'S BONNIE LASSIE. ALLAH RAMSAY. The collier has a daughter, And, ! she's wondrous bonnie. A laird he was that sought her, Rich baith in lands and mone^y. The tutors watched the motion ' Of this young honest lover : But love is like the ocean ; Wha can its depths discover I He had the art to please ye, And was by a' respected ; His airs sat round him easy, Genteel but unaffected. 74 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND The collier's bonnie lassie, Fair as the new-blown lilie, Aye sweet, and never saucy, Secured the heart o' Willie. He loved, beyond expression, The charms that were about her, And panted for possession ; His life was. dull without her. After mature resolving, Close to his breast he held her; In saftest flames dissolving, He tenderly thus telled her : My bonnie collier's daughter, Let naething discompose ye ; It's no your scanty tocher, Shall ever gar me lose ye : For I have gear in plenty ; And love says, it's my duty To ware what heaven has lent me Upon your wit and beauty. GI'E ME A LASS WI' A LUMP 0' LAND. ALLAN RAitSAT. Gi'e me a lass with a lump o' land, And we for life shall gang thegither ; Tho' daft or wise, I'll ne'er demand, Or black or fair, it maksna whether. I'm aff wi' wit, and beauty will fade, And blood alane 's nae worth a shilling ; But she that's rich, her market's made, For ilka charm about her's killing. Gi'e me a lass with a lump o' land, And in my bosom I'll hug my treasure ; Gin I had ance her gear in my hand, Should love turn dowf, it will find pleasure. Laugh on wha likes ; but there's my hand, I hate with poortith, though bonnie, to meddle : Unless they bring cash, or a lump o' land, They'se ne'er get me to dance to their fiddle. There's meikle gude love in bands and bags ; And siller and gowd's a sweet complexion ; But beauty and wit and virtue, in rags, Have tint the art of gaining affection. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 75 Love tips his arrows with woods and parks, And castles, and riggs, and muirs, and meadows ; And naething can catch our modern sparks, But weel-tocher'd lasses, or jointur'd widows. AN THOU WERT MY AIN THING. Tea Table Miscellany (with the exception of the first verse), marked X, signifying that it is a modern song by an unknown author. The air has been traced as far back as 1657. The present version of the words are doubtless of Ramsay's own time, if not by himself. An thou were my ain thing, I would lo'e thee, I would lo'e thee ; An thou were my ain thing, How dearly would I lo'e thee ! ■ I would clasp thee in my arms, I'd secure thee from all harms ; For above mortal thou hast charms : How dearly do I lo'e thee ! An thou were, &c. Of race divine thou needs must be, Since nothing earthly equals thee, So I must still presumptuous be, To show how much I lo'e thee. An thou were, &c. The gods one thing peculiar have, To ruin none whom they can save ; 0, for their sake, support a slave, Who only lives to lo'e thee. An thou were, &c. To merit I no claim can make, But that I lo'e, and, for your sake, What man can more, I'll undertake, So dearly do I lo'e thee. An thou were, &c. My passion, constant as the sun, Flames stronger still, will ne'er have done, Till fates my thread of life have spun, Which breathing out, I'll lo'e thee. An thou were, &c. 76 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND AN THOU WERE MY AIN THING. ALLAN RAMSAY. Written as a continuation of the song already given. Like bees that suck the morning dew, Frae flowers of sweetest scent and hue, Sae wad I dwell upo' thy mou', And gar the gods envy me. An thou were, &c. Sae lang's I had the use of light, I'd on thy beauties feast my sight, , Syne in saft whispers through the night, I'd tell how much I loo'd thee. An thou were, &c. How fair and ruddy is my Jean, She moves a goddess o'er the green ; Were I a king, thou should be queen, Nane but mysel' aboon thee. An thou were, &c. I'd grasp thee to this breast of mine, Whilst thou, like ivy, or the vine, Around my stronger limbs should twine, Form'd hardy to defend thee. An thou were, &c. Time's on the wing, and will not stay, In shining youth let's make our hay, Since love admits of nae delay, let nae scorn undo thee. An thou were, &e. While love does at his altar stand, Ha'e there's my heart, gi'e me thy hand, And with ilk smile thou shalt command The will of him wha loves thee. An thou were, &c. POLWARTH, ON THE GREEN. ALLAN RAMSAY. At Polwarth, on the green, If you'll meet me the morn, Where lads and lasses do convene To dance around the thorn ; A kindly welcome you shall meet Fra her, wha likes to view A lover and a lad complete, The lad and lover you. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 77 Let dorty dames. say Na, As lang as e'er they please, Seem caulder than the sna', While inwardly they bleeze ; But I will frankly shaw my mind, And yield my heart to thee — Be ever to the captive kind, That langs na to be free. At Polwarth, on the green, Amang the new-mawn hay, With sangs and dancing keen We'll pass the live-lang day. At nicht, if beds be ower thrang laid, And thou be twined of thine, Thou shalt be welcome, my dear lad, To take a part of mine. LOCHABBR NO MOEE. ALiAN RAMSAY. Farewell to Lochaber, farewell to my Jean, Where heartsome wi' thee I ha'e mony a day been ; To Lochaber no more, to Lochaber no more, We'll may be return to Lochaber no more. These tears that I shed, they're a' for my dear, And no for the, dangers attending on weir ; Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. Though hurricanes rise, though rise every wind, No tempest can equal the storm in my mind ; Though loudest of thunders on louder waves roar, There's naething like leavin' my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain'd ; But by ease that's inglorious no fame can be gain'd : And beauty and love's the reward of the brave ; And I maun deserve it before I can crave. Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse ; Since 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. 78 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND THIS IS NO MINE AIN HOUSE. ALLAN RAMSAY. This is no mine ain house, I ken by the rigging o't ; Since with my love I've changed vows, I dinna like the bigging o't. For now that I'm young Kobie's bride, And mistress of his fire-side, Mine ain house I'll like to guide, And please me with the trigging o't. Then fareweel to my father's house, I gang whare love invites me ; The strictest duty this allows, When love with honour meets me. When Hymen moulds us into ane, My Bobbie's nearer than my kin, And to refuse him were a sin, Sae lang's he kindly treats me. When I'm in my ain house, True love shall be at hand aye, To make me still a prudent spouse, And let my man command aye ; Avoiding ilka cause of strife, The common pest of married life, That mak's ane wearied of his wife, And breaks the kindly band aye. GIN YE MEET A BONNIE LASSIE. ALLAN RAMSAY. Gin ye meet a bonnie lassie, Gi'e her a kiss and let her gae ; But if -ye meet a dirty hizzie, Eye, gar rub her ower wi' strae. Be sure ye dinna quit the grip Of ilka joy when ye are young, Before auld age your vitals nip, And lay ye twa-fauld ower a rung. Sweet youth's a blythe and heartsome time : Then, lads and lasses, while it's May, Gae pou the gowan in its prime, Before it wither and decay. Watch the saft minutes o' delight, When Jenny speaks beneath her breath, „ And kisses, layin' a' the wyte On you if she kep ony skaith. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 79 Haith, ye're ill-bred, she'll smilin' say, Ye'll worry me, ye* greedy rook ; Syne frae your arms she'll rin away, And hide hersel' in some dark neuk. Her lauch will lead ye to the place, Where lies the happiness ye want ; And plainly tell ye to your face, Nineteen nay-says are hauf a grant. Now to her heavin' bosom cling, And sweitly tuilyie for a kiss ; Frae her fair finger whup a ring, As taiken o' a future bliss. These benisons, I'm very sure, Are of kind heaven's indulgent grant ; Then, surly carles, wheesht, forbear To plague us wi' your whinin' cant ! THE WIDOW CAN BAKE. ALLAN RAMSAY. The widow can bake, an' the widow can brew, The widow can shape, an' the widow can sew, An' mony braw things the widow can do ; Then have at the widow, my laddie. With courage attack her, baith early and late, To kiss her an' clap her ye maunna be blate : Speak well, an' do better ; for that's the best gate To win a young widow, my laddie. The widow she's youthfu', and never ae hair The waur of the wearing, and has a good shair Of every thing lovely ; she's witty and fair, An' has a rich jointure, my laddie. What could ye wish better, your pleasure to crown, Than a widow, the bonniest toast in the town, With, naething but — draw in your stool and sit down, And sport with the widow, my laddie ! Then till her, and kill her with courtesie dead, Though stark love and kindness be all you can plead ; Be heartsome and airy, and hope to succeed With the bonnie gay widow, my laddie. Strike iron while 'ts het, if ye'd have it to wald ; For fortune aye favours the active and bauld, But ruins the wooer that's thowless and cauld, Unfit for the widow, my laddie. 80 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND BESSIE BELL, AND MART GRAT. ALLAN RAMSAY. 0, Bessie Bell, and Mary Gray, , They were twa bonnie lasses; They biggit a bower on yon burn-brae, And theekit it ower wi' rashes. Fair Bessie Bell I lo'ed yestreen, And thooht I ne'er could alter ; But Mary Gray's twa pawky een Gar'd a' my fancy falter. Bessie's hair's like a lint-tap, She smiles like a May mornin', When Phoebus starts frae Thetis' lap, The hills with rays adornin' ; White is her neck, saft is her hand, Her waist and feet fu' genty, With ilka grace she can command : Her lips, 0, wow 1 they're denty. An' Mary's locks are like the craw, Her een like diamonds glances ; She's aye sae clean, redd-up, and braw ; She kills whene'er she dances. Blythe as a kid, wi' wit at will, She blooming, tight, and tall is, And guides her airs sae gracefu' still ; 0, Jove, she's like thy Pallas I Dear Bessie Bell, and Mary Gray, Te unco sair oppress us ; Our fancies jee between ye twa, Te are sic bonnie lasses. Wae's me ! for baith I canna get ; To ane by law we're stentit ; ' Then I'll draw cuts, and tak' my fate, And be wi' ane contentit. THE YELLOW-HAIB'D LADDIE. ALLAN RAMSAY. In April, when primroses paint the sweet plain, And summer approaching rejoiceth the swain, The yellow-hair'd laddie wquld oftentimes go To woods and deep glens where the hawthorn trees grow. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 81 There, under the shade of an old sacred thorn, With freedom he sung his loves, evening and morn : He sung with so soft and enchanting a sound, That sylvans and fairies, unseen, danced around. The shepherd thus sung : " Though young Maya be fair, Her beauty is dash'd with a scornful proud air ; But Susie was handsome, and sweetly could sing ; Her breath's like the breezes perfumed 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 that sprung from the sea. " That mamma's fine daughter, with all her great dower, Was awkwardly airy, and frequently sour." Then sighing* he wish'd, would but parents agree, The witty sweet Susie his mistress might be. HAP ME WI' THY PETTICOAT. ALLAN BAMSAY. Bell, thy looks ha'e 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 cold, while thou art warm ; Have pity and incline, And grant me for a hap that charm- ing petticoat of thine. My ravish'd fancy in amaze Still wanders o'er thy charms, Delusive dreams ten thousand ways Present thee to my arms. But waking, think what I endure, While cruel thou decline Those pleasures, which alone can cure This panting breast of mine. 1 faint, I fall, and wildly rove, Because you still deny The just reward that's due to love, And, let true passion die. Oh ! turn, and let compassion seize That lovely breast of thine ; Thy petticoat could give me ease, If thou and it were mine. 82 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Sure heaven has fitted for delight That beauteous form of thine, And thou'rt too good its law to slight, By hind'ring the design. May all the powers of love agree, , At length to make thee mine ; Or loose my chains and set me free From every charm of thine. HIGHLAND LADDIE. ALLAN RAMSAY. The Lawland lads think they are fine, But ! they're vain and idly gaudy ; How much unlike the gracefu' mien And manly looks of my Highland laddie. my bonnie Highland laddie, My handsome, charming, Highland laddie ; May heaven still guard, and love reward, The Lawland lass and her Highland laddie. If I were free at will to choose, To be the wealthiest Lawland lady, I'd tak' young Donald without trews, With bonnet blue and belted plaidie. my bonnie, &o. The brawest beau in burrows town, In a' his airs, wi' art made ready, Compared to him, he's but a clown, He's finer far in 's tartan plaidie. my bonnie, &c, v O'er benty hill wi' him I'll run, And leave my Lawland kin and daddie ; Frae winter's cauld and summer's sun, He'll screen me wi' his Highland plaidie. my bonnie, &o. A painted room, and silken bed, May please a Lawland laird and lady ; But I can kiss and be as glad Behind a bush in 's Highland plaidie. my bonnie, &c. Few compliments between us pass ; I ca' him my dear Highland laddie, And he ca's me his Lawland lass, Syne rows me in beneath his plaidie. my bonnie, &c. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 83 Nae greater joy I'll e'er pretend, Than that his love prove true and steady, Like mine to him, which ne'er shall end, While heaven preserves my Highland laddie. my honnie, &e. UP IN THE AIB. AT.T.A1T RAMSAY. Now the sun's gaen 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 honny grey mare, And I see her yet, and I see her yet. Up in, &c. The wind's drifting hail and sna', O'er frozen hags like a foot-ba' ; Nae starns keek through 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. The man, &c. Tak' your glass to clear your een, 'Tis the elixir heals the spleen, Baith wit and mirth it will inspire, And gently puffs the lover's fire. Up in the air, It drives away care, Ha'e wi' ye, ha'e wi' ye, and ha'e wi' ye, lads, yet. Up in, &c. Steek the doors, keep out the frost, Come, Willy, gi'es about ye'r toast, Till't lads, and lilt it out, And let us ha'e a blythsome bowt. Up wi't, there, there, Dinna cheat, but drink fair, Huzza, huzza, and huzza lads, yet. Up wi't. &c. 84 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND I WILL AW A' WI' MY LOVE. AT.T.AN RAMSAY. I will awa' wi' my love, I will awa' wi' her, Though a' my kin had sworn and said, I'll ower Bogie wi' her. If I can get but her consent, I dinna care a strae ; Though ilka ane be discontent, Awa' wi' her I'll gae. For now she's mistress o' my heart, And wordy o' my hand ; And, weel I wat, we shanna part For siller or for land. Let rakes delight to swear and drink, And beaux admire fine lace ; But my chief pleasure is to blink On Betty's bonnie face. There a' the beauties do combine, Of colour, treats, and air ; . The saul that sparkles in her een Makes her a jewel rare ; Her flowili' wit gives shining life To a' her other charms ; How blest I'll be when she's my wife, And lock'd up in my arms ! There blythely will I rant and sing, While o'er her sweets I'll range ; I'll cry, Your humble servant, king, Shame fa' them that wad change. A kiss of Betty, and a smile A beit ye wad lay down, The right ye hae to Britain's Isle, And offer me yer crown. BONNIE SCOT-MAN. ALLAN RAMSAY. , Ye gales, that gently wave the sea, And please the canny boat-man, Bear me frae hence, or bring to me My brave, my bonnie Scot-man. In haly bands we joined our hands, Yet may not this discover, While parents rate a large estate Before a faithfu' lover. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 85 But I loor chuse, in Highland glens To herd the kid and goat, man, Ere I could for sic little ends, Refuse my bonnie 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 1 Frae foreign fields, my lovely youth, Haste to thy longing lassie, Who pants to press thy balmy mouth, And in her bosom hause thee. 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 blythe, my bonnie Scot-man. BRAES OF BRANKSOME. ALLAN BAMSAY. As I cam' in by Teviot side, And by the braes of Branksome, There first I saw my bonnie bride, Young, smiling, sweet, and handsome. Her skin was safter than the down, And white as alabaster ; Her hair, a shining, waving brown ; In straightness nane surpass'd 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 gushats fine, Or shoon with glancing laces, On her bare leg, forbad to shine Weel-shapen native graces. Ae little coat and bodice white Was sum o' a' her claithing ; E'en these o'er muckle ; — mair delight She'd given clad wi' naething. We lean'd upon a flowery brae, By which a burnie trotted ; On her I glowr'd my soul away, While on her sweets I doated. 86 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND A thousand beauties of desert Before had scarce alarm'd me, Till this dear artless Btruck my heart, And, bot designing, charm'd me. Hurried by love, close to my breast I clasp'd this fund of blisses, — Wha smiled, and said, Without a priest, Sir, hope for nooht but kisses. I had nae heart to do her harm, And yet I couldna want her ; What she demanded, ilka charm 0' hers pled I should grant her. Since heaven had dealt to me a roTith, Straight to the kirk I led her ; There plighted her my faith and trouth, And a young lady made her. THE LAST TIME I CAM' OWBE THE MDIR. ALLAN KAMSAY. The last time I cam' owre the muir, I left my love behind me : Ye powers, what pains do I endure When soft ideas mind me 1 Soon as the ruddy morn display'd The beaming day ensuing, I met betimes my lovely maid, In fit retreats for wooing. We stray'd beside yon wand'ring stream, And talk'd with hearts o'erflowing ; Until the sun's last setting beam Was in the ocean glowing. I pitied all beneath the skies, Even kings, when she was nigh me ; In raptures I beheld her eyes, Which could but ill deny me. Should I be call'd where cannons roar, Where mortal steel may wound me, Or cast upon some foreign shore, Where dangers may surround me ; Tet hopes again to see my love, To feast on glowing kisses, Shall make my cares at distance move, In prospect of such blisses. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 87 In all my soiil there's not one place To let a rival enter : Sinoe she excels in ev'ry grace, In her my love shall centre. Sooner the seas shall cease to flow, Their waves the Alps shall cover, On Greenland ice shall roses grow, Before I cease to love her. The neist time I gang ower the muir, She shall a lover find me ; And that my faith is firm and pure, Though I left her behind me ; Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain My heart to her fair bosom ; There, while my being does remain, My love more fresh shall blossom. LOVE INVITING REASON. ALLAN RAMSAY. When innocent pastime our pleasures did crown, Upon a green meadow, or under a tree, Ere Annie became a fine lady in town, How lovely, and loving, and bonnie was she I Bouse up thy reason, my beautiful Annie, Let ne'er a new whim ding thy fancy aj.ee ; Oh ! as thou art bonnie, be faithfu' and cannie, And favour thy Jamie wha doats upon thee. Does the death of a lintwhite give Annie the spleen ? Can tyning of trifles be uneasy to thee ? Can lap-dogs and monkeys draw tears frae these een That look with indifference on poor dying me ? Bouse up thy reason, my beautiful Annie, And dinna prefer a paroquet to me : Oh ! as thou art bonnie, be prudent and cannie, And think on thy Jamie wha doats upon thee. Ah ! should a new manteau or Flanders lace head, Or yet a wee coatie, though never so fine, Gar thee grow forgetfu', and let his heart bleed, That ance had some hope of purchasing thine ? Bouse up thy reason, my beautiful Annie, And dinna prefer your flageeries to me ; Oh I as thou art bonnie, be solid and cannie, And tent a true lover that doats upon thee. THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Shall a Paris edition of newfangled Sawney, Though gilt o'er wi' laces and fringes he be, By adoring himself, be adored by fair Annie;, And aim at those benisons promised to me ? Bouse up thy reason, my beautiful Annie, And never prefer a light dancer to me ; Oh ! as thou art bonnie, be prudent and cannie ; Love only thy Jamie wha doats upon thee. Oh ! think, my dear charmer, on ilka sweet hour, That slade away saftly between thee and me, Ere squirrels, or beaux, or foppery^ had power To rival my love and impose upon thee. Bouse up thy reason, my beautiful Annie, And let thy desires a' be centred in me ; Oh ! as thou art bonnie, be faithfu' and cannie, And love ane wha lang has been loving to thee. MAEY SCOTT THE FLOWER OF YARROW. ALLAJf RAMSAY. Happy's the love which meets return, When in Soft flames souls equal burn; But words are wanting to discover The torments of a hopeless lover. Ye registers of heaven, relate, If looking o'er the rolls of fate, Did you there see me mark'd to marrow Mary Scott the flower of Yarrow ? Ah no ! her form's too heavenly fair, Her love the gods above must share ; While mortals with despair explore her, And at distance due adore her. lovely maid I my doubts beguile, Bevive and bless me with a smile ; Alas! if not, you'll soon debar a Sighing swain the banks of Yarrow. Be hush'd, ye fearB, I'll not despair, My Mary's tender as she's fair ; Then I'll go tell her all mine anguish, She is too good to let me languish. With success crown'd I'll not envy The folks who dwell above the sky: When Mary Scott's become my marrow, We'll make a paradise on Yarrow. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 89 JEAN. ALLAN RAMSAY. Love's goddass, in a myrtle grove, Said, Cupid, bend thy bow with speed, Nor let thy shaft at random rove, For Jeany's haughty heart maun bleed. The smiling boy with art divine, From Paphos shot an arrow keen, Which flew, unerring, to the heart, And kill'd the pride of bonnie Jean. Nae mair the nymph, wi' haughty air, Refuses Willie's kind address ; Her yielding blushes show nae care, But too much fondness to suppress. Nae mair the youth is sullen now, But looks the gayest on the green, Whilst ev'ry day he spies some new Surprising charms in bonnie Jean. A thousand transports crowd his breast, He moves as light as fleeting wind ; His former sorrows seem a jest, Now when his Jeany is turn'd kind : Biches he looks on wi' disdain ; The glorious fields of war look mean ; The cheerful hound and horn give pain, If absent from his bonnie Jean. The day he spends in amorous gaze, Which ev'n in summer shorten'd seems ; When sunk in downs, wi' glad amaze, He wonders at her in his'dreams. A' charms disclos'd, she looks more bright Than Troy's fair prize, the Spartan queen ; Wi' breaking day he lifts his sight, And pants to be wi' bonnie Jean. THROUGH THE WOOD. ALLAN RAMSAY. 0, Sandy, why leave thou thy Nelly to mourn ? Thy presence could ease me, When naething can please me ; Now dowie I sigh on the banks of the burn, Or through the wood, laddie, until thou return. 90 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Though woods now are bonnie, and mornings are clear, "While lav'rocks are singing, And primroses springing ; Yet nane o' them pleases my eye or my ear, When through the wood, laddie, ye dinna appear. That I am forsaken, some spare not to tell ; I'm fash'd wi' their scornin' Baith e'enin' and mornin' ; Their jeering gaes aft to my heart wi' a knell, When through the wood, laddie, I wander mysel'. Then stay, my_ dear Sandy, nae langer away ; But, quick as an arrow, Haste here to thy marrow, Wha's living in languor till that happy day, When through the wood, laddie, we'll dance, sing and play. TIBBIE HAS A STOEE 0' CHARMS. 1T.T.1H EAMSAY. Tibbt 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 waste, These sweets conceal'd invite to dawt her ; Her rosy cheek, and rising breast, Gar ane's mouth gush bowt fu' o' water. Nelly'B gawsy, saft and gay, Fresh as the lucken flowers in May ; Ilk ane that sees her, cries, Ah hey, She's bonny ! I wonder at her. The dimples of her chin and cheek, And limbs sae plump invite "to dawt 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. love ! why does thou gi'e thy fires Sae large, while we're oblig'd to neither? Our spacious sauls immense desires, And aye be in a hankerin' swither. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 91 Tibby's shape and airs are fine, And Nelly's beauties are divine : But since they canna baith be mine, Ye gods, give ear to my petition : Provide a good lad for the tane, But let it be with this provision, I get the other to my lane, In prospect plcmo and fruition. FAIR WIDOW ARE YE WAKIN'. ALLAN RAMSAY. wha's that at my chamber-door ? " Fair widow, are ye waking ?" Auld carle, your suit give o'er, . Your love lyes a' in tawking. Gi'e me the lad that's young and tight, Sweet like an April meadow ; 'Tis sic as he can bless the sight, And bosom of a widow. " widow, wilt thou let me in ? I'm pawky, wise and thrifty, And come of a right gentle kin ; I'm little more than fifty." Daft carle, dit your mouth, What signifies how pawky, Or gentle born ye be, — hot 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. I'LL OWBE THE MUIB TO MAGGY. ALLAN RAMSAY. And I'll owre the muir to Maggy, Her wit and sweetness call me ; There to my fair I'll show my mind, Whatever may befall me : If she loves mirth, I'll learn to sing Or likes the Nine to follow, I'll lay my lugs in Pindus' spring, And invocate Apollo. 92 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND If she admire a martial mind, I'll sheathe my limbs in armour ; If to the softer dance inclined, With gayest airs I'll charm her ; If she love grandeur, day and night I'll plot my nation's glory, Find favour in my prince's sight, And shine in future story. Beauty can wonders work with ease, "Where wit is corresponding, And bravest men know best to please, With complaisance abounding. My bonnie Maggie's love can turn Me to what shape she pleases, If in her breast that flame shall burn, Which in my bosom bleezes. WOE'S MY HEART THAT WE SHOULD SUNDER. AT.T.AT J RAMSAY. With broken words, and downcast eyes, Poor Colin spoke his passion tender ; And, parting with his Gfrisy, cries, Ah 1 woe's my heart that we should sunder. To others I am cold as snow, But kindle with thine eyes like tinder : From thee with pain I'm forced to go ; It breaks my heart that we should sunder. Chain'd to thy charms, I cannot range, No beauty new ray love shall hinder, Nor time nor place shall ever change My vows, though we're obliged to sunder. The image of thy graceful air, And beauties which invite our wonder, Thy lively wit and prudence rare, Shall still be present though we sunder. Dear nymph, believe thy swain in this, You'll ne'er engage a heart that's kinder ; Then seal a promise with a kiss, Always to love me though we sunder. Ye gods ! take care of my dear lass, That as I leave her I may find her ; When that blett time shall come to pass, We'll meet again and never sunder. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 93 THEBE'S MY THUMB, I'LL NE'EB BEGUILE THEE. ALLAN BAMSAY. My sweetest Ma}', let love incline thee T' accept a heart which he designs thee; And as your constant slave regard it, Syne for its faithfulness reward it. "Tis proof a-shot to birth or money, But yields to what is sweet and bonnie; Receive it, then, with a kiss and smily ; There's my thumb, it will ne'er 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' should revile thee, There's my thumb, I'll ne'er beguile thee. Alane through flow'ry howes I daunder, Tenting my flocks, lest they should wander ; Gin thou'll gae alang, I'll daute thee gaylie, And gi'e my thumb, I'll ne'er beguile thee. O my dear lassie, it is but daffin', To haud thy wooer up niff-naffin' : That Na, na, na, I hate it most vilely ; say, Yes, and I'll ne'er beguile thee. YE WATCHFUL GUARDIANS. ALLAN RAMSAY. Ye watchful guardians of the fair, Who skiff on wings of ambient air, Of my dear Delia take a care, And represent her lover With all the gaiety of youth, With honour, justice, love, and truth ; Till I return, her passions soothe, For me in whispers move her. Be careful no base sordid slave, With soul sunk in a golden grave, Who knows no virtue but to save, With glaring gold bewitch her. Tell her, for me she was design'd, For me who knew how to be kind, And have mair plenty in my mind, Than ane who's ten times richer. 94 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Let all the world turn upside down, And fools rin an eternal round, In quest of what can ne'er be found, To please their vain ambition ; Let little minds great charms espy, In shadows which at distance lie, Whose hop'd-for pleasure when come nigh, Proves nothing in fruition : But cast into a mould divine, Fair Delia does with lustre shine, Her virtuous soul's an ample mine, Which yields a constant treasure. Let poets in sublimest lays, Employ their skill her fame to raise ; Let sons of music pass whole days, With well-tuned reeds to please her. THE LASS 0' PATIE'S MILL. ALLAN EAMSAT. . The lass o' Patie's Mill, Sae bonnie, blythe, and gay, In spite of a' my skill, She stole my heart away. When teddin' out the hay, Bareheaded on the green, Love mid her locks did play, And wanton'd in her een. Without the help of art, Like flowers that grace the wild, She did her sweets impart, Whene'er she spak' or smiled : Her looks they were so mild, Free from affected pride, She me to love beguiled ; I wish'd her for my bride. Oh ! had IV the wealth Hopetoun's high mountains fill, Insured lang life and health, And pleasure at my will ; I'd promise, and fulfil, That nane but bonnie she, The lass o' Patie's Mill, Should share the same wi' me. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 95 DEAR ROGER, IF YOUR JENNY GECK. ALLAN RAMSAY. Dear Roger, if your Jenny geek, And answer kindness with a slight, Seem unconcern'd at her neglect, For women in our vows delight ; But them despise wha're soon defeat, And with a simple face give way To a repulse ; then be not blate, Push bauldly on and win the day. These maidens, innocently young, Say aften what they never mean ; Ne'er mind their pretty lying tongue, But tent the language of their een ; If these agree, and she persist To answer all your love with hate, Seek elsewhere to be better blest, And let her sigh when 'tis too late. PEGGY AND PATIE. ALLAN RAMSAY. PEGGY. When first my dear laddie gaed to the green hill, And I at ewe-milking first seyed my young skill, To bear the milk bowie nae pain was to me, When I at the bughting forgather'd with thee. PATIE. When corn-riggs waved yellow, and blue heather-bells Bloom'd bonnie on moorland and sweet rising fells, Nae birns, brier, or bracken, gave trouble to me, If I found but the berries right ripened for thee. PEGGY. When thou ran, or wrestled, or putted the stane, And cam' 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. PATIE. Our Jenny sings saftly the " Cowden Broom-knowes,'' And Rosie Jilts sweetly the " Milking the Ewes," There's few " Jenny Nettles " like Nancy can sing ; With, " Through the wood, Laddie," Bess gars our lugs ring. But when my dear Peggy sings, with better skill, The "Boatman," "Tweedside," or the "Lass of the Mill," 'Tis many times sweeter and pleasing to me, For though they sing nicely, they cannot like thee. 96 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND PEGGY. 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. CORN-RIGS ARE BOWNY. ALLAN RAMSAY. My Patie is a lover gay ; His mind is never muddy ; His breath is sweeter than new hay ; His face is fair and ruddy. His shape is handsome middle size ; He's stately in his walking ; The shining of his een surprise ; 'Tis heaven to hear him talking. Last night I met him on a bauk, Where yellow corn was growing ; There mony a kindly word he spake, That set my heart a-glowing. He kiss'd, and vow'd he wad be mine, And lo'ed me best of ony ; That gars me like to sing sinsyne, corn-rigs are bonny. Let maidens of a silly mind Refuse what maist they're wanting ; Since we for yielding are design'd, We chastely should be granting. Then I'll comply and marry Pate ; And syne my cockernony He's free to touzle air or late, When corn-rigs are bonny. THE WAUKING 0' THE FAULD. ALLAH RAMSAY. My Peggie is a young thing, Just enter'd in her teens, Fair as the day, and sweet as May, Fair as the day, and always gay : My Peggy is a young thing, And Pm nae very auld, Yet weel I like to meet her at The wauking o' the fauld. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 97 My Peggy speaks sae sweetly Whene'er we meet alane, I wish nae mair to lay my care, I wish nae mair o' a' that's rare : My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, To a' the lave I'nfcauld; But she gars a' my spirits glow At wauking o' the fauld. My Peggy smiles sae kindly Whene'er I whisper love, That I look down on a' the town, That I look down upon a crown : My Peggy smiles sae kindly, It makes me blytheand bauld, And naething gi'es me sic delight, As wauking o' the fauld. My Peggy singfs sae saftly, When on my pipe I play ; By a' the rest it is confest, By a' the rest that she sings best : My Peggy sings sae saftly, And in her sangs are tauld, Wi' innocence the wale o' sense, At wauking o' the fauld. AT SETTING DAY. ALLAN RAMSAY. 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 tho ; birken bush, Where first thou kindly told me Sweet tales of love, and hid my blush, Whilst round thou didst enfold me. To all our haunts I will repair, By greenwood, shaw, or fountain ; Or where the summer day I'd share With thee upon yon mountain.' There will I tell the treeB and flowers, Prom thoughts unfeign'd and tender, By vows you're mine, by. love is yours A heart which cannot wander; 98 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND WILLIE WAS A WANTON WAG. ASCRIBED TO WILLIAM HAMILTON OP GILBEETFIELD, The Translator into "Modem Scots" of Blind Harry's Wallace. _ It ap- pears in the Tea Table Miscellany, with the initials W. W., which Mr. David Laing considers to refer to Hamilton's sobriquet of Wanton Willie. Hamilton died in 1751. He contributed several pieces to Watson's col- lection of Scots Poems, 1706, and his rhyming epistles to Allan Kamsay are well known to every reader of Honest Allan's works. The song has also been ascribed to William Walkinshaw of Walkinshaw, but without any foundation. Willie was a wanton wag, The blythest lad that e'er I saw, At bridals still he bore the brag, An' carried aye the gree awa'. His doublet was of Zetland shag, And wow I but Willie he was braw, And at his shoulder hang a tag, That pleas'd the lasses best of a'. He was a man without a clag, His heart was frank without a flaw ; And aye whatever Willie said, It still was hauden as a law. His boots they were made of the jag, When he went to the weaponschaw, Upon the green nane durst him brag, The feind a ane amang them a'. And was na Willie weel worth gowd ? He wan the love o' great and sma' ; For after he the bride had kiss'd, He kiss'd the lasses hale-sale a'. Sae merrily round the ring they row'd, When by the hand he led them a', And smack on smack on them bestow'd, By virtue of a standing law. And was nae Willie a great loun, As shyre a lick as e'er was seen ; When he danc'd wi' the lasses round. The bridegroom speir'd where he had been, Quoth Willie, I've been at the ring, Wi' bobbing, baith my shanks are sail- ; Gae ca' your bride and maidens in, For Willie he dow do nae mair. Then rest ye, Willie, I'll gae out, And for a wee fill up the ring. But, shame lit on his souple snout, He wanted Willie's wanton fans: CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 99 Then straught he to the bride did fare, Says, Weels me on your bormie face ; Wi' bobbing Willie's shanks are sair, And I'm oome out to fill his place. Bridegroom, she says, ye'll spoil the dance, And at the ring ye'll aye be lag, Unless like Willie ye advance : ! Willie has a wanton leg ; For wi't he learns us a' to steer, And foremost aye bears up the ring ; We will find nae sic dancing here, If we want Willie's wanton fling. MACPHEBSON'S KANT. Herd's Collection. — Said to have been composed by James Macpherson, a notorious freebooter, while under sentence of death, though probably it is as genuine a piece of prison poetry as were the " last dying speeches and confessions," specimens of gallows prose. Macpherson was tried at Banff, and was executed there November 16, 1700. He appears to have been, according to tradition, an outlaw of the Eobin Hood sort — robbing the rich and giving to the poor, and deterring his followers from all violent and cruel acts. He was betrayed by one of his band, who took that way of revenging a reprimand he received from his chief. Burns's celebrated "Macpherson's Bant" refers to the same personage. > I've spent my time in rioting, Debauch'd my health and strength ; I've pillaged, plunder'd, murdered, But now, alas, at length, I'm brought to punishment direct; Pale death draws near to me ; This end I never did project, To hang upon a tree. To hang upon a tree, a tree ! That cursed unhappy death ! Like to a wolf, to worried be, And-choaked in the breath. My very heart wad surely break When this I think upon, Did not my courage singular Bid pensive thoughts begone. No man on earth that drawetb breath, More courage had than I ; I dared my foes unto their face, And would not from them fly. 100 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND This grandeur stout I did keep out, Like Hector, manfully ; Then wonder one like me so stout • - Should hang upon a tree; The Egyptian band I did command^ "With courage more by far, , Than ever did a general His soldiers in the war. Being fear'd by all; both great and small, I lived most joyfuUie : Oh, curse upon this fate of mine, To hang upon a tree I As for my life I do not care, If justice would take place, And bring my fellow-plunderers Unto the same disgrace. But Peter Brown, that notour loon, Escaped, and was made free : Oh, curse upon this fate of mine, To hang upon a tree I Both law and justice buried are, And fraud and guile succeed ; The guilty pass unpunished, ., If money intercede. The Laird of Grant, that Highland saunt, His mighty majestie, He pleads the cause of Peter Brown, And lets Macpherson die. The destiny of my life, contrived By those whom I obliged, i Rewarded me much ill for good, And left me no refuge. But Braco Duff, in rage enough, He first laid hands on me ; And if that death would not prevent, Avenged would I be. As for my life, it is but short, When I shall be no more ; To part with life I am content, As any heretofore. Therefore, good people all. take heed, This warning take by me,i According to the lives you lead, : Rewarded you shall be. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 101 TWEEDSIDE. BOBERT OHAWIOBD, A cadet of the house of Drumsay in Eenfrewshire. Very little is known of the events of his life. He • is supposed ■ to hare been born about the year 1695, to have spent ,the greater part of his life abroad, and to have died in 1732 on his passage to this country from France. The whole of the poems here given appeared in the Tea Table Mis- cellany. He had probably become acquainted with William Hamilton, of Bangour, during his sojourn on the Continent,' for one of his songs, "look where dear Hamilla smiles," is addressed to Mrs. Hamilton, a rela- tion of the port's ; and it was probably through Hamilton's influence that he contributed to Eamsay's work. What beauties does Flora disclose 1 How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed ! Yet Mary's still sweeter than those, Both nature and fancy exceed. No daisy, nor sweet blushing rose, Not all the gay flowers of the field, Not Tweed, gliding gently through those, Such beauty and pleasure does yield. The warblers are heard in the grove, The linnet; the lark, and the thrush ; The blackbird, and sweet cooing dove, With music enchant ev'ry bush. Come, let us go forth to the mead ; Let us see how the primroses spring ; We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, And love -while the feather' d folk sing. How does my love pass the long day ? Does Mary not tend a few sheep ? Do they never carelessly stray While happily she lies asleep ? Should Tweed's murmurs lull her to rest, Kind nature indulgin' my bliss, To ease the soft pains of my breast, I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. 'Tis she does the virgins excel ; No beauty with her may compare ; Love's graces around her do dwell ; She's fairest where thousands are fair. Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray ? Oh, tell me at morn where they feed? Shall I seek them on' sweet-winding Tay ? Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed? 102 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND BUSH ABOON TBAQUAIB. ROBERT CRAWFORD. Hear me, ye nymphs, and ev'ry swain, I'll tell how Peggy grieves me ; Though thus I languish and complain, Alas I she ne'er believes me. My vows and sighs, like silent air, Unheeded, never move her ; At the bonniebush aboon Traquair, 'Twas there I first did love her. That day she smil'd, 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 am'rous flame ; In words that I thought tender : If more there pass'd, I'm not to blame ; I meant not to offend her. Yet now she scornful flies the plain, The fields we then frequented ; If e'er we meet she shows disdain, She looks as ne'er acquainted. The bonnie bush bloom'd fair in May ; Its sweets I'll aye remember ; But now her frowns make it decay ; It fades as in December. Ye rural pow'rs who hear my strains, Why thus should Peggy grieve me ? Oh ! make her partner in my pains ; Then let her smiles relieve me. If not, my love will turn despair; My passion no more tender ; I'll leave the bush aiioon Traquair ; To lonely wilds I'll wander. LEADBB HAUGHS AND YABEOW. ROBERT CRAWFORD. The morn was fair, saft was the air, All nature's sweets were springing ; The buds did bow with silver dew, Ten thousand birds'were singing; When on the bent with blythe content, Young Jamie sang his marrow, Nae bonnier lass e'er trod the grass, On Leader Haughs and Yarrow. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 103 How sweet her face, with ev'ry grace In heav'nly beauty planted ! Her smiling een, and comely mien, That nae perfection wanted. I'll never fret, nor ban my fate, But bless my bonnie 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. 0, bonnie lass ! have but the grace To think ere ye gae further, Your joys maun flit, if you commit The crying sin of- murder. My wand'ring ghaist will ne'er get rest, And day and night affright ye ; But if ye're kind, with joyful mind, I'll study to delight ye. Our years around, with love thus crown'd, From all things joy shall borrow : Thus none shall be more blest than we, On Leader Haughs and Yarrow. sweetest Sue 1 '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, I'll flourish in thy bosom. MY DEABIE IP THOU DEE. BOBEET CKAWI'OBD. Love never more shall give me pain, My fancy's fix'd on thee ; Nor ever maid my heart shall gain, My Peggie, if thou dee. Thy beauties did such pleasure give,. Thy love's so true to me ; Without thee I shall never live, My dearie, if thou dee. 104 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND If fate shaft tear thee from my breast, How shall I lonely stray J In dreary dreams the night I'll waste, In sighs the silent day. I ne'er can so much virtue find, Nor such perfection see : Then I'll renounce all womankind, My. Peggie, after thee. No new-blown beauty fires. my heart/ With Cupid's raving rage ; But thine, which can such sweets impart, Must all the world engage. 'Twas this that like the morning sun, Gave joy and life to me ; . And, when.rfs.destin'd day is done,. With Peggy let me dee. Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, And in such pleasures share, Ye who its faithful flames approve, With pity view the fair : Eestore my Peggie's wonted charms, Those charms so dear to me ; Oh, never rob them from those arms — Pm lost. if Peggy dee. PEGGY, I MUST LOVE THEE. EOEEET OBAWPOKD. Beneath a beech's grateful shade, Young Colin lay complaining ; He sigh'd and seem'd to love a maid, Without hopes of obtaining : For thus the swain indulg'd his grief, Though pity cannot move thee, Though thy hard, heart gives no relief, Yet, Peggy, I must love thee. Say, Peggy, what has Colin done, That thus you cruelly use him ? If love's a fault, 'tis that alone, For which you should excuse him : 'Twas thy dear self first rais'd this flame, This fire by whichT languish ; 'Tis thou alone can quench the same, And cool its 'scorching anguish. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 105 For thee I leave the sportive plain, Where every maid invitee me ; Tor thee, sole' cause of all my pain, For thee that only slights me : This love that fires my faithful heart By all but thee's commended. Oh ! would thou act so good a part, My grief might soon be ended. That beauteous breastj so soft to feel, Seem'd tenderness all over, Yet it defends thy heart like steel, 'Gainst thy despairing lover. Alas ! tho' it should ne'er relent, Nor Colin's care e'er move thee, Yet till life's latest breath is Spent* My Peggy, I must love thee. FAIREST MAID ! I OWN THY POWER. ROBERT CRAWFORD. Look where my dear Hamilla smiles, Hamilla! heavenly charmer ; See how wi' a' their arts and wiles The loves and graces arm her. ' A blush dwells glowing on her cheeks, Fair feats of youthful pleasures, There love in smiling language speaks, There spreads his rosy treasures. fairest maid ! I own thy power, I gaze, I sigh, and languish, Yet ever, ever will adore, And triumph in my anguish. But ease, charmer I ease my care, And let my torments move thee ; As thou art fairest of the fair. So I the dearest love thee. ONE DAY I HEARD MARY SAY. ROBERT ORAWTORD. One day I heard Mary say, How shall I leave the'e ? Stay, dearest Adonis, stay ; Why wilt thou grieve me ? Alas ! my fond heart -will break, If thou should leave me : I'll live and die for thy sake, Yet never leave thee. 1()6 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Say, lovely Adonis, say, Has Mary deceived thee ? Did e'er her young heart betray New love, that has grieved thee ? My constant mind ne'er shall stray ; Thou may believe me. I'll love thee, lad, night and day, And never leave thee. Adonis, my charming youth, What can relieve thee ? Can Mary thy anguish soothe ? This breast shall receive thee. My passion can ne'er decay, Never deceive thee ; Delight shall drive pain away, Pleasure revive thee. But leave thee, leave thee, lad, How shall I leave thee ? Oh ! that thought makes me sad ; I'll never leave thee ! Where would my Adonis fly ? Why does he grieve me? Alas ! my poor heart would die, If I should leave thee. DOWN THE BUBN. ROBERT CRAWFORD. The third stanza is given as altered by Burns. When trees did bud, and fields were green, And broom bloom'd fair to see ; When Mary was complete fifteen, And love laugh'd in her e'e ; Blythe Davie's blinks her heart did move To speak her mind thus free ; Gang down the burn, Davie, love, And I will follow thee. Now Davie did each lad surpass That dwelt on this burnside ; And Mary was the bonniest lass, Just meet to be a bride : Her cheeks were rosie, red and white ; Her een were bonnie blue ; Her looks were like Aurora bright, Her lips like dropping dew. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 107 As down the burn they took their way, And through the flow'ry dale ; His cheek to hers he aft did lay, And love was aye the tale. With, Mary, when shall we return, Sic pleasure to renew ? Quoth Mary, Love, I like the burn, And aye will follow you. UNGRATEFUL NANNY. LORD BINNING, Eldest son of Thomas — sixth Earl of Haddington — was born in the year 1696, and died at Naples in 1732. Did ever swain a nymph adore As I ungrateful Nannie do ? Was ever shepherd's heart so sore ? Was ever broken heart so true ? My cheeks are swell'd with tears ; but she Has never shed a tear for me. If Nannie call'd, did Robin stay, Or linger when she bade me run ? She only had a word to say, And all she ask'd was quickly done. I always thought on her ; but she Would ne'er bestow a thought on me. To let her cows my clover taste, Have I not rose by break of day ? When did her heifers ever fast, If Robin in his yard had hay ? Though to my fields they welcome were, I never welcome was to her. If Nannie ever lost a sheep, I cheerfully did give her two ; Did not her lambs in safety sleep Within my folds, in frost and snow ? Have they not there from cold been free ? But Nannie still is cold to me. l Whene'er I climb'd our orchard trees, The ripest fruit was kept for Nan : Oh, how these hands that drown'd her bees Were stung 1 I'll ne'er forget the pain : Sweet were the combs as sweet could be ; But Nannie ne'er look'd sweet on me. 108 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND ' If Nannie 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 beat her sacks : but she Could never bear the sight o' me. To Nannie's poultry oats I gave ; I'm sure they always had the best ; Within this week her pigeons have Bat up a peck of peas at least. Her little pigeons kiss ; but she Would never take a kiss from me. Must Robin always Nannie woo ? And Nannie still on Robin frown ? Alas, poor wretch I what shall I do, If Nannie does not love me soon? If no relief to me she'll bring, I'll hang me in her apron string. LUCKY NANCY. HON. DUNCAN EOBBESj Lord President of the Court of Session, died 1747. An adaptation of an earlier song. It first appears in Kamsay's Tea Table Miscellany (marked as an old song with -additions), where it is given to the tune of Dainty Davie. While fops, in saft Italian verse, Ilk fair ane's een and breist rehearse While sangs abound, and wit is scarce, ' These lines I have indited. But neither darts nor arrows, here, Venus nor Cupid, shall appear ; Although with these fine sounds, I swear, The maidens are delighted. I was aye telling you| Lucky Nancy, Lucky Nancy, Auld springs wad ding the new, But ye wad never trow me. Nor snaw with crimson will I mix, To spread upon my lassie's cheeks ; And syne the unmeaning name prefix, ' Miranda, Cloe, Phillis ; I'll fetch nae simile frae Jove, My height of ecstasy to prove, ' Nor sighing — thus— present my love With roses eek and lilies. ' ' CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 109 But, Btay — I had amaist forgot My mistress, and my sang to boot, And that's an unco faut, I wot ; But, Nancy, 'tis nae matter : Ye see I clink my verse wi' rhyme, And ken ye that atones the crime ; Forbye, how sweet my numbers chime, And glide away like water I Now ken, my reverend sonsy fair, Thy runkled cheeks, and lyart hair, Thy half-shut een, and hoddling air, Are a' my passion's fuel ; Nae skyring gowk, my dear, can see, Or love, or grace, or heaven in thee ; Yet thou hast charms enew for me ; Then smile, and be na cruel. Leeze me on thy snawy pow, Lucky Nancy, Lucky Nancy ; Dryest wood will eithest low, And, Nancy, sae will ye now. Troth, I have sung the sang to you, Which ne'er anither bard wad do ; Hear, then, my charitable vow, Dear Venerable Nancy: But, if the world my passion wrang; And say ye only live in sang, Ken, I despise a slandering tongue, And sing to please my fancy Leeze me on, &c THE BRAES OF YARROW. WILLIAM HAMILTON OP BANGOUB, One of the most refined poets of his day, was born in 1704. He was the second son of James Hamilton,, of Bangour. He was educated, it is supposed, at the University of Edinburgh, for the bar, but does not seem to have entered into practice. In fact, his last biographer, Mr. James Paterson, is unable often to speak very decisively on many points of the greatest importance, his connection with the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745, for example ; he seems, however, if not to have carried arms in favour of the Young Chevalier, to have given all his influence and talent to his ser- vice ; and, after the fatal battle of Culloden, had to skulk about the High- lands in disguise for awhile, till he escaped to France. He returned after the country had quieted down, in 1749, and in the following year, through the death of his elder brother, he ■ succeeded to the Bangonr estate. He died at Lyons, in 1754, his remains being brought to Scot- land and interred in Holyrood Abbey. 110 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND His poetry, though modelled upon the smooth affected style of his owu age, is often natural and pleasing : he nowhere shows a straining after ideas, nor' attempts the sensational in description, but as has been remark- ed, "his thoughts are always elegant and just; his figures bold and ani- mated; his colouring warm and true." His principal defect, as a song writer, lies in his' perpetual introduction in .his songs of the heroes and heroines of mythology. It is not possible to make an Englishman or Scotchman accustomed to John Bull and his Sister Peg, and Jocky and Jenny, feel at all sentimental about Venus, Cupid, Pallas, or Minerva. A. "Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride ! Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride, And think nae mair of the braes of Yarrow.'' B. "Where gat ye that bonnie, bonnie bride? Where gat ye that winsome marrow ?" A. " I gat her whare I daurna weel be seen, Puing the birks on the braes of Yarrow. Weip not, weip not, my bonnie, bonnie bride, Weip not, weip not, my winsome marrow ! Nor let thy heart lament to leive Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow." B. " Why does she weip, thy bonnie, bonnie bride ? Why does she weip thy winsome marrow ? And why daur ye nae mair weel be seen, Puing the birks on the braes of Yarrow ?" A. " Lang maun she weip, lang maun she, maun she weip, Lang maun she weip wi' dule and sorrow, And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen, Puing the birks on the braes of Yarrow. For she has tint her luver, luver deir, Her luver deir, the cause of sorrow ; And I ha'e slain the comeliest swain That e'er pu'd birks on the braes of Yarrow. Why runs thy stream, Yarrow, Yarrow, red ? Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow ? And why yon melancholious weids, Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow ? What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flude ? What's yonder floats? — Oh, dule and sorrow ! "Pis he the comely swain I slew Upon the dulefu' braes of Yarrow. Wash, oh wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears o' dule and sorrow ; And wrap his limbs in mourning weids, And lay him on the banks of Yarrow ! CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. Ill Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters, sad, Ye sisters sad, his tomb wi' sorrow ; And weip around in waeful wise, His hapless fate on the braes of Yarrow ! Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield, The arm that wrocht the deed of sorrow, The fatal speir that pierced his briest, His comely briest on the braes of Yarrow ! Did I not warn thee not to, not to love,- And warn from fight ? But, to my sorrow, Too rashly bold, a stronger arm thou met'st, Thou met'st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow ! Sweit smells the birk ; green grows, green grows the grass; Yellow on Yarrow's braes the gowan ; Pair hangs the apple frae the rock ; Sweit the wave of Yarrow flowen I Flows Yarrow sweit ? as sweit, as sweit flows Tweed ; As green its grass ; its gowan as yellow ; As sweit smells on its braes the birk ; The apple from its rocks as mellow ! Fair was thy love, fair, fair, indeed, thy love I In flowery bands thou didst him fetter ; Though he was fair, and well beloved again, Than me he never loved thee better. Busk ye, then, busk, my bohnie, bonnie bride ! Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow." C. " How can I busk a bonnie, bonnie bride ? How can I busk a winsome marrow ? How can I lo'e him on the banks o' Tweed, That slew my love on the braes of Yarrow ? Oh, Yarrow fields, may never, never rain, Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover ! For there was basely slain my love, My love, as he had not been a lover. The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, His purple vest— 'twas my ain sewing ; Ah, wretched me ! I little, little kenned, / He was, in these, to meet his ruin. The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, Unmindful of my dule and sorrow : But, ere the too-fa' of the nicht, He lay a corpse on the banks of Yarrow. 112 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Much I rejoiced, that waefu', waefu' day ; I sang, my voice the woods returning ; But, lang ere nicht, the spear was flown, That slew my love, and left me: mourning. What can my barbarous, barbarous father do, But with his cruel rage pursue me ? My luver's blude is on thy spear — How canst thou, barbarous man, then, woo me ? My happy sisters may be, may be proud, With cruel and ungentle scoffing — ' May bid me seek, on Yarrow braes, My luver nailed in his coffin. My brother Douglas may upbraid, '■ And strive, with threat'ningi words, to muve me; My luver's blude is on thy spear — ; How canst thou ever bid' me luve thee? Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve 1 With bridal-sheets my body cover ! Unbar, ye bridal-maids, the door I Let in th' expected husband-lover ! But who the expected husband; husband is ? His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter 1 Ah, me ! what ghastly spectre's yon, Comes, in his pale shroudj bleeding, after ? Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down ; lay his cold head on my pillow I Take off, take off these bridal weids, And crown my careful head with willow. Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved, Oh, could my warmth to life restore thee ! Yet lie all night between my briests, — No youth lay ever there before thee ! Pale, pale, indeed, oh lovely, lovely youth, Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, And lie all night between my briests, No youth shall ever lie there after ! " A. " Eeturn, return, mournful, mournful bride ! Return and dry thy useless sorrow I Thy luver heids nocht of thy sighs ; He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow." CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 113 YE SHEPHERDS AND NYMPHS. WILLIAM HAMILTON OE BANOOUB. Ye shepherds and nymphs that adorn the gay plain, Approach from your sports, and attend to my strain ; Amongst all your number a lover so true Was ne'er so undone, with such bliss in his view. Was ever a nymph so hard-hearted as mine ? She knows me sincere, and she sees how I pine ; She does not disdain me, nor frown in her wrath, But calmly and mildly resigns me to death. She calls me her friend, but her lover denies : She smiles when I'm cheerful, but hears not my sighs, A bosom so flinty, so gentle an air, Inspires me with hope, and yet bids me despair ! I fall at her feet, and implore her with tears : Her answer confounds, while her manner endears ; When softly she tells me to hope no relief, My trembling lips bless her in spite of my grief. By night, while I slumber, still haunted with care, I start up in anguish, and sigh for the fair : The fair sleeps in peace, — may she ever do so ! And only when dreaming imagine my woe. Then gaze at a distance, nor farther aspire ; Nor think she should love whom she cannot admire : Hush all thy complaining, and dying her slave, Commend her to heaven, and thyself to the grave. YE GODS! WAS STEEPHON'S PICTURE BLEST? w tt.t.tam HAMILTON OV BANGOUB. Ye gods ! was Strephon's picture blest With the fair heaven of Chloe's breast ? Move softer, thou fond fluttering heart, Oh gently throb, — too fierce thou art. Tell me, thou brightest of thy kind, For Strephon was the bliss design'd ? For Strephon's sake, dear charming maid, Did'st thou prefer his wand'ring shade ? And thou, blest 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 1 It scorns to hear Its wretched master's ardent pray'r, Engrossing all that beauteous heaven, That Chloe, lavish maid, has given. 114 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND 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 air, Prize him whose bosom glows with fire, With eager love and soft desire. Tis true thy charms, 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 lov'd, and lov'd but thee : Then, charmer, grant my fond request, Say thou canst love, and make me blest. WHY HANGS THAT CLOUD UPON THY BROW? WILLIAM HAMILTON OP BANGOUB. Why hangs that cloud upon thy brow, That beauteous heav'n erewhile serene ? Whence do these storms and tempests blow ? Or what this gust of passion mean? And must then mankind lose that light Which in thine eyes was wont to shine, And lie obscur'd in endless night, For each poor silly speech of mine ? Dear child, how could I wrong thy name ? Thy form so fair and faultless stands, That could ill tongues abuse thy fame, Thy beauty would make large amends ! Or if I durst profanely try Thy beauty's powerful charms t' upbraid, Thy virtue well might give the lie, Nor call thy beauty to its aid. For Venus ev'ry 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? CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 115 If then to thee such power is giv'n, Let not a wretch in torment live, But smile, and learn to copy heav'n, Since we must sin ere it forgive. Yet pitying heav'n not only does Forgive th' offender and th' offence, But even itself appeas'd bestows As the reward of penitence. AH! THE POOR SHEPHEED'S MOURNFUL FATE. WILLIAM HAMILTON Otf BAHGOUB. 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 ; 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. BROOM OF COWDENKNOWS. Tea Table Miscellant, where it is printed with the initials, S. R., sup- posed by Mr. Chambers and others to refer to some personage of Ramsay's own time, and to whose position the authorship of a song would have been derogatory. The second set is by Crawford, a song writer, whose other productions are given in their proper place. The first set is undoubtedly rounded upon an older song,* and the tune, which is certainly old, is *A song, or ballad, "The Broom of the Cowdenknowes"— probably of a very- early date — is printed in " Scott's Minstrelsy of tLe Scottish Border." 116 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND surmised to he representative of the " Brume, Brume on Hil," mentioned in the "Complaynt of Scotland," 1548. Mr* Chappell, as usual, claims it as of English origin. The Cowdenknows are two hills at Lauderdale, Berwickshire. How blythe ilk morn was I to see The swain come o'er the hill ! He skipt the burn, and flew to me, I met him wi' good will. 0, the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom, The broom of the Cowdenknows ! I wish I were wi' my dear swain, Wi' his pipe, and my ewes. I neither wanted ewe nor lamb, While his flocks near me lay ; He gather'd in my sheep at night, And cheer'd me a' the day, 0, the broom, &c. He tuned his pipe and reed sae sweet, The birds stood list'ning by ; Ev'n the dull cattle stood and gazed, Charm'd wi' his melody. 0, the broom, &c. While thus we spent our time by turns, Betwixt our flocks and play, I envied not the fairest dame, Though e'er so rich and gay. 0, the broom, &c. Hard fate ! that I should banish'd be, Gang heavily, and mourn, Because I loved the kindest swain That ever yet was born. 0, the broom, &c. He did oblige me every hour ; Couldlbutfaithfu'be? He staw my heart ; could I refuse Whate'er he ask'd of me ? 0, the broom, &c. My doggie, and my little kit, That held my wee soup whey, My plaidie, broach, and crooked stick, Maun now lie useless by. 0, the broom, &c. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 117 Adieu, ye Cowdenknows, adieu ! Farewell a' pleasures there ! Ye gods, restore me to my swain, It's a' I crave or care. 0, the broom, &c. SECOND SET. 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 Cowdenknows ; For sure, so sweet, so soft a bloom, Elsewhere there never grows. There Colin tuned his oaten reed, And won my yielding heart ; No shepherd e'er that dwelt on Tweed, Could play with half such art. He sung of Tay, of Forth, and Clyde, The hills and dales all round, Of Leader-haughs, and Leader-side, Oh I how I bless'd the sound. Yet more delightful is the broom So fair on Cowdenknows ; For sure, so fresh, so bright a bloom, Elsewhere there never grows. Not Tiviot braes, so green and gay, May with this broom compare ; •Not Yarrow banks in flowery May, Nor the bush aboon Tracmair. More pleasing far are Cowdenknows, My peaceful happy home, Where I was wont to milk my ewes, At e'en amang the broom. Ye powers that haunt the woods and plains Where Tweed and Tiviot flows, Convey me to the best of swains, And my loved Cowdenknows. 118 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND WILLIE'S EAEE. Tea Table Miscellany, where it is printed without any mark. Willie's rare, and Willie's fair, And Willie's wondrous bonny, And Willie hecht to marry me, Gin e'er he married ony. Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid, This night I'll make it narrow ; For a' the live-lang winter-night I'll ly twin'd o' my marrow. came you by yon water side ? Pu'd you the rose or lily? Or came you by yon meadow green ? Or saw ye my sweet Willie ? She sought him east, she sought him west, She sought him braid and narrow ; Syne in the cleaving of a craig, She found him drown'd in Yarrow. TAEEY WOO. Tea Table Miscellany, probably written about that time on the re- mains of an older song. Sir. Chambers states that Sir Walter Scott, when at the Social Board, used to meet his turn for a song by giving a verse of " Tarry Woo." The tune is old, and the well-known air Lewie Gordon is adapted from it. Tarry woo, tarry woo, Tarry woo is ill to spin ; Card it weil, card it weil, Card it weil, ere ye begin. When it's cardit, row'd, and spun, Then the work is haflins done ; But, when woven, dress'd, and clean, It may be cleadin' for a queen. Sing my bonnie harmless sheep, That feed upon the mountains steep, Bleating sweetly, as ye go Through the winter's frost and snow. Hart, and hynd, and fallow-deer, No by half sae useful are : Frae kings, to him that hauds the plou', All are obliged to tarry woo. Up, ye shepherds, dance and skip ; Ower the hills and valleys trip ; Sing up the praise of tarry woo ; Sing the flocks that bear it too : CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 119 Harmless creatures, without blame, That dead the back, and cram the wame ; Keep us warm and hearty fou — Leeze me on the tarry woo. How happy is a shepherd's life, Par frae courts and free of strife ! While the gimmers bleat and bae, And the lambkins answer mae ; No such music to his ear 1 Of thief or fox he has no fear : Sturdy kent, and collie true, Weil defend the tarry woo. He lives content, and envies none : Not even a monarch on his throne, Though he the royal sceptre sways, Has such pleasant holidays. Who'd be king, can only tell, When a shepherd sings sae well ? Sings sae well, and pays his due With honest heart and tarry woo. I WAS ONCE A WEEL-TOCHBE'D LASS. TEA TABLE MISCELLANY. I WAS once a weel-tocher'd lass, My mither left dollars to me ; But now I'm brought to a poor pass, My step-dame has gart them a' flee. My father, he's aften frae hame, And she plays the deil with his gear ; She neither has lawtith nor shame, And keeps the haill house in a steer. She's barmy-faced, 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 Bingan, wha lang time had loo'd This bonnie lass tenderlie, I'll tak' thee, sweet May, in thy snood, Gif thou wilt gae hame with me. 120 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND 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, it's true, And ye are the sprout of a laird ; But I have milk-cattle enow, And ruth of good rucks in my yard. Ye shall have naething to fash ye, Sax servants shall jouk to thee : Then kilt up thy coats, my lassie, And gae thy ways hame with me. The maiden her reason employ'd, Not thinking the offer amiss, Consented, while Eingan, o'erjoy'd, Beceived her with mony a kiss. And now she sits blythely singin', And joking her drunken stepdame, Delighted with her dear Eingan, That makes her goodwife at hame. ANDEO WT HIS CUTTY GUN. Tea. Table Misoellant, where it is printed without any mark. Blythe, blythe, and merry was she, Blythe was she but and ben ; And weel she loo'd a Hawick gill, And'leugh to see a tappit hen. She took me in, and set me down, And hecht to keep me lawing-free ; But, cunning carline that she was, She gart me birl my bawbee. "We loo'd the liquor well enough ; But waes my heart my cash was done, Before that I had quench'd my drouth, And laith I was to pawn my shoon. When we had three times toom'd our stoup, And the neist chappin new begun, Wha started in, to heeze our hope, But Andro wi' his cutty gun. The carline brought her kebbuck ben, With girdle-cakes weel toasted brown, Weel does the canny kimmer ken They gar the swats gae glibber down. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 121 We ca'd the bicker aft about ; Till dawning we ne'er jeed our bum, And aye the cleanest drinker out, Was Andr'o wi' his cutty gun. He did like ony mavis sing, And as I in his oxter sat, He ca'd me aye his bonnie thing, .And mony a sappy kiss I gat. I ha'e been east, I ha'e been west, I ha'e been far ayont the sun ; But the blythest lad that e'er I saw, Was Andro wi' his cutty gun. WHEN SPRING TIME RETURNS. DR. A. WEBSTER, One of the ministers of Edinburgh. He was born at Edinburgh in 1707, and died there in 1784. The spring-time returns, and clothes the green plains, And Alloa shines more cheerful and gay; The lark tunes his throat, and the neighbouring swains, Sing merrily round me wherever I stray : But Sandy nae mair returns to my view ; Nae spring-time me cheers, nae music can charm ; He's gane ! and, I fear me, for ever : adieu .1 Adieu every pleasure this bosom can warm ! Alloa house ! how much art thou chang'd 1 How silent, how dull to me is each grove ! Alane I here wander where ance we both rang'd, Alas ! where to please me my Sandy ance strove ! Here, Sandy, I heard the tales .that you tauld, Here list'ned too fond whenever you sung ; Am I grown less fair then, that you are turn'd cauld ? Or, foolish, believ'd a false flattering tongue ? So spoke the fair maid, when sorrow's keen pain, And shame, her last fault'ring accents supprest ; For fate, at that moment, brought back her dear swain, Who heard, and with rapture his Nelly addrest : My Nelly ! my fair, I come ; my love ! Nae power shall thee tear again from my arms, And, Nelly ! nae mair thy fond shepherd reprove, Who knows thy fair worth, and adores a' thy charms. She heard ; and new joy shot thro' her saft frame ; And will you, my love ! be true ? she replied : And live I to meet my fond shepherd the same ? Or dream I that Sandy will make me his bride ? 122 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Nelly ! I live to find thee still kind : Still true to thy swain, and lovely as true : Then adieu to a' sorrow ; what soul is so blind, As not to live happy for ever with you ? OH ! HOW COULD I VENTURE. DR. A. WBESTER. Oh, how could I venture to love one like thee, And you not despise a poor conquest like me, On lords, thy admirers, could look wi' disdain, And knew I was naething, yet pitied my pain ? You said, while they teased you with nonsense and dress, When real the passion, the vanity's less ; You saw through that silence which others despise, And, while beaux were a-talking, read love in my eyes. Oh, how shall I fauld thee, and kiss a' thy charms, Till, fainting wi' pleasure, I die in your arms ; Through all the wild transports of ecstasy tost, Till, sinking together, together we're lost ! Oh, where is the maid that like thee ne'er can cloy, Whose wit can enliven each dull pause of joy; And when the short raptures are all at an end, Prom beautiful mistress turn sensible friend ? In vain do I praise thee, or'strive to reveal, (Too nice for expression,) what only we feel : In a' that ye do, in each look and each mien, The graces in waiting adorn you unseen. When I see you, I love you ; when hearing, adore ; I wonder and think you a woman no more : Till, mad wi' admiring, I canna contain, And, kissing your lips, you turn woman again. With thee in my bosom how can I despair ? I'll gaze on thy beauties, and look awa' care; I'll ask thy advice, when with troubles opprest, Which never displeases, but always is best. In all that I write I'll thy judgment require ; Thy wit shall correct -what thy charms did inspire : I'll kiss thee and press thee till youth is all o'er, And then live in friendship, when passion's no more. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 123 I'VE SEEN THE SMILING. MRS. OOOKBUK1T, Daughter of Robert Rutherford of Fernylee, in Selkirkshire. She was horn about 1712, and married in 1731, to Patrick Cockhurn, a son of Cockburn of Ormiston, Lord Justice Clerk of Scotland. She survived her husband more than forty years. Sir Walter Scott has given us a very genial description of Mrs. Cockburn, as he saw her and heard about her in her later years. " Mrs. Cockburn," says he, " was one of those per- sons whose talents for conversation made a stronger impression on her contemporaries than her writings can he expected to produce. In person and features she somewhat resembled Queen Elizabeth, but the nose was rather more aquiline. She was proud of her auburn hair, which remained , unbleached by time, even when she was upwards of eighty years old. She maintained the rank in the society of Edinburgh which French women of talent usually do in that of Paris , and her little parlour used to assemble a very distinguished and accomplished circle, among whom David Hume, John Home, Lord Monboddo, and many other men of name were frequently to be found." This song (referring to commercial instead of warlike disasters among the men of the forest) appears in the Laek, 1765, and in Hkrd's Coi^botion, — from which collection we take the copy here printed. I've seen the smiling Of Fortune beguiling ; I've felt all its favours, and found its decay : Sweet was its blessing, End its caressing ; But now 'tis fled — fled far away. I've seen the forest Adorned the foremost With flowers of the fairest, most pleasant and gay; Sae bonnie was their blooming ! Their scent the air perfuming ! But now they are wither'd and weeded away. I've seen the morning With gold the hills adorning, And loud tempest storming before the mid-day. I've seen Tweed's silver streams, Shining in the sunny beams, Grow drumly and dark as he row'd on his way. Oh, fickle Fortune, Why this cruel sporting ? Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day ? Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, Nae mair your frowns can fear me ; For the Flowers of the Forest, are a' wede away. 124 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY. DAVID MALIET, ob Mallooh, a favourite poet of his time, born 1714 ; died 1765. The smiling morn, the breathing spring, Invite the tunefu' birds to sing ; And, while they warble from the spray, Love melts the universal lay. Let us, Amanda, timely wise, Like them, improve the hour that flies ; And in soft raptures waste the day, Among the birks of Invermay. For soon the winter of the year, And age, life's winter, will appear ; At- this thy living bloom will fade, As that will strip the verdant shade. Our taste of pleasure then is o'er, The feathered songsters are no more ; And" when they drop, and we decay, Adieu the birks of Invermay ! THE LAWLANDS OF HOLLAND. Given from the copy in Johnson's Museum, omitting the spurious third verse there given, and adding the last which was omitted. Mr. Stenhouse was informed that it was composed by a young widow in Galloway, whose husband was drowned on a voyage to Holland. There is a fragment of the song given in Herd's Collection, and we may consider it to be- ong to the first half of the eighteenth century. The air was always very jopular, and on it is founded Marshall's tune "Miss Admiral Gordon's strathspey," to which Bums's beautiful song " Of a' the airts the win' can 'jlaw " was written. The luve that I had chosen, I'll therewith be content, The saut sea will be frozen Before that I repent ; Repent it will I never Until the day I dee, Tho' the lawlands o' Holland Ha'e twined my luve and me. My hive lies in the salt sea, And I am on the side, Enough to break a young thing's heart Wha lately was a bride ; Wha lately was a bonnie bride, And pleasure, in her e'e ; But the lawlands o' Holland Ha'e twined my luve and me. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 125 My luve he built a bonnie ship, And sent her to the sea, Wi' seven score brave mariners To bear her companie ; Threescore gaed to the bottom, And threescore died at sea, And the lawlands o' Holland Ha'e twined my luve and me. My luve has built anither ship, And sent her to the main, He had but twenty mariners, And a' to bring her hame ; The stormy clouds did roar again, The raging waves did rout, And my luve, and his bonnie ship, Turn'd widdershins about ! There shall nae mantle cross my back, Nae comb come in my hair, Neither shall coal or candle light Shine in my bowit mair ; Nor shall I ha'e anither luve, Until the day I dee, I never lo'ed a luve but ane, And he's drown'd in the sea. 0, baud your tongue, my daughter dear, Be still and be content, There are mair lads in Galloway, Ye need nae sair lament. ! there is nane in Galloway, There 's nane at a' for me, For I never lov'd a lad but ane, And he 'a drown'd in the sea. ROSLIN CASTLE. Heed's Collection — probably written shortly after the time of Bamsay, as the stilted style of the love-lorn maid's address smacks of the affected manner then in vogne. The air, which is very beautiful, was published in "McGibbon's Collection of Scots Tunes." From Eoslin castle's echoing walls Eesound my shepherd's ardent calls, My Colin bids me come away, And love demands I should obey. His melting strain and tuneful lay, So much the charms of love display, I yield — nor longer can refrain To own my love, and bless my swain.. 126 THE SONGS OP SCOTLAND No longer can my heart conceal The painful pleasing flame I feel, My soul retorts the am'rous strain, And echoes back in love again ; Where lurks my songster ? from what grove Does Colin pour his notes of love ? bring me to the happy bow'r, Where mutual love may bliss secure. Ye vocal hills that catch the song, Bepeating, as it flies along, To Colin's ear my strain convey, And say, I haste to come away. Ye zephyrs soft that fan the gale, Waft to my love the soothing tale ; In whispers all my soul express, And tell, I haste his arms to bless. < MY LOVE WAS ONCE A BONNIE LAD. Supposed to have been written about the middle of the eighteenth cen- tury, but by whom it is impossible to say. The air, the well-known "Flowers of Edinburgh," appears in " Oswald's Caledonian Pocket Com- panion," 1742, but is probably of a much earlier date. My love was once a bonnie lad, He was the flower of a' his kin, The absence of his bonnie face Has rent my tender heart in twain. I day or night find no delight ; In silent tears I still complain ; And exclaim 'gainst those my rival foes, That ha'e ta'en from me my darling swain. Despair and anguish fill my breast, Since I have lost my blooming rose ; I sigh and moan while others rest ; His absence yields me no repose. To seek my love I'll range and rove, Through every grove and distant plain ; Thus I'll ne'er cease, but spend my days, To hear tidings from my darling swain. There's naething strange in nature's change, Since parents show such cruelty ; They caused my love from me to range, And know not to what destiny. The pretty kids and tender lambs May cease to sport upon the plain ; But I'll mourn and lament in deep discontent i!or the absence of my darling swain. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 127 Kind Neptune, let me thee entreat, To send a fair and pleasant gale ; Ye dolphins sweet, upon me wait, And convey me upon your tail ; Heaven bless my voyage with success, While crossing of the raging main, And send me safe o'er to a distant shore, To meet my lovely darling swain. All joy and mirth at our return Shall then abound from Tweed to Tay ; The bells shall ring and sweet birds sing, To grace and crown our nuptial day. Thus bless'd wi' charms in my love's arms, My heart once more I will regain ; Then I'll range no more to a distant shore, But in love will enjoy my darling swain. AKGYLL IS MY NAME. Said to have been written by John, Duke of Argyll (1678-1743), by one tradition ; by another, the authorship is given to the celebrated James Boswell. Whoever may have written the song, and we cannot think that either of the parties was likely to have written it, there can be no doubt as to its referring to the Duke of Argyll, one of the principal characters in the " Heart of Midlothian." Tune — " Bannocks o' barley meal." Argyll is my name, and you may think it straDge, To live at a court, yet never to change ; A' falsehood and flattery I do disdain, In my secret thoughts nae guile does remain. My king and my country's foes I have faced, In city or battle I ne'er was disgraced ; I do every thing for my country's weal, And feast upon bannocks o' barley meal. Adieu to the courtie of London town, For to my ain countrie I will gang down ; At the sight of Kirkaldy ance again, I'll cock up my bonnet, and march amain. 0, the muckle deil tak' a' your noise and strife : I'm fully resolved for a country life, Whare a' the braw lasses, wha ken me weel, Will feed me wi' bannocks o' barley meal. I will quickly lay down my sword and my gun, And put my blue bonnet and my plaidie on ; With my silk tartan hose, and leather-heel'd shoon, And then I will look like a sprightly loon. 128 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND And when I'm sae dress'd frae tap to tae, To meet my dear Maggie I vow I will gae, Wi' target and hanger hung down to my heel ; And I'll feast upon bannocks o' barley meal. I'll buy a rich garment to gi'e to my dear, A ribbon o' green for Maggie to wear ; And mony thing brawei: than that I declare, Gin she will gang wi' me to Paisley fair. And when we are married, I'll keep her a cow, And Maggie will milk when I gae to plow ; "We'll live a' the winter on beef and lang kail, And feast upon bannocks o' barley meal. Gin Maggie should chance to bring me a son, He'll fight for his king, as his daddy has done ; He'll hie him to Flanders, some breeding to learn, And then hame to Scotland, and get him a farm. And there we will live by our industry, And wha'll be sae happy as Maggie and me ? We'll a' grow as fat as a Norway seal, Wi' our feasting on bannocks o' barley meal. Then fare ye weel, citizens, noisy men, Wha jolt in your coaches to Drury Lane ; Ye bucks o' Bear-garden, I bid you adieu, For drinking and swearing, I leave it to you. I'm fairly resolved for a country life, And nae langer will live in hurry and strife ; I'll aff to the Highlands as hard's I can reel, And whang at the bannocks o' barley meal. IN THE GAEB OF OLD GAUL. SIR H. EESKINE, BART., M.P. Bom about 1720. Son of Sir John Erskine, of Alva, Bart. He became commander of the "Boyal Scots" Begimentin 1762, and died at York in 1765. The tune was composed by General Eeid, Colonel of the 88th Begiment, whose love for music led him to found the much-abused Chair of Music in the University of Edinburgh. In the garb of old Gaul, with the fire of old Home, From the heath-cover'd mountains of Scotia we come ; Where the Bomans endeavour'd our country to gain, But 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 art, to alter our laws CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 129 No effeminate customs our sinews unbrace; No luxurious tables enervate our raoe ; Our loud sounding pipe breathes the true martial strain, And our hearts still the old Scottish valour retain. Such is our love, &c. 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. Such is our love, &c. As a storm in the ocean, when Boreas blows, So are we enrag'd when we rush on our foes ; We sons of the mountains tremendous as rocks, Dash the force of our foes with our thundering strokes. Such is our love, &c. Quebec and Cape Breton, the pride of old France, In their numbers fondly boasted, till we did advance ; But when our claymores they saw us produce, Their courage did fail, and they sued for a truce. Such is our love, &c. In our realm may the fury of faction long cease, May our councils be wise, and our commerce increase, And in Scotia's cold climate may each of us find, That our friends still prove true, and our beauties prove kind. Then we'll defend our liberty, our country, and our laws, And teach our late posterity to fight in freedom's cause ; That they, like their ancestors bold, for honour and applause, May defy the French, with all their arts, to alter our laws. CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN. We give two versions here of this popular old song, the first appears in Herd's Collection, and is probably the oldest set of the words extant. We are unable to state the precise age of the second version, but it is mentioned by Burns as an old song. I. Cauld kail in Aberdeen, And custocks in Strathbogie, But yet I fear they'll cook o'er soon, And never warm the cogie. The lasses about Bogie gicht, Their limbs they are sae clean and tight, That if they were but girded right, They'll dance the reel o' Bogie^ 130 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Wow, Aberdeen, what did you mean, Sae young a maid to woo, sir ? I'm sure it was nae joke to her, Whate'er it was to you, sir. For lasses now are no sae blate But they ken auld folk's out o' date, And better playfare can they get Than custockB in Strathbogie. There's cauld kail in Aberdeen, And oustocks in Stra'bogie, Where ilka lad maun ha'e his lass, But I maun ha'e my cogie. For I maun ha'e my oogie, sirs, I canna want my oogie ; I widna gi'e my three-gir'd cog For a' the wives in Bogie. Johnny Smith has got a wife Wha scrimps him o' his cogie : But were she mine, upon my life, I'd dook her in a bogie. For I maun ha'e my cogie, sirs, I canna want my cogie ; I wadna gi'e my three-gir'd cog For a' the wives in Bogie. Twa three todlin' weans they ha'e, The pride o' a' Stra'bogie ; Whene'er the totums cry for meat, She curses aye his cogie ; Crying, Wae betide the three-gir'd cog ! Oh, wae betide the cogie ! It does mair skaith than a' the ills That happen in Stra'bogie. She fand him ance at Willie Sharp's ; And, what the maist did laugh at, She brak the bicker, spilt the drink, And tightly gouff'd his haffet, Crying, Wae betide the three-gir'd cog 1 Oh, wae betide the cogie, It does mair skaith than a' the ills That happen in Stra'borie. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 131 Yet here's to ilka honest soul "Wha'll drink wi' me a cogie, And for ilk silly whinging fool, We'll dook him in a bogie. For I maun ha'e my cogie, sirs, I canna want my oogie : I wadna gi'e my three gir'd cog For a' the queans in Bogie. LOGIE 0' BUCHAN. Ladt Ami Barnard (authoress of Auld Bobin Gray), and George Halket, of Aberdeen (author of "Whirry, Whigs, awa, £c), have been given as the authors of this favourite song; and from the evidence which has been brought forward we think the claims of Halket must be admitted. He was schoolmaster at Bathen, in Aberdeenshire, and Mr. Peter Buchan considers the song to have been written by him in 1736. Halket was a Jacobite of the most intense description, and the sum of one hundred pounds was offered for his arrest by the Duke of Cumberland, in conse- quence of a pasquil he had written on George H. Halket died in 1756. The song first appeared in Johnson's Museum, along with its tune. Logie o' Buchan, Logie the laird, They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, that delved in the yard, Wha play'd on the pipe, and the viol sae sma' ; They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, the flower o' them a'. He said, Think na lang lassie, tho' I gang awa' ; He said, Think na lang lassie, tho' I gang awa' ; The simmer is come, and the winter's awa', And I'll come and see thee in spite o' them a'. Tho' Sandy has owsen, and siller, and kye ; A house and a hadden, and a' things forbye : Yet I'd tak' mine ain lad, wi' his staff in his hand, Before I'd ha'e him, wi' the houses and land. He said, Think nae lang, &o. My daddie looks sulky, my minnie looks sour, They frown upon Jamie because he is poor : But daddie and minnie altho' that they be, There's nane o' them a' like my Jamie to me. He said, Think nae lang, &c. 1 sit on my creepie, I spin at my wheel, And think on my Jamie that lo'es me sae weel ; He had but ae saxpence, he brak it in twa, And gi'ed me the hauf o't when he gade awa'. Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa', Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa', The simmer is come, and the winter's awa', And ye'll come and see me in spite o' them a'. 132 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND HEY BONNIE LASSIE, BLINK OVER THE BUBN. EEV. JAMES HONEYMAir. " This popular song has hitherto appeared in all the collections as an anonymous production, hut we have the authority of a highly esteemed correspondent for saying that it was written by the Rev. James Honeyman, minister of Kinneff, in Kincardineshire, who died at an advanced age, in or about the year 1779. Mr. Honeyman wrote other poetical pieces, but none of them came before the public except this song." — Blacking Book of Scottish Song. Hie, bonnie lassie, blink over the burn, And if your sheep wander I'll gi'e them a turn ; Sae happy as we'll he on yonder green shade, If ye'll be my dawtie, and sit in my plaid. A yowe and twa lammies are a' my haill Btock, But I'll sell a lammie out of my wee flock, To buy the a head-piece, sae bonnie and braid, If ye'll be my dawtie, and sit in my plaid. I ha'e a wee whittle made me a trout creel, And, oh, that wee whittle I likit it weel ; But I'll gi'e't to my lassie, and mair if I had, If she'll be my dawtie, and sit in my plaid. I ha'e little silver, but ae hauf-year's fee, But if ye will tak' it, I'll gi'e't a' to thee ; And then we'll be married, and lie in ae bed, If ye'll be my dawtie, and sit in my plaid. TA HIGHLAND SHENTLEMAN DOUGALD GRAHAM, Was born about the year 1724. He was long the public bellman of Glasgow and wrote a history of the Eebellion of 1745 in Verse, a work of little merit, bnt highly prized by the book collector on account of its scarcity. Dougald died in 1779. The song appears in Herd's Collection, 1776, where the old air Clout the Caudron is named as its tune. We do not know what authority there is for assigning the song to Graham. Heesell pe Highland shentleman, Pe auld as Pothwell Prig, man ; And many alterations seen Amang te Lawland Whig, man. Pa a dra, diddle diddle dee, &c. First when she to te Lawlands cam' Nainsell was driving cows, rnan, There was nae laws about him's nerse, About te preeks or trews, man. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 133 Nainsell did wear te philabeg, Te plaid prick'd on her shouder ; Te gude claymore hung py her pelt ; Her pistol sharged with powder. But for whereas these cursed preeks, Wherewith her legs'pe lockit ; Ohon that ere she saw the day ! For a' her houghs pe prokit. Every thing in te Highlands now Pe turn'd to alteration ; Te sodger dwall at our door cheek, And tat pe great vexation. Scotland be turn'd a Ningland now, The laws pring in te caudger ; t Nainsell wad dirk him for his deeds, But, och she fears te sodger. Anither law came after tat, Me never saw the like, man, They mak' a lang road on te crund, And ca' him Turnimspike, man 1 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 her a paper. They tak' the horse then py te head, And there they make him stand, man ; She tell them she had seen the day They had nae sic command, man. Nae doubt nainsell maun draw her purse ; And pay him what him like, man, She'll see a shudgement on his toor, That filthy turnimspike, man. But she'll awa' to ta Highland hills, Where deil a ane dare turn her, And no come near te turnimspike, Unless it pe to purn her. 134 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND FOR LACK OF GOLD. DB. AUSTIN, Boen about 1726, a celebrated physician of his time, in Edinburgh. The song was composed upon Miss Jean Drummond, to whom he was engaged to be married. The lady, however, having attracted the attention of the Duke of Athol jilted her first love and in 1749 became Duchess of Athol. Dr. Austin does not seem to have always remained in the disconsolate state depicted in the song, for, in 1754 he married Ann SempilL sister of Lord John Sempill. He died in 1774 leaving a large family. The air has been traced to 1692, and the song appears in " The Charmer," 1751. Foe lack of gold she has' left me, 0, And of all that's dear she's bereft me, ; She me forsook for Athole's duke, And to endless woe she has left me, 0. 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, 0. No cruel fair shall ever move My injured heart again to love ; Through distant climates I must rove, Since Jeany she has left me, 0. Ye powers above, I to your care Eesign my faithless, lovely fair ; Your choicest blessing be her share, Though she has ever left me, 0. FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. MISS JANE ELLIOT, Daughteb of Sir Gilbert Elliot, of Minto. She was born in 1727. The song here given was written about 1735, and long passed as an old ballad. Sir Walter Scott, in including it in his Minstrelsy, says, "The following well-known and beautiful stanzas, were composed, many years ago, by a lady of family in Roxburghshire. The manner of the ancient minstrels is so happily imitated, that it required the most positive evidence to convince the editor that the song was of modern date." Miss Elliot died at Mount Teviot, Roxburghshire, in 1805. I've heard the lilting, at our yowe-milking, Lasses a-lilting, before the dawn o' day ; But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning ; The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At buchts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae ; Nae damn', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 135 In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, The bandsters are runkled, and lyart and grey ; At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeohing — The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming, 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play ; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie — The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. Dule and wae to the order sent our lads to the border ! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day ; The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the foremost, The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay. We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking, Women and bairns are heartless and wae ; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning — The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. MY SHEEP I NEGLECTED. SHI GILBEET ELLIOT, BAKT., Bokn 1729. He was educated for the Scottish Bar, was elected Member of Parliament for Boxburghshire, and became Treasurer of the Navy. His private character has beeirhighly extolled by his friends; and in connec- tion with his Parliamentary business, he showed himself to be highly accom- plished, expert^ and sagacious. He died in 1777. Sir Gilbert belonged to an extraordinary family. His father was a poet; his sister, Miss Jean Elliot, has immortalized herself in the annals of Scottish song as authoress of " The Flowers of the Forest," and his son was made Governor-General of India, and became Earl of Minto. This song first appeared in the " Charmer," 1749. My sheep I neglected — I lost my sheep-hook, And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook ; No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove ; For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love. Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do ? Why left I Amynta ? Why broke I my vow ? Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore, And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more. Through regions remote in vain do I rove, And bid the wide ocean secure me from love ! Oh, fool 1 to imagine that aught could subdue A love so well founded, a passion so true 1 Oh, what, &c. Alas ! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine ; Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine : Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain, The moments neglected return not again. Oh, what, &c. 136 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND THE SMILING PLAINS. WILLIAM EALCONEB, Author of " The Shipwreck." Born at Edinburgh in 1730. He served his apprenticeship to the seafaring profession on board a Leith vessel. He early gave evidence of his genius as a poet, and attracting the patron- age of. the Duke of York, .was appointed purser to the " Boyal George," one of the .finest ships in the Navy. In 1769 he was appointed to the "Aurora "frigate bound for India. The "Aurora" arrived in safety at the Cape of Good Hope, but after leaving there, was never afterwards seen or heard of. The smiling plains, profusely gay, Are dress'd 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. soft, as love ! as honour fair ! Serenely sweet as vernal air ! Come to my arms ; for you alone Can all my absence past atone. come 1 and to my bleeding heart The sovereign balm of love impart ; Thy presence lasting joy shall bring, And give the year eternal spring. THE BUN- AWAY BRIDE. FBOM THE " CHABMEB," 1751. A laddie and a lassie fair Lived in the south countrie ; They ha'e ooost their claes thsgither, And wedded wad they be : On Tuesday to the bridal feast Cam 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, For she has ta'en the gee. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 137 Her father and her mither baith Ean after her wi' speed ; And aye they ran and cried, How, Ann ! Till they came to the Tweed : Saw ye a lass, a lovesome lass, That weel a queen might be ? that's the bride, the rinaway bride, The bride- that's ta'en the gee. And when they came to Kelso town, They gaur'd the clap gang through ; 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 turn'd up wi' green ; Saw ye a lass wi' a hood and mantle, Should ha'e been married on Tuesday 't e'en ? at the saft and silly bridegroom The bridemaids a' were laughin' ; When up there spake the bridegroom's man, Now what means a' this damn' ? For woman's love's a wilfu' thing, And fancy flies fu' free ; Then hey play up the rinaway bride, For she has ta'en the gee. • HOOLY AND FAIELY. The Charmbe. Edinburgh, 1751. Dodn in yon meadow a couple did tarry : The gudewife she drank naething but sack and canary ; The gudeman complain'd to her friends richt sairly — Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly ! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly, Oh ! gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly ! First she drank Crummie, and syne she drank Gairie, And syne she drank my bonnie gray marie, That carried me through a' the dubs and the glairie — Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly ! She drank her hose, she drank her shoon, And syne she drank her bonnie new goun ; She drank her sark that cover'd her rarely — Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly ! Wad she drink but her ain things, I wadha care, But she drinks my claes that I canna weel spare ; When I'm wi' my goBtips it angers me sairly — Oh ! gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly 1 138 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND My Sunday's coat she's laid it in wad, And the hest blue bonnet e'er was on my head ; At kirk or at mercat I'm cover'd but barely — Oh ! gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly I My bonnie white mittens I wore on my hands, Wi' her neibour's wife she laid them in pawns ; My bane-headed staff that I looed sae dearly— Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly I I never was for wranglin' nor strife, Nor did I deny her the comforts o' life ; For when there's a war, I'm aye for a parley- On, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly ! When there's ony money she maun keep the purse ; If I seek but a bawbee she'll scold and she'll curse ; She lives like a queen — I but scrimpit 'and sparely — Oh ! gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly 1 A pint wi' her cummers I wad her allow ; But when she sits down, she gets hersel' fou, And when she is fou she is unco camstarie — Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly ! When she comes to the street she roars and she rants, Has nae fear o' her neiboufs, nor minds the house wants ; • She rants up some fule-sang, like, Up your heart, Oharlie- Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly I When she comes hame she lays on the lads, The lasses she ca's baith bitches and jauds, And ca's mysell an auld cuckle-carlie — Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly ! NAE DOMINIES FOR ME LADDIE. EEV. NATHANIE1 MACKAY, Minister of CrossmichaeL Kirkcudbright, where he died in 1781. It has also been attributed to the Eev. John Forbes, minister of Deer, Aberdeen- shire, who died in 1769. We are unable to decide as to the merits of the candidates. Dr. Laing seems to favour the claim of Mr. Forbes, while Mr. Bobert Chambers, and Mr. Stenhouse, prefer that of Mr Mackay. I chanc'd to meet an airy blade, A new-made pulpiteer, laddie, With cock'd up hat and powder'd wig, Black coat and cuffs fu' clear, laddie : A long cravat at him did wag, And buckles at his knee, laddie Says he, My heart, by Cupid's dart, Is captivate to thee, lassie. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 139 I'll rather chuse to thole grim death ; So cease and let me be, laddie : For what ? says he. Good troth, says I, No dominies for me, laddie : Ministers' stipends are uncertain rents For ladies' conjunct-fee laddie : When books and gowns are all cried down, No dominies for me, laddie. But for your sake I'll fleece the flock, Grow rich as I grow auld, lassie ; If I be spar'd I'll be a laird, And thou's be Madam call'd, lassie. But what. if ye shou'd chance to die, Leave bairns, ane or twa, laddie ? Naething wad be reserv'd for them But hair-mould books to gnaw, laddie. At this he angry was, I wat, He gloom'd and look'd fu' high, 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 luok I chanc'd 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 exchang'd a word, laddie : We had nae use for black gowns there, We married o'er the sword, laddie. Martial drums is music fine, Compar'd wi' tinkling bells, 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; 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 ; No dominies for me, laddie. 140 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND SYMON BEODIE. hbed'b collection. Stmon Brodie had a cow : The cow was lost, and he couldna find her : When he had done what man could do, _ The cow cam' hame, and her tail behind her. Honest auld Symon Brodie, Stupid auld doitit bodie ! I'll awa' to the north countrie, And see my ain dear Symon Brodie. Symon Brodie had a wife, And, wow ! but she was braw and bonnie. She took the dish-clout aff the buik, And preen'd it to her cockernonie. Honest auld Symon Brodie, &c. TIBBIE FOWLEB. Johnson's Museum, 1787. A fragment appearing previously however in Herd's Collection, 1776, enables us to trace the song to an earlier time. It probably belongs to the middle of the eighteenth century, though Mr. Robert Chambers, from finding that a certain Isabella Fowler was married to a son of Lbgan of Eestalrig in the sixteenth century, concludes thereby that it must refer to her, and dates accordingly. Tibbie Fowler o' the Glen, There's ower mony wooing at her ; Tibbie Fowler o' the Glen, There's ower mony wooing at her. Wooin' at her, pu'in' at her, Courtin' her, and canna get her ; Filthy elf, it's for her pelf That a' the lads are wooin' at her. Ten cam' east, and ten cam' west ; Ten cam' rowin' ower the water ; Twa cam' down the lang dyke-side : There's twa-and-thirty wooin' at her. There's seven but, and seven ben, Seven in the pantry wi' her ; Twenty head about the door : There's ane-and forty wooin' at her. She's got pendles in her lugs ; Cockle-shells wad set her better ! High-heel'd shoon, and siller tags, And a' the lads are wooin' at her. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 141 Be a lassie e'er sae black, Gin she ha'e the name o' siller, Set her up on Tintock tap, The wind will blaw a man till her. Be a lassie e'er so fair, An' she want the penny siller, A flie may fell her i' the air, Before a man be even'd till her. BESS THE GAWKIE. BEY. JAMES MUIRHEAD, D.D., Bokn 1742. He was educated at the University of Edinburgh for the ministry, and in 1770 was ordained minister of tJrr, in Galloway. He died in 1808, in his sixty-eighth year. The song here given first appeared in Herd's Collection. Blythe young Bess to Jean did say, Will ye gang to yon sunny brae, Whare flocks do feed, and herds do stray, And sport awhile wi' Jamie ? Ah, na, lass ! I'll no gang there, Nor about Jamie tak' a care, Nor about Jamie tak' a care, For he's ta'en up wi' Maggie. For hark, and I will tell you, lass, Did I not see young Jamie pass, Wi' meikle blytheness in his faoe Out owre the muir to Maggie ? I wat he ga'e her monie a kiss, And Maggie took them nae amiss : 'Tween Uka smack pleas'd 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'll hardly speak : Wha'd no ca' her a gawkie ? But sure my Maggie has mair sense. She'll gi'e a score without offence ; Now gi'e me ane into the mense, And ye shall be my dawtie." ' Jamie, ye ha'e monie ta'en, But I will never stand for ane Or twa when we do meet again, So ne'er think me a gawkie.' '' Ah, na, lass, that canna be ; 3ic thoughts as thae are far frae me, Or onie thy sweet face that see, E'er to think thee a gawkie." 142 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND 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. " dear Bess, I hardly knew, When I cam' by your gown sae new; I 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'il 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, " cruel maid, but sweet, If I should gang anither gate, I ne'er could meet my dawtie.'' The lasses fast frae him they flew, And left poor Jamie sair to rue, That ever Maggie's face he knew, Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie. As they gade owre the muir they sang, The hills and dales wi' echo rang, The hills and dales wi' echo rang, "Gang -o'er the muir to Maggie." PINKIE HOUSE. JOHN MITCHELL, Born 1749 ; a poet of some eminence of his time, but now forgotten. He was a great favourite of Sir Robert Walpole, the celebrated Whig States- man. He died in 1738. Air — " Rothes' Lament." By Pinkie House oft \e% me walk, And muse o'er Nelly's charms ! Her placid air, her winning talk, Even envy's self disarms. let me, ever fond, behold Those graces void of art — Those cheerful smiles that sweetly hold, In willing chains, my heart ! come, my love ! and bring anew That gentle turn of mind ; That gracefulness of air in you By nature's hand designed. These, lovely as the blushing rose, First lighted up this flame, Which, like the sun, for ever glows Within my breast the same. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 143 Ye light coquettes ! ye airy things ! How vain is all your art ! How seldom it a lover brings ! How rarely keeps a heart ! gather from my Nelly's charms That sweet, that graceful ease, That blushing modesty that warms, That native art to please 1 * Come then, my love ! 0, come along ! And feed me with thy charms ; Come, fair inspirer of my song ! Oh, fill my longing arms ! A flame like mine can never die, While charms so bright as thine, So heavenly fair, both please the eye, And fill the soul divine ! THE ESK. REV. JOHN LOQAN, Boen 1749. Was for some time one of the ministers of Leith, and after- ward a literary hack in London. He died in 1788. His poems have been collected along with his tragedy of Kunnymede, and published in one volume. While frequent on Tweed and on Tay, Their harps all the muses have strung, Should a river more limpid than they, The wood-fringed Esk flow unsung ? While Nelly and Nancy inspire The poet with pastoral strains, Why silent the voice of the lyre On Mary, the pride of the plains ? nature's most beautiful bloom May flourish unseen and unknown : And the shadows of solitude gloom A form that might shine on a throne. Through the wilderness blossoms the rose, In sweetness retired from the sight ; And Philomel warbles her woes Alone to the ear of the night. How often the beauty is hid Amid shades that her triumphs deny ! How often the hero forbid From the path that conducts to the sky ! 144 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND A Helen has pined in the grove ; A Homer has wanted his name ; Unseen in the circle of love, Unknown to the temple of fame. Yet let us walk forth to the stream, Where poet ne'er wander'd before ; Enamour'd of Mary's sweet name, How 'the echoes will spread to the shore I If the voice of the muse be divine, Thy beauties shall live in my lay ; While reflecting the forest so fine, Sweet Esk o'er the valleys shall stray. MARY'S DREAM. JOHN LOWE, Bokn in 1750 at Kenmure, in Galloway, where his father was gardener. Showing, we suppose, superior talents in his youth, he was educated for the church. He became tutor in the family of Mr. M'Ghie of Airds, " wha had mony bonnie dochters :" one of whom captivated the tutor's fancy. The beautiful song here given was written at this period. A Mr. Miller, who was engaged to be married to one of the young ladies, was drowned at sea. an event which would now have been forgotten but for the ex- quisitely tender and, pathetic song of Mary's Dream, which has given to it immortality. Lowe's life was unfortunate ; giving up his love at Airds, he emigrated to America. He opened a school iu Predericksburgh, in Virginia, and afterwards took orders in the Church of England. He married a lady whose conduct, joined to other misfortunes, brought him to his grave in 1798, in his 48th year. Lowe wrote a number of other pieces, but none of them of any extra degree of merit. Like the author of the "Burial of Sir John Moore," his fame depends on one poem. The moon had climb'd the highest hill, Which rises o'er the source of Dee, And from the eastern summit shed Her silver light on tower and tree ; When Mary laid her down to sleep, Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea ; When soft and low, a voice was heard, Saying, " Mary, weep no more for me!" She from her pillow gently raised Her head, to ask who there might be, And saw young Sandy shivering stand, With visage pale, and hollow e'e. " 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 1 CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 145 " Three stormy nights and stormy days, . We tossed upon the raging main ; And long we strove our bark to save, But all our striving was in vain. Even then, when horror chilled my blood, My heart was filled with love for thee : The storm is past, and I at rest ; So, Mary, weep no more for me 1 " maiden dear, thyself prepare ; "We soon shall meet upon that shore, Where love is free from doubt and care, And thou and I shall part no more !" Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled : No more of Sandy could she see. But soft the passing spirit said, " Sweet Mary, weep no more for me ! " MY DADDIB IS A CANKERT CARLE. Fkom " The Lark," Edin., 1765. It has been ascribed to Carnegie, of Balnamoon, Esq., but the sole authority for this statement was "a .garrulous old fellow," who had no doubt about it. (See Strutters' Harp of Caledonia.) My daddie is a cankert carle, He'll no twine wi' his gear ; My minnie she's a scauldin' wife, Hauds a' the house asteer ; But let them say, or let them do, It's a' ane to me, For he's low doun, he's in the brume, That's waitin' on me : Waiting on me, my love, He's waiting on me ; For he's low doun, he's in the brume, That's waitin' on me. My auntie Kate sits at her wheel, And sair she lightlies me ; But weel ken I it's a' envy, For ne'er a joe has she ; But let them say, &c. My cousin Kate was sair beguiled Wi' Johnnie o' the Grlen ; And aye sinsyne she cries, Beware 0' fause deluding men ; But let them say, &c. 146 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Gleed Sandy, he cam' wast yestreen, And speir'd when I saw Pate ; And aye sinsyne the neebors round They jeer me air and late ; But let them say, &c. HALLOW FAIR. BOBEBT FEBQUSSON, The predecessor of Burns, whose wayward life, and bitter end, is well known to every reader in Scotch Literature. He was born at Edinburgh in 1750, and after studying at the University of St. Andrew's for a short time, he changed his views as to his occupation, and returned to Edin- burgh, where he was employed in a Lawyer's office. Poor Fergusson soon became mixed in all the wild life of the Metropolis, and the end of a short career of debauchery and excess was a mad-house, where he died at the early age of twenty-four. He was buried in the Canongate Church- yard, and one of the most affecting incidents in the life of Eobert Burns is, that when he acquired a little money and fame, he hastened to erect a simple stone over the ashes of his f elder brother in misfortune." Fer- gusson's Poems have frequently been published in various forms. There's fouth o' braw Jockies and Jennies Comes weel-buskit into the fair, With ribbons on their cookernonies, And fouth o' fine flour on their hair. Maggie she was sae weel buskit, That Willie was tied to his bride ; The pownie was ne'er better whisket Wi' cudgel that hang frae his side. But Maggie was wond'rous jealous, To see Willie buskit sae braw ; And Sandy he sat in the alehouse, And hard at the liquor did ca'. There was Q-eordie, that weel looed his lassie, He took the pint-stoup in his arms, And hugged it, and said, Trouth they're saucie, That loes na a guid-father's bairn. There was Wattie, the muirland laddie, That rides on the bonnie grey cowt, With sword by his side like a cadie To drive in the sheep and the nowt. His doublet sae weel it did fit him, It scarcely cam' down to mid-thie, With hair pouthered, hat, and a feather, And hausing at curpen and tee. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 147 But Bruckie played boo to Bessie, And aff scoured the cout like the wind ; Puir Wattie he fell on the caussey, And birzed a' the banes in his skin. His pistols fell out o' the hulsters, And were a' bedaubed wi' dirt, The folk they cam' round him in clusters ; Some leuch, and cried, Lad, was ye hurt ? But cout wad let naebody steer him, He aye was sae wanton and skeigh ; The packmen's stands he overturned them, And garred a' the Jocks stand abeigh ; Wi' sneerin' behind and before him, For sic is the mettle o' brutes, Puir Wattie, and wae's me for him, Was fain to gang hame in his boots. Now it was late in the e'ening, And boughting-time was drawing near ; The lasses had stanched their greening Wi' fouth o' braw apples and beer : There was Lillie, and Tibbie, and Sibbie, And Ceicy on the spindle could spin, Stood glowrin'at signs and glass winnocks, But deil a ane bade them come in. Gude guide us ! saw ye e'er the like o't ? See, yonder's a bonnie black swan ; It glow'rs as it wad fain be at us ; What's yon that it hauds in its hand ? Awa', daft gowk, cries Wattie,. They're a' but a ruckle o' sticks ; See, there is Bill-Jock and auld Hawkie, And yonder's Mess John and auld Nick. Quoth Maggie, Come buy us our fan-in' ; And Wattie richt sleely could tell, . I think thou'rt the flower o' the clachan,— In trowth, now, I'se gi'e thee mysell. But wha wad ha' e'er thocht it o' him, That e'er he had rippled the lint ? Sae proud was he o' his Maggie, Though she was baith scaulie and squint. 148 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND THE LEE KIG. ROBERT JEROUSSON. With the exception of the third, fourth, and fifth stanzas, which were added by William Beid, a bookseller in Glasgow, a notice of whom is given elsewhere. Will ye gang o'er the lea rig, My ain kind dearie, ; And cuddle there fu' kindly, Wi' me, my kind dearie, 1 At thorny bush, or birken tree, We'll daff, and never weary, ; They'll scug ill een frae you and me, My ain kind dearie, 0. Nae herds wi' kent or colly there, Shall ever come to fear ye, ; But laverocks whistling in the air Shall woo, like me, their dearie, 0. 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, 0. At gloamin', if my lane I be, Oh, but I'm wondous eerie, 0: And mony a heavy sigh I gi'e, When absent frae my dearie, ; But seated 'neath the milk-white thorn, In ev'ning fair and dearie, 0, Enraptur'd, a' my cares I scorn, When wi' my kind dearie, 0. Whare through the birks the burnie rows, Aft ha'e I sat fu' cheerie, 0, Upon the bonnie greensward howes, Wi' thee, my kind dearie, 0, I've courted till I've heard the craw Of honest Chanticleerie, 0, Yet never miss'd my sleep ava, When wi' my kind dearie, 0. For though the night were ne'er sae dark, And I were ne'er sae weary, 0, I'd meet thee on the lea rig, My ain kind dearie, 0, While in this weary warld of wae, This wilderness sae dreary, 0, What makes me blythe, and keeps me sae ? 'Tis thee, my kind dearie, 0. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 149 THE BANKS OP THE DEE. Generally ascribed to John Home, author of Douglas. The editor of Blackie's Book of Scottish Song, however, states it to have been written by John Tait, a writer to the Signet in Edinburgh, and to have been written in 1775 on the occasion of a friend leaving Scotland, to join the forces in North America. Tune Langolee. 'Twas summer, and saftly the breezes were blowing, And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree ; At the foot of a rook, where the river was flowing, I sat myself down on the banks of the Dee. Plow on, lovely Dee, flow on, thou sweet river, Thy banks, purest stream, shall be dear to me ever : Por there first I gain'd the affection and favour Of Jamie, the glory and pride of the Dee. But now he's gone from me, and left me thus mourning, To quell the proud rebels — for valiant is he ; And ah ! there's no hope of his speedy returning, To wander again on the banks of the Dee. He's gone, hapless youth, o'er the loud roaring billows, , The kindest and sweetest of all the gay fellows, And left me to stray 'mongst the once loved willows, The loneliest maid on the banks of the Dee. But time and my prayers may perhaps yet restore him, Blest peace may restore my dear shepherd to me ; And when he returns, with such care I'll watch o'er him, He never shall leave the sweet banks of the Dee. The Dee then shall flow, all its beauties displaying, The lambs on its banks shall again be seen playing, While I with my Jamie am carelessly straying, And tasting again all the sweets of the Dee. BOTHWELL BANK. JOHN PINKERTON, The distinguished Antiquary. He was born at Edinburgh in 1758, and died at Paris in 1825. His works are numerous and important, more especially in the department of Scottish poetry, in which he laboured long and well. Though terrible, however, in his denunciations of others for anything like dishonesty in literature, he could not resist passing a few of his own pieces into the midst of his collections of early poems ; and the song here given first appeared in his Select Scottish Ballads, 1773, as the old words of the beautiful and ancient air of "Bothwell Bank." The trick, however, was too palpable to escape detection, and has fatally injured his position in the History of Antiquarianism. 150 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Osr the blyth Beltane, as I went , Be mysel' attour the green bet, Wharby the crystal waves of Clyde, Throch saughs and hanging hazels glyde ; There, sadly sitting on a brae, I heard a damsel speak her wae. " Oh, Bothwell Bank, thou blumest fair, But, ah, thou mak'st my heart fou' sair ! For a' beneath thy holts sae grene My luve and I wad sit at ene ; "While primroses and daisies, mist Wi blue bells, in my loks he fixt. " But he left me ae drearie day, And haplie now sleeps in the clay, Without ae sich his dethe to roun', Without ae flouir his grave to croun ! Oh, Bothwell Bank, thou blumest fair, But, ah, thou mak'st my heart fou' sair." THE WAYWARD WIPE. SDSS JENNY GEAHAM, A Maiden lady, who died at an advanced age at Dumfries, towards the middle of the last century. Alas ! my son, you little know The sorrows that from wedlock flow. Farewell to every day of ease, When you have gotten a wife to please. Sae bide you yet, and bide you yet, Ye little ken what's to betide you yet ; The half of that will gane you yet, If a wayward wife obtain you yet. [Your experience is but small, As yet you've met with little thrall :] The black cow on your foot ne'er trod, Which gars you sing alang the road. Sae bide you yet, &c. Sometimes the rock, sometimes the reel, Or some piece of the spinning-wheel, She will drive at you wi' good will, And then she'll send you to the de'il, Sae bide you yet, &c. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 151 When I like you was young and free, I valued not the proudest she ; Like you I vainly boasted then, That men alone were born to reign. But bide you yet, &e. Great Hercules, and Samson too, Were stronger men than I or you, Yet they were baffled by their dears, And felt the distaff and the sheers. Sae bide you yet, &c. 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. Sae bide you yet, &c. OUE GOODMAN CAM' HAME AT E'EN. Herd's Colieotiok. An English version was recovered in Yorkshire by Mr. X H. Dixon. Our goodman came hame at e'en, And hame came he ; And there he saw a saddle horse, Where nae horse should be. How came this horse here ? How can this be ? How came this horse here Without the leave o' me ? A horse ! quo' she : Ay, a horse, quo' he. Ye auld blind dotard carle, Blind mat ye be, Tis naething but a bonny milk cow, My minny sent to me. A milk cow ! quo' he : Ay, a milk cow, quo' she. Far hae I ridden, And meikle . hae I seen, But a saddle on a cow's back Saw I never nane. Our goodman came hame at e'on, And hame came he ; He spy'd a pair of jackboots, Where nae boots should be. 152 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND What's this now, goodwife ? What's this I see? How eame these boots there Without the leave o'me ? Boots ! quo' she : Ay, boots, quo' he. Shame fa' your cuckold face, And ill mat ye see, It's but a pair of water stoups The cooper sent to me. Water stoups ! quo' he : Ay, water stoups, quo' she. Par hae I ridden, And farer hae I gane, But siller spurs on water stoups Saw I never nane. Our goodman came hame at e'en, And hame came he ; And then he saw a [siller] sword, Where a sword should nae be : What's this now, goodwife ? What's this I see ? how came this sword here Without the leave o' me ? A sword I quo' she : Ay, a sword, quo' he. Shame fa' your cuckold face, And ill mat ye see, It's but a parridge spurtle My minnie sent to me. A parridge spurtle ! quo' he : Ay, a parridge spurtle, quo 1 she. Weil, far hae I ridden, And muckle hae I seen ; But siller-handed spurtles Saw I never nane. Our goodman came hame at e'en, And hame came he ; There he spy'd a powder'd wig, Where nae wig should be. What's this now, goodwife ? What's this I see? How came this wig here Without the leave o' me ? CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 153 A wig ! quo' she : Ay, a wig, quo' he. Shame fa' your cuckold face. And ill mat you see, 'Tis naething but a clocken hen My minnie sent to me. [A] clocken hen ! quo' he : Ay, [a] clocken hen, quo' she. Far hae I ridden, And muckle hae I seen, But powder on a clocken-hen Saw I never nane. Our goodman oame hame at e'en, And hame came he ; And there he saw a muckle coat, Where nae coat shou'd be. how came this coat here? How can this be ? How came this coat here Without the leave o' me ? A coat I quo' she : Ay, a coat, quo' he. Te auld blind dotard carle, Blind mat ye be, It'B but a pair of blankets My minnie sent to me. Blankets ! quo' he : Ay, blankets, quo' she. Far hae I ridden, And muckle hae I seen, But buttons upon blankets Saw I never nane. Ben went our goodman, And ben went he ; And there he spy'd a sturdy man, Where nae man should be. How came this man here ? How can this be ? How came this man here Without the leave o' me ? A man 1 quo' she : Ay, a man, quo' he. Poor blind body, And blinder mat ye be, It's a new milking maid, My raither sent to me. 154 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND A maid! quo' lie: Ay, a maid, quo' she. Far hae I ridden, And muckle hae I seen, But lang-bearded maidens I saw never nane. PATIE'S WEDDIN'. Hekd's Collection. No trace of author or era can be found, but it is probably of an earlier date than the publication of Herd. As Patie cam' up frae the glen, Drivin' his wedders before him, He met bonnie Meg ganging hame — Her beauty was like for to smoore him. Maggie, lass, dinna ye ken That you and I 's gaun to be married ? 1 had rather had broken my leg, Before sic a bargain miscarried. Patie, lad, wha tell'd ye that ? I think o' news they've been scanty : I'm nae to be married the year, Though I should be courted by twenty ! Now, Maggie, what gars ye to taunt ? Is 't 'cause that I ha'ena a mailen ? The lad that has gear needna want Tor neither a half nor a haill ane. My dad has a gude grey meare, And yours has twa cows and a filly ; And that will be plenty o' gear : Sae, Maggie, be na sae ill-willy. Weel, Patie, lad, I dinna ken ; But first ye maun speir at my daddie ; You're quite as weel born as Ben, And I canna say but I'm ready. We ha'e walth o' yarn in clews, To mak' me a coat and a jimpey, And plaidin' eneuch to be trews — Gif I get ye, I shanna scrimp ye 1 Now fair fa' ye, my bonnie Meg ! I'se e'en let a smackie fa' on ye : May my neck be as lang as my leg, If I be an ill husband unto ye 1 Sae gang your ways hame e'en now ; Mak' ready gin this day fifteen days, And tell your father fra me, I'll be his gude-son in great kindness. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 155 Maggie's as blythe as a wran, Bodin' the blast o' ill weather, And a' the gaite singin' she ran, ' To tell the news to her father. But aye the auld man cried out, He'll no be o' that mind on Sunday. There's nae fear o' that quo' Meg ; For I gat a kiss on the bounty. And what was the matter o' that ? It was naething out o' his pocket, I wish the news were true, And we had him fairly bookit. A very wee while after that, Wha cam' to our biggin but Patie ? Dress'd up in a braw new coat, And wow but he thocht himsel' pretty ! His bonnet was little frae new, And in it a loop and a slittie, To draw in a ribbon sae blue, To bab at the neck o' his ooatie. Then Patie cam' in wi' a stend ; Cried, Peace be under the biggin ! You're welcome, quo' William, Come ben, Or I wish it may rive frae the riggin' I Now draw in your seat, and sit doun, And tell's a' your news in a hurry : And haste ye, Meg, and be dune, And hing on the pan wi' the berry. Quoth Patie, My news is nae thrang ; Yestreen I was wi' his honour ; I've ta'en three rigs o' braw land, And bound myself under a honour ; And, now, my errand to you, Is for Maggie to help me to labour ; But I'm fear'd we'll need your best cow, Because that our haddin's but sober. Quoth William, To harl ye through, I'll be at the cost o' the bridal, I'se cut the craig o' the ewe, That had aniaist dee'd o' the side-ill : And that'll be plenty o' bree, Sae lang as our well is na reested, To a' the neebours and you ; Sae I think we'll be uae that ill feasted. 156 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Quoth Patie, that'll do well, And I'll gie you your brose i' the mornin', 0' kail that was made yestreen, For I like them best i' the forenoon. Sae Tarn, the piper, did play ; And ilka aDe danced that was willin' ; And a' the lave they rankit through ; And they held the wee stoupie aye fillin'. The auld wives sat and they chew'd ; And when that the carles grew nappy, They danced as well as they dow'd Wi' a crack o' their thooms and a happie. The lad that wore the white band, I think they ca'd him Jamie Mather, He took the bride by the hand, And cried to play up Maggie Lauder. BANKS OF FOETH. heed's collection. Awake, my love ! with genial ray, The sun returning glads the day. Awake ! the balmy zephyr blows, The hawthorn blooms, the daisy glows, The trees regain their verdant pride, The turtle woos his tender bride ; To love each warbler tunes the song, And Forth in dimples glides along. Oh, more than blooming daisies fair ! More fragrant than the vernal air 1 More gentle than the turtle dove, Or streams that murmur through the grove ! Bethink thee all is on the wing, These pleasures wait on wasting spring ; Then come, the transient bliss enjoy, Nor fear what fleets so fast will cloy. THE HUMBLE BEGGAR. herd's collection. In Scotland there lived a humble beggar, He had neither house, nor hald, nor hame, But he was weel liked by ilka bodie, And they ga'e him sunkets to rax his wame. A nivefu' of meal, a handfu' of groats, A daad of bannock, or herring brie, Cauld parridge, or the lickings of plates, Wad mak' him as blythe as a beggar could be. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 157 This beggar he was a humble beggar, The feint a bit of pride had he, He wad a ta'en his a'ms in a bikker, Frae gentleman, or poor bodie. His wallets ahint and afore did hang, In as good order as wallets could be : And a lang kail-gooly hang down by his side, And a meikle nowt-horn to rout on had he. It happen'd ill, it happen'd warse, It happen'd sae that he did die ; And wha do you think was at his late-wake, But lads and lasses of a high degree. Some were blythe and some were sad, And some they play'd at Blind Harrie ; But suddenly up-started the auld carle, I redd ye, good folks, tak' tent o' me. Up gat Kate that sat i' the nook, Vow kimmer, and how do ye ? Up he gat, and ca't her limmer, And ruggit and tuggit her cockernonie. They houkit his grave in Duket's kirk-yard, E'en far frae the companie : But when they were gaun to lay him i' the yird, The feint a dead nor dead was he. And when they brought him to Duket's kirk-yard, He dunted on the kist, the boards did flee : And when they were gaun to put him i' the yird, In fell the kist, and out lap he. He cried, I'm cauld, I'm unco cauld ; Fu' fast ran the fock, and fu' fast ran he : But he was first hame at his ain ingle side, And he helped to drink his ain dirgie. THE DECEIVEB. heed's collection. With tuneful pipe and hearty glee, Young Watty wan my heart ; A blyther lad ye couldna see, All beauty without art. His winning tale Did soon prevail To gain my fond belief; But soon the swain Gangs o'er the plain, And leaves me full, and leaves me full, And leaves me full of grief. 158 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Though Colin courts with tuneful sang, Yet few regard his mane ; The lasses a' round Watty thrang, "While Colin's left alane : In Aberdeen Was never seen A lad that gave sic pain ; He daily wooes, And still pursues, Till he does all, till he does all, , Till he does all obtain. But soon as he has gain'd the bliss, Away then does he run, " And hardly will afford a kiss, To silly me undone : Bonnie Katy, Maggy, Beaty, Avoid the roving swain, His wyly tongue Be sure to shun, Or you like me, or you like me, Like me will be undone. GET UP AND BAB THE DOOB. heed's collection. It fell about the Martinmas time, And a gay time it was than, When our gudewife got puddings to mak', And she boil'd them in the pan. The wind sae cauld blew south and north, And blew into the floor : Quoth our gudeman to our gudewife, " Gae out and bar the door." " My hand is in my hussy'f skap, Gudeman, as ye may see, An' it shou'd nae be barr'd this hundred year, It's no be barr'd for me." They made a paction 'tween them twa, They made it firm and sure ; That the first word whae'er shou'd speak, Shou'd rise and bar the door. Then by there came twa gentlemen, At twelve o'clock at night, And they could neither see house nor hall, Nor coal nor candle light. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 159 Now, whether is this a rich man's house, Or whether is it a poor ? But never a word wad ane o' them speak, For harring o' the door. And first they ate the white puddings, And then they ate the black, Tho' muckle thought the gudewife to hersel', Yet ne'er a word she spak'. Then said the one unto the other, " Here, man, tak' ye my knife, Do ye tak' aff the auld man's beard, And I'll kiss the gudewife." " But there's nae water in the house, And what shall we do than?" " What ails you at the puddin' broo, That boils into the pan ? " up then started our gudeman, And an angry man was he ; "Will ye kiss my wife before my een, And scad me wi' pudding bree ? " Then up and Btarted our gudewife, Gied three skips on the floor : " Gudeman, ye've spoken the foremost word, Get up and bar the door." AS I, WAS A- WALKING. herd's collection. As I was a walking ae May morning, The fiddlers an' youngsters were making their game, And there I saw my faithless lover, And a' my sorrows return'd again. Well since he is gane, joy gang wi' him ; It's ne'er be he shall gar me complain : I'll cheer up my heart, and I will get anither ; I'll never lay a' my love upon ane. I could na get sleeping yestreen for weeping, The tears ran down like showers o' rain ; An' had na I got greiting my heart wad a broken ; And 1 but love's a tormenting pain. But since he is gane, may joy gae wi' him ; It's never be he that shall gar me complain ; I'll cheer up my heart, and I will get anither ; I'll never lay a' my love upon ane. 160 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND When I gade into my inither's new house, I took my wheel and sat down to spin, 'Twas there I first began my thrift ; And a' the wooers came, linking in. It was gear he was seeking, but gear he'll na get ; And its never be he that shall gar me complain : For I'll cheer up my heart, and I'll soon get anither ; I'll never lay a' my love upon ane. WANDEK1NG- WILLIE. HEED'S GOUtECTIOX. Heee awa', there awa', wandering Willie, Here awa', there awa', here awa' hame ! Lang have I sought thee, dear have I bought thee, Now I have gotten my Willie again I Through the lang muir I have followed my Willie ; Through the lang muir I have fojlpwed him hame : Whatever betide us, nought. shall divide us; . Love now rewards all my sorrow^ and pain. Here awa', there awa', wandering Willie,. Here awa', there awa', here awa' hanie I Come, love, believe me, nothing can grieve me, Ilka thing pleases while Willie's at hame. JOCKY HE CAME HEEE TO WOO. Herd's CoiiEOnou. Two verses have necessarily been omitted. Jockt he came heTe to woo, On ae feast-day when we were fu' ; And Jenny pat on her best array, When she heard Jocky was come that way. Jenny she gaed up the stair, Sae privily to change her smock ; And ay sae loud as her mother did rair, Hey, Jenny, come down to Jock. Jenny she came down the stair. And she came bobbin and bakin ben; Her stays they, were lac'd, and her waist it was jimp, And a bra' new-made manco gown. Jocky took her by, the hand, Jenny, can ye fancy me ? My father is dead, and he 'as left me some land, And bra' houses twa or three. CHRONOLOGICALLT ARRANGED. 161 And I will gi'e them a' to thee, A haith, quo' "Jenny, I fear you mock I Then foulfa' me gin I scorn thee; If ye'll be my Jenny, I'll be your Joek. Jenny lookit, and syne she leugh, Ye first maun get my mither's consent. A weel, goddwife, and what say ye? Quo' she, Jocky, I'm weel content. Jenny to her mither did Bay, mither fetch us some good! meat, A piece o' the butter was kirn'd the day, That Jocky and I'thegither may eat. Jocky unto Jenny did say, Jenny, my dear, I want nae meat ; It was nae for meat that I came here, But a' for the love of you, Jenny, my dear. Jenny she gaed up the gait Wi' a green gown as syde as her smock, And ay sae loud as"her mither did rair, Vow, sirs, has nae Jenny seen Jock. A CANTY SANG. EBKD r S COIJ1E0HON. Gtn I had a wee house and a cantie wee fire, A bonnie wee wifie to praise and admire, A bonnie wee yardie beside a wee burn, Fareweel to the bodjes .that, yammer and mourn. And bide ye yet,;an*s me for a wife He'll ne'er ha'e occasion to rue- 168 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND I gang aye fu' clean and fa' tosh, As a' the neighbours can tell, Though I've seldom a gown on my back, But sic as I spin mysel' ; And when I'm clad in my curtsey, I think mysel' as braw As Susie, wi' her pearling, That's tane my lad awa'. ■ ' But I wish they were buckl'd thegither, And may they live happy for life ; Though Willie now slights me, an's left me, The chiel he deserves a gude wife. But, ! I am blythe that I miss'd him, As blythe as I weel can be.j For ane that's sae keen o' the siller, Would never agree wi' me.. . But the truth is, I am aye hearty, I hate to be scrimpit or scant ; The wee thing I ha'e I'll mak use o't, And there's nane about me shall want : For I'm a gude guide o' the warld, I ken when to haud and to gi'e ; But whinging and cringing for siller Would never agree wi' me. Contentment is better than riches, And he wha has that has enough ; The master is seldom sae happy As Eobin that drives the plough. But if a young lad wad cast up, To mak' me his partner for life, If the chiel has the sense to be happy, He'll fa' on his feet for a wife. SOUTHLAND JENNY. heed's collection. A Southland Jenntj that was right bonnie,, Had for a suitor a Norland Johnnie ; But he was sicken a bashful wooer, That he could scarcely speak unto her; Till blinks o' her beauty, and hopes o' her siller, Forced him at last to tell his mind till her. My dear, quoth he, we'll nae langer tarry, Gin ye can loo me, let's o'er the muir and marry. chronologically arranged. 169 She Come, come awa' then, my Norland laddie, Though we gang neatly, some are mair gawdy ; And albeit I have neither gowd nor money, Come, and I'll ware my beauty on thee. He Ye lasses o' the south, ye're a' for dressing ; Lasses o' the north mind milking and threshing ; My minnie wad be angry, and sae wad, my daddy, Should I marry ane as dink as a lady ; For I maun ha'e a wife that will rise i' the morning, Crudle a' the milk, and keep the house a' scolding, Toolie wi' her nei'bours, and learn at my minny, A Norland Jocky maun ha'e a Norland Jenny, She My father's only daughter, and twenty thousand pound, Shall never be bestow'd on sic a silly clown : For a' that I said was to try what was in ye ; Ga'e hame, ye Norland Jock, and court your Norland Jenny. HEY, HOW, JOHNNIE LAD. Herd's Collection. We have, however, given the song with a few variations from the first version, by Allan Cunningham, and which are necessary to fit the song for "ears polite." Hey, how, Johnnie lad, Ye're no sae kind's ye sud ha'e been, For gin your voice I had na kent, I'm sure I couldna trust my een ; Sae weel's ye might ha'e courted me, And sweetly pree'd my mou' bedeen : Hey, how, my Johnnie lad, Ye're no sae kind's ye sud ha'e been. My father, he was at the pleugh, My mither, she was at the mill ; My billie, he was at the moss, And no ane near our sport to spile : The feint a body was therein, Ye need na fley'd for being seen : Hey, how, my Johnnie lad, Ye're no sae kind's ye sud ha'e been. But I maun hae anither joe, Whase love gangs never out o' mind, And winna let the moment pass When to a lass he can be kind. 170 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Then ye may woo wi' blinkin' Bess — For you nae mair I'll sigh and green : Hey, how, my Johnnie lad, Ye're no sae kind's ye sud ha'e been. MY WIPE HAD TA'EN THE GEE. heed's collection. A fkiend of mine came here yestreen, And he would ha'e me down To drink a bottle of ale wi' him In the neist burrows town. But, O I indeed it was, Sir, Sae far the waur for me ; For lang or e'er that I came hame My wife had ta'en the gee. We sat sae late, and drank sae stout, The truth I'll tell to you, That ere the middle o' the night, We were a' roaring fou. My wife sits at the fire-side, And the tears blind aye her e'e, The ne'er a bed will she gae to, But sit and tak' the gee. In the morning soon, when I came down, The ne'er a word she spake, But monie a sad and sour look, And aye her head she'd shake. My dear, quoth I, what aileth thee, To look sae sour on me ? I'll never do the like again, If ye'll ne'er tak' the gee. When that she heard, she ran, she flang Her arms about my neck ; And twenty kisses in a crack, And, poor wee thing, she grat. If ye'll ne'er do the like again, But bide at hame wi' me, I'll lay my life I'se be the wife That's never tak' the gee. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 171 IF MY DEAR WIPE. From Maidment's North Country Garland, 1824 ; recovered from oral tradition. If my dear wife should chance to gang, Wi\me, to Edinburgh toun, Into a shop I will her tak', And buy her a new goun. But if my dear wife should hain the charge, As I expect she will, And if she says, The auld will do, By my word she shall ha'e her will. If my dear wife should wish to gang, To see a neebor or friend, A horse or a chair I will provide, And a servant to attend. But if my dear wife shall hain the charge, As I expect she will, And if she sayB, I'll walk on foot, By my word she shall ha'e her will. If my dear wife shall bring me a son, As I expect she will, Cake and wine I will provide. And a nurse to nurse the child. But if my dear wife shall hain the charge, As I expect she will, And if she says, She'll nurs't hersel', By my word she shall ha'e her will. THE SPINNIN' O'T. ALEXANDER BOSS, Atjthob of "Helenore,"or the "Fortunate Shepherdess." He was for upwards of fifty years schoolmaster of Lochlee, in Forfarshire. He died in 1783j at the advanced age of 83. There was an auld wife had a wee pickle tow, - And she wad gae try the spinnin' o't ; She louted her doun, and her rock took a-low, And that was a bad beginnin' o't. She sat and she grat, and she flat and she flang, And she threw and she blew, and she wriggled and wrang, And she chokit and boakit, and cried like to mang, Alas, for the dreary beginnin' o't. I've wanted a sark for these aught years and ten, And this was to be the beginnin' o't ; But I vow I shall want it for as lang again, Or ever I try the spinnin' o't. 172 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND For never since ever they ca'd as they ca' me, Did sic a mishap and mischanter befa' me ; But ye shall hae leave baith to hang and to draw, me, The neist time I try the spinnin' o't. I hae keepit my house now these threesc0re years, And aye I kept frae the spinnin' o't ; But how I was sarkit, foul fa' them that speirs, For it minds me upo' the beginnin' o't. But our women are now^a-days a' grown sae braw, That ilk ane maun hae asark, and some ha'e twa — The warlds were better where ne'er ane ava Had a rag, but ane at the beginnin' o't. In the days they ca' yore, gin auld fouks had but won To a surcoat, hough-syde, for theTwiimin' o't, Of coat-raips weel cut by the cast o' their, bum, They never socht mair o' the spinnin' : o't. A pair o' grey hoggers weel cluikit benew, Of nae ither lit but the hue of the ewe, With a pair o' rough mullions to scuff through the dew, Was the fee they sooht at the beginning o't. But we maun ha'e linen, and that maun ha'e we, And how get we that but by, spinnin' o't? How can we hae face for to seek a great fee, Except we can help at the winnin' o't ? And we maun ha'e pearlins, and mabbies, and cocks, And some other things that the ladies ca' smocks; And how get we that, gin we tak' na our rooks, And pow what we can at the spinnin' o't ? 'Tis needless for us to mak' our remarks, Frae our mither's miscookin' the spinnin' o't. She never kenn'd ocht o' the guid o' the sarks, Frae this aback to the beginnin' o't. Twa-three ell o' plaiden was a' that was socht By our auld-warld bodies, and that bude be bought; For in ilka town siccan things wasna wrocht — Sae little they kenn'd o' the spinnin' o't ! THE BRIDAL., AXEXANDEB BOSS. They say that Jockey'll speed weel, o't, They say that Jockey'll speed weel o't, For he grows brawer ilka day ; I hope we'll ha'e a bridal o't : For yesternight, nae farther gane, The back-house, at the side-wa' o't, He there wi' Meg was mirdin' seen ; I hope we'll ha'e a bridal o't. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 173 An we had but a bridal o't, An we had but a bridal o't, We'd leave the rest unto good luck, Although there might betide ill o't. For bridal days are merry times, And young folk like the coming o't, And scribblers they bang up their rhymes, And pipers play the bumming o't. The lasses like a bridal o't, The lasses like a bridal o't, Their braws maun be in rank and file, Although that they should guide ill o't. The boddom o' the kist is then Turn'd up into the inmost o't ; The end that held the keeks sae clean, Is now become the teemest o't. The bangstei 1 at the threshing o't, The bangster at the threshing o't, Afore it comes is fidgin fain, And ilka day's a clashing o't : He'll sell his jerkin for a groat, His Under for another o't, And ere he want to clear his shot, His sark'll pay the tother o't. The pipers and the fiddlers o't, The pipers and the fiddlers o't, Can smell a bridal unco far, And like to be the middlerB o't : Fan thick and three-fauld they convene Ilka ane envies the tother o't, And wishes nane but him alane May ever see another o't. Fan they ha'e done wi' eating o't, Fan they ha'e done wi' eating o't, For dancing they gae to the green, And aiblins to the beatin o't : He dances best that dances fast, And loups at ilka reesing o't, And claps his hands frae hough, to hough, And furls about the feezings o't. 174 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND ABSENCE. DR. BLAOKLOOK, The author of the celebrated letter to Burns, which overthrew the poet's Jamaica scheme, and turned his steps to Edinburgh. Blacklock was bom at Annan in 1721. He lost his sight when very young, and though he studied for the Church, and was duly licensed, his infirmity prevented him from receiving any appointment. He latterly kept a select boarding- house in Edinburgh, devoting himself, however, principally to literary pursuits. He died in 1791. Ye rivers so limpid and clear, Who reflect, as in cadence you flow, All the beauties that vary the year, All the flow'rs on your margins that grow ! How blest on your banks could I dwell, Were Marg'ret the pleasure to share, And teach your sweet echoes to tell With what fondness I doat on the fair ! Ye harvests, that wave in the breeze As far as the view can extend I Ye mountains, umbrageous with trees, Whose tops so majestic ascend I Your landscape what joy to survey, Were Marg'ret with me to admire ! Then the harvest would glitter, how gay, How majestic the mountains aspire. In pensive regret whilst I rove, The fragrance of flow'rs to inhale ; Or catch as it swells from the grove, The music that floats on the gale : Alas 1 the delusion how vain ! Nor odours nor harmony please A heart agonizing with pain, Which tries ev'ry posture for ease. If anxious to flatter my woes, Or the languor of absence to cheer, Her breath I would catch in the rose, Or her voice in the nightingale hear. To cheat my despair of its prey, What object her charms can assume ! How harsh is the nightingale's lay, How insipid the rose's perfume ! Ye zephyrs that visit my fair, Ye sunbeams around her that play, Does her sympathy dwell on my care ? Does she number the hours of my stay? CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 175 First perish ambition and wealth, First perish all else that is dear, Ere one sigh should escape her by stealth, Ere my absence should cost her one tear. When, when shall her beauties once more This desolate 'bosom surprise ? Ye fates ! the blest moments restore When I bask'd in the beams of her eyes ; When with sweet emulation of heart, Our kindness we struggled to show ; But the more that we strove to impart We felt it more ardently glow. THE BEAES OF BALLENDINE. SB. BLAOKLOOK. Beneath a green shade, a lovely young swain Ae evening reclined to discover his pain ; So sad, yet so sweetly, he warbled his woe, The winds ceased to breathe, and the fountain to flow ; Bude winds wi' compassion could hear him complain, Yet Chloe, less gentle, was deaf to his strain. How happy, he cried, my moments once flew, Ere Chloe's bright charms first flash'd in my view I Those eyes then wi' pleasure the dawn could survey ; Nor smiled the fair morning mair cheerful than they. Now scenes of distress please only my sight ; I'm tortured in pleasure, and languish in light. Through changes in vain relief I pursue, All, all but conspire my griefs to renew ; From sunshine to zephyrs and shades we repair- To sunshine we fly from too piercing an air ; But love's ardent fire burns always the same, No winter can cool it, no summer inflame. But see the pale moon, all clouded, retires ; The breezes grow cool, not Strephon's desires : I fly from the dangers of tempest and wind, Yet nourish the madness that preys on my mind. Ah, wretch! how can life be worthy thy care? To lengthen its moments, but lengthens despair. 176 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND THE WEDDING DAY. DB. ELACKLOCK. One night as young Colin lay musing in bed, With a heart fall of love and a vapourish head; To wing the dull hours, and his sorrows allay, Thus sweetly he saHg of his wedding day : " What would I give for a wedding day ! Who would not wish for a wedding day ! Wealth and ambition, I'd toss ye away, With all ye can boast, for a wedding day. Should heaven bid my wishes with freedom implore One bliss for the anguish I suffered before, , For Jessy, dear Jessy, alone I would pray, And grasp my whole wish on my wedding day ! Blessed be the approach of my wedding day ! Hail, my dear nymph and my wedding day t Earth smile more verdant, and heaven shine more gay I For happiness dawns with my wedding day." But Luna, who equally sovereign presides O'er the hearts of the ladies and flow of the tides, Unhappily changing, soon changed his wife's mind : fate, could a wife prove so constant and kind ! " Why was I born to a wedding day ! Cursed, ever cursed be my wedding day." Colin, poor Colin thus changes his lay, And dates all his plagues from his wedding day. Ye bachelors, warned by the shepherd's distress, Be taught from your freedom to measure your bliss, Nor fall to the witchcraft of beauty a prey, And blast all your'joys on your wedding' day. Horns are the gift of a wedding day ; Want and a scold crown a wedding day ; Happy and gallant, who, wise when he may Prefers a stout rope to a wedding day I ALL LOVELY ON THE SULTRY BEACH. WILLIAM WALLACE, Op Cairnhill, Ayrshire. Born 1712, died 1763. Air— The Gordons ha'e the guiding o't. All lovely, on the sultry beach, Expiring Strephon lay ; No hand the cordial draught to reach, Nor eheer 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. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 177 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. TULLOCHGOKUM. REV. JOHN SKINNER, Was born at Balfour, in the parish of Birse, Aberdeenshire, in 1721. In 1742 he settled at Longside, near Peterhead, as Pastor of the Episcopal Church. He ministered there till his death, which took place in 1807. No one was a greater admirer of Skinner's genius as a song writer than Robert Burns, who styled " ' Tullochgorum ' the best Scotch Song Soot- land ever saw." Come, gi'e'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 Whig-mig-morum ; Let Whig and Tory all agree, To spend the night in mirth and glee, And cheerfu' sing alang wi' me The reel of Tullochgorum. 0, Tullochgorum's my delight, It gars us a' in ane unite, And ony sumph that keeps up spite, In conscience I abhor him. For blythe and cheerie' we's be a', Blythe and cheerie, blythe and cheerie, Blythe and cheerie we's be a', And mak' a happy quorum. For blythe and cheerie we's be a', As lang as we ha'e breath to draw, And dance, till we be like to fa', The reel of Tullochgorum. There needs na' be sae great a phraiso, Wi' dringing dull Italian lays, I wadna gi'e our ain strathspeys, For half a hundred score o' 'em. 178 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND They're douff and dowie at the best, Douff and dowie, douff and dowie, They're douff and dowie at the best, Wi' a' their variorum : They're douff and dowie at the best, Their allegros, and a' the rest, , They canna please a Scottish taste, Compar'd wi' Tullochgorum. Let warldly minds themselves oppress Wi' fears of want, and double cess, And sullen sots themselves distress Wi' keeping up decorum : Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Like auld Philosophorum ? Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit, Nor ever rise to shake a fit To the reel of Tullochgorum ? May choicest blessings still attend Each honest open-hearted friend, And calm and quiet be his end, And a' that's good watch o'er him ! May peace and plenty be his lot, Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, May peace and plenty be his lot, And dainties a great store o' em : May peace and plenty be his lot, Unstain'd by any vicious spot ! And may he never want a groat That's fond of Tullochgorum. But for the dirty, fawning 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, May dool and sorrow be his chance, And nane say, Wae's me for 'im I May dool and sorrow be his chance, Wi' a' the ills that come frae France, Whae'er he be, that winna dance The reel of Tullochgorum 1 CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 179 A SONG- ON THE TIMES. KEY. JOHN BKINNEB. When I began the world first, It was not as 'tis now, For all was plain and simple then, * And friends were kind and true. ! the times, the weary, weary times, The times that I now see, I think the world's all gone wrong, From what it used to be. There were not then high capering heads, Prick'd up from ear to ear, And cloak, and caps were rarities For gentle folks to wear. ! the times, &c- There's not an upstart mushroom now, But what sets up for taste, And not a lass in all the land But must be lady-drest. 1 the times, &c. Our young men married then for love, So did our lasses too, And children loved their parents dear As children ought to do. ! the times, &c. For ! the times are sadly phang'd, A heavy change indeed ! For truth and friendship are no more, And honesty is fled. ! the times, &o. There's nothing now prevails but pride Among both high and low, And strife, and greed, and vanity, Is all that's minded now. 1 the times, &c. When I looked through the world wide, How times and fashions go, It draws the tears from both my eyes, And fills my heart with woe. ! the times, the weary, weary times, The times that I now see, I wish the world were at an end, For it will not mend for me. 180 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND THE EWIE WI' CBOOKIT HOEN. EBV. JOHN SKINNEK. 0, were I able to rehearse, My ewie's praise in proper verse, I'd sound it out as loud and fierce As ever piper's drone could blaw. My ewie wi' the crookit horn ! A' that kenn'd her would ha'e sworn, Sic a ewie ne'er was born, Hereabouts nor far awa'. She neither needed tar nor keel, To mark her upon hip or heel ; Her crookit hornie did as weel To ken her by amang them a'. She never threaten'd scab nor rot, But keepit aye her ain jog-trot ; Baith to the fauld and to the cot, Was never sweir to lead nor ca\ A better nor a thriftier beast, Nae honest man need e'er ha'e wish'd ; For, silly thing, she never miss'd To ha'e ilk year a lamb or twa. The first she had I ga'e to Jock, To be to him a kind o' stock ; And now the laddie has a flock Of mair than thretty head and twa. The neist I ga'e to Jean ; and now The bairn's sae braw, has faulds sae fu', That lads sae thick come her to woo, They're fain to sleep on hay or straw. Cauld nor hunger never dang her, "Wind or rain could never wrang her ; Ance she lay an ouk and langer Forth aneath a wreath o' snaw. When other ewies lap the dyke, And ate the kale for a' the tyke, , My ewie never play'd the like, But teezed about the barn wa'. I lookit aye at even for her, Lest mishanter should come ower her, Or the foumart micht devour her, Gin the beastie baide awa'. Yet, last ouk, for a' my keeping, (Wha can tell o't without greeting ?) A villain cam', when I was sleeping, Staw my ewie, horn and a'. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED . 181 I socht her sair upon the morn, And down aneath a bush o' thorn, There I fand her orookit horn, But my ewie was awa 1 . But gin I had the loon that did it, I ha'e sworn as weel as said it, Although the laird himsell forbid it, I sail gi'e his neck a thraw. I never met wi' sio a turn : At e'en I had baith ewe and horn, Safe steekit up ; but, 'gain the morn, Baith ewe and horn were stown awa'. A' the claes that we ha'e worn, Frae her and hers sae aft was shorn ; The loss o' her we could ha'e borne, Had fair-strae death ta'en her awa'. 0, had she died o' croup or cauld, As ewies die when they grow auld, It hadna been, by mony fauld, Sae sair a heart to ane o' us a'. But thus, puir thing, to lose her life, Beneath a bluidy villain's knife ; In troth, I fear that our gudewife Will never get abune 't ava. 0, all ye bards benorth Kinghorn, Call up your muses, let them mourn Our ewie wi' the crookit horn, Frae us stown, and fell'd and a' I JOHN 0' BADENYON. EEV. JOHN SKINHUB. 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 every where, was like a morn in May. No care I had, no fear of want, but rambled up and down ; And for a beau I might have pass'd in country or in town : I still was pleased where'er I went ; and, when I was alone, I tuned my pipe, and pleased myself wi' John o' Badenyon. Now in the days of youthful prime, a mistress I must find ; For love, they say, gives one an air, and ev'n improves the mind: On Phillis fair, above the rest, kind fortune fix'd mine eyes ; Her piercing beauty struck my heart and she became my choice. 182 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND 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 girl, and tuned my pipe to John o' 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. And now, whatever may betide, a happy man was I, In any strait I knew to whom 1 freely might apply. A strait soon came ; my friend I tried — he laugh'd, and spurn'd my moan ; I hied 'me home, and tuned my pipe to John o' Badenyon. I thought I should be wiser next, and would a patriot turn, Began to doat on Johnie Wilkes, and cry'd up parson Home ; Their noble spirit I admir'd, and praised their noble zeal, Who had, with flaming tongue and pen, maintain'd the public weal. But, e'er 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 these factious knaves insult the very throne ; I cursed them all, and tuned my pipe to John o' Badenyon. What next to do I mused a while, still hoping to succeed ; I pitch'd on books for company, and gravely tried to read : I bought and borrowed 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 to John o' Badenyon. And now, ye youngsters everywhere, who wish to make a show, Take heed in time, nor vainly hope for happiness below ; What you may fancy pleasure here is but an empty name ; And girls, 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 every where ; then do as I have done — E'en tune your pipe, and please yourself with John o' Badenyon. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 183 THE MARQUIS'S EEEL. BEV. JOHN SHJNNEE. Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly, Play the marquis' reel discreetly, Here we are a band completely- Fitted to be jolly. ■ Come, my boys, blythe and gawcie, Every youngster choose his lassie, Dance wi' life and be not saucy, Shy nor melancholy. Comej my boys, &c. Lay aside your sour grimaces, Clouded brows and drumlie faces, Look about and see their Graces, How they smile delighted : Now's the season to be merry, Hang the thoughts of Charon's ferry, * Time enough to come camsterry, When we're auld and doited. Now's the season, &c. Butler, put about the claret, Through us a' divide and share it, Gordon Castle weel can spare it, It has claret plenty : Wine's the true inspiring liquor, Draffy drink may please the vicar, When he grasps the foaming bicker, Vicars are not dainty. Wine's the true inspiring liquor, &c. We'll extol our noble master, Sprung from many a brave ancestor, — Heaven preserve him from disaster, So we pray in duty. Prosper, too, our pretty duchess, Safe from all distressful touches, Keep her out of Pluto's clutches, Long in health and beauty. Prosper, too, our pretty duchess, &o. Angels guard their gallant boy, Make him long his father's joy, Sturdy, like the heir of Troy, Stout and brisk and healthy. Pallas grant him every blessing, Wit and strength, and size increasing, Plutus, what's in thy possessing, Make him rich and wealthy. Pallas grant him every blessing, &c. 184 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Youth, solace him with thy pleasure, In refined and worthy measure : Merit gain him choicest treasure, From the Royal donor : Famous may he be in story, Full of days and full of glory; To the grave, when old and hoary, May he go with honour ! Famous may he he in story, &c. Gordons, join our hearty praises, Honest, though in homely phrases, Love our cheerful spirit raises, Lofty as the lark is : Echo, waft our wishes daily, Through the grove and through the allej Sound o'er every hill and valley, t Blessings on our Marquis. Echo, waft our wishes, &c. OLD AGE. BEV. JOHN BKINNEE. ! why should old age so much wound us, ? There is nothing in't all to confound us, ? . For how happy now am I, With my old wife sitting by, And our bairns and our oyes all around us, 0. "We began in the world wi' naething, 0, And we've jogged on and toiled for the ae thing, ; We made use of what we had, And our thankfu' hearts were glad, When we got the bit meat and the claithing, 0. We have lived all our lifetime contented, 0, Since the day we became first acquainted, j It's true we've been but poor, And we are so to this hour, Yet we never pined nor lamented, 0. We ne'er thought o' schemes to be wealthy, 0, By ways that were cunning or stealthie, ; But we always had the blisB — And what farther could we wiss ? — To be pleased wi' ourselves and be healthy, 0. What though we canna boast of our guineas, 0, We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies, ; And these, I'm certain, are More desirable by far, Than a pock full of poor yellow steenies, 0. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 185 We have seen many a wonder and ferlie, 0, Of changes that almost are yearlie, 0, Among rich folks up and down, Both in country and in town, Who now live but scrimply and barely, 0. Then "why should people brag of prosperity, ? A straitened life, we see, is no rarity, ; Indeed, we've been in want, And our living been but scant, Yet we never were reduced to need charity, 0. In this house we first came together, 0, Where we've long been a father and mother, ; And though not of stone and lime, It will last us a' our time ; And I hope we shall never need anither, 0. And when we leave this poor habitation, 0, We'll depart with a good commendation, ; We'll go hand in hand, I wiss, To a better house than this, To make room for the next generation, 0. Then why should old age so much wound us, ? There is nothing in't all to confound us, ? For how happy now am I, With my auld wife sitting by, And our bairns and our oyes all around us, ! THERE LIVES A LASSIE ON THE BRAE. EEV. JOHN SKINNEB. Anothee version is given in the collected volume of the Author's poems, 1809. There lives a lassie on the brae, 1 but she's a bonnie creature ; They ca' her Lizy Liberty, And monie ane's wooing at her. Wooing at her, fain wad ha'e her, Courting at, but canna get her ; Bonnie Lizy Liberty, There's o'er mony wooing at her. Her mither wears a plettit mutch ; Her father is an honest dyker, An' she hersel's a daintie quean, Ye winna shaw me monie like her, Wooing at her, &c. 186 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND A pleasant lass she's kent to be, Wi' fouth o' sense an' smeddum in her ; There's no a swankie far or near, But tries wi' a' his might to win her. "Wooing at her, &o. But sweet and pleasant as she is, She winna thole the marriage tether, But likes to rove and rant about, Like highland couts amang the heather. Wooing at her, &o. It's seven years and somewhat mair, Sin' Matthew Dutch made courtship till her, A merchant bluff, ayont the burn, "Wi' heaps o' breeks an' bags o' siller. Wooing at her, &c. The next to him was Baltic John, Stept up the brae and keeket at her, Syne turn'd as great a fool's he came, And in a day or twa forgat her. Wooing at her, &c. Now Lawrie French has ta'en the whim, To toss his airs, and frisk about her, And Malcolm Fleming puffs and swears He disna value life without her. Wooing at her, &c. They've casten out wi' a' their kin, Thinking that wad gar them get her ; Yet after a' the fash they've ta'en, They maybe winna be the better. Wooing at her, &c. But Donald Scot's the happy lad, Wha seems to be the coshest wi' her ; He never fails to get a kiss, As aften as he likes to see her. Wooing at her, &c. But Donald, tak' a friend's advice, Although I ken ye fain wad ha'e her; E'en just be doing as ye are, And hand wi' what ye're getting frae her. Wooing at her, &c. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 187 Ye're weel, and wats nae, as we say, In getting leave to dwell beside her ; And gin ye had her mair your ain, Ye'd maybe find it waur to guide her. Wooing at her, &c. Ah ! Lawrie, ye've debaueh'd the lass, Wi' vile new-fangled tricks ye've play'd her ; Depraved her morals ; — like an ass, YeVe courted her, and syne betray'd her. Wi' hanging of her, burning of her, Cutting, hacking, slashing at her ; Bonnie Lizy Liberty, May ban the day ye ettled at her. WHEN I UPON THY BOSOM LEAN. JOHN LAPEATK, A pmat.t. Ayrshire Laird, who was rained by the bursting of " that villan- ous bubble, the Ayr Bank." He was born at Dalfrain, near Muirkirk, in 1727, and died at Muirkirk, where he kept the Post-office, in 1807. He was intimately acquainted with Burns, who describes him as " a very worthy facetious old fellow." The song here given, addressed to his wife, is said to have been written when he was a prisoner for debt in Ayr gaol. When I upon thy bosom lean, Enraptured do I call thee mine, I glory in the sacred ties That made us ane, wha ance were twain. A mutual flame inspires us baith, The tender look, the meltin' kiss : Even years shall ne'er destroy our love, But only gi'e us change o' bliss. Ha'e I a wish ? it's a' for thee ! I ken thy, wish is me to please. Our moments pass sae smooth away, That numbers on us look and gaze ; Weel pleased they see our happy days, Nor envy's sel' finds aught to blame ; And aye, when weary cares arise, Thy bosom still shall he my hame. I'll lay me there and tak' my rest : And, if that aught disturb my dear, I'll bid her laugh her cares away, And beg her not to drop a tear. Ha'e I a joy ? it's a' her ain ! United still her heart and mine ; They're like the woodbine round the tree, That's twined till death shall them disjoin. 188 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND MY AULD MAN. Eitson'b Scottish Songs, 1794. lN>the land of Fife there lived a wicked wife, And in the town of Cupar then, Who sorely did lament, and made her complaint, Oh when will ye die, my auld man ? In cam her cousin Kate, when it was growing late, She said, What's guid for an auld man ? wheit-breid and wine, and a kinnen new slain ; That's guid for an auld man. Cam ye in to jeer, or cam ye in to scorn, And what for cam ye in ? For bear-bread and water, I'm sure, is much better — It's ower guid for an auld man. Now the auld man's deid, and, without remeid, Into his cauld grave he's gane : Lie still wi' my blessing ! of thee I hae nae missing ; I'll ne'er mourn for an auld man. Within a little mair than three-quarters of a year, She was married to a young man then, Who drank at the wine, and tippled at the beer, And spent mair gear than he wan. black grew her brows, and howe grew her een, And cauld grew her pat and her pan : And now she sighs, and aye she says, I wish I had my silly auld man ! THE SCOTTISH KAIL BEOSE. Ascribed, says Mr. Bobert Chambers, to " Sheriff, an Aberdeen- shire poet," a contemporary of Burns. Mr. Peter Buchau ascribes a somewhat similar song to Alex. Watson, at one time tailor in Aberdeen, and states that it was composed during the American War of Independence. When our ancient forefathers agreed wi' the laird, For a wee piece grund to be a kail-yard, It was to the brose that they paid their regard ; 1 the kail brose of auld Scotland; And 1 for the Scottish kail brose. When Fergus, the first of our kings I suppose, At the head of his nobles had vanquish'd our foes, Just before they began they 'd been feastin' on brose. 1 the kail brose, &c. Our sodgers were drest in their kilts and short hose, With bonnet and belt which their dress did compose, With a bag of oatmeal on their back to be brose. ! the kail brose, &c. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 189 At our annual election of bailies or mayor, Nae kickshaws or puddings or tarts were seen there, But a cog o' guid brose was the favourite fare. ! the kail brose, &c. But when we remember the English, our foes, Our ancestors beat them wi' very few blows ; John Bull oft cried, 1 let us rin — they've got brose ; ! the kail brose, &c. But, now that the thistle is joined to the rose, And the English nae langer are counted our foes, We've lost a good deal of our relish for brose ; ! the kail brose, &c. Yet each true-hearted Scotchman by nature jocose, Likes always to feast on a cog o' guid brose, And thanks be to Heaven we've plenty of those. ! the kail brose, &c. CA' THE YOWES. ATTRIBUTED TO ISABELLA PAGAN, A contemporary of Burns. A strange compound of woman and devil. She lived at Muirkirk, Ayrshire, where she subsisted partly by charity, but principally by selling whisky (without a licence) to drouthy neigh- bours and visitors. She sang well, had great and ready wit, and could be sociable when she pleased, but generally her temper was furious, her manner cruel, her habits dissolute, and her wit biting and sarcastic. She died in 1821, in her eightieth year. A curious account of her is given in Mr. Paterson's contemporaries of Burns. Ca' the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them whare the heather grows, • Ca' them whare the burnie rows, My bonnie dearie. As I gaed down the water side, There I met my shepherd lad, He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, And ca'd me his dearie. Ca' the ewes, &c. 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. Ca' the yowes, &c. I was bred up at nae sic school, My shepherd lad, to play the fool ; And a' the day to sit in dool, And nae body to see me. Ca' the yowes, &c. 190 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet, Cauf leather shoon upon your feet, And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep, And ye shall be my dearie. Ca' the yowes, &e. If ye'U but stand to what ye've said, I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad ; And ye may row me in your plaid, And I shall be your dearie. Ca' the yowes, &o. While waters wimple to the sea, While day blinks in the lift sae hie, Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e, Ye aye shall be my dearie. Ca' the yowes, &c. IF DOUGHTY DEEDS MY LADY PLEASE. KOEEKT QKAHAM OF GAETMOKE, Bonn 1750, died 1797. 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. Then tell me how to woo thee, love, tell me how to woo thee 1 For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, Though ne'er another trow me. If gay attire delight thine eye, I'll dight me in array ; I'll tend thy chamber door all night, And squire thee all the day. If sweetest sounds can win thine ear, These sounds I'll strive to catch ; Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell, That voice that nane can match. But if fond love thy heart can gain, I never broke a vow ; Nae maiden lays her skaith to me ; I never loved but you. For you alone I ride the ring, For you I wear the blue ; For you alone I strive to sing — tell me how to woo I CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 191 O'ER THE MUIE. JEAN GLOVER, A Stbolung Player. She was born at Kilmarnock in the year 1758, and at a comparatively early age eloped with an actor, and in her future life had a full share of the usual lot of strollers — almost constant poverty, vice, and riot. Burns, to whom we are indebted for the preservation of this song, took it down from her singing. She died suddenly at Lettcr- kenny in Ireland, in 1801. Comin' through the craigs o' Kyle, Amang the bonnie bloomin' heather, There I met a bonnie lassie, Keepin' a' her flocks thegither. Ower the muir amang the heather, Ower the muir amang the heather, There I met a bonnie lassie, Keepin' a' her flocks thegither. Says I, My dear, where is thy hame ? In muir or dale, pray tell me whether ? Says she, I tent the fleecy flocks That feed amang the bloomin' heather. We laid us down upon a bank, Sae warm and sunnie was the weather ; She left her flocks at large to rove Amang the bonnie bloomin' heather. She oharm'd my heart, and aye sinsyne I could nae think on ony ither : By sea and sky ! she shall be mine, The bonnie lass amang the heather. 1 92 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND PART HI. From Buens to Motherwell. THERE WAS A LAD. ROBERT BURNS, Was born on the 25th January, 1759, in a small roadside cottage about two miles southward from Ayr, and in the immediate vicinity of " AHo- way's Auld Haunted Kirk, " &c. His father at the time was acting as overseer to Mr. Fergusson of Doonholm, from whom he leased a few acres of ground, whereby he added to his income by acting as Nurseryman and Market Gardener. In 1776 he entered upon a lease of the farm of Mount Oliphant, with a view of bettering his position, and above all a wish of personally superintending the education and employment of his children. Prom that moment began the hard grim battle which William Bumess fought with fortune, and from which he only retired when despair and poverty fairly mastered him. He died of consumption in 1784. In his sixth year Eobert was sent to a small village school ; afterwards his education was completed by William Murdoch, a young man engaged by William Bumess .and several of his neighbours to act as teacher, at a small salary, he lodging and boarding in their houses by turns. So far as the rndiments of learning were concerned Robert received a larger share than generally fell to the lot of children of his class. While pursuing his edu- cation, however, his help had to be given to the working of the farm. His brother Gilbert has recorded: "To the buffetings of fortune, we could only oppose hard labour and the most rigid economy. We lived very sparing. For several years butchers' meat was a stranger in the house, while all the members of the family exerted themselves to the utmost of their strength, and rather beyond it in the labours of the farm. My brother at the age of thirteen assisted in threshing the crop of corn, and at fifteen was the prin- cipal labourer on the farm, for we had no hired servant, male or female." Some short while before the death of their father, observing that affairs were drawing to a crisis, Robert and Gilbert had taken a lease of another farm, and stocked it as well as their means would allow, so as to form a shelter for the family, when the crash came. MossgieL as the farm was called, did not however, prove a profitable speculation : the soil was poor and damp, and the crops were constantly turning out failures. Other and foreign troubles now came upon him. He entered with avidity into the miserable theological disputes which then agitated Ayrshire. Auld Light and New Light was the cry of the disputants, and Burns having thrown himself with all his power on the side of the New Lights, succeeded in bringing upon himself all the wrath and bitterness of religious ani- mosity. He struck out vigorously, however, and the Twa Herds, Holy Fair, and above all Holy Willie's prayer, fell with terrific power into the midst of the Auld Lights, accompanied by the laughter and derision of the New. Burns' best friends advised him against continuing the warfare but his blood was up and he continued the assault, leaving himself as a mark for all the bigots of the country. No fault, however trifling, could CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 193 be committed by bim without being loudly proclaimed from the housetops. Every form of meanness was resorted to, to punish the satirist, and this retaliation pursued him to the grave, and, it is with shame we record it, his memory even to our own time. Another trouble. He had met with Jean Armour at a penny wedding in Hauchline, and a mutual passion seems to have sprung up between the two. Promise of marriage doubtless followed, but its consummation was prevented by the failure of his farming speculations. In 1786 he learned that Jean was about to become a mother, and that, irritated at his daughter's treatment, her father had debarred any further correspon- dence between them. A letter was immediately sent by the poet to Jean acknowledging her as his wife, (constituting a legal marriage under the Scotch Law.) This letter was destroyed by Mr. Armour. "Burns's feelings at this crisis," says Mr. Alexander Smith, "may be imagined. Pride, love, anger, despair, strove for mastery in his heart. Weary of his existence, and seeing ruin staring him in the face at Mossgiel, he resolved to seek better fortune and solace for a lacerated heart in exile." An en- gagement was secured by him to go to Jamaica and act as book-keeper on an estate there. In order to raise sufficient funds to defray his passage, he was advised to print a volume of his poems by subscription. The idea, once started, was soon worked out, and Johnny Wilson of Kilmarnock commenced printing. About this time occurs the celebrated episode of Highland Mary, a love passage involved in considerable mystery. The general opinion now is, that, disgusted with the Armours, and bitter at Jean for giving way to her father, he met with Mary Campbell, a servant girl, and fell in love with her with all the ardour and force of his nature. Their marriage was arranged, and Mary gave up her situation, and proceeded to visit her friends in the West Highlands. She died suddenly in Greenock and was buried there. Word was brought to Burns, and its reception was perhaps the deepest grief he ever bore. How he loved her his own words tell, and how he still mourned for her when many years had passed, and other ties had woven round his heart, his beautiful and impassioned lines sufficiently testify. "To Mary in Heaven" is one of the finest laments in the whole realm of poetry. Jean had become the mother of twins, and her father proceeded to put in execution his right to prosecute Burns for their support, and threatened him with jail till he could find suitable security for the same. Burns was unable to pay, and a jail would only finally ruin him. He therefore skulked about, stealing into Kilmarnock at times to correct his proofs. The volume appeared in July, 1786, and his prospects immediately bright- ened. "I threw off six hundred copies," he tells, "for which I got subscriptions for three hundred and fifty. My vanity was gratified by the reception I got from the public, and besides I pocketed, all expenses de- ducted, nearly twenty pounds. * * * As soon as I was master of nine guineas the price of wafting me to the torrid zone, I took a steer- age passage in the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde. * » » I had taken the last farewell of my few friends. My chest was on the way to Greenock. I had composed the last 6one I should ever measure in Caledonia— "The gloomy night is gathering fast," when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes by opening new prospects to my poetic ambition." 194 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND This letter which exercised so powerful an influence on his career was expressive of the writer's deepest admiration, and counselling a visit to Edinburgh, with the view of producing a second and larger edition. Golden words too poured in from all quarters. Professor Dugald Stewart, Dr. Blair, and others, expressed the wannest approbation of the poems, and instead of sailing down the Clyde a desolate and ruined man, he turned to Edinburgh to become the gaze and glory of a fashionable season. The visit to Edinburgh is the greatest episode in his career : courted, petted, and caressed for a while, the public soon tired of its darling and sought for newer attractions. He did not leave the town, however, with- out a good slice of the solid pudding which was so necessary to him. The second edition of his poems appeared in 1787, under the auspices of the Caledonian Hunt, and his profits amounted to upwards of .£400. Prom this sum he advanced ,£200 to his brother Gilbert, who still struggled at Mossgiel. This fact is not very prominently remembered by the ma- ligners of his character, but we cannot help thinking that, even in a Christian land, one man, as soon as he has earned a few hundred pounds, giving one half of it to assist a struggling brother is an action seldom heard of. With the rest of the money he leased and stocked the farm of Ellisland, in Dumfriesshire ; and having, on the 24th March, 1788, atoned to Jean Armour by making her his wif e,he settled down industriously as af armer. For a few months all went well. The farm worked pretty fairly, and between his duties in connection with it during the day, and his reading and composing atnight, the time passed on,, probably the happiest in his life. Johnson's Museum was in course of publication, and for it, as all the world knows, he worked heartily and well. Songs, snatches, and hints were duly posted to Johnson in Edinburgh, and but for his aid that glorious work would have died an untimely death with the first volume. His family now began to increase, and he found that the farm did not pay extra well He obtained an appointment in the Excise at a salary of fifty pounds per annum, and as lis duties in connection with this office were great, the farm was not properly attended to. Troubles again thickened around him, and disease too, began to add its terrors. After a short struggle he sold his farming stock, and receiving an appointment in the Dumfries division of Excise, at a salary of seventy pounds per annum, he removed to that town in November. And now begins the most melancholy part of his career. He could not hide from himself that his worldly prospects were dimmed, and his pride waxed stronger. He raved about independence, hurrahed the French ^Revolutionists, sent them presents of guns, &c, and, above all, entered deeply into the convivial pleasures of which the little country town was full. His duties were regularly performed, but the open garment of republicanism he wore, brought down upon him the resentment of his superiors. He was severely reprimanded for his rashness, but the repri- mand only served to make him fairly lose heart, and to hurl him deeper into the mire of dissipation, to hide if possible his position from himself. His literary work in Dumfries consisted of Ms contributions to Thom- son's Melodies, a sort of Drawing-room Edition of the Songs of Scotland. He had joined the Dumfries Volunteers, and " Does Haughty Gaul invasion threat" inspired his comrades with additional valour and determination to defend their country. The end, however, was fast approaching. In January, 1796, he was seized with a rheumatic fever, and when almost recovered, his own imprudence brought on a relapse. His frame fairly CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 195 broke down. Sea-bathing was tried without success, and the hand of death pressed heavily upon him,: remorse, grief, and debt added their terrors, till on the 21st July, 1796, he passed beyond their pale. There was a lad was born in Kyle,' But whatna day o' whatna style, I doubt it's hardly worth the while To be sae nice wi' Bobin. Eobin was a rovin' boy, Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin ; Eobin was a rovin" boy, Rantin' rovin' Robin. Our monarch's hindmost year but ane Was five-and-twenty days begun, 'Twas then a blast o' Janwar' win' Blew hansel in on Robin. The gossip keekit in his loof, Quo' she, Wha lives will see the proof, This waly boy will be na coof ; I think we'll ca' him Robin. He'll ha'e misfortunes great and sma', But aye a heart aboon them a' ; He'll be a credit to us a' — We'll a' be proud o' Robin. But sure as three times three mak' nine, I see by ilka score and line, This chap will dearly like our kin', So leeze me on thee, Robin. ONCE I LOVED A BONNIE LASS. EOBBET BDBNS. Oh once I lov'd a bonnie lass, Ay, and I love her still ; An' whilst that honour warms my breast I'll love my handsome Nell. As bonnie lasses I ha'e seen, An mony full as braw ; But for a modest, gracefu' mien, The like I never saw. A bonnie lass I will confess, Is pleasant to the ee, But without some better qualities, She's no the lass for me. But Nelly's looks are blythe and sweet, • An', what is best of a', Her reputation is complete, An' fair without a flaw. 196 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND She dresses aye sae clean and neat, Both decent and genteel : An' then there's something in her gait Gars onie dress look weel. A gaudy dress and gentle air May slightly touch the heart ; But it's innocence and modesty That polishes the dart. 'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 'Tis this enchants my soul ; For absolutely in my breast She reigns without control. I DBEAMED I LAY. HOBEKT BURNS. I dream'jd I lay where flowers were springing Gaily in the sunny beam, List'ning to the wild birds singing, By a falling, crystal stream : Straight the sky grew black and daring ; Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave ; Trees with aged arms were warring, O'er the swelling drumlie wave. Such was my life's deceitful morning, Such the pleasure I enjoyed ; But lang or noon, loud tempests storming, A' my flowery bliss destroy'd. Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me, She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill ; Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, I bear a heart shall support me still. ON CESSNOCK BANKS. ROBERT BUKNS. On Cessnock banks there lives a lass, Could I describe her shape an' mien ; The graces of her weel-faur'd face, An' the glancin' of her sparklin' een ! She's fresher than the morning dawn When rising Phoebus first is seen, When dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. She's stately like yon youthful ash, That grows the cowslip braes between, An' shoots its head above each bush; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' eeD. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 197 She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn, With flowers so white an' leaves so green, "When purest in the dewy morn ; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin een. Her looks are like the sportive lamb, When flow'ry May adorns the scene, That wantons round its bleating dam ; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. Her hair is like the curling mist That shades the mountain-side at e'en, When flow'r reviving rains are past ; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. Her forehead's like the Bhow'ry bow, When shining sunbeams intervene, An' gild the distant mountain's brow : An' she's twa glancin' sparklin, een. Her voice is like the evening thrush That sings in Cessnock banks unseen, While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. Her lips are like the cherrie ripe That sunny walls from Boreas screen — They tempt the taste an' charm the sight ; An she's twa glancin' sparklin een. Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, With fleeces newly washen clean, That slowly mount the rising steep ; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. Her breath is like the fragrant breeze That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, When Phoebus sinks beneath the seas ; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. But it's not her air, her form, her face, Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace, An' chiefly in her sparklin' een. MART MORISON. BOBEBT BUBNS. Oh Mary, at thy window be, It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! Those smiles an' glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor ; How blythely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison. 198 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAOT) Yestreen when to the trembling string, The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing; I sat, but neither heard nor saw. Tho' this was fair, an' that was braw, An' yon the toast of a' the town, I sigh'd, an' said amang them a', " Ye are na Mary Morison." Oh Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, "Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase Only faut is loving thee ? If love for love thou wilt nae gie, At least be pity on me shown' ; A thought ungentle canna be The thqught o' Mary Morison. MY FATHER WAS A PARMER. KOBEBT BURNS. My father was a farmer upon, the Oarrick border, 0, And carefully he bred me in decency and order, ; He bade me act a manly par,tj, though I had ne'er a farthing, 0; For without anhonest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, 0. Then out into the world my course I did determine, ; Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, ; My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, ; Resolv'd was I at least to try to mend my situation, 0. In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's favour, ; Some cause unseen still stept between to frustrate each endeavour, 0. Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd; sometimes by friends forsaken, 0: And when my hope was at the top I still was worst mistaken, 0. Then sore harass'dj arid tir'd at last with fortune's vain delusion, 0, I dropt my schemes like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, 0, The past was bad, and the future hid ; its good or ill untried, ; But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would enjoy it, 0. No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, ; So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sustain me, ; To plough and sow, to reap andmow, my father bred me early, ; For one, he said, to labour bred,, was a match for fortune fairly, 0. Thus all obscure^ unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, 0, Till down my weary bones Hay in everlasting slumber, 0. No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow, ! I live to-day, as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow, 0. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 199 But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in a palace, 0, Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, ; I make indeed my. daily breadj but ne'er can make it farther, 0; But, as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, 0. When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money, 0,' Some unforeseen misfortune comes gen'rally upon me, : Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur'd folly, 0; But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy, 0. All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardour, 0, The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther, : Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, 0, A cheerful, honest-hearted clown I. will prefer before you, 0. NANNIE 0. ROBERT BURNS. Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 'Mang moors an' mosses many, 0, The wintry sun the day has clds'd, An' I'll awa' to Nannie, 0. The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill ; The night's baith mirk an' rainy, ; But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal, , An' owre the hills to Nannie, 0. My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young ; Nae artfu' wiles to win Thou shalt mix in ilka throe ; Turn again, thou lovely maiden, Ae sweet, smile on me bestow. Not the bee upon the blossom, In the pride o' sunny noon ; Not the little sporting fairy, All beneath the simmer moon; Not the poet in the moment Fancy lightens on his e'e, Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture That thy presence gi'es to me. FEOM THEE ELIZA. EOBEET BURNS. From thee, Eliza, I must go, And from my native shore, The cruel Fates between us throw A boundless ocean's roar : But boundless oceans, roaring wide, Between my love and me, They never, never can divide My heart and soul from thee ! Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, The maid that I adore ! A boding voice is in mine ear, We part to meet no more ! The latest throb that leaves my heart, While death stands victor by, That throb, Eliza, is thy part, And thine that latest sigh 1 THE BRAES 0' BALLOCHMYLE. KOBEET BUENS, The Catrine woods were yellow seen, The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea, Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, But nature sicken'd on the e'e. Thro' faded groves Maria sang, Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle I CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 207 Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers, Again ye'll charm the vocal air. But here, alas ! for me nae mair Shall birdie oharm, or flow'ret smile ; Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, Fareweel, fareweel I sweet Ballochmyle. THE LASS 0' BALLOCHMYLE. EOBBKT BUKNS. 'Twas even— the dewy fields were green, On every blade the pearls hang, The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, An' bore its fragrant sweets alang : In ev'ry glen the mavis sang, All nature list'ning seem'd the while, Except where greenwood echoes rang, Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. With careless step I onward stray'd, My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy, When, musing in a lonely glade, A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy ; Her look was like the morning's eye, Her air like nature's vernal smile, Perfection whisper' d, passing by, Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! Fair is the morn in flow'ry May, And sweet is night in autumn mild ; When roving thro' the garden gay, Or wand'ring in the lonely wild : But woman, nature's darling child ! There all her charms she does compile ; Ev'n there her other works are foil'd By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. Oh, had she been a country maid, And I the happy country swain, Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed That ever rose on Scotland's plain, Thro 1 weary winter's wind and rain, With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; And nightly to my bosom strain The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle 1 208 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND 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 bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. YE BANKS AN' BEAES. EOBEBT BDBNB. Ye banks an' braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh an' fair ; How can ye chant, ye little birds, An' I sae weary fu' o' care ! Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed — never to return ! Aft ha'e I roved by bonnie Doon, To see the rose an' woodbine twine ; An' ilka bird sang o' its luve, An' fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; An' my fause luver stole my rose, But, ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. FAREWELL. EOBEBT BUBNS. The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, Loud roars the wild inconstant blast ; Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o'er the plain ; The hunter now has left the moor, The scatter'd coveys meet secure ; While here I wander prest with care, Along the lonely banks of Ayr. The autumn mourns her rip'ning corn, By early winter's ravage torn ; Across her placid, azure sky, She sees the scowling tempest fly : Chill runs my blood to hear it rave — I think upon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 209 "Tis not the surging billows roar, 'Tis not that fatal deadly shore : Tho' death in every shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear ! But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpiere'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 I Farewell, my friends 1 farewell, my foes ! My peace with these, my love with those— The bursting tears my heart declare ; Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr ! OF A' THE AIRTS. ROBERT BURNS. Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best : There wild woods grow, an' rivers row, An' mony a hill between ; But day an' night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flow'rs, I see her sweet an' fair : I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air : There's not a bonnie flow'r that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean. THE WEAVER. ROBERT BURNS. "Where Cart rins rowin' to the sea, By mony a flow'r and spreading tree, There lives a lad, the lad for me, He is a gallant weaver. Oh, I had wooers aucht or nine, They gi'ed me rings and ribbons fine, An' I was fear'd'my heart would tine, An' I gi'ed it to the weaver. 210 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND My daddie sign'd my tocher-band, To gi'e the lad that has the land ; But to my heart I'll add my hand, An' gi'e it to the weaver. While birds rejoice in leafy bowers? While bees delight in op'ning flowers; While corn grows green in simmer showers, I'll love my gallant weaver. THEIR GEOVES OP SWEET MYRTLE. ROBERT BUSKS. Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume ; Par dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. Par dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell an' go wan lurk lowly unseen; For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, An' 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 ! I'LL AYE CA' IN BY YON TOWN. EOBEKI BUKNS. I'LL aye ca' in by yon town, And by yon garden green, again ; I'll aye ca' in by yon town, And see my bonnie Jean, again. There's nane Sail ken, there's nane sail guess, What brings me back the gate again, But she, my fairest, faithfu' lass, And stowlins we sail meet, again. She'll wander by the aiken tree, When trystin-time draws near.again ; And when her lovelyform I see, Oh, haith, she's doubly dear again ! Ill aye ca' in by yon town, And by yon. garden green again ; I'll aye ca' in by yon town, And see my bonnie Jean again. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 211 I HA'E "A WIFE 0' MY AIN. BOBEBT BURNS. I ha'e a wife o' my ain — I'll partake wi' naebody ; I'll tak' cuckold frae nane, I'll gi'e cuckold to naebody. I ha'e a penny to spend, There — thanks to naebody ; I ha'e naething to lend, I'll borrow frae naebody. ' I am naebody's lord — I'll be slave to naebody ; I ha'e a gude braid sword, I'll tak' dunts frae naebody. I'll be merry an' free, I'll be sad for naebody ; If naebody care for me, I'll care for naebody. THE "WINSOME WEE THING. BOBEBT BURNS. She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine. I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer ; And neist my heart I'll wear her, For fear my jewel tine. Oh leeze me on my wee thing, My bonnie, blythesome wee thing ; Sae lang's I ha'e my wee thing, I'll think my lot divine. Tho' warld's care we share o't, And may see meikle mair o't ; Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, And ne'er a word repine. AE FOND KISS. BOBEBT BURNS. Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel,alas 1 for ever ! Deep in heart- wrung tears I'll pledge .thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 212 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Who shall say that fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him ? Me, nae' cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naetbjng 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 met — or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hear-ted. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ; Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; Ae fareweel, alas ! for ever I Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. ROBERT BURNS. A hose-bud by my early walk, Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, All on a dewy morning. Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled. In a' its crimson glory spread, An' drooping rich the dewy head, It scents the early morning. Within the bush, her covert nest, A little linnet fondly prest, The dew sat chilly on her breast Sae early in the morning. She soon shall see her tender brood, The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd, Awake the early morning. So thou, dear bird, young Jeanie fair ! On trembling string or vocal air, Shall sweetly pay the tender care That tends thy early morning. So thou, Bweet rose-bud, young an' gay, Shall beauteous blaze upon the day, An' bless the parent's evening ray That watch'd thy early morning. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 213 GO FETCH TO ME A PINT 0' WINE. ROBERT BURNS. Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, And fill it in a silver tassie ; That I may drink before I go, A service to my bonnie lassie : The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, Fu' loud the wind Haws frae the ferry ; The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready ; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody ; But it's not the roar o' sea or shore Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. LOGAN'S BRAES. ROBERT BURNS. Oh Logan, sweetly didst thou glide That day I was my Willie's bride ; An' years sinsyne ha'e o'er us run, Like Logan to the simmer sun. But now thy flow'ry banks appear Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me an' Logan braes. Again the merry month o' May Has made our hills an' valleys gay ; The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, The bees hum round the breathing flowers; Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye ; An' evening's tears are tears of joy : My soul, delightless, a' surveys, While Willie's far frae Logan braes. Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, Or wi' his songs her cares beguile; But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, Pass widow'd nights an' joyless days, While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 214 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Oh, wae upon yon, men o 1 state, That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! As ye make many a fond heart mourn, Sae may it on your heads return ! How can your flinty hearts enjoy The widow's tear, the orphan's cry? But soon may peace bring happy days, An' Willie hame to Logan braes ! YOUNG PEGGIE. EOBEKT BUKNS. Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, Her blush: is like the morning, The rosy dawn the springing grass, With early gems adorning : Her eyes outshine the radiant beams That gild the passing shower, And glitter o'er the crystal streams, And cheer each fresh'ning flower. Her lips, more than the cherries bright, A richer dye has graced them; They charm th' admiring gazer's sight, And sweetly tempt to taste them : Her smile is, as the evening, mild, When feather'd tribes are courting, And little lambkins wanton wild, In playful bands disporting. Were fortune lovely Peggy's foe, Such sweetness would relent her, As blooming spring unbends the brow Of surly, savage winter. Detraction's eye no aim can gain, Her winning powers to lessen ; And fretful envy grins in vain The poison'd tooth to fasten. Ye powers of honour, love, and truth, Prom every ill defend/her ; Inspire the highlyrfavour'd youth, The destinies intend her : Still fan the sweet connubial flame Besponsive in each bosom, And bless the dear parental name With many a filial blossom. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 215 SAE FLAXEN WEEE HER RINGLETS. ROBERT BURNS. Sae flaxen were her ringlets, Her eyebrows of a darker hue, Bewitchihgly, o'er-archihg Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue, Her smiling, sae wiling, Wad make a wretch Forget his woe ; What pleasure, what treasure, Unto those rosy lips to grow; Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, When first her bonnie face I saw, An' aye my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'. Like harmony her motion ; Her pretty ankle is a spy Betraying fair proportion, Wad make a saint forget the sky. Sae warming, sae charming, Her faultless form and graceful air ; Ilk feature— auld nature Declared that she could do nae mair. Hers are the willing chains o' love, By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; An' aye my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'. Let others love the city, And gaudy show at sunny noon; Gi'e me the lonely valley, The dewy eve, and rising moon < Fair beaming, and streaming, Her silver light the boughs amang ; While falling, recalling, The amorous thrush concludes his sang: There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove By wimpling burn and leafy shaw,. An' hear my vows o' truth and love, . An' say thou lo'es me best of a'. THERE WAS A LASS. : ROBERT BTJBNS. There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, An' she held owre the moors to spin; There was a lad that folldw'dher, They ca'd him Duncan Davison. 216 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND The moor was driegh, an' Meg was skiegh, Her favour Duncan could na win ; For wi' the rock she wad him knock, An' aye she shook the temper-pin. As o'er the moor they lightly foor, A burn was clear, a glen was green, Upon the banks they eas'd their shanks, An' aye she set the wheel between : But Duncan swore a haly aith That Meg should be a bride the morn, Then Meg took up her spinnin' graith, An' flang them a' out owre the burn. We'll big a house — a wee, wee house, An' we will live like king an' queen, Sae blythe an' merry we will be When ye sit by the wheel at e'en. A man may drink an' no be drunk ; A man may fight an' no be slain ; A man may kiss a bonnie lass, An' aye be welcome back again. GUDEWIFE COUNT THE LAWIN. ROEEET ETJEN8. Gane is the day, an' mirk's the night, But we'll ne'er stray for fau't o' light, For ale an' brandy's stars an' moon, An' bluid-red wine's the rising sun. Then gudewife, count the lawin, The lawin, the lawin ; Then gudewife, count the lawin, An' bring a coggie mair. There's wealth an' ease for gentlemen, An' semple folk maun fecht an' fen ; But here we're a' in ae accord, For ilka man that's drunk 's a lord. My coggie is a haly pool, That heals the wounds o' care an' dool ; An' pleasure is a wanton trout, An ye drink but deep ye'll find him out. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 217 A BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE. ROBERT BURNS. No churchman am I for to rail and to write, No statesman or soldier to plot or to fight, No sly man of business contriving a snare — For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care. The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low : But a club of good fellows, like those that are here, And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. Here passes the squire on his brother — his horse : There centum per centum, the cit with his purse ; But see you the Crown, how it waves in the air I There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care, The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; I found that old Solomon proved it fair, That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care. I once was persuaded a venture to make ; , A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; — But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. "Life's cares they are comforts"-*— a maxim laid down By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown ; An' faith, I agree with th' old prig to a hair ; For a big-bellied bottle's a heav'n of care. STANZA ADDED IN A MASON'S LODGE. Then fill up a bumper an' make it o'erflow, An' honours masonic prepare for to throw ; May every true brother of the compass an' square, Have a big-bellied bottle when harass'd with care ! OH ! TIBBIE, I HA'E SEEN THE DAY. ROBERT BURNS. Oh Tibbie, I ha'e seen the day Te wad na been sae shy ; For lack o' gear ye lightly me, But, trowth, I care na by. Yestreen I met you on the moor, Ye spak na but gaed bye like stoure ; Ye geek at me because I'm poor, But Sent a hair care I. 218 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, Because ye ha'e the name o' clink, That ye can please me at a wink, Whene'er ye like to try. But Borrow tak' him that's sae mean, Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, Wha follows ony saucy quean, That looks sae proud and high. Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, ' If that he want the yellow dirt, Ye'll cast your head anither airt, An' answer him fa' dry. But if he ha'e the name o' gear, Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear, Be better than the kye. But, Tibbie, lass, tak' my advice, , Your daddie's gear mak's you sae nice ; The de'il a ane wad spier your price, Were ye as poor as I. There lives a lass in yonder park, I wad na gi'e her in her sark, For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark ; Ye need na look sae high. > MY LUVB IS LIKE A BED, BED EOSE. EOBHET BUBXS. Oh, my luwe's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June : Oh, my hive's like the melodie, That's sweetly played in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I ; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry. Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare: thee weel, my only luve!. And fare thee weel a while ! And I will come again, my luve; > Tho' it were tenthousand mile. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 219 SOMEBODY. ROBERT BURNS. My heart is sair — I dare na tell — My heart is sair for somebody ; I could wake a winter night For the Bake of somebody. Oh-hon, for somebody I Oh-hey, for somebody ! I could range the world around, For the sake o' somebodytl Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, Oh, sweetly smile on somebody! Frae ilka danger keep him free, And send me safe my somebody. Oh-hon, for somebody I ■ Oh-hey, for somebody 1 I wad do — what wad I not ! For the sake of somebody ! GALA WATER. ROBERT BURNS. There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, That wander thro' the blooming heather ; But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws, Can match the lads o' Gala Water. But there is ane, a secret ane, Aboon them a' I lo'e him better ; And I'll be his and he'll be mine, The bonnie lad o' Gala Water. Altho' his daddie was nae laird, ' And tho' I ha'e na meikle tocher ; Yet rich in kindest, truest love, We'll tent our flocks by Gala Water. It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth', That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure : The bands and bliss o' mutual love, Oh that's the chiefest warld's treasure. CONTENTED WI' LITTLE. ROBERT BURNS. Contented wi' little, an' cantie wi' mair, Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow an' care, I gi'e them a skelp as they're creepin' alang, Wi' a cog o' guid swats, an' an auld Scottish sang. 220 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND . I whiles claw the elhow o' troublesome thought ; But man is a sodger, an' life is a faught : My mirth an' good humour are coin-in my pouch, An' 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 blythe end of our journey at last, Wha the de'il ever thinks o' the road he has past ? Blind chance, let her snapper an' stoyte on her way ; Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let jthe jade gae ; Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure, or pain, My warst word is — " Welcome, an' welcome again ! " OH! WERE I ON PABNASSUS' HILL. KOBEBT BURNS. Oh, were I on Parnassus' hill 1 Or had of Helicon my fill ; That I might catch poetic skill, To sing how dear I love thee. But Nith maun be my muse's well, My muse maun be thy bonnie sel' ; On Corsincon I'll glow'r an' spell, An' write how dear I love thee. Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay ! For a' the lee-lang simmer's day I couldna sing, I couldna say, How much, how dear I love thee. I see thee dancing o'er the green, Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een — By heaven an' earth I love thee 1 By night, by day, a-neld, at hame, The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; An' aye I muse an' sing thy name — I only live to love thee. Tho' I were doom'd to wander on Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, Till my last weary sand was run ; Till then — and then I love thee. CHEONOLOGICALLT ARRANGED. 221 OH POOBTITH CAULD. BOBEBT BTJBNS. Oh poortith cauld, and restless love, Ye wreck my peace between ye ; Yet poortith a' I could forgive, An 'twere na for my Jeanie. Oh why should fate sic pleasure have, Life's dearest bands 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. Oh why, &c. Her een sae bonnie blue betray How she repays my passion ; But prudence is her o'erword aye, She talks of rank and fashion. Oh why, &c. Oh wha can prudence think upon, A.nd sic a lassie by him ? Oh wha can prudence think upon, And sae in love as I am ? Oh why, &c. How blest the humble cottar's fate ! He woos his simple dearie ; The silly bogles, wealth and state, Can never make them eerie. Oh why, &c. STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. EOBEKT BtTRHS. Thickest night, o'erhangs my dwelling I Howling tempests o'er me rave I Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, Still Burround my lonely cave ! Crystal streamlets gently flowing, Busy haunts of base mankind, Western breezes softly blowing, Suit not my distracted mind. 222 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND In the cause of right engaged, Wrongs injurious to redress, Honour's war we strongly waged, But the heavens denied success. Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, Not a hope that dare attend : The wide world is all before us — But a world without a friend. I'M OWRE YOUNG TO MARRY YET. EOBEKT BDBNS. I'm owre young to marry yet ; I'm owre young to marry yet ; I'm owre young — 'twad be a sin To tak' me frae my mammy yet. I am my mammy's ae bairn, Wi' unco folk I weary, Sir; An' if I gang to your house, I'm fley'd 'twill make me eerie, Sir. Hallowmas is come an' gane, The nights are lang in winter, Sir ; An' you an' I in ae bed, In trouth I dare na venture, Sir. Fu' loud an' shrill the frosty wind Blaws through the leafless timmer, Sir ; But if ye come this gate again, I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. OWER THE HILLS AND EAR AWA'. BOBEET BUBNS. Oh how can I be blythe and glad, Or how can I gang brisk and braw, When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best Is ower the hills and far awa' ? When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best Is ower the hills and far awa' ? It's no the frosty winter wind, It's no the driving drift an' snaw ; But aye the tear comes in my e'e, To think on him that's far awa'. But aye the tear come in my e'e, To think on hira that's far awa'. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 223 My father pat me frae his door, My friends they ha'e disown'd me a', But I ha'e ane will tak' my part, The bonnie lad that's far awa'. But I ha'e ane will tak' my part, The bonnie- lad that's far awa'. A pair o' gloves he ga'e to me, An' silken snoods he ga'e me twa, An' I will wear them for his sake, The bonnie lad that's far awa'. An' I will wear them for his sake, The bonnie lad that's far awa'. THE RED BED ROSE. EOBEET BURNS. The blude-red rose at Yule may blaw, The simmer lilies bloom in snaw, The frost may freeze the deepest sea ; But an auld man shall never daunton me. To daunton me, an' me so young, Wi' his fause heart an' flatt'ring tongue, That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; For an auld man shall never daunton me. For a' his meal an' a' his maut, For a' his fresh beef an' his saut, For a' his gold an' white monie, An auld man shall never daunton me. His gear may buy him kye an' yowes, His gear may buy him glens an' knowes ; But me he ^shall not buy nor fee, For an auld man shall never daunton me. He hirples twa-faule as he dow, Wi' his teethless gab an' his auld held pow, An' the rain rains down frae his red bleer'd e'e- That auld man shall never daunton me. LAY THY- LOOP IN MINE. EOBEET BUENS. Oh lay thy ldof in mine, lass, In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; And swear on thy white hand, lass, That thou wilt be my ain. 224 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND A slave to love's unbounded sway, He aft has wrought me meikle wae ; But now he is my deadly fae, Unless thou be me ain. There's mony a lass has broke my rest, That for a blink I ha'e lo'ed best ; But thou art Queen within my breast, For ever to remain. Oh lay thy loof in mine, lass, In mine, lass, in mine, lass, And swear on thy white hand, lass, That tho.u wilt be my ain. OH ! OPEN THE DOOR. ROBERT BURNS. " Oh ! open the door, some pity to show, Oh I open the door to me, oh ! Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, Oh ! open the door to me, oh ! " Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, But caulder thy love for me, oh ! The frost that freezes the life at my heart, Is nought to my pains frae tHee, oh ! '• The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, An' time is setting with me, oh ! False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, oh ! " She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide ; She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh ! "My true love !" she cried, an' sank down by his side. Never to rise again, oh ! THE JOYFUL WIDOWER. ROBERT BURNS. I married with a scolding wife The fourteenth of November She made me weary of my life, By one unruly member. Long did I bear the heavy yoke, And many griefs attended ; But to my comfort be it spoke, Now, now her life is ended. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 225 We lived full one and twenty years, A man and wife together ; At length from me her course she steer'd, And gone I know not whither : Would I could guess, I do profess, I speak and do not flatter, Of all the women in the world, I never could come at her. Her body is bestowed well, A handsome grave does hide her ; But sure her soul is not in hell, The de'il would ne'er abide her ; I rather think she is aloft, And imitating thunder ; For why? — methinks I hear her voice Tearing the clouds asunder 1 TAM GLEN. BOBEKT BUBNS. 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' Tarn Glen ? I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow In poortith I might make a fen'; What care I in riches to wallow, If I maunna marry Tarn Glen ? There's Lowrie, the laird o' Drumeller, " Guid day, to you, brute 1 " 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 gi'e me guid hunder marks ten : But if it's ordain'd I maun tak' him, wha will I get but Tam Glen ? Yestreen at the valentine's dealing, My heart to my mou' gi'ed a sten ; For thrice I drew ane without failing, And thrice it was written — Tam Glen. 226 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND The last Halloween I was waukin' My droukit sark sleeve, as ye ken ;_ His likeness cam' up the house staukin', And the very gray breeks o' Tarn Glen ! Come counsel, dear tittie ! don't tarry — I'll gi'e you my honnie black hen, Gif ye will advise me to marry The lad I lo'e dearly, Tarn Glen. OH WHISTLE AN' I'LL COME TO YOU. ROBERT BURNS. Oh whistle an' I'll come to you, my lad, Oh whistle an' I'll come to you> my lad ; Tho' father an' mither an' a' should gae mad, Oh whistle an' I'll come to you, my lad. But warily tent, when ye come to court me, An' come na unless the back yett be a-jee ; Syne up the back stile, an' let naebody see, An' come as ye were na comin' to me. An' come, &c. At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd nae a flie ; But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me. Yet look, &c. Aye vow an' protest that ye care na for me, An' whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; But court na anither, tho' jokin' ye be, For fear that she wile. your fancy frae me. Eor fear. &c. DAINTY DAVIE. ROBERT BURNS. Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, To deck her gay, green spreading bowers ; An' now come in my happy hours, To wander wi' my Davie. CHOKUS. Meet me on the warlock knowe, Dainty Davie, dainty Davie ; There I'll spend the day wi' you, My ain dear dainty Davie. CHRONOLOGICALLY AKBANGED. 227 The crystal waters round us fa', The merry birds are lovers a', The scented breezen round us blaw, A wandering wi' my Davie. When purple morning starts the hare, To steal upon her early fare, Then thro the dews I will repair, To meet my faithfu' Davie. When day, expiring in the west, The curtain draws o' nature's rest, I flee to his arms I lo'e best, An' that's my ain dear Davie. THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER. ROBEET BUKNS. Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left me ever ; Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left me ever ; Aften hast thou vow'd that death only should us sever, Now thou'st left thy lass for aye— I maun see thee never, Jamie, I'll see thee never. Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me forsaken ; Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me forsaken ; Thou canst love anither jo, while my heart is breaking : Soon my weary een I'll close — never mair to waken, Jamie, Ne'er mair to waken. WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE. EOBEET BDBNS. 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' I Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! He's always compleenin' frae morning to e'ening', He hoasts an' he hirples the weary day lang ; He's doyl't an' 1 he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, Oh, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! He's doyl't an' he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, Oh, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man 1 228 THE SONUS OF SCOTLAND He hums an' he hankers, he frets an' he cankers, I never can please him, do a' that I can ; He's peevish an' jealous of a' the young fellows : Oh, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! He's peevish an' jealous of a' the young fellows : Oh, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! My auld auntie Katie upon me tak's pity, I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; I'll cross him, an' wrack him, until I heart-break him, An' then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. I'll cross him, an' wrack him, until I heart-break him, An' then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. LEEZE ME ON MY SPINNIN' "WHEEL. BOBEET BURNS. Oh leeze me on my spinnin' wheel, Oh leeze me on my rock an' reel ; Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, An' haps me fiel an' warm at e'en ! . I'll sit me down an' sing an' spin, While laigh descends the simmer sun, Blest wi' content, an' milk an' meal — Oh leeze me on my spinnin' wheel ! On ilka hand the burnies trot, An' meet below my theekit cot ; The scented birk an' hawthorn white, Across the pool their arms unite, Alike to screen the birdie's nest, An' little fishes' caller rest : The sun blinks kindly in the biel', Where blythe I turn my spinnin' wheel. On lofty aiks the cushats wail, An' echo cons the dolefu' tale ; The lintwhites in the hazel braes, Delighted, rival ither's lays : The craik amang the 'clover hay, The paitrick whirrin' o'er the ley, The swallow jinkin' round my shiel, Amuse me at my spinnin' wheel. Wi' sma' to sell, an' less to buy, Aboon distress, below envy, Oh wha wad leave this humble state, Tor a' the pride of a' the great ? Amid their flarin', idle toys, Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, Can they the peace and pleasure feel Of Bessy at her spinnin' wheel? CHRONOLOGICALLY AKRAN(JED. 229 HEY FOE A LASS WI' A TOCHEB. BOBEBT BUKNS. Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms : Oh, gi'e me the lass that has acres o' charms, Oh, gi'e me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. CHOEUS. Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey for a lass with a tocher. Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher — the nice yellow guineas for me. Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that blows, And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green knowes, Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white yowes. And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, The brightest o' beauty may cloy when possest ; But the sweet yellow darlings wi' G-eordie imprest, The langer ye ha'e them, the mair they're carest. MEIKLE THINKS MY LOVE. KOBEET BUBNS. Oh meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty, An' meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; But little thinks my luve I ken brawly My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee ; My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, He canna ha'e luve to spare for me. Your proffer o' luve's an arle-penny, My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin', Sae ye wi' another your fortune maun try. Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree ; Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread, An' ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 230 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND OH! FOE ANE-AND-TWENTY, TAM. EOBEET BURNS. And oh, for ane-and-twenty, Tarn, •And hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam, I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang, An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. They snool me sair, and haud me down, And gar me look like bhmtie, Tam ! But three short years will soon wheel roun'- And then comes ane-and-twenty, Tam. A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, Was left me by my auntie, Tam; At kith or kin I need na spier, An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. They'll ha'e me wed a wealthy coof, Tho' I mysel' ha'e plenty, Tam ; But hear'st thou, laddie— there's my loof — I'm thine at ane-and-twenty, Tam. UP IN THE MORNING. ROBERT BURNS. CHORUS. Up in the morning's no for me, Up in the morning early ; When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, I'm sure it's winter fairly. Cauld Haws the wind frae east to west, The drift is driving sairly ; Sae loud and shrill I hear the blast, I'm sure it's winter fairly. The birds sit chittering in the thorn, A' day they fare but sparely; And lang's the night frae e'en to morn — I'm sure it's winter fairly. THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE. BOBEST BURNS. CHOKUS. Oh this is no my ain lassie, Fair tho' the lassie be ; Oh weel ken I my ain lassie, Kind love is in her e'e. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 231 I see a form, I Bee a face Ye weel may wi' the fairest place ; It wants to me the witching grace, The kind love that's in her e'e. She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, And lang has had my heart in thrall ; And aye it charms my very saul, The kind love that's in her e'e. A thief sae paukie is my Jean, To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; But gleg as light are lovers' een, When kind love is in her e'e. It may escape the courtly sparks, It may escape the learned clerks ; But weel the watching lover marks The kind love that's in her e'e. MY NANNIE'S AWA'. KOBEET BURNS. Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays, An' listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw ; But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa'. The snaw-drap an' primrose our woodlands adorn, An' violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, They mind me o' Nannie — an' Nannie's awa'. Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn, An' thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa', Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa'. Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow an' gray, An' soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay ; The dark, dreary winter, an' wild-driving snaw, Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa'. LAST MAY A BEAW WOOBE. EOBEET BUKNg. Last May a braw wooer cam' down the lang glen, And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; I said there was naething I hated like men — The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, believe me, The deuce gae wi'm to believe me. 232 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND He spak' o' the darts o' my bonnie black een, And vow'd for my love he was dying; I said he might die when he liked for Jean 1 — The Lord forgi'e me for lying, for lying, The Lord forgi'e me for lying ! A weel-stockit mailen, himsel' for the laird, And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers ; I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or oar'd, But thought I might ha'e waur offers, waur offers, But thought I might ha'e waur offers. But what wad ye think ? in a fortnight or less — The de'il tak' his taste to gae near her I He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, Guess ye how, the jad I I could bear her, could bear her. Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. But a' the neist week as I fretted wi' care, I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, An' wha but my fine fickle lover was there ! I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. But owre my left shouther I ga'e him a blink, Lest neibors might say I was saucy ; My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, And vow'd I was his dear lassie. I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, Gin she had recover'd her hearin', Arid how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't feet, But, heavens 1 how he fell a-swearin', a-swearin', But, heavens I how he fell a-swearin'. He begg'd, for guidsake, I wad be his wife, Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow : So e'en to preserve the puir body in life, I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, I think I maun wed him to-morrow. MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET. ROBERT BURNS. My love she's but a lassie yet, My love she's but a lassie yet, We'll let her stand a year or two, She'll no be half sae saucy yet. I rue the day I sought her, 0, I rue the day I sought her, 0, Wha gets her needs na say she's woo'd, But he may say he'B bought her, 1 CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 233 Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet, Come draw a drap o' the best o t yet ; Gae seek for pleasure where ye will, But here I never miss'd it yet. We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, An' could na preach for thinking o't. BIKES OF ABERFELDY. ROBERT BURNS. CHORUS. Bonnie lassie, will ye go, Will ye go, will ye go ; Bonnie lassie, will ye go, To the birks of Aberfeldy ? Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlet plays ; , Come, let us spend the lightsome days In the birks of Aberfeldy. The little birdies blythely sing, While o'er their heads the hazels hing, O'er lightly flit on wanton wing In the birks of Aberfeldy. The braes ascend, like lofty wa's, The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's, O'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, An' rising, weets wi' misty showers The birks of Aberfeldy. Let fortune's gifts at random flee, They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, Supremely blest wi' love an' thee, In the birks of Aberfeldy. JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. ROBERT BURNS. John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent ; 234 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND But now your brow is beld John, Your locks are like the snaw ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, An' mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither ; Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, An' sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. OH WILLIE BEEW'D A PECK 0' MATJT, ROBERT BURNS. Oh, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, An' Bob an' Allan cam' to pree : Three blyther hearts that lee-lang night, Ye wad na find in Christendie. We are na fou', we're nae that fou', But just a drappie in our e'e ; The cock may craw, the day may daw, And aye we'll taste the barley bree. Here are we met, three merry boys, Three merry boys, I trow, are we ; An' mony a night we've merry been, And mony mae we hope to be ! It is the moon, I ken her horn, That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie ; She shines sae bright to wile us hame, But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee ! Wha first shall rise to gang awa', A cuckold, coward loon is he I Wha last beside his chair shall fa', He is the king amang us three ! OH! LUVE WILL VENTURE IN. ROBERT BURNS. Oh luve will venture in where it daurna weel be seen- Oh luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been • But I will down yon river rove, among the wood sae green- An a to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 235 The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, An' I will pu' the pink, the emhlem o' my dear ; For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer — An' a' to he a posie to my ain dear May. I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou' ; The hyacinth for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue — An' a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The lily it is pure, an' the lHy it is fair, An' in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; The daisy's for simplicity, an' unaffected air — An' a' to be a posie to my ain kind May. The hawthorn I will pu' wi' its locks o' siller gray, Where, like an aged man, it stands at break of day ; But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak' away — An' a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The .woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near, And the diamond drops o' dew shall be here e'en sae clear : The violets for modesty which weel she fa's to wear, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. I'll tie a posie round wi' the silken band o' luve, And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above, That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remove, And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. KOBERT BURNS. When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, An' gentle peace returning, Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, An' mony a widow mourning, I left the lines an' tented field, Where lang I'd been a lodger, My humble knapsack ,a' my wealth, A poor but honest sodger. A leal, light heart was in my breast, My hand unstain'd wi' plunder ; • An' for fair Scotia, hame again, I cheery on did wander. I thought upon the banks o' Coil, I thought upon my Nancy ; I thought upon the witching smile That caught my youthful fancy. At length I reach'd the bonnie glen Where early life I sported ; I pass'd the mill, an' trysting thorn, Where Nancy aft I courted : 236 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Wha spied I but my ain dear maid Down by her mother's dwelling I An turn'd me round to hide the flood That in my een was swelling. Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, " Sweet lass, Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, Oh I happy happy may he be, That's dearest to thy bosom ! My purse is light, I've far to gang, An' fain wad be thy lodger ; I've serv'd my king an' country lang — Take pity on a sodger 1" Sae wistfully she gazed on me, An' lovelier was than ever ; Quo' she, " A sodger ance I lo'ed, Forget him shall I never : i Our humble cot an' hamely fare Ye freely shall partake o't ; That gallant badge, the dear cockade, Ye're welcome for the sake o't." She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose — Syne pale like ony lily ; She sank within my arms, an 1 cried, " Art thou my ain dear Willie ?" " By him who made yon sun and sky, By whom true love's regarded, I am the man ; an' thus may still True lovers be rewarded. " The wars are o'er, an' I'm come hame, An' find thee still true-hearted ! Tho' poor in gear we're rich in love, An' mair we'se ne'er be parted." Quo' she, " My grandsire left me gowd, A mailen plenish'd fairly ; An' come, my faithfu' sodger lad, Thou'rt welcome to it dearly." For gold the merchant ploughs the main, The farmer ploughs the manor ; But glory is the sodger's prize, The sodger's wealth is honour. The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, Nor count him as a stranger ; Remember he's his country's stay In day an' hour of danger. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 237 FOR A' THAT. ROBERT BURNS. Is there for honest poverty That hangs his head, an' a' that ? The coward slave we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that ! For a' that, an' a' that, Our toils obscure, an' a' that, The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that. What though on hamely fare we dine. Wear hoddin gray, an' a' that 1 Gi'e fools their silks, an' knaves their wine, A man's a man for a' that ; For a' that, an' a' that, Their tinsel show an' a' that ; The honest man, though e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that. Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that ; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that : For a' that, an' a' that, His riband, star, an' a' that, The man of independent mind, He looks an' laughs at a' that. A prince can mak' a belted knight, A marquis, duke, an' a' that ; But an honest man's aboon his might, Gude faith he manna fa' that. For a' that, an' a' that, Their dignities, an' a' that, The pith o' sense, an'' pride o' worth, Are higher ranks than a' that. Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a' that, That sense an' worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree an' a' that. For a' that, an' a' that, It's coming yet, for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that. 238 THE S0N0S OF SCOTLAND SUCH A PAECEL OF ROGUES. BOBEBT BUKNS. Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, Fareweel our ancient glory, Fareweel even to the Scottish name, Sae fam'd in martial story. Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands, > And Tweed rins to the ocean, To mark where England's province stands — Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. What force or guile could not suhdue, Thro' many warlike ages, Is wrought now by a coward few, For hireling traitors' wages. The English steel we could, disdain, Secure in valour's station ; But English gold has been our bane — Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. Oh would, or I had seen the day That treason thus could sell us, My auld gray head had lein in clay, Wi' Bruce an' loyal Wallace ! But pith an' power, till my last hour, I'll make this declaration ; We're bought and sold for- English gold — Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. SCOTS WHA HA'E. ROBERT BURNS. Scots, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie 1 Now's the day, and now's the hour ; See the front o' battle lour ; See approach proud Edward's power — Chains and Slavery I 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 Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Let him follow me I CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 239 By oppression's woes and pains 1 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 I DOES HAUGHTY GAUL. ROBERT BURNS. Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? Then let the loons beware, Sir ; There's wooden walls upon our seas, An' volunteers on shore, Sir. The Nith shall run to Oorsincon, An' Criffel sink in Solway, Ere we permit a foreign foe On British ground to rally 1 Fall de rail, &c. Oh, let us not, like snarling tykes, In wrangling be divided ; Till, slap, come in an unco loon, An' wi' a rung decide it. Be Britain still .to Britain true, Among oursel's uaited : For never but by British hands Maun British wrangs be righted. Fall de rail, &c. The kettle o'the kirk an' state, Perhaps a clout may fail in't ; But de'il a foreign tinkler loon Shall ever ca' a nail in't. Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, An' wha wad dare to spoil it, By heaven, the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it. Fall de rail, &c. The wretch that wad a tyrant own, An' the wretch, his true-born brother, Who would set the mob aboon the throne, May they be damned together I Who will not sing, "God save the King," Will hang as high's the steeple ; But while we sing, " God save the King,'' We'll ne'er forget the People. 240 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND AULD LANG SYNE. KOBERT BUB.NS. Should auldacquaintancebe forgot, An' never brought to mind ? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, An' days o' auld lang syne ? CHOECS. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak' a cup o kindness yet, For auld lang syne. We twa ha'e ran about the braes, An' pu'd the gowans fine ; But we've wandered mony a weary foot, Sin' auld lang syne. We twa ha'e paidl't i' the burn, Frae mornin' sun till dine ; But seas between us braid ha'e roar'd Sin auld lang syne. An' here's a hand, my trusty fiere, Ad' gi'e's a hand o' thine ; An' we'll tak' a right guid willie-waught, For auld lang syne. An' surely you'll he your pint-stoup, An' surely I'll be mine ; An' we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne. WILLIE WASTLE. BOBEBT BUBNS. Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, The spot they called it Linkum-doddie ; Willie was a wabster gude, Could stown a clew wi' ony body. He had a wife was dour an' din, Oh Tinkler Madgie was her mither ; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na gi'e 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 CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 241 A whiskin' beard about her mou', Her nose an' chin they threaten ither — Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na gi'e a button for her. She's bough-hough'd, she's hein-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 ; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na gi'e a button for her. Auld baudrons by the ingle sits, An' wi' her loof her face a washin' ; But Willie's wife is na sae trig, She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion ; Her walie nieves like midden-creels, Her face wad fyle the Logan Water; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na gi'e a button for her. I GAED A WAEFU GATE YESTREEN. EOBEBT BUKNS. I Gaed a waefu' 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 wil'd ; She charm'd my soul — I wist na how ; An' aye the stound, the deadly wound, Cam' frae her een sae bonnie blue. But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; She'll aiblins listen to my vow ; Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead To her twa een sae bonnie blue. MY SPOUSE, NANCY. BOBEBT BUBNS. " Husband, husband, cease your strife, Nor longer idly rave, sir ; Tho' I am your wedded wife, Yet I am not your slave, sir." 242 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND " One of two must still obey, Nancy, Nancy; Is it man, or woman, say, My spouse, Nancy?" " If 'tis still the lordly word, Service and obedience ; I'll desert my sov'reign lord, And so good-bye allegiance !" " Sad will I be, so bereft, Nancy, Nancy, Yet I'll try to make a shift, My spouse, Nancy." " My poor heart $ien break it must, My last hour I'm near it : When you lay me in the dust, Think, think how you will bear it." " I will hope and trust in heaven, Nancy, Nancy, Strength to bear it will be given, My spouse, Nancy." " Well, sir, from the silent dead, Still I'll try to daunt you ; Ever round your midnight bed Horrid sprites shall haunt you." " I'll wed another like my dear, Nancy, Nancy ; Then all hell will fly for fear, My spouse, Nancy." LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS. KOBEET BUENS. CHORUS. Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, Wilt thou be my dearie, 0? Now Nature deeds the flowery lea, An' a' is young an' sweet like thee : Oh, wilt thou share its joys wi' me, An' say thou'lt be my dearie, 0? An' when the welcome simmer shower Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, We'll to the breathing woodbine bower At sultry noon, my dearie, 0. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 243 When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, The weary shearer's hameward way, Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, An' talk o' love, my dearie, 0. An' when the howling wintry blast Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest, Enclasped to my faithful breast, I'll comfort thee, my dearie, 0. MY AIN KIND DEARIE, 0. EOBEET BUBNS. When o'er the hill the eastern star Tells bughtin' time is near, my jo ; An' owsen frae the furrow'd field Return sae dowf an' weary, ; Down by the burn, where scented birks Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, I'll meet thee on the lea rig, My ain kind dearie, 0. In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, I'd rove, an' ne'er be earie, 0, If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, My ain kind dearie, 0. Altho' the night was ne'er sae wild, An' I were ne'er sae wearie, 0, I'd meet thee on the lea rig, My ain kind dearie, 0. The hunter lo'es the morning sun, To rouse the mountain deer, my jo : At noon the fisher seeks the glen, Along the burn to steer, my jo; Gi'e me the hour o' gloamin' gray, It mak's my heart sae cheery, 0, To meet thee on the lea rig, My ain kind dearie, 0. OH SAW YE B0NND3 LESLIE. R0BEKT BUBNS. Oh saw ye bonnie Lesley, As she gaed owre the border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther. 244 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND To see her is to love her, An' love but her for ever ; For nature made her what she is, An' never made anither ! Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee; Thou, art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee. The de'il he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee ; He'd look into thy bonnie face, An' say, "I canna wrang thee ! " The powers aboon will tent thee ; Misfortune sha' na steer thee ; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. Beturn again, fair Lesley, Eeturn to Caledonie ! That we may brag, we ha'e a lass There's nane again sae bonnie. MENIE. KOBEBT.BTTBNB. Again rejoicing nature sees, Her robe assume its vernal hues, Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep'd in morning dews. An' maun I still on Menie doat, An' bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? For it's jet, jet black, an' like a hawk, An' winna let a body be. In vain to me the cowslips blaw, In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; In vain to me, in glen or shaw, The mavis an' the lintwhite sing. The merry ploughboy cheers his team, Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks ; But life to me's a weary dream, A dream of ane that never wauks. The wanton coot the water skims, Amang the reeds the ducklins cry, The stately swan majestic swims, An' every thing is blest but I. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 245 The shepherd steeks his faulding Blap, An' owre the moorland whistles shrill ; Wi' wild unequal, wand'ring step, I meet him on the dewy hill. An' when the lark, 'tween light an' dark, Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, An' mounts an' sings on flittering wings, A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, An' raging bend the naked tree : Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, When nature all is sad like me 1 THE DETL'S AWA' WI' THE EXCISEMAN. ROBERT BUENB. The de'il cam' fiddling through the town, An' danced awa' wi' the Exciseman, And ilka wife cries — " Auld Mahoun, I wish you luck o' the prize, man I" The de'il's awa', the de'il's awa', The de'il's awa' wi' the Exciseman ; He's danc'd awa', he's danc'd awa', He's danc'd awa' wi! the Exciseman 1 We'll mak' our maut, we'll brew our drink, We'll dance, an' sing, an' rejoice, man ; And mony braw thanks to the meikle black de'il That danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman. The de'il's awa', the de'il's awa', The de'il's awa' wi' the Exciseman ; He's danc'd awa', he's danc'd awa', He's danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman. There's threesome reels, there's foursome reels, There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; But the ae best dance e'er cam' to the land Was— the de'il's awa' wi' the Exciseman, The de'il's awa', the de'il's awa', The de'il's awa' wi' the Exciseman ; He's danc'd awa', he's danc'd awa, He's danc'd awa'. wi' the Exciseman. 246 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND THE DEVON. BOBKET BDBNS. How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair ; But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ; And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn ; And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies, , And England, triumphant, display her proud Bose ; A fairer than either adorns the green valleys, Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. MALLY'S MEEK. EOBEBT BUKNS. Oh Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, Mally's modest and discreet, Mally's rare, Mally's fair, Mally's every way complete. As I was Walking up the street, A barefit maid I chanc'd to meet ; But oh the road was very hard For that fair maiden's tender feet. It were mair meet that those fine feet Were weel lac'd up in silken shoon, An' 'twere more fit that she should sit Within yon chariot gilt aboon. Her yellow hair, beyond compare, Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck : An' her two eyes, like stars in skies, Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. BONNIE WEE THING. BOBEKT BTJENS. 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. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 247 Wishfully I look an' languish In that bonnie face of thine ; An' my heart it stounds wi' anguish, Lest my wee thing be na mine. Wit, an' grace, an' love, an' beauty, In ae constellation shine ; To adore thee is my duty, Goddess o' this soul o' mine 1 Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosoni. Lest my jewel I should tine 1 'TWAS NA HER BONNIE BLUE E'E. ROBERT BURNS. 'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin ; Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing ; 'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kindness. Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ; But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest I And thou'rt the angel that never can alter, Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. NITH. EOBERT BURNS. The Thames flows proudly to the sea, Where royal cities stately stand; But sweeter flows the Nith, to me, Where Cummins ance had high command : When shall I see that honour'd land, That winding stream I love so dear I Must wayward fortune's adverse hand For ever, ever keep me here ? How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, Where spreading hawthorn's gaily bloom ! How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom 1 Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom, Far frae thy bonnie banks and braes, May there my latest hours consume, Amang the friends of early days 1 248 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND MAEK YONDER POMP. ROBERT BURNS. Make yonder pomp of costly faBhion, Round the wealthy, titled bride : But when compar'd with real passion, Poor is all that princely pride. What are the showy treasures ? What are the noisy pleasures ? The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art : The polish'd jewel's blaze May draw the wond'ring gaze, And courtly grandeur bright The fancy may delight, But never, never can come near the heart. But did you see my dearest Chloris, In simplicity's array ; Lovely as yonder sweet op'ning flower is, Shrinking from the gaze of day. Oh then the heart alarming, And all resistless charming, In Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing soul ! Ambition would disown The world's imperial crown, Even Avarice would deny His worshipp'd deity, And feel thro' ev'ry vein Love's raptures roll. WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T. ROBERT BURNS. First when Maggy was my care, Heaven I thought was in her air ; Now we're married — spier nae mair- Whistle o'er the lave o't. Meg was meek, an' Meg was mild, Bonnie Meg was nature's child ; Wiser men than me's beguil'd — Whistle o'er- the lave o't. How we live, my Meg an' me, How we love, an' how we 'gree, I care na by now few may see — Whistle o'er the lave o't. Wha I wish were maggots' meat, Dish'd up in her winding sheet, I could write — but Meg maun see't — Whistle o'er the lave o't. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 249 DEATH SONG. EOBEET BURNS. Scene. — A field of tattle. — Time of the day, evening. — The wonnded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following song : — Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Now gay with the bright setting sun ; Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties — Our race of existence is run ! Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe ! Go, frighten the coward and slave ; Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know, No terrors hast thou to the brave 1 Thou strik'st the dull peasant — he sinks in the dark, Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark I He falls in the blaze of his fame I 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, Oh ! who would not die with the brave 1 BLYTHE, BLYTHE AND MERRY WAS SHE. EOBEET BUKNS. CHORUS. Blythe, blythe and merry was she, Blythe was she butt and ben : Blythe by the banks of Em, An' blythe in Glenturit glen. By Auchtertyre grows the aik, On Yarrow banks the birken shaw ; But Phemie was a bonnier lass Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. Her looks were like a fiow'r in May, Her smile was like a simmer morn : She tripped by the banks o' Ern, As light's a bird upon a thorn. Her bonnie face it was as meek As ony lamb upon a lea ; The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, An' o'er the lowlands I ha'e been ; But Phemie was the blythest lass That ever trod the dewy green. 250 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND THE DAT RETURNS. ROBERT BURNSi The day returns, my bosom burns, The blissful 'day we twa did meet, Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd, Ne'er summer sun was half so sweet. Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 4 An' crosses o'er the sultry line ; Than kingly robes, than crowns an' globes, Heav'n gave me more — it made thee mine While day an' night can bring delight, Or nature aught of pleasure give, While joys above my mind can move, For thee, an' th«e 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 1 AYE WAUKIN', 0. ROBERT BURNS. Simmer's a pleasant time, Flowers of every colour ; The water rins o'er the heugh, An' I long for my true lover. Aye waukin', 0, Waukin' still an' wearie ; Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie. When I sleep I dream, When I wauk I'm eerie : Sleep I can get nane For thinkin' on my dearie. Lanely night comes on, A' the lave are sleepin 1 ; I think on my bonnie lad, An' bleer my een wi' greetin'. SWEET FA'S THE EVE. ROBERT BURNS. Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn, An' blythe awakes the morrow ; But a' the pride o' spring's return Can yield me nocht but sorrow. . CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 251 I see the flowers an' spreading trees, I hear the wild birds singing ; But what a weary wight can please, An' care his bosom wringing ? Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, Yet date na for your anger ; But secret love will break my heart, If I conceal it langer. If thou refuse to pity me, If thou shalt love anither, When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, Around my grave they'll wither. OH AYE MY WIPE SHE DANG- ME. ROBERT BURNS. Oh aye my wife she dang me, An' aft my wife did bang me, If ye gi'e a woman a' her will, Gude faith, she'll soon o'ergang ye. On peace an' rest my mind was bent, An' fool I was, I married ; But never honest man's intent As cursedly miscarried. Some sair o' comfort still at last, When a' my days are done, man ; My pains o' hell on earth are past, I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man. Oh aye my wife she dang me, An' aft my wife did bang me, If ye gi'e a woman a' her will, Gude faith, she'll soon o'ergang ye. LOED GREGOEY. ROBERT BURNS. Oh mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, An' loud the tempest's roar ; A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower, Lord Gregory, ope thy door. An' exile frae her father's ha', An' a' for loving thee ; At least some pity on me shaw, If love it may na be. 252 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, By bonnie Irwine side, Where first I own'd that virgin love I lang, lang had denied ? How aften didst thou pledge an' 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, An' flinty is thy breast : Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, Oh wilt thou give me rest 1 Ye mustering thunders from above Your willing victim see ! But spare an' pardon my fause love, His wrangs to Heaven an' me I HEY, THE DUSTY MILLER. BOBEBT BUHNS. Hey, the dusty miller, And his dusty coat ; He will win a shilling, Or he spend a groat. Dusty was the coat, Dusty was the colour, Dusty was the kiss That I got frae the miller. Hey, the dusty miller, And his dusty sack : Leeze me on the calling Fills the dusty peck — Fills the dusty peck, Brings the dusty siller ; I wad gi'e my coatie For the dusty miller. DUNCAN GBAY. ROBERT BURNS. Duncan Geat cam' here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, On blytne Yule night when we were fu', Ha, ha, the wooing o't. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 253 Maggie coost her head fu' high, Look'd asklent an' unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan fleech'd an' Duncan pray'd, Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan sigh'd baith out an' in, Grat his een baith bleert an' blin', Spak' o' lowpin owre a linn ; Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Time an' chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; Slighted love is sair to bide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die ? She may gae to — Prance for me ! Ha, ha, the wooing o't. How it comes let doctors tell, Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; Meg grew sick — as he grew hale, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Something in b.er bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she- brings ; An' oh, her een, they speak sic things ! Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan was a lad o' grace, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Maggie's was a piteous case, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan could na be her death, Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; Now they're crouse an' canty baith ; Ha, ha, the wooing o't. AULD EOB MOEEIS. EOBEKT BUBNS. There's auld Bob Morris that wons in yon glen, He's the king o' gude fellows an' wale o' auld men He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen an' kine, An' ae bonnie lassie, his darling an' mine. 254 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay ; As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea, An' dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. But, oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, An' my daddie has naught but, a cot-house an' yard ; A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. The day comes to me, but delight brings'me nane ; The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane : I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. Oh had she but been of a lower degree, I then might ha'e hop'd she wad smil'd upon me ! Oh, how past describing had then been my bliss, As now my distraction no words can express ! AND OH! MY EPPIB. ROBERT BURNS. And oh I my Eppie, My jewel, my Eppie ! Wha wadna be happy Wi' Eppie Adair I By love, and by beauty, By law, and. by duty, I swear to be true to My Eppie Adair ! And oh I my Eppie, My jewel, my Eppie, Wha wadna be happy Wi' Eppie Adair ? A' pleasure exile me, Dishonour defile me, If e'er I beguile thee, My Eppie Adair f HAD I A CAVE. ROBERT BURNS. Had I a cave on 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 ! CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 255 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 ! MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. BOBEKT BtTKNS. Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, The wretch's destinie ! Macpherson's time will not he long On yonder gallows-tree. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he ; He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round, Below the gallows-tree. Oh, what is death but parting breath ! — On mony a bloody plain I've dar'd his face, and in this place I scorn him yet again 1 Untie these bands from off my hands, And bring to me my sword : And there's no a man in all Scotland, But I'll brave him at a word. I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife ; . I die by treacherie : It burns my heart I must depart, And not avenged be. Now farewell light — thou sunshine bright, And all beneath the sky ! May coward shame distain his name, The wretch that dares not die ! BONNIE ANN. BOBERT BUKNS. Ye gallants bright, I rede ye right, Beware o' bonnie Aim ; Her comely face sae fu' o' grace, Tour heart she will trepan. Her een sae bright, like stars by night, Her skin is like the swan ; Sae jimply lao'd her genty waist, That sweetly ye might span. 256 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Youth, grace, an' love attendant move, An' pleasure leads the van : _ In a' their charms, an' 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 ! HIGHLAND HAEEY. ROBERT BURNS. Mt Harry was a gallant gay, Fu' stately strode he on the plain : But now he's banish'd far away, I'll never see him back again. Oh for him back again ! Oh for him back again ! I wad gi'e a' Knockhaspie's land For Highland Harry back again. When a' the lave gae to their bed, I wander dowie up the glen ; I set me down and greet my fill, And aye I wish him back again. Oh were some villains hangit high, And ilka body had their ain ! Then I might see the joyful sight, My Highland Harry back again. SHE'S FAIB AND FAUSE. y ROBERT BDRNS. She's fair and fause that causes my smart, I lo'ed her meikle an' lang ; She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, And I may e'en gae hang. A coof cam' in wi' routh o' gear, And I ha'e 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 tho' fickle she prove, A woman has't by kind. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 257 Oh woman, lovely woman fair ! An angel form's fa'n to thy share, 'Twad been ower meikle to gi'en thee mair — I mean an angel mind. EOBIN SHUEE IN HAIRST. ROBEET BT3ENS. CHORUS. Robin shure in hairst, I shure wi' him ; Fient a heuk had -I, Yet I stack by him. I gaed np to Dunse, To warp a wab o' plaiden ; At his daddie's yett, Wha met me but Eobin ? 9 Was na Robin bauld, Though I was a cottar, Play'd me sic a trick, And me the eller's dochter ? Eobin promis'd me A' my winter vittle ; Pient haet he had but three Goose feathers and a whittle. MY HEAET'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. ROBERT BURNS. 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 : Farewell to 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. 258 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND TIBBIE DUNBAR. ROBERT BUKNS. wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? Wilt thou ride on a horse or be drawn in a car, Or wait by my Bide, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 1 carena thy daddie, his lands and his money, I carena thy kin, sae high and sae lordly ; But sae thou wilt ha'e me, for better for waur, An' come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunbar I HAPPY WE'VE BEEN A' THEGITHER. Attributed to Bobekt Bubns. Here around the ingle bleezin', Wha sae happy and sae free ? Tho' the northern wind blaws freezin', Frien'ship warms baith you an' me. Happy we are a' thegither, Happy we'll be ane an' a' ; Time shall see us a' the blyther Ere we rise to gang awa\ See the miser o'er his treasure Gloating wi' a greedy e'e ! Can he feel the glow o' pleasure That around us here we see ? Can the peer in silk and ermine, Ca' his conscience half his own ? His claes are spun an' edged wi' vermin Tho' he stan' afore a throne 1 Thus then let us a' be tassing Aff our stoups o' gen'rous flame ; An' while roun'' the board 'tis passing, Raise a sang in frien'ship's name. Frien'ship mak's us a' muir happy, Frien'ship gi'es us a 1 delight ; Frien'ship consecrates the drappie, Frien'ship brings us here to night. Happy we've been a' thegither, Jfiappy we've been ane an 1 a'; Time shall find us a' the blyther When we rise to gang awa'. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 259 WHEN SHE CAM BEN SHE BOBBIT FIT LAW. Johnson's Museum. Altered by Burns from an old and licentious ditty. when she cam ben she bobbit fu' law, when she cam ben she bobbit fu' lawy And when she cam ben she kissed Cockpen, And syne she denied that she did it at a'. i And wasna Cockpen richt saucy witha', And wasna Cockpen richt saucy witha', In leaving the dochter of a lord, And kissing a collier lassie an a' ? never look doun, my lassie at a', never look doun, my lassie, at a' ; Thy lips are as sweet, and thy figure complete, As the finest dame in castle or ha'. Though thou hae nae silk and holland sae sma', Though thou hae nae silk and holland sae sma', Thy coat and thy sark are thy ain handywark, And Lady Jean was never sae braw. LIZZY LINDSAY. Johnson's Museum. Adapted by Barns from an earlier song. Air, "TheEweBuchts." Will ye gang wi' me, Lizzy Lindsay, Will ye gang to the Highlands wi' me ? Will ye gang wi' me, Lizzy Lindsay, My bride and my darling to be ? To gang to the Highlands Wi' you, sir, I dinna ken how that may be ; For 1 ken nae the land that ye, live in, Nor ken I the lad I'm gann wi'. Lizzy, lass, ye maun ken little, If sae ye dinna ken me ; For my name is Lord Bonald MacDonald, A chieftain o' high degree. She has kilted her coats o* green satin, She has kilted them up to the knee, And she's off wi' Lord Bonald MacDonald, His bride and his darling to be. 260 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND THE CAMPBELLS ABE COMING. Johnson's Museum. The Campbells are coming, O-ho, O-ho I The Campbells are coming, O-ho ! The Campbells are coming to bonnie Lobhleven ! The Campbells are coming, O-ho, O-ho I Upon the Lomonds I lay, I lay ; Upon the Lomonds I lay ; I lookit doun to bonnie Lochleven, And saw three perches play. The Campbells are coming, &c. Great Argyle he goes before He makes the cannons and gunB to roar ; With sound of, trumpet, pipe, and drum ; The Campbells are coming, O-ho, O-ho ! The Campbells they are a' in arms, Their loyal faith and truth to show, With banners rattling in the wind ; The Campbells are coming, O-ho, O-ho ! DUNCAN GRAY. Johnson's Museum. The old version, communicated by Bums and slightly altered by him. Weaet fa' you, Duncan Gray, Ha, ha, the girdin' o't ; Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray, Ha, ha, the girdin' o't ; When a' the lave gae to their play, Then I maun sit the lee-lang day, An' jeeg the cradle wi' my tae, An' a' for the girdin' o't. Bonnie was the Lammas moon, Ha, ha, the girdin' o't, Glowrin' a| the hills aboon, Ha, ha, the girdin' o't ; The girdin' brak', the beast cam' down, I tint my curch an' baith my shoon ; An', Duncan, ye're an unco loon, Wae on the bad girdin' o't. But, Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith, Ha, ha, the girdin' o't, I'll bless you wi' my hindmost breath, Ha, ha, the girdin' o't. Duncan,' gin ye'll keep your aith, The beast again can bear us baith, An' auld Mess John will mend the skaith, An' clout the bad girdin' o't. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 261 JAMIE 0' THE GLEN. Johnson's Museum. Auld Bob, the laird o' muokle land, To woo me was na very blate, But spite o' a' his gear he fand He came to woo a day owre late. A lad sae blythe, sae fu' o' glee, My heart did nerer ken, And nane can gi'e sic joy to roe As Jamie o' the glen. My minnie grat like daft, and rair'd, To gar me wi' her will comply, But still I wadna ha'e the laird, Wi' a' his ousen, sheep, and kye. A lad sae blythe, &c. Ah, what are silks and satins braw ? What's a' his warldly gear to me ? They're daft that cast themsel's awa', Where nae content or love can be. A lad sae blythe, &c. I cou'dna bide the silly clash Came hourly frae the gawky laird I And sae, to stop his gab and fash, Wi' Jamie to the kirk repair'd. A lad sae blythe, &o. Now ilka summer's day sae lang, And winter's clad wi' frost and snaw, A tunefu' lilt and bonnie sang Aye keep dull care and strife awa'. A lad sae blythe, &c. THE BBEIST KNOTS. Johnson's Museum. But considerably abridged. Hey the bonnie, how the bonnie, Hey the bonnie breist-knots ! Tight and bonnie were they a', When they got on their breist-knots. There was a bridal in this town, And tai't the lasses a' were boun', Wi' mankie facings on their gowns, And some o' them had breist-knots. 262 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND At nine o'clock the lads convene, Some clad in blue, some clad in green, Wi' glancin' buckles in their shoon, And flowers upon their waistcoats. Forth cam' the wives a' wi' a phrase, And wished the lassie happy days ; And meikle thocht they o' her claes, And 'specially the breist-knots. MY LADDIE IS GANE. Johnson's Museum. My laddie is gane far away o'er the plain, While in sorrow behind I am forc'd to remain, Though blue-bells and violets the hedges adorn, Though trees are in blossom and sweet blows the thorn. No pleasure they give me, in vain they look gay, There's nothing can please me now Jockie's away ; Forlorn I sit singing, and this is my strain — Haste, haste, my dear Jockie, to me back again. When lads and their lassies are on the green met, They dance and they sing, and they laugh and they chat, Contented and happy, with hearts full of glee, I can't without envy their merriment see. Those pleasures offend me, my Shepherd's not there, No pleasure I relish that Jockie don't share ; It makes me to sigh, I from tears scarce refrain, I wish my dear Jockie returned back again. But hope shall sustain me, nor will I deplore, He promised he would in a fortnight be here ; On fond expectation my wishes I'll feast, For love my dear Jockie to Jenny-will haste. Then farewell each care, and adieu each vain sigh, Who'll then be so blest or so happy as I? I'll sing on the meadows and alter my strain, When Jockie returns to my arms back again. MARY. Johnson's Museum. Thotj art gane awa', thou art gane awa', Thou art gane awa' frae me, Mary ! Nor friends nor I could make thee stay— Thou hast cheated them and me, Mary ! CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 263 Until this hour I never thought That aught could alter thee, Mary ; Thou'rt still the mistress of my heart, Think what you will of me, Mary. Whate'er he said or might pretend, That stole the heart of thine, Mary, True love, I'm sure, was ne'er his end, Or nae sic love as mine, Mary. I spoke sincere, nor flattered much, Had no unworthy thoughts, Mary ; Ambition, wealth, nor naething such ; No, I loved only thee, Mary. Though you've been false, yet while I live, I'll lo'e nae maid but thee, Mary ; Let friends forget, as I forgive, Thy wrongs to them and me, Mary. So then farewell ! of this be sure, Since you've been false to me, Mary ; For all the world I'd not endure Half what I've done for thee, Mary. THE COLLIER LADDIE, Johnson's Museum. Whare live ye, my bonnie lass, And tell me what they ca' ye ? My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, And I follow the collier laddie. See ye not yon hills and dales, The sun shines on sae brawlie 1 They a' are mine, and they shall be thine, Gin ye'll leave your collier laddie. Ye shall gang in gay attire, Weel buskit up sae gawdy : And ane to wait on every hand, Gin ye'll leave your collier laddie. Though ye had a' the sun shines on, And the earth conceals sae lowly, I wad turn my back on you and it a', And embrace my collier laddie, I can win my five-pennies in a day, And spen't at night fu' brawlie : And make my bed in the collier's neuk, And lie down wi' my collier laddie. 264 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Love for love is the bargain for me, Tho' the wee cot-house should haud me. And the warld before me to win my bread, And fair fa' my collier laddie. HEY DONALD, HOWE DONALD. , Johnson's Museum. The air has been traced as far back as the seventeenth century. Hey, Donald, howe Donald, Hey Donald Couper I He's gane awa' to seek a wife, And he's come hame without hen Donald Couper and his man Held to a Highland fair, man ; And a' to seek a bonnie lass — : But fient a ane was there, man. At length he got a carlin gray, And she's come hirplin' hame, man ; And she's fawn ower the buffet stool, And brak' her rumple-bane, man. NUBSEBY SONG. Johnson's Museum. can ye sew cushions, Or can ye sew sheets, Or can ye sing Ba-loo-loo, When the bairnie greets ? And hee and ba-birdie, And, hee and ba-lamb, And hee and ba-birdie, My bonnie wee lamb. Hee-o, wee-o, what would I do wi' you ? Black's the life that I lead wi' you. O'er mony o' you, little for to gi'e you, Hee-o, wee-o, what would I do wi' you ? I've placed my cradle On yon holly top, And aye, as the wind blew, My cradle did rock. And hush-a-ba, baby, ba-lilly-loo, And hee and ba-birdie, My bonnie wee doo 1 Hee-o, wee-o, what would I do wi' you ? &c. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 265 0, AN YE WEBE DEAD GUIDMAN. Johnson's Museum. 0, an ye were dead, guidman, 0, an ye were dead, guidman, That I might wair my widowheid Upon a ranting Highlandman. There's six eggs in the pan, guidman, There's six eggs in the pan, guidman ; There's ane to you and twa to me, And three to our John Highlandman. There's beef into the pot, guidman, There's beef into the pot, guidman ; The banes to you, the broe to me, And the beef for our John Highlandman. There's sax horse in the sta', guidman, There's sax horse in the sta', guidman; There's ane to you, and twa to me, And three to our John Highlandman. There's sax kye in the byre, guidman, There's sax kye in the byre, guidman ; There's nane o' them yours, but twa o' them mine, And the lave is our John Highlandman's. A COGIE 0' TILL. ANDBEW SHEBTBT, Editob of the Aberdeen Chronicle. He published in 1787, a Scottish Pastoral entitled " Jamie and Bess." A cogie o' yill, And a pickle aitmeal, And a dainty wee drappie o' whisky, Was our forefathers' dose, For to sweel down their brose, And keep them aye cheery and frisky. Then hey for the whisky, and hey for the meal, And hey for the cogie, and hey for the yill, Gin ye steer a' thegither they'll do unco weel, To keep a chiel cheery and brisk aye. When I see our Scots lads, Wi' their kilts and cockauds, That sae aften ha'e lounder'd our foes, man ; I think to mytel', On the meal and the yill, And the fruits o' our Scottish kail brose, man, Then hey, &c. 266 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND When our brave Highland blades, Wi' their claymores and plaids, In the field drove like sheep a' our foes, man; Their courage and pow'r-^- Spring frae this to be sure, They're the noble effects o' the brose, man. Then hey, &c. But your spyndle-shank'd sparks, Wha sae ill fill their sarks, Tour pale-visaged milksops and beaux, man ; I think when I see them, 'Twere kindness to gi'e them — A cogie o' yill or o' brose, man. Then hey, &c. What John Bull despises, Our better sense prizes, He denies eatin' blanter ava, man ; But by eatin' o' blanter, His mare's grown, I'll warrant her, The manliest brute o' the twa, man. Then hey, &c. THE BLACK EAGLE. JAMBS rOSDTOE, D.D., At one time Minister of Brechin, afterwards Minister of a Presbyterian Church in London. He published a volume of poems in 1786, in which is the following song, intended for a pathetic air of that name (" The Black Eagle") in Oswald's Collection of Scotch Tones. He died in 1796, in his 76th year. Hark I yonder eagle lonely wails, His faithful bosom grief assails ; Last night I heard him in my dream, When death and woe were all the theme. Like that poor bird I make my 1 moan, I grieve for dearest Delia gone ; With him to gloomy rocks I fly, He mourns for love and so do I. 'Twas mighty love that tamed his breast, 'Tis tender grief that breaks his rest ; He droops his wings, he hangs his head, Since she he fondly loved was dead. With Delia's breath my joy expired, 'Twas Delia's smiles my fancy fired ; Like that poor bird I pine, and prove Nought can supply the place of love. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 267 Dark as his feathers was the fate That robb'd-him of his darling mate ; Dimm'd is the lustre of his eye, That wont to gaze the sun-bright sky. To him is now for ever lost, The heartfelt bliss he once could boast ; Thy sorrows, hapless bird, display, An image of my soul's dismay. THE TOOM MEAL POCK. JOHN ROBERTSON, Written about the year 1793. Preserve us a' I what shall we do, Thir dark unhallowed times ? We're surely dreeing penanoe now, For some most awfu' crimes. Sedition daurna now appear, In reality or joke, For ilka chiel maun mourn wi' me, 0' a hinging toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me 1 When lasses braw gaed out at e'en, For sport and pastime free, I seem'd like ane in paradise, The moments quick did flee. Like Venuses they a' appeared, Weel pouthered was their locks, 'Twas easy dune, when at their hame, Wi' the shaking o' their pocks. And sing, waes me ! How happy past my former days, Wi' merry heartsome glee, When smiling fortune held the cup, And peace sat on my knee ; Nae wants had I but were supplied, My heart wi' joy did knock, When in the neuk I smiling saw A gaucie weel flll'd pock. And sing, Oh waes me 1 Speak no ae word about reform, Nor petition Parliament, A wiser scheme I'll now propose, I'm sure ye'll gi'e consent— 268 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Send up a chiel or twa like me, As a sample o' the flock, Whase hollow cheeks will be sure proof, 0' a hinging toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me ! And should a sicht sae ghastly like, Wi' rags, and banes, and skin, Ha'e na impression on yon folks, But tell ye'll stand ahin : what a contrast will ye shaw, To the glowrin' Lunnun folk, When in St. James' ye tak' your stand, Wi' a hinging toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me ! Then rear your hand, and glowr, and stare, Before yon hills o' beef, Tell them ye are frae Scotland come, For Scotia's relief; Tell them ye are the vera best, Wal'd frae the fattest flock, Then raise your arms, and Oh ! display A hinging toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me ! Tell them ye're wearied o' the chain That hauds the state thegither, For Scotland wishes just to tak' Gnde nicht wi' ane anither. We canna thole, we canna bide, This hard unwieldy yoke, For wark and want but ill agree, Wi' a hinging toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me ! THE WEB WIFUKIE. DR. A. GEDDE8, Born at Banff in 1737, a Clergyman of the Boman Catholic Church. He died at London in 1802. His works, which are numerous, are chiefly of a Theological cast, and include a translation of the Sacred Scriptures. There was a wee bit wifukie, was comin' frae the fair, Had got a wee bit drappukie, that bred her meikle care, It gaed about the wifie's heart, and she began to spew, ! quo' the wee wifukie, I wish I binna fou. I wish I binna fou, quo' she, I wish I binna fou, - Oh ! quo' the wee wifukie, I wish I binna fou. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 269 If Johnnie find me barley-sick, I'm sure he'll claw my skin ; But I'll lie down and tak' a nap before that I gae in. Sitting at the dyke-side, and taking o' her nap, By came a packman laddie wi' a little pack, Wi' a little pack, quo' she, wi' a little pack, By came a packman laddie wi' a little pack. He's clippit a' her gowden locks sae bonnie and sae lang ; He's ta'en her purse and a' her placks, and fast awa' he ran : And when the wifie waken'd, her head was like a bee, Oh I quo' the wee wifukie, this is nae me, This is nae me, quo' she, this is nae me, Somebody has been felling me, and this is nae me. I met with kindly company, and birl'd my bawbee ! And still, if this be Bessukie, three placks remain wi' me : But I will look the pursie nooks, Bee gin the cunyie be : — There's neither purse nor plack, about me 1 — this is nae me. This is nae me, &c. I have a little housukie, but and a kindly man ; A dog, they ca' him Doussiekie ; if this be me he'll fawn ; And Johnnie, he'll come to the door, and kindly welcome gi'e, And a' the bairns on the floor-head will dance if this be me. This is nae me, &c. The night was late, and dang out weet, and oh but it was dark, The doggie heard a body's foot, and he began to bark, Oh when she heard the doggie bark, and keenin' it was he, Oh weel ken ye, Doussie, quo' she, this is nae me. This is nae me, &c. When Johnnie heard his Bessie's word, fast to the door he ran ; Is that you Bessukie ? — Wow na, man ! Be kind to the bairns a', and weel mat ye be ; And fareweel, Johnnie, quo' she, this is nae me ! This is nae me, &c. John ran to the minister, his hair stood a' on end, I've gotten sic a fright, Sir, I fear I'll never mend : My wife's come hame without a head, crying out most piteously, Oh fareweel, Johnnie, quo' she, this is nae me ! This is nae me, &c. The tale you tell, the parson said, is wonderful to me, How that a wife without a head could speak, or hear, or see 1 But things that happen hereabout, so strangely alter'd be, That I could maist wi' Bessie say, 'tis neither you nor she ; Neither you nor she, quo' he, neither you nor she, Wow na, Johnnie man, 'tis neither you nor she. 270 THE SONGS OP SCOTLAND Now Johnnie he cam' hame again, and oh 1 but he was fain, To see his little Bessukie come to hersel' again. He got her sittin on a stool, wi' Tibbuck on her knee : Oh, come awa', Johnnie, quo' she, come awa' to me, For I've got a nap wi' Tibbuckie, and this is now me. This is now me, quo'she, this is now me, I've got a nap wi' Tibbuckie, and this is now me. AULD BOBIN GRAY. TjASX ANN BABNABD, Daughteb of James, Earl of Balcarres, was born in 1760. She married in 1793, Sir Andrew Barnard, librarian to George III. He died in 1807. Lady Ann survived to 1825, when she died at her house in London. The song was originally written to a very old air, "The bridegroom grat when the sun gaed doun." The old air, however, is now discarded for the very beautiful one composed by the Eeverend William Leeves, rector of Wrington, in Somersetshire. When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye a' at hame, When a' the weary world to sleep are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, While my gudeman lies sound by me. Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride ; But saving a crown he had naething else beside. To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea ; And the crown and the pound, they were baith for me ! He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, When my mither she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa ; My father brak his arm — my Jamie at the sea — And Auld Bobin Gray came a-courting me. My father couldna work — my mither couldna spin ; I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win ; Auld Bob maintain'd them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e, Said, " Jenny, for their Sakes, will you marry me ? " My heart it said na, and I look'd for Jamie back ; But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack : His ship it was a wraok ! Why didna Jenny dee ? And wherefore was I spar'd to Cry, Wae is me ! My father argued sair— my mither didna speak, But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break ; They gied him my hand, but my heart was in the sea ; And so Auld Bobin Gray, he was gudeman to me. I hadna been his wife, a week but only four, thee!" CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 271 sair, sair did we greet, and mickle did we Bay : Ae kiss we took — nae mair — I bade him gang away. 1 wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee ; And why do I live to say, Wae is me ! I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; I darena think a' Jamie, for that wad be a sin. But I will do my best a gude wife to be, For A.uld Eobin Gray, he is kind to me. MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE, 0. BIOHABD GALL, A native of LinkhouSe, near Dunbar, where he was bom in 1776. He served his apprenticeship as compositor, in the office of the Edinburgh Evening Courant, and continued in that office for some time after his ap- prenticeship was completed. He died in 1801, at the early age of twenty- five. His poems were published shortly after his death. Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue, My only jo and dearie, ; Thy neck is o' the siller dew Upon the bank sae brierie, 0. Thy teeth are o' the ivory ; sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee : Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me, My only jo and dearie, 0. The birdie sings upon the thorn Its sang 0' joy, fu' cheerie, 0, Rejoicing in the simmer morn, Nae Care to mak' it eerie, ; Ah ! little kens the sangster sweet Aught o' the care I ha'e to meet, That gars my restless bosom beat, My only jo and dearie, 0. When we were bairnies on yon brae, And youth was blinkin' bonnie, 0, Aft we wad daff the lee-lang day, Our joys fu' sweet and monie, 0. Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lee, And round about the thorny tree ; Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee, My only jo and dearie, 0. 272 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND I ha'e a wish I canna tine, 'Mang a' the cares that grieve me, 0, A wi^h that thou wert ever mine. And never mair to leave me, ; Then I would dawt thee night and day, Nae ither warldly care I'd ha'e, Till life's warm stream forgat to play, My only jo and dearie, 0. ON BURNS. RICHARD GALL. There's waefu' news in yon town, As e'er the warld heard ava ; There's dolefu' news in yon town, For Eobbie's gane an' left them a'. How blythe it was to see his face Come keeking by the hallan wa' ! He ne'er was sweir to say the grace, But now he's gane an' left them a'. He was the la,d wha made them glad, Whanever he the reed did blaw : The lasses there may drap a tear, Their funny friend is now awa'. Nae daffin now in yon town ; The browster-wife gets leave to draw An' drink hersel', in yon town, Sin' Robbie gaed an' left them a'. The lawin's canny counted now, The bell that tinkled ne'er will draw, The king will never get his due, Sin' Robbie gaed and left them a'. The squads o' chiels that lo'ed a splore On winter e'enings, never ca' ; Their blythesome moments a' are o'er, Sin' Robbie's gane an' left them a'. Frae a' the een in yon town I see the tears o' sorrow fa', An' weel they may, in yon town, Nae canty sang they hear ava. Their e'ening sky begins to lour, The murky clouds thegither draw ; 'TwaB but a blink afore a shower, Ere Robbie gaed and left them a'. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 273 The landwart hiz'zie winna speak ; Ye'll see her sitting like a craw Amang the reek, while rattons squeak — Her daw-tit bard is now awa'. But could I lay my hand upon His whistle, keenly wad I blaw, An' screw about the auld drone, An' lilt a lightsome spring or twa. If it were sweetest aye whan wat, Then wad I ripe my pouch, an' draw, An' steep it weel amang the maut, As lang's I'd saxpence at my ca'. For warld's gear I dinna care, My, stock o' that is unco sma', Come, friend, we'll pree the barley-bree To his braid fame that's now awa'. THE WAITS. BICHABD GALL. Wha'S this, wi' voice o' music sweet, Sae early wakes the weary wight ? weel I ken them by their sough, The wand'ring minstrels o' the night. weel I ken their bonnie lilts, Their Bweetest notes o' melody, Fu' aft they've thrill'd out through my saul, And gart the tear fill ilka e'e. 0, sweetest minstrels ! weet your pipe, A tender soothin' note to blaw ; Syne souf the " Broom o' Cowdenknowes," Or " Eoslin Castle's" ruined wa\ They bring to mind the happy days, Fu' aft I've spent wi' Jenny dear : — Ah ! now ye touch the very note, That gars me sigh, and drap a tear. Your fremit lilts I downa bide, They never yield a charm for me : Unlike our ain, by nature made, Unlike the saft delight they gi'e ; For weel I ween they warm the breast, Though sair oppress'd wi' poortith cauld ; An' sae an auld man's heart they cheer, He tines the thought that he is auld. 274 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Q, sweetest minstrels ! halt a wee, Anither lilt afore ye gang ; An' syne I'll close my waukrife e'e, Enraptured wi' your bonnie sang. They're gane I the moon begins to dawn; They're weary paidlin' through the weet ; They're gane, I but on my ravished ear, The dying sounds yet thrill, fu' sweet. THE HAZLEWOOD WITCH. RICHARD GALL. For mony lang year I ha'e heard frae my grannie, Of brownies an' bogles by yon castle wa', Of auld withei'd hags, that were never thought cannie. An' fairies that danced till "they heard the cock craw, I leugh at her tales; an' last owk, i' the gloamin', I dander'd, alane, down the Hazlewood green: Alas ! I was reckless, an' rue sair my roaming, For I met a young witch wi' twa bonnie black een. I thought o' the starns in a frosty night glancing, Whan a' the lift round them is cloudless and blue ; I look'd again, an' my heart fell a dancing ; Whan I wad ha'e spoken, she glamour'd my mou'. wae to her cantrips! for dumpish I wander ; At kirk or at market there's nought to be seen ; For she dances afore me wherever I dander, The Hazlewood Witch wi' the bonnie black een. I WINN A GANG BACK. RICHARD .GALL. 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. I've held by her apron, &c. Young Johnnie cam' down i' the gloamin' to woo, Wi' plaidie sae bonnie, an' bannetsae blue: " come awa', lassie, ne'er let mammy ken ;" An' I flew wi' my laddie o'er, meadow an' glen. come awa', lassie, &c. 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-flichtered an' fain, An' sigh'd out, " Johnnie, I'll aye be your ain ! " While I fell on his bosom, &c CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 275 Some lasses will talk to the lads wi' their e'e, Yet hanker to tell what their hearts really dree ; Wi' Johnnie I stood upon nae stappin'-stane, Sae I'll never gang back to my mammy again. Wi' Johnnie I stood, &o. For mony lang year sin' I play'd on the lea, My mammy was kind as a mither could be ; I've held by her apron these aught years and ten, But I'll never gang back to my mammy again. I've held by her apron, &c. GLENDOCHAKT VALE. RIOHAED GALL. As I came through Grlendochart vale, Whare mists o'ertap the mountains grey, A wee bit lassie met my view, As cantily she held her way : But sic love each feature bore, She made my saul wi' rapture glow I An' aye she spake sae kind and sweet, I couldna keep my heart in tow. speak na o' your courtly queans ! My wee bit lassie fools them a' : The little cuttie's done me skaith, She's stown my thoughtles heart awa'. Her smile was like the grey-e'ed morn, Whan spreading on. the mountain-green; Her voice saft as the mavis' sang ; An' sweet the twinkle o' her een : Aboon her brow, sae bonnie brent, Her raven locks waved o'er her e'e ; An' ilka slee bewitching glance Conveyed a dart o' love' to me. speak na o' your courtly queans, &c. The lasses fair in Scotia's isle, Their beauties a' what tongue can tell ? But o'er the fairest o' them a' My wee bit lassie bears the bell. had I never mark'd her slnile, Nor seen the twinkle o' her e'e I It might na been my lot the day, A waefu' lade o' care to dree. speak na o' your courtly queans, &c. 276 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND AULD LANG SYNE. IdUJTNAIHira, Was born at the house of Gask, in Perthshire, on the 16th July, 1766. Her father, Laurence Oliphant of Gask, was one of the staunchest Jacob- ites, had followed Prince Charlie through the '45, and never spoke of King George otherwise than as the Elector of Hanover. She married in 1806 Captain W. N. Nairne, a second cousin, and son of one of the unfortunate adherents of the young chevalier. He was the repre- sentative of the attainted tttle of Lord Nairne, in the honours of which, however, he was reinstated in 1824. He died in 1830. Lady Nairne survived him till 1845, when she died in the house of Gask in her seventy- ninth year. To Dr. Bogers, the lovers of Scottish song are indebted for a collected edition of her songs, accompanied by a full and interesting biography. (London, 1869.) No one was more frightened of a literary reputation than Lady Nairne. Her best songs appeared first in print in Smith's " Scottish Minstrel," 1824, under the assumed initials of B. B., and so Close was her secret guarded that even the publisher and editor of that work were unaware of the name and position of their contributor. Her best songs have been admitted into all collections of our National Minstrelsy since that time without any hint as to the author. This, however, is now changed, and Lady Nairne has taken her place as a song writer beside Burns, Hogg, and Tannahill. What gude the present day can gi'e, May that be yours an' mine ; But beams o' fancy sweetest rest On auld lang syne. On auld lang syne, my dear, On auld lang syne, The bluid is cauld that winna warm At thoughts o' lang syne. We twa hae seen the simmer sun, And thought it aye would shine ; But mony a cloud has come between, Sin auld lang syne. Sin auld lang syne, &c. But still my heart beats warm to thee, And sae to me does thine, Blest be the pow'r that still has left The frien's o' lang sang. 0' auld lang syne, &c. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 277 CALLER HEREIN. LAST NAIENE. "Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? They're bonnie fish and dainty fairin', Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? New drawn frae the Forth. When ye were sleepin' on your pillows, Dream'd ye aught o' our puir fellows, Darkling as they fac'd the billows, A' to fill the woven willows ? Buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth. Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? They're no brought here without brave daring, Buy my caller herrin', Haul'd thro' wind and rain. Wha'll buy my caller herrin', &c. ? Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? Ye may ca' them vulgar fairin', Wives and mithers maist despairin' Ca' them lives o' men. Wha'll buy, my caller herrin', &c. ? When the creel o' herrin passes, Ladies clad in silks and laces, Gather in their braw pelisses, Cast their necks and screw their faces. Wha'll buy my caller herrin', &c. ? Caller herrin's no got lightlie, Ye can trip the spring fu' tightlie, Spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin', Grow has set you a' a-singin'. Wha'll buy my caller herrin', &c. ? Neighbour wives, now tent my tellin', When the bonnie fish ye're sellin', At ae word be in ye're dealin', Truth will stand when a' thing's failin'. Wha'll buy my caller herrin', &c. ? 278 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND THE VOICE OF SPEING. LADY NAIRNE. 0, say is there ane wha does not rejoice, To hear the first note o' the wee' birdie's voice, When in the grey mornin' o' cauld early spring, The snaw draps appear an' the wee birdies sing. The voice o' the spring, 0, how does it cheer ! The winter's awa, the summer is near. In your mantle o! green, we see thee, fair spring, O'er our banks, an' our braes, the wild flowers ye fling ; The crocus sae gay, in her rich gowden hue ; The sweet violets hid 'mahg the mOss an' the dew ; The bonnie white gowan, an' oh ! the white brier, A' tell it is spring, an' the summer is near. An' they wha' in sorrow or sickness do pine; Peel blythe wi' the flowers an' sunshine of' spring ; Tho' aft in dear Scotia, the cauld wind will blaw, An' cow'r a' the blossoms wi' frost and wi' snaw, Yet the cloud it will pass, the sky it will clear, An 1 the birdies will sing, the summer is near. JOHN TOD. LADY NAUtNE. He's a terrible man, John Tod, John Tod, He's a terrible man, John Tod ; He scolds in the house, he scolds at the door, He scolds in the very hie road, John, Tod, He scolds in the very hie road. The weans a' fear John Tod, John Tod, The weans a' fear John Tod ; When he's passing by, the mothers will cry, Here's an ill wean, John Tod, John Tod, Here's an ill wean, John Tod. The callants a' fear 1 John Tod, John Tod, The callants a' fear John Tod ;■ If they steal but a neep,'the laddie he'll whip, And it's unco weel done o' John Tod, John Tod, And it's unco weel done o' John Tod. And saw ye nae little John Tod, John Tod ? saw ye nae little John Tod? His shoon they were re'in, and his feet they were seen. But stout does he gang on the road, John Tod, But stout does he gang on the road. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 279' How is he fendin', John Tod, John Tod? How is he wendin', John Tod ? He is scourin' the land wi' his rung in his hand, And the French wadna frighten John Tod, John Tod, And the French wadna frighten John Tod. Ye're sun-burnt and batter'd, John Tod, John Tod, Ye'er tautit and tatter'd John Tod ; Wi' your auld strippit cowl ye look maist like a fule ; But there's nouse in the linin', John Tod, John Tod, But there's nouse in the linin', John Tod. He's weel respeckit, John Tod, John Tod, He's weel respeckit, John Tod , Though a terrible man, we'd a' gang wrang, If e'er he should leave us, John Tod, John Tod, If he should leave us, John Tod. THE TWA BOOS. LADY NAIRNE. There were twa doos sat in a dookit, Twa wise-like birds, 1 and round" they lookit, An' says the ane unto the ither, What do you see, my gude brither?- I see some pickles o* gude strae,* An' wheat some fule has thrown away ; For a rainy day they should be boukit, Sae down they flew frae aff their dookit. The snaw will come, an' cour the grand, Nae grains o' wheat will then be fund, They picket a' up an a' were boukit, Then roun' an' roun' again they lookit. lang he thooht an' lang he lookit, ■. An' aye his wise-like head he shook it, 1 see, I see, what ne'er should be, , I see what's seen by mair than me. Wae's me there's thochtless lang Tarn. Gray, Aye spendin' what he's no to pay ; In wedlock,, to a taupie hookit, . , , He's ta'en a doo, but has nae dookit. When we were young, it was nae sae ; Nae rummulgumshion folk now hae ; What gude for them can ere be lookit, When folk tak doos that hae nae dookit. 280 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND • THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. LADY NAIENE. The two last stanzas were added by Miss Ferrier, authoress of " Marriage," &e. The Laird o' Cookpen, he's proud and he's great ; His mind is ta'en up wi' the things o' the state ; He wanted a wife his braw house to keep ; But favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek. Doun by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, At his table-head he thought she'd look well ; M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee-r A pennyless lass wi' a lang pedigree. His wig was weel pouther'd, as guid as when new, His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue : He put on a ring, a sword, and cock'd hat — And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that ? He took the grey mare, and rade cannilie — And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee; " Gae tell mistress Jean to come speedily ben : She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen." Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flower wine ; " And what brings the Laird at sic a like time ? " She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown, Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down. And when she cam' ben, he boued fu' low ; And what was his errand he soon let her know, Amazed was the Laird when the lady said, Na, And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'. Dumfounder'd he was, but nae sigh did he gi'e ; He mounted his mare, and rade cannilie ; And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen, " She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen." And now that the Laird his exit had made, Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said ; " Oh ! for ane I'll get better, it's waur I'll get ten — I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen." Neist time that the Laird and the Lady were seen, They were gaun arm and arm to the kirk on the green ; Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen, But as yet there's nae chickens appear'd at Cockpen. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 281 I'M WEABING AWA' JOHN. LAST NAIENE. I'm wearing >wa', John, Like snaw wreaths in thaw, John, I'm wearing awa', To the land o' the leal. There's nae sorrow there, John, There's neither cauld nor care, John, The day is aye fair, In the land o' the leal. Our bonnie bairn's there, John, She was baith gude and fair, John, And we grudged her right sair To the land o' the leal. But sorrow's eel' wears past, John, And joyte a'-oomin' fast, John, In joy that aye to last, In the land o' the leal. Sae dear that joy was bought, John, Sae free the battle fought, John, That sinfu' man e'er brought To the land o' the leal. Then dry that tearfu' e'e, John, My soul langs to be free, John, And angels wait on me To the land o' the leal. Oh ! haud ye leal and true, John, Your day it's wearin' through, John, And I'll welcome you To the land o' the leal. Now, fare ye weel, my ain John, This warld's care is vain, John, We'll meet and aye be fain In the land o' the leal. THE AULD HOUSE. LADT NAIKNE. Oh I the auld house, the auld house, What tho' the rooms were wee 1 Oh ! kind hearts were dwellin' there, And bairnies fu' o' glee : The wild rose and the jessamine, Still hang upon the wa', How many cherished memories Do they, sweet flowers, reca'. 282 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird, Sae canty, kind, and crouse, How mony did he welcome to His ain wee dear auld housse ? And the leddy too sae genty. There shelter'd Scotland's heir, And dipt a lock Wi' her ain hand Frae his lang genty hair. The mavis still doth sweetly sing, The blue bells sweetly blaw, The bonny Earn's clear winding still, But the auld house is awa'. The auld house, the auld house, Deserted tho' ye be, There ne'er can be- a new house Will seem sae fair to me. Still flourishing the auld pear tree. The bairnies liked to see, And oh I how aften did they spier When ripe they a' wad be ? The voices sweet, the wee bit feet Aye rinning here and there, ' The merry shout, oh 1 whiles we greet, To think we'll hear nae mair. For they are a' wide scattered now, Some to the Indies gane, And ane alas ! to her la.ng hame ; Not her we'll meet again. The kirkyard, the kirkyard ! Wi' flowers o' every hue, Shelter'd by the holly's shade An' the daft sombre yew. The setting sun, the setting sun ! How glorious it gaed doon ; The cloudy splendour raised our hearts, To cloudless skies aboon I The auld dial, the auld dial ! ' It tauld how time did pass ; The wintry winds hae dung it doon, Now hid 'mang trees and grass. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 283 THE LASS 0' GOWRIE. LADYNADJNE. 'Twas on a summer's afternoon, A wee afore the sun gaed down, A lassie wi' a braw new goun Cam' ower the hills to Gowrie. The rosebud wash'd in summer's shower, Bloom'd fresh within the sunny bower ; But Kitty was the fairest flower That e'er was seen in Gowrie. To see her cousin she cam' there, And oh ! the scene was passin' fair, For what in Scotland can compare Wi' the Carse o' G-owrie? The sun was settin' on the Tay, The blue hills meltin' into grey, The mavis and the blackbird's lay Were sweetly heard in Gowrie. lang the lassie I had woo'd, An' truth an' constancy had vow'd, But cam' nae speed wi' her I lo'ed Until she saw fair G-owrie. 1 pointed to my faither's ha', Yon bonnie bield ayont the Shaw, Sae loun* that there nae blast could blaw, Wad she no bide in Gowrie ? Her faither was baith glad and wae ; Her mither she wad naething say ; The bairnies thocht they wad get play If Kitty gaed to Gowrie. She whiles did smile, she whiles did greet, The blush and tear were on her cheek ; She naething said, but hung her head, But now she's Leddy Gowrie. THE ROWAN TREE. LADY NAIRNE. Oh, Rowan tree! Oh, Rowan tree I thou'lt aye be dear to me, Intwined thou art wi' mony ties o' hame and infancy ; Thy leaves were aye the first o' spring, thy flow'rs the simmer's pride; There was nae sic a bonnie tree, in a' the country side. Oh, Rowan tree ! 284 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND How fair wert thou in simmer time, wi' a' thy clusters white, How rich and gay thy autumn dress, wi' herries red and bright, We sat aneath thy spreading shade, the bairnies round thee ran; They pu'd thy bonnie berries red, and necklaces they Strang. Oh, Eowan tree ! On thy fair stem were mony names, which now nae mair I see, But they're engraven on my heart, forgot they ne'er can be ; My mother ! oh ! I see her still, she smil'd our sports to see ; Wi' little Jeanie on her lap, wi' Jamie at her knee ! Oh, Eowan tree ! Oh ! there arose my father's prayer, in holy evening's calm, How sweet was then my mother's voice, in the Martyr's psalm ; Now a' are gane ! we meet nae mair aneath the Eowan tree, But hallowed thoughts around thee twine o' hame and infancy. Oh, Eowan tree ! WEEL MAY THE BOATIE EOW. JOHN BWEN, A native of Montrose, where he was born in 1741. In 1760 he went to Aberdeen, where he began business as a dealer in hardware goods. By dint of frugality, if not parsimony, and aided greatly by that amiable provision for the deserving poor, a rich wife, he amassed a considerable fortune, and at his death, which took place in 1821, bequeathed the bulk of it to trustees for the purpose of founding an hospital at Montrose, for the board and education of poor boys. His will, however, was challenged by his daughter, his only child, who appears to have been overlooked in that document, and was settled in her favour by the House of Lords. WEEL may the boatie row, And better may she speed ! And weel may the boatie row, That wins the bairns' bread ! The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows indeed ; And happy be the lot of a' That wishes her to speed ! 1 cuist my line in Largo Bay, And fishes I caught nine ; There's three to boil, and three to fry, And three to bait the line. The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows indeed ; And happy be the lot of a' That wishes her to speed I CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 285 weel may the boatie row, That fills a heavy creel, And cleads us a' frae head to feet, And buys our parritoh meal. The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows indeed ; And happy be the lot of a' That wish the boatie speed. When Jamie vow'd he would be mine, And wan frae me my heart, muckle lighter grew my creel ! He swore we'd never part. The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows fu' weel ; And muckle lighter is the lade, When love bears up the creel. My kurtch I put upon my head, And dress'd mysel' fu' braw ; 1 trow my heart was dowf and wae, When Jamie gaed awa : But weel may the boatie row, And lucky be her part ; And lightsome be the lassie's care That yields an honest heart ! When Sawnie, Jock, and Janetie, Are up, and gotten lear, They'll help to gar the boatie row, And lighten a' our care. The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows fu' weel ; And lightsome be her heart that bears The murlain and the creel ! And when wi' age we are worn down, And hirpling round the door, They'll row to keep us hale and warm As we did them before : Then, weel may the boatie row, That wins the bairns' bread ; And happy be the lot of a' That wish the boat to speed 1 286 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND THE BONNIE BRUCKET LASSIE. JAMES TYTLER, Bom in 1747, was the son of a clergyman in the north of Scotland. " A clever but eccentric character," says Mr. Stenhonse, " commonly called Balloon Tytler, from the circumstance of his being the first person who projected and ascended from Edinburgh in one of these aerial machines." He edited the second and third editions of the "Encyclopaedia Britannica." He ultimately got mixed up in some of the political squabbles of his time, and had to emigrate to America, where he died in 1805. 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. 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 turned 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' nicht I sleeped soundly ; My mind was never sad; But now my rest is broken Wi' thinking o' my lad. could I live in darkness, Or hide me in the sea, Since my love is unfaithful, And has forsaken me ; No other love I suffered Within my breast to dwell, In nought I have offerided; But loving him too well. Her lover heard her mourning, As by he chanced to pass : And pressed unto his bosom The lovely bracket lass. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 287 My dear, he said, cease grieving ; Since that you lo'ed so true, My bonnie brucket lassie, I'll faithful prove to you. I HAE LAID A HERRING IN SAUT. JAMES TYTLEK. Based upon a very old song. I hae laid a herring in saut — Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; I hae brew'd a forpit o' maut, And I canna come ilka day to woo : I hae a calf that will soon be a cow — Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; I hae a stook, and I'll soon hae a mowe, And I canna come ilka day to woo : I hae a house upon yon moor — Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; Three sparrows may dance upon the floor, And I canna come ilka day to woo : I hae a but, and I hae a ben — Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; A penny to keep, and a penny to spen', And I canna come ilka day to woo : I hae a hen wi' a happitie-leg — Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; That ilka day lays me an egg, And I canna come ilka day to woo : I hae a cheese upon my skelf — Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now — And soon wi' mites 'twill rin itself, And I canna come ilka day to woo. LOCH-ERROCH SIDE. ASCRIBED 10 JAMES TTTLEE. As I cam' by Looh-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. 288 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND How kind her looks, how blest was I, While in my arms I prest her I 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 ma But faithful, loving, true, and kind, For ever thou shalt find me ; And of our meeting here so sweet, Loch-Erroch sweet shall mind me. Enraptured then, My lovely lass, I cried, no more we'll tarry 1 "We'll leave the fair Loch-Erroch side, For lovers soon should marry. WE'LL HAP AND EOW. WILLIAM CREECH, A celebrated Publisher in Edinburgh. Born 1745, died 1815. The first Edinburgh edition of Burns' Poems was issued by him, and every reader of Burns is aware of the respect the poet had for his publisher. We'll hap and row, we'll hap and row, We'll hap and row the feetie o't ; It is a wee bit weary thing : I downa bide the greetie o't. And we pat on the wee bit pan, To boil the lick o' meatie o't; A cinder fell and spoil'd the plan, And burnt a' the feetie o't. Fu' sair it grat, the puir wee brat, And aye it kick'd the feetie o't, Till, puir wee elf, it tired itself; And then began the sleepie o't. The skirlin' brat nae parritch gat, When it gaed to the sleepie o't ; It's waesome true, instead o' 'ts mou', They're round about the feetie o't. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 289 A' BODY'S LIKE TO BE MABEIED BUT ME. ANONYMOUS. Fkom The Scots Magazine, July, 1802. As Jenny sat down wi' her wheel by the fire, An' thought o' the time that was fast fleein' by'er, She said to hersel' wi' a heavy hoeh hie, Oh ! a' body's like to be married but me. My youthfu' companions are a' worn awa', And though I've had wooers mysel' ane or twa, Yet a lad to my mind I ne'er could yet see, Oh ! a' body's like to be married but me. There's Lowrie, the lawyer, would ha'e me fu' fain "Who has baith a house an' a yard o' his am : But before I'd gang to it I rather wad die, A wee stumpin' body ! he'll never get me. There's Dickey, my cousin, frae Lunnun cam' down, Wi' fine yellow buskins that dazzled the town ; But, puir deevil, he got ne'er a blink o' my e'e, Oh 1 a' body's like to be married but me. But I saw a lad by yon saughie burn side, Wha weel wad deserve ony queen for his bride, Gin I had my will soon his ain I would be, Oh ! a' body's like to be married but me. I gied him a look, as a kind lassie should, My frien's, if they kenn'd it, would surely run wud ; For tho' bonnie and gnid, he's no worth a bawbee, Oh 1 a' body's like to be married but me. 'Tis hard to tak' shelter behint a laigh dyke, 'Tis hard for to tak' ane we never can like, 'Tis hard for to leave ane we fain wad be wi', Yet it's harder that a' should be married but me. WHAT ATLS YOU NOW. ALEXANDRE DOUGLAS, A weaver in Pathhead, in Fifeshire. He was born at Strathmiglo in 1771. and died in 1824. He published a volume, of poems in 1806, which was favourably received. What ails you now, my daintie Pate, Ye winna wed an' a' that ? Say, are yefley'd, or are ye blate, To tell your love an' a' that ? To kiss an' clap, an' a' that? fy for shame, an' a' that, To spend your life without a wife ; 'Tis no the gate ava that. 290 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Ere lang you will grow auld and feiiii Your haffets white am' a' that ; An whare's the Meg, the. Kate, or Nell, Will ha'e you syne wj' a' that ? Runkled brow an' a' that; "Wizzen'd fape an' a' that; Wi' beard sae grey, there's nane will ha.o A kiss frae you, an' a' that. stand na up wi' where an' how, Wi' ifs an' buts an' a' that, Wi' feckless scruples not % few : Pu' up your heart an' a* that, Crousely crack an' a' that ; Come try your luck an' a' that : The hiney-moon will ne'er gang done, If guidit weel an' a' that. There's monie lass baith douce an' fair, Fu' sonsy, fler, an' a' that, Wad suit you to a very hapy Sae clever they're an' a* that ; Handsome, young, an' a' that, Sae complaisant an' a' that ; Sae sweet an' braw, and gude an' a' ; What ails the ohield at a' that? Come, look about, an' wale a wife, Like honest fotik an' a' that ; An' lead a cheerfu' virtuous life ; Ha'e plenty, peace, an' a' that; A thrifty wife am? a' that, An' bonnie bairns an' a' that, Syne in your ha' shall pleasures a' Smile ilka day an' a' that. LOGAN'S BRAES. JOHN MATOE, Atjthob of "The Siller Gun," &c. He was horn ip. Dumfries, in 1759. His parents removed in 1782 when he began his apprenticeship as com- positor to the celebrated Glasgow printers, Messrs. Foulis. He afterwards went to London, where he became editor- and part proprietor of " The Star," newspaper. He died in 1836. The last three stanzas of this song have been attributed to another writer. They are certainly much inferior in style, " By Logan's streams that rin sae deep, Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep ; Herded sheep, or gathered slaes, Wi' my dear lad, on Logan braes. CHRONOLOGICALLY ABRANGED. 291 But wae's my; heart ! thae days are' gane, And I, wi' grief, may herd alane ; While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me, and Logan braes. " Nae mair at Logan Kirk mil he Atween the preachings meet wi' me ; Meet wi me, or when, it's mirk, Convoy me hame from Logan kirk. I weel may sing thae days, are gane — Frae kirk an' fair I come alane, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me, and Logan braes ! "At e'en, when hope amaist is gane, I dauner out, or sit alane, Sit alane beneath the tree Where aft he, kept his tryst wi' me. ! cou'd I see thae days- again, My lover skaithless, an' my ain ! Belov'd by frien's, rever'd by faes, We'd live in bliss on Logan braes." While for her love, she thus did sigh,. She saw a sodger passing by, Passing by wi' scarlet claes; While sair she grat- on Logan' braes. Says hej, " What gars thee greet sae sair, What fills thy heart sae fu' o' care ? Thae sporting lambs hae blithesome days, An' playfu' skip on Logan braes ? " "What can I do but weep and mourn? I fear my lad will ne'er return, Ne'er return to ease my waes. Will ne'er come hame to Logan braes." Wi' that he clasp'd her in his arms, And said> " I'm fre© from, war's alarms,. I now ha'e conquer'd a' my faes, We'll happy live on- Logan braes'." Then straight to LOg'ata kirk they went, And join'd their hands wi' One consent, Wi' one consent to' end their days, An' live in bliss on Logan braes. An' now she sings^ "thae days are gane. When I wi' grief did herd alane,. While mydearlad' did fight hisjfa'esj, Far, far frae me and Logan braes." 292 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND THE WINTER SAT LANG. JOHN MAYNE. The winter sat lang on the spring o' the year, Our seedtime was late, and our mailing was dear ; My mither tint her heart when she look'd on us a', And we thought upon them that were farest awa' ; ! were they but here that are farest awa' ; ! were they but here that are dear to us a' ! Our cares would seem light and our sorrows but srha', If they were but here that are far frae us a' ! Last week, when our hopes were o'erolouded wi' fear, And nae ane at hame the dull prospect to cheer, Our Johnnie has written, frae far awa' parts, A letter that lightens and hauds up our hearts He says, " My dear mither, though I be awa', In love and affection I'm still wi' ye a'; While I ha'e a being, ye'se aye ha'e a ha', Wi' plenty to keep out the frost and the snaw." My mither, o'erjoy'd at this change in her state, By the bairn that she doated on early and late, Gi'es thanks, night and day, to the 6river of a', There's been naething unworthy o' him that's awa' ! Then, here is to them that are far frae us a', The friend that ne'er fail'd us, though farest awa' ! ,'Health, peace, and prosperity, wait on us a' ! And a blythe coram' hame to the friend that's awa' I HIS AIN KIND DEARIE YET. JOHN MATNE. Jenny's heart was frank and free, And wooers she had mony, yet Her sang was aye, Of a' I see, Commend me to my Johnnie yet. For, ear' and late, he has sic gate To mak' a body cheerie, that I wish to be, before I die, His ain kind dearie yet. Now Jenny's face was fu' o' grace, Her shape was sma' and genty-like, And few or nane in a' the place Had gowd and gear more plenty, yet Though war's alarms, and Johnnie's charms, Had gart her aft look eerie, yet She sung wi' glee, I hope to be My Johnnie's ain dearie yet. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 293 What tho' he's now gaen far awa', "Where guns and cannons rattle, yet Unless my Johnnie 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. A WAR SONG- AJSDREW BCOTT. Written in 1803. Scott was " minister's man" to the parish minister of Bowden, BoxburghsMre. He died in 1839, aged 83. He published several volumes of poetry during his lifetime. Surrounded wi' bent and wi' heather, Where muircooks and plovers were rife, For mony a lang towmond together, There lived an auld man and bis wife ; About the affairs o' the nation The twasome they seldom were mute ; Bonaparte, the French, and invasion, Did sa'ur in their wizzins like soot. In winter, whan deep were the gutters, And nicht's gloomy canopy spread, Auld Symon sat luntin' his cuttie, And lowsin' his buttons for bed ; Auld Janet, his wife, out a-gazing, To lock in the door was her care ; She, seeing her signals a-blazing, Came rinnin' in ry ving her hair : O, Symon, the Frenchies are landit ! Crae look man, and slip on your sboon ; Our signals I see them extendit, Like red risin' rays frae the moon. What a plague ! the French landit 1 quo' Symon, And clash gaed his pipe to the wa' : Faith, then, there's be loadin' and primin', Quo' he, if they're landit ava. Our youngest son's in the militia, Our eldest grandson's volunteer : 0' the French to be fu' o' the flesh o', I too i' the ranks shall appear. His waistcoat-pouch fill'd he wi' pouther, And bang'd down his rusty auld gun ; His bullets he pat in the other, That he for the purpose had run. 294 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Then humpled he out in a hurry, While Janet his courage bewails, And eried out, Dear Symon, be wary-1 And teuchly she hung by his tails. Let be w# your kindness, cried Symon, Nor vex me wi' tears and your cares ; For, now to be ruled by a woman, Nae laurels shall crown my grey hairs. Then he,ar me, quo' Janet, I pray thee, I'll tend thee, love, livin' or deid, And if thou should fa', I'll dee wi' thee, Or tie up thy wounds if thou bleed. Quo' Janet, 6, keep frae the riot ! Last nicht, man, I dreamt ye was deid ; This aught days I tentit a pyot Sit ehatfriH' -upon the bouseTheid. As yesterday, worfcin' my stockin', And you wi' the sheep on the hill, A muokle black corbie sat croaking ; I kenn'd it forebodit some ill. Hout, cheer up, dear Janet, be hearty ; For, ere the neist sun may gae down, Wha kens but I'll Shoot Bonaparte, And end my auld days in renown. Syne off in a hurry be stumpled, Wi' bullets, and pouther, and gun ; At's curpin auld Janet, too, humpled Awa' to the neist neebour-toun : There footmen and yeomen paradin', To scour off in dirdum were seen ; And wives and young lasses a' sheddin' ' The briny saut tears frae their een. Then aff wi' his bonnet got Symie, And to the commander he gaes, Quo'' be, Sir, I mean to gae wi' ye, And help ye to lounder our faes : I'm auld, yet I'm teuch as the wire, Sae well at the rogues ha'e a dash, And fegs, if my gun winna fire, I'll turn her but-end and I'll thrash. Well spoksn, my hearty old hero ! The captain did smilin' reply ; But begg'd he wad stay till to-morrow, Till day-iicht should glent in the sky. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 295 Whatreck, a' the Btoure cam' to naething, Sae Symon, and Janet his dame, Halescart, frae the wars, without skaithing, Gaed, banniu' the French, away hame. THE GUID FARMER. ANDBBW SOOTT. I'm now a gude farmer, I've acres o' land, An' my heart aye loups light when I'm viewin' o't, An' I ha e servants at my command, An' twa dainty cowts for the plowin' o't. My farm is a snug ane, lies high on a muir, The muir-cocks an' plivers aft skirl at'my dOOf, An* whan the sky low'rs I'm aye sure o' a show'r, To moisten my land for the plowin' o't. Leeze me on the mailin that's fa'n to my share, It taks sax muckle bowes for the sawin' o't ; I've sax braid acres for pasture, an' mair, And a dainty bit bog for the mawin' o't. A spence an' a kitchen my mansion-house gi'es, I've a cantie wee wife to daut when I please, Twa bairnies, twa callans, that skelp ower the leas, An' they'll soon can assist at the plowin' o't. My biggan stands sweet on this south slopin' hill, An' the sun shines sae bonnily beamin' on't, An' past my door trots a clear prattlin' rill, Frae the loch, whare the wild ducks are swimmin' on't : An' on its green banks, on the gay summer days, My wifie trips barefoot, a-bleaching her claes, An' on the dear creature wi' rapture I gaze, While I whistle and sihg at the plowin' o't. To rank amang farmers I ha'e muckle pride, But' I mauna flpeak high whan I'm tellin' o't, How brawlie I strut on my sheltie to ride, Wi' a sample to show for the sellin' o't. In blue worset boots that my auld mither span, > I've aft been fu' Vanty sin' I was a man, But now they're flung by, an' I've bought 6orclivan, And my wifie ne'er grudg'd me a gMtira' o't. Sae now, whan tae kirk or tae market I gaey My weelfare,, what need I be hidin' o% ? In braw leather boots, shining black as the slae, I dink me to try the ridin' o't. 296 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Last towmond I sell'd off four bowes o' gude bere, An' thankfu' I was, for the victual was dear. An' I came hame wi' spurs on my heels shinin' clear, I had sic good luck at the sellin' o't. Now hairst time is owre, an' a fig for the laird, My rent's now secure for the toilin' o't ; My fields are a' bare, and my crap's in the yard, An' I'm nae niair in doubts o' the spoilin' o't. Now welcome gude weather, or wind, or come weet, Or bauld ragin' winter, wi' hail, snaw, or sleet, Nae mair can he draigle my crap 'mang his feet, Nor wraik his mischief, an* be spoilin' o't. An' on the dowf days, whan loud hurricanes blaw, Fu' snug i' the spence I'll be viewin' o't, An' jink the rude blast in my rush-theekit ha', Whan fields are seal'd up ftae- the plowin' o't. My bonnie wee wifie, the bairnies, an' me, The peat-stack, and turf-stack, our Phoebus shall be, Till day close the scoul o' its angry e'e, An' we'll rest in gude hopes o' the plowin' o't. HALUCKET MEG. RET. JAMES NICHOL, A native of Innerleithen, in Peebleshire, where he was born in 1793. He studied at the University of Edinburgh for the ministry, and for a long time was minister of Tra^uair. He died in 1819. Besides publishing two volumns of poetry, Mr. Niohol was a valued contributor to the Edin- burgh Encyclopaedia, &c. Meg, muckin' at Geordie's byre, Wrought as gin her judgment was wrang : Ilk daud o' the scartle strake fire, While, loud as a lavrock, she sang I Her Geordie had promised to marrie, An' Meg, a sworn fae to despair, Not dreamin' the job could miscarrie, Already seem'd mistress an' mair ! My 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 I An' now, 'bout my marriage they clatter, An' Geordie, poor fallow I they ca' An' auld doitet hav'rel !— Nae matter, He'll keep me aye brankin' an' braw ! CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 297 I grant ye, his face is kenspeckle, That the white o' his e'e is turn'd out, That his black beard is rough as a heckle, That his mou to his lug's rax'd about ; But they needna let on that he's crazie, His pike-staff 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' glide goud in his kist, An' if siller comes at my wordie, His beauty, I never wull miss't ! Daft gouks, wha catch fire like tinder, Think love-raptures ever will burn ! But wi' poortith, hearts het as a cinder, Wull cauld as an iceshogle turn ! There'll just be ae bar to my pleasure, A bar that's aft fill'd me wi' fear, He's sic a hard, ne'er-be-gawn miser, He likes hiB saul less than his gear! But though I now flatter his failin', An' swear nought wi' goud can compare, G-ude sooth 1 it sail soon get ascailin'! His bags sail be mouldie nae mair 1 I dream't that I rode in a chariot, A flunkie ahint me in green ; While Geordie cried out, he was harriet, An' the saut t'eer was blindin' his een; But though 'gainst my spsndin' he swear aye, I'll ha'e frae him what ser's my turn ; Let him slip awa' whan he grows wearie, Shame fa' me ! gin lang I wad mourn ! But Geordie, while Meg was haranguin', Was cloutin' his breeks i' the bauks, An' when a' his failins she brang in, His Strang, hazle pike-staff he taks : Designin' to rax her a lounder, He chanced on the lather to shift, An' down frae the bauks, flat's a flounder, Flew, like a shot-starn frae the lift 1 But Meg, wi' the sight, was quite haster'd, An' nae doubt, was bannin' ill luck; While the face o' poor Geordie was plaster'd, And his mbu' was fill'd fu' wi' the muck I 298 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Confound ye.! cried Geordie, an' spat out The glaur that adown his beard ran ;— Preserve us 1 quo' Meg, as she gat out The door,— an' thus lost a gudeman ! MY DEAR LITTLE LASSIE. EEV. JAMES NICHOL. My dear little lassie, why, what's a 1 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 Beekdng, Yet, lassie, I kenha weel what I wad seek. Thy praise, bonnie lassie, I ever could hear of, And yet when to ruse ye the neebour lads try, Though it's a' true they tell ye, yet never sae far off, I could see 'em ilk ane, an' I canna tell why. When we tedded the hayfield, I raked ilka rig o't, And never grew 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. WHERE QUAIE KINS SWEET. EEV. JAMES NICHOL. Where Quair rins sweet amang the flowers, Down by yon woody glen, lassie, My cottage stands — it shall be yours, Gin ye will be my ain, lassie. I'll watch ye wi' a lover's care, And wi' a lover's e'e, lassie ; I'll weary heaven wi' mony a prayer, And ilka prayer for thee, lassie. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 299 'Tis true I We ua mickle gear;; My stock it's unco sma, lassie ; Nae fine-spun foreign -daes I wear, Nor servants tend my oa', lassie. But had I heir'd the British crown, And thou o' low degree, lassie, A rustic lad I wad ha'e grpwa, Or shared that crown wi' thee, lassie. Whenever absent frae thy sight, Nae pleasure smiles on me, lassie ; I climb the mountain's towering height, And east a look to thee, lassie. I blarne the blast blaws on thy cheek ; • The flower that decks thy hair, lassie, The gales that steal thy breath sae sweet, My loys and envy share, lassie. If for a heart that glows for thee, Thou wilt thy heart resign, lassie, Then come, my Nancy, come to me — That glowing heart is mine, lassie. Where Quair rins sweet amaug the flowers, Down by yon woody glen, lassie, My cottage stands— it shall be yours, Grin ye will be my ain, lassie. I HEARD THE EVENING LINNET'S VOICE. JOHN JTNLAT, A Native of Glasgow, author of '•' Wallace or the Vale of Ellerslie and other poems," and editor of two volumes of Scottish Ballads. He died in 1810, in his twenty-eighth year. I heard the evening linnet's voice the woodland tufts among, Yet sweeter were the tender notes of Isabella's song I So soft into the ear they steal, so soft into the soul, The deep'ning pain of love they soothe, and sorrow's pang control. I looked upon the pure brook that murmur'd through the glade, , And mingled in the melody that Isabella made ; Yet purer was the residence of Isabella's heart ! Above the reach of pride and guile, above the reach of art. I look'd upon the azure of the deep unclouded sky, Yet clearer was the blue serene of Isabella's eye ! Ne'er softer fell the rain drop of the first relenting year, Than falls from Isabella's eye the pity-melted tear. 300 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND All this my fancy prompted, ere a sigh of sorrow prov'd How hopelessly, yet faithfully, and tenderly I lov'd ; Yet though bereft, of hope I love, still will I love the more, As distance binds the exile's heart to his dear native shore. THE SOMEEVILLE TESTAMENT. ROBERT LOCHORE, A Native of Strathaven in Lanarkshire, where he was born in 1762. He carried on business in Glasgow as a Bootmaker, and oeenpied several pro- minent positions in the government of the city. He died in 1852. Now, Jenny lass, my honnie bird, My daddy's dead, an' a' that ; He's snugly laid aneath the yird, And I'm his heir, an' a' that. I'm now a laird, an' a' that ; I'm now a laird, an' a' that ; His gear an' land's at my command, And muckle mair than a' that. He left me wi' his deein' breath A dwallin' house, an' a' that ; A barn, a byre, an' wabs o' claith — A big peat-stack, an' a' that. A mare, a foal, an' a' that, A mare, a foal, an' a' that, Sax guid fat kye, a oauf forby, An' twa pet ewes, an' a' that. A yard, a meadow, lang braid leas, An' stacks o' corn an' a' that — Enclosed weel wi' thorns an' trees ; An' carts, an' cars, an' a' that. A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that, A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that ; Guid harrows twa, cock, hens, an' a'— A gricie too, an' a' that. I've heaps o' olaes for ilka days, For Sundays too, an' a' that ; I've bills an' bonds, on lairds an' lands, An' siller, gowd, an' a' that. "What think ye, lass, o' a' that ? What think ye, lass, o' a* that ? What want I noo, my dainty doo, But just a wife to a' that I CHRONOLOGICALLY ABRADED. 301 Now, Jenny dear, my errand here, Is to seek ye to a' that ; My heart's a' loupin' while I speer Gin ye'll tak' me, wi' a' that. MyBel', my gear, an' a' that, Mysel', my gear, an' a' that; Come, gi'e's your loof to be a proof Ye'll be a wife to a' that. Syne Jenny laid her neive in his, Said, she'd tak' him wi' a' that ; An' he gied her a hearty kiss, An' dauted her, an' a' that. They set a day, an' a' that, They set a day, an' a' that ; Whan she'd gang hame to be his dame, An' haud a rant, an' a' that. MAERIAGE AND THE CARE O'T. ROBEET LOOHOKH. Quoth Rab to Kate, My sonsy dear, I've woo'd ye mair than ha' a-year, An' if ye'd wed me ne'er cou'd speer, Wi' blateness, an' the care o't. Now to the point : sincere I'm wi't : Will ye be my ha'f-marrow, Bweet ? Shake han's, and say a bargain be't, An' ne'er think on the care o't. Na, na, quo' Kate, I winna wed, 0' sic a snare I'll aye be rede ; How mony, thochtless, are misled By marriage, an' the care o't ! A single life's a life o' glee, A wife ne'er think to mak' o' me, Frae toil an' sorrow I'll keep free, An' a' the dool an' care o't. Weel, weel, said Robin, in reply, Ye ne'er again shall me deny, Ye may a toothless maiden die For me, I'll tak' nae care o't. Fareweel for ever ! — aff I hie ; — Sae took his leave without a sigh ; Oh ! stop, quo' Kate, I'm yours, I'll try The married life, an' care o't. 302 THE SONGS OF SCOTLiiND Eab wheel't about, to Kate cam' back, An' ga'e her mou' a hearty smack, Syne lengtthen'd out a lovin? crack 'Bout marriage an' the care o't. Though as she thocht she didna speak, An' lookit unco mim an' meek, Yet blythe was shewi' Rab to cleek In marriage, wi' the- care o't. ROY'S WIFE OF AtDIVALLOCS. MBS. GRANT, OB CARBON, Born at Aberlour, Banffshire, in 1715 ; died at Bath about 1814. Sot's wife of Aldivalloch', Boy's wife of Aldivalloch, Wat ye how she cheated me. As I cam' o'er the braes o Balloch. She vow'd, she swore,, she wad, be mine, She said she lo'ed me best of ony ; But oh! the fickle, faithless quean, She'sta'en the carle; and left her Johnnie. Boy's wife of Aldivalloch, &c 0, she was a carfty quean, Weel could she dance the Highland walloch ; How happy I had she been mine 1 , Or I been Boy f Aldivalloch I Boy's wife of Aldivalloch, &c. Her face sae fair, her een sae clear, Her wee bit mou' sae sweet' and bonnie ; To me she ever will be dear, Though she?s for ever left her Johnnie. Boy's wife of Aldivallooh, &c. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 303 SAW YE MY WEE THING. HECTOR MAONEILL, Was born at Rose Bank, neai Edinburgh, 1746. He early began to weave his fancies into rhyme, and when comparatively young was well known amongst his acquaintances as a poet. His principal poems are "Scotland's Scaith; or, the History of Will and, Jean," "The Harp," and "The Waes o' War." It is, however,, on his songs that his fame prin- cipally depends. Macneill spent the greater part of his life abroad, holding positions at various times in Guadeloupe, Grenada, and Jamaica. He also served for some time in the navy as assistant Secretary to Admiral Geary, and afterwards to Admiral Sir Richard Bickerton. He finally re- turned to Scotland in 1800, and took up his residence in Edinburgh, where ho closed a life of much vicissitude and suffering in 1818. SAW ye my wee thing ? Saw ye my ain thing ? Saw ye my true loye down on yon lea ? Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at the gloamin' ? Sought she the burnie whar flow'rs the. haw tree ? Her hair it is lint-white ; her skin it is milk white ; Dark is the blue o' hor Baft rolling e'e ; Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses : — Whar could my wee thing wander frae me ? 1 saw na your wee thing, I saw na your ain thing, Nor saw I your true love down on yon lea ; But I met my bonnie thing late, in the gloamin', Down by the burnie whar flow'rs the haw tree. Her hair it was lint-white ; her skin it was milk-white ; Dark was the blue o' her saft rolling e'e ; Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses: Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to. me. It was na my wee thing, it was na my ain thing, It was na my true love ye met by the tree : Proud is her leal heart ! modest her nature ! She never lo'ed onie, till anoe she lo'ed me. Her name it is Mary ; she's frae Castle-Cary : Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee : — Pair as your face is; wai't fifty times fairer, Young braggpr, she ne'er would gi'e kisses to thee. It was then your Mary ; she's frae Castle-Ciary ; 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 ga'e to me. Sair gloom'd his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew, Wild flash'd the fire frae his red rolling e'e 1 — Ye's rue sair this morning your boasts and your, scorning : Defend ye, fause traitor! fu' loudly, ye lie. 304 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Awa' wi' begniliug, cried the youth, smiling : — Aff went the bonnet ; the lint-white locks flee ; The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing, Fair stood the lov'd maid wi' the dark rolling e'e I Is it my wee thing I is it my ain thing I Is it my true love here that I see ! Jamie forgi'e me ; your heart's constant to me ; I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee ! DINNA THINK, BONNIE LASSIE. HEGTOB MACNEILL. The last verse was added by Mr. John Hamilton. dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave thee ; Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave thee ; Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave thee j I'll tak' a stick into my hand, and come again and see thee. Par's the gate ye ha'e to gang ; dark's the night and eerie ; Par's the gate ye ha'e to gang ; dark's the night and eerie ; Par's the gate ye ha'e to gang ; dark's the night and eerie ; stay this night wi' your love, and dinna gang and leave me. It's but a night and hauf a day that I'll leave my dearie ; But a night and hauf a day that I'll leave my dearie ; But a night and hauf a day that I'll leave my dearie ; Whene'er the sun gaes west the loch, I'll come again and see thee. Dinna gang, my bonnie lad,- dinna gang and leave me; rig on my dearie. dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave thee ; Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave thee ; Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave thee; Whene'er the sun gaes out o' sight, I'll come again and see thee. Waves are rising o'er the sea ; winds blaw loud and fear me • Waves are rising o'er the sea; winds blaw loud and fear me; While the wind and waves do roar, I am wae and drearie And gin ye lo'e me as ye say, ye winna gang and leave me. U never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee • Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee ; Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee ; E'en let the world gang as it will, I'll stay at hame and cheer thee. Frae his hand_he_ coost his stick ; I winna gang and leave thee • Threw his plaid into the neuk ; never can I grieve thee ; Drew his boots, and flang them by ; cried, my lass, be cheerie ; 111 kiss the tear frae aff thy cheek, and never leave my dearie CHRONOLOGICALLT ARRANGED. 305 JEANIB'S BLACK E'E. HECTOR MAONEILL. The sun raise sae rosy, the grey hills adorning ; Light sprang the laverock and mounted sae hie ; When true to the tryst o' hlythe May's dewy morning, My Jeanie cam' linking out owre the green lea. To mark her impatience I crap 'mang the brakens : Aft, aft to the kent gate she turn'd her black e'e ; Then lying down dowylie, sigh'd by the willow tree, " Ha me mohatel na dousku me." 1 Saft through the green birks I sta' to my jewel, Streik'd on spring's carpet aneath the saugh tree ; Think na, dear lassie, thy Willie's been cruel, — " Ha me mohatel na dousku me." Wi' love's warm sensations I've mark'd your impatience, Lang hid 'mang the brakens I watch'd your black e'e. — You're no sleeping, pawkie Jean ; open thae lovely een ; — " Ha me mohatel na dousku me." Bright is the whin's bloom ilk green knowe adorning ; Sweet is the primrose bespangled wi' dew ; Yonder comes Peggy to welcome May morning ; Dark waves her haffet locks owre her white brow ; ! light, light she's dancing keen on the smooth gowany green, Barefit and kilted half up to the knee ; While Jeanie is sleeping still, I'll rin and sport my fill, — " I was asleep, and ye've waken'd me ! " I'll rin and whirl her round; Jeanie is sleeping sound ; Kiss her frae lug to lug — nae ane can see ; Sweet, sweet's her hinny mou. — " Will, I'm no sleeping now ; I was asleep, but ye've waken'd me." Laughing till like to drap, swith to my Jean I lap, Kiss'd her ripe roses, and blest her black e'e ; And aye since, whane'er we meet, sing, for the sound is sweet, " Ha me mohatel na dousku me." MY LUVE'S IN GERMANIE. EEOTOB MACNEILL. My luve's in Germanie ; Send him hame, send him hame ; My luve's in Germanie ; Send him hame. '"Ism asleep, do not waken me," a Gaelic chorus pronounced according to the present orthography. 306 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND My luve'a in G-ermanie, Fighting brave for royalty ; He may ne'er his Jeanie see ; Send him hame, send him hame ; He may ne'er his Jeanie see ; Send him hame. He's as brave as brave can be ; Send him hame, send him hame ; Our faes are ten to three ; Send him hame. Our faes are ten to three ; He maun either fa' or flee, In the cause of loyalty ; Send him hame, send him hame ; In the cause of loyalty ; Send him hame. Tour love ne'er learnt to flee, Bonnie dame, winsome dame ; Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, Winsome dame. Tour luve ne'er learnt to flee, But he fell in Grermanie, Fighting brave for loyalty Mournfu' dame, mournfu' dame ; Fighting brave for loyalty, Mournfu' dame. He'll ne'er come ower the sea ; Willie's slain, Willie's slain ; He'll ne'er come ower the sea ; , Willie's gane ! He will ne'er come ower the sea, To his luve and ain countrie : This warld's nae mair for me ; Willie's gane, Willie's gane ; This warld's nae mair for me : Willie's gane I THE WAT TO WOO. HECTOH MAONEILL. Oh tell me, oh tell me, bonnie young lassie, Oh tell me, young lassie, how for to woo ? Oh tell me, oh tell me, bonnie sweet lassie, Oh tell me, sweet lassie, how for to woo ? CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 307 Say, maun I roose your cheeks like the morning ? Lips like the roses fresh moisten'd wi' dew ? Say maun I roose your een's pawkie scorning ? Oh tell me, oh tell me, how for to woo ! Far ha'e I wander'd to see thee, dear lassie ! Far ha'e I ventured across the saut sea ! Far ha'e I ventured ower muirland and mountain, Houseless and weary, slept cauld on the lea ? Ne'er ha'e I tried yet to mak' luVe to ony, For ne'er loved I ony till ance I loved you ; Now we're alane in the green wood sae bonnie, Oh tell me, oh tell me, how for to woo ! What care I for your wand'ring, young laddie ! What care I for your crossing the sea 1 It was nae for naething ye left puir young Peggy ! It was for my tocher ye cam' to court me. Say ha'e ye gowd to busk me aye gaudy? Ribbons, and pearlins, and breist-knots enew ? A house that is cantie, wi' walth in't, my laddie ? Without this ye never need try for to woo ! I ha'e nae gowd to busk ye aye gaudy ! I canna buy pearlins and ribbons enew ! I've naething to brag o' house or o' plenty I I've little to gi'e but a heart that is true. I cam' na for tocher — I ne'er heard o' ony ; I never loved Peggy, nor e'er brak my vow : I've wander'd, puir fule, for a face fause as bonnie I I little thocht this was the way for to woo ! Ha'e na ye roosed my cheeks like the morning? Ha'e na ye roosed my cherry-red mou ? Ha'e na ye come ower sea, muir, and mountain ? What mair, my dear Johnnie, need ye for to woo ? Far ha'e ye wander'd, I ken, my dear laddie ! Now that ye've found me, there's nae cause to rue; Wi' health we'll ha'e plenty — I'll never gang gaudy : I ne'er wish'd for mair than a heart that is true. She hid her fair face in her true lover's bosom ; The saft tear of transport, flll'd ilk lover's e'e ; The burnie ran sweet by their side as they sabbit, And sweet sang the mavis abune on the tree. He clasp'd her, he press'd her, he ca'd her. his hinnie, And aften he tasted her hinnie-sweet mou' ; And aye, 'tween ilk kiss, she sigh'd to her Johnnie — Oh laddie !, oh laddie ! weel weel can ye woo ! 308 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND MY BOY, TAMMIE. HECTOK MAONEILL. Whab ha'e ye been a* day, My boy, Tammy ? I've been by burn and flow'ry brae, Meadow green and mountain grey, Courting o' this young thing, Just come ff ae her mammy. And whar gat ye that young thing, My boy, Tammy ? I got her down in yonder howe, Smiling on a bonnie knowe, Herding ae wee lamb and ewe, For her pqor 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 1 — She said she'd tell her mammy. I held her to my beating heart, , My young, my smiling lammie ! I ha'e a house, it cost me dear, I've wealth o' plenishen and gear ; Ye'se get it a', were't ten times mair, Gin ye will leave your mammy. The smile gaed aff her bonnie face — I maunna leave my mammy. She's gien me meat, she's gien me claes, She's been my comfort a' my days : — My father's death brought monie waes— I canna leave my mammy. Well tak' her hame and mak' her fain, My ain kind-hearted lammie. Well gi'e her meat, we'll gie her claise, Well be her comfort a' her days, The wee thing gi'es her hand, and says — There 1 gang and ask my mammy. Has she been to the kirk wi* thee, My boy, Tammy ? She has been to the kirk wi' me, And the tear was in her e'e ; For 1 she's but a young thing, Just come frae her mammy. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 309 COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE. HECTOR MAGNEILL. Come under my plaidie ; the night's gaun to fa' ; Come in frae the oauld 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. G-ae 'wa wi' your plaidie I auld Donald, gae 'wa, I fear na the cauld blast, the drift, nor the snaw ! Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie I Til no sit beside ye ; Ye micht be my gutcher I auld Donald, gae 'wa. I'm gaun to meet Johnnie — he's young and he's bonnie ; He's been at Meg's bridal, fu' trig and fu' braw ! Nane dances sae lichtly, sae gracefu', or tichtly, His cheek's like the new rose, his brow's like the snaw ! Dear Marion, let that nee stick fast to the wa' ; Your Jock's but a gowk, and has naething ava ; The haill o' his pack he has now on his back; He's thretty, and I am but threescore and twa. Be frank now and kindly — I'll busk ye aye finely ; To kirk or to market there'll few gang sae braw ; A bein house to bide in, a chaise for to ride in, And flunkies to 'tend ye as aft as ye ca\ My father aye tauld me, my mother and a', Ye'd.mak' a gude husband, and keep me aye braw ; It's true, I lo'e Johnnie ; he's young and he's bonnie ; But, wae's me ! I ken he has naething ava 1 I ha'e little tocher ; ye've made a gude offer ; I'm now mair than twenty ; my time is but sma' ! Sae gi'e me your plaidie ; I'll creep in beside ye ; I thocht ye'd been aulder than three score and twa ! She crap in ayont him, beside the stane wa', Whare Johnnie was listnin', and heard her tell a' : The day was appointed ! — his proud heart it dunted, And strack 'gainst his side, as if burstin' in twa. He wander'd hame wearie, the nioht it was drearie, And, thowless, he tint his gate 'mang the deep snaw : The howlet was screaming, while Johnnie cried, Women Wad marry auld Nick, if he'd keep them aye braw. 0, the deil's in the lasses ! they gang now sae braw, They'll lie down wi' auld men o' four score and twa : The haill o' their marriage is gowd and a carriage ; Plain love is the cauldest blast now that can blaw. 310 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Auld dotards, be wary 1 tak' tent wha you marry ; Young wives, wi' their coaches, they'll whip and they'll ca', Till they meet wi' some Johnnie that's youthfti' and bonnie, And they'll gi'e ye horns on ilk haffet to claWi I NE'ER LO'ED A. LADDIE BUT ANE. HEOTOK MACNEJXL, With the exception of the first eight lines which formed part of a song, written by Bev. John Clunie of Borthwick. I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane ; He lo'ed ne'er a lassie but me ; He's willing to mak' me his ain ; And his ain I am willing to be. He has coft me a rockelay o' blue, And a pah" o' mittens o' green ; The price was a kiss o' my mou' ; And I paid him the debt yestreen. Let ithers brag weel o' their gear, Their land, and their lordly degree ; I carena for aught but my dear, For he's ilka thing lordly to me : His words are sae sugar'd, sae sweet I His sense drives ilk fear far awa' 1 I listen, poor fool I and I greet j Yet how sweet are the tears as they fa' I Dear lassie, he cries wi' a jeer, Ne'er heed what the auld anes will say; Though we've little to brag o'— ne'er fear ; What's gowd to a heart that is wae ? Our laird has baith honours and wealth, Yet see how he's dwining wi' care ; Now we, though we've naething but health, Are cantie and leal everrnair. Maripn-I the heart that is true, Has something mair costly than gear ; Ilk e'en it has naething to rue — Ilk morn it has naething to fear, Ye warldlings, ga'e hoard up your store,' And tremble for fear ought you tyne ; Guard your treasures wi' lock, bar, and door, While here in my arms I lock mine ! He ends wi' a kiss and a smile — Wae's me, can I tak' it amiss ! My laddie's unpractised in guile, He's free aye to daut and to kiss 1 CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 311 Ye lasses wha lo'e to torment Your wooers wi' fause scorn and strife, Play your pranks — I ha'e gi'en my consent, And this night I am Jamie's for life. THE FLOWER 0' DUNBLANE. BOBEET TANNAIHLL, The greatest of Paisley's Poets was born on the 3rd of June, 1774. His parents were poor and unable to give Robert, one of a family of seven, more than the merest rudiments of education, and at a very early age he was apprenticed a weaver, at that time one of the most lucrative, and number- ing among its ranks the most intelligent, trades in Scotland. He worked at his trade in Paisley till the year 1800, when he removed to Bolton in Lancashire, where he worked for about two years. He then, on receiving intelligence of his father's approaching death, returned to his native town. He had been known for some time past among his townsmen as a Ehym- ster ; he now began to be appreciated as a Poet. "Blythe was the time," " Keen blaws the wind," and other songs were floating about Paisley in manuscript, and one of them being sung in presence of B. A. Smith, the composer, he earnestly desired an introduction to the Poet. This was affected, and they became firm friends. Smith composed airs for many of his friend's songs, and they became so popular that in 1807 Tannahill ventured to publish a small volume of his poems. It was a great success, the impression being sold off in a few weeks. His fame was now firmly established, and of course he became one of the lions of his neighbourhood. He was largely sought after to enter into the life of a provincial town and merry-meetings. Taverns, and oc- casional bursts of sheer debauchery tended to make him miserable, and his misery was deepened by the rejection of several of his songs by Mr. George Thomson, and the refusal of Constable, the publisher, to risk a new issue of his poenis. In the early part of 1810, he received a visit from James Hogg, — the Ettrick Shepherd, who visited Paisley for the express purpose of seeing him. " They spent one night in each other's company," says Mr. Ramsay (to whose biography of the Poet we are indebted for the particulars in this sketch), "and, ere they parted, Tannahill convoyed the Shepherd on foot, halfway to Glasgow. It was a melancholy adieu our author gave him. He grasped his hand, and with tears in his eyes said, "Farewell, we shall never meet again, — Farewell* I shall never see you more !" — a prediction which was too soon to be verified. In a letter to one of his friends he noticed this meeting with manifest nride. The gloom, dispelled for a while by this incident, seems to have closed over Mm again darker than ever. His health failed, and even his mind at times seems to have been affected. He visited a friend in Glasgow, who considered his mental and physical condition such as induced hi™ to personally attend him back to Paisley. On the night of his return he retired to rest more tranquil than usual; about an hour afterwards it was discovered that he had stolen from the house: a search was instantly 312 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND begun, but it was not till the morning that his coat was found lying by the side of a deep pond from which his body was soon afterwards recovered. And thus, on the 17th of May, 1810, was a poet lost to Scotland, who ranks second only to Burns as a song-writer. His genius never seems to have been properly developed, and the consequence is, that a more unequal production than the volume containing his poems is not to be found. Between " Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane," and the song beginning " From the rude bustling camp," there is a wide difference ; but, if we compare one of his best songs with any of his poems, the difference is still wider. It is as a song- writer that be will be loved and remembered, and principally for the songs in praise of the scenery and objects surrounding his native town. The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lonely I stray, in the calm simmer gloamin', To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane. 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 flower o' Dunblane. She's modest as onie, and blythe as she's bonnie ; For guileless simplicity marks her its ain j And far be the villain, divested o' feeling, Wha'd blight' in its bloom the sweet flower o' Dunblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen ; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the flower of Dunblane. How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie ! The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain ; I ne'er saw a nymph I could ca' my dear lassie, Till charm'd wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane. 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 flower o' Dunblane. WALLACE. TANNAHUX. Thou dark winding Carron once pleasing to see, To me thou can'st never give pleasure again, My brave Caledonians lie low on the lea, And thy streams are deep ting'd with the blood of the slain. ' Twas base-hearted treach'ry that doom'd our undoing, — My poor bleeding country, what more can I do ? Even valour looks pale o'er the red field of ruin, And freedom beholds her best warriors laid low. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 313 Farewell, ye dear partners of peril ! farewell ! Tho' buried ye lie in one wide bloody grave, Your deeds shall ennoble the place where ye fell, And your names be enroll'd with the sons of the brave. But I, a poor outcast, in exile must wander, Perhaps, like a traitor ignobly must die ! On thy wrongs, my country ! indignant I ponder — Ah ! woe to the hour when thy Wallace must fly ! LOUDON'S BONNIE WOODS AND BEAES. EOBEET TAJTNAHILL. Loudon's bonnie woods and braes, I maun leave them a', lassie ; Wha can thole when Britain's faes Would gi'e to Britons law, lassie ? Wha would shun the field o' danger ? Wha to fame would live a stranger ? Now when Freedom bids avenge her, Wha would shun her ca', lassie ? Loudon's bonnie woods and braes, Ha'e seen our happy bridal days, And gentle hope shall soothe thy waes, When I am far awa', lassie. Hark! the swelling bugle rings, Yielding joy to thee, laddie ; But the dolefu' bugle brings Waefu' thochts to me, laddie. Lanely I may climb the mountain, Lanely stray beside the fountain, Still the weary moments counting, Far frae love and thee, laddie. Ower the gory fields o' war, Where Vengeance drives his crimson car, Thou'lt may be fa' frae me afar, And nane to close thy e'e, laddie. Oh, resume thy wonted smile. Oh, suppress thy fears, lassie ; Glorious honour crOwns the toil That the soldier shares, lassie : Heaven will shield thy faithful lover, Till the vengeful strife is, over ; Then we'll meet, nae mair to sever, Till the day we dee, lassie : Midst our bonnie woods and braes, We'll spend our peaceful happy days, As blythe's yon lichtsome lamb that plays On Loudon's flowery lea, lassie. 314 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND THE BRAES 0' GLENIFFER. ROBERT TtW XAWTTT ., Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Grleniffer, The auld castle turrets are covered wi' snaw, How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover, Amang the broom bushes by Stanley green shaw. The wild flowers o' simmer were spread a' sae bonnie, The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree ; But far to the camp they ha'e march'd my dear Johnnie, And now it is winter wi' nature and me. Then ilk thing around us was blythesome 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 treeB are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie, They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee : And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie ; 'Tis winter wi' them and 'tis winter wi' me. Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs along the bleak mountain, And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae, While down the deep glen brawls the snaw-flooded fountain, That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me. It's no its loud roar on the wintry winds swellin', It's no the cauld blast brings the tear to my e'e ; For, ! gin I saw but my bonnie Scots callan, The dark days o' winter were simmer to me. THE BRAES 0* BALQUHITHER. EOBKBT TANBAHILL. Let us go, lassie, go, To the braes o' Balquhither, Where the blae-berries grow 'Mang the bonny Highland heather ; Where the deer and the rae, Lightly bounding together, Sport the lang simmer day On the braes ,o' Balquhjther. I will twine thee a bower, By the clear siller fountain, And I'll cover it o'er Wi' the flowers o' the mountain ; I will range through the wilds, And the deep glens sae dreary, And return wi' their spoils To the bower o' my deary. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 315 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 simmer is in prime, Wi' the flowers richly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme, A' the moorlands perfuming ; To our dear native scenes, Let us journey together, Where glad innocence reigns, 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither. CROCKSTON CASTLE. ROBERT TANNAHILL. Through Crockston Castle's lanely wa's, The wintry wind howls wild and dreary ; Though mirk the cheerful e'ening fa's, Yet I ha'e vow'd to meet my Mary. Tes, Mary, though the winds should rave Wi' jealous spite to keep me frae thee, The darkest stormy night I'd brave, For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee. Loud o'er Cardonald's rocky steep, Rude Cartha pours in boundless measure, But I will ford the whirling deep, That roars between me and my treasure. Tes, Mary, though the torrent rave With jealous spite to keep me frae thee, Its deepest floods I'd bauldly brave, For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee. The watch-dog's howling loads the blast, And makes the nightly wand'rer eerie, But when the lonesome way is past, I'll to this bosom clasp my Mary. Yes, Mary, though stern Winter rave, With a' his storms, to keep me frae thee, The wildest dreary night I'd brave", For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee. 316 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND 0, ARE YE SLEEPIN', MAGGIE? EOBEET TANNAH1LL. 0, are ye sleepin', Maggie ? 0, are ye sleepin', Maggie ? , Let me in, for loud the linn Is roarin' o'er the warlock craigie ! Mirk and rainy is the night ; No a starn in a' the carie ; Lightnings gleam athwart the lift, And winds drive on wi' winter's fury. Fearfu' soughs the boor-tree bank ; The rifted wood roars wild and drearies ; Loud the iron yett does clank ; And cry o' howlets maks me eerie. Aboon my breath I daurna speak, For fear I raise your waukrife daddy ; Cauld's the blast upon my cheek ; rise, rise, my bonnie lady 1 She oped the door ; she let him in ; He cuist aside his dreepin' plaidie ; Blaw your warst, ye rain and win', Since, Maggie; now I'm in beside ye ! Now, since ye're waukin', Maggie, Now, since ye're waukin', Maggie, What care I for howlet's cry, For boor-tree bank and warlock craigie? THE LASS 0' AEEANTEENIE. ROBERT TANNAHTLL. 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 naught to me, when gaun to thee, Sweet lass o' Arranteenie. Ton mossy rose-bud down the howe, Just opening fresh and bonny, It blinks beneath the hazel bough, And's scarcely seen by ony. Sae sweet amidst her native hills, Obscurely blooms my Jeanie, Mair fair and gay than rosy May, The flower o' Arranteenie. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 317 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 o' Arranteenie. GLOOMY WINTER'S NOW AWA\ ROBERT TANNAHILL. Gloomt winter's now awa , Saft the westlin' breezes blaw : 'Mang the birks o* Stanley-shaw The mavis sings fu' cheerie, 0. Sweet the craw-flower's early bell Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell, Blooming like thy bonnie sel', My young, my artless dearie, 0. Come, my lassie, let us stray O'er Glenkilloch's' sunny brae, Blithely spend the gowden day 'Midst joys that never wearie 0. Towering o'er the Newton woods, Laverocks fan the snaw-white clouds ; Siller saughs, wi' downie buds, Adorn the banks sae brierie, 0. Bound the Bylvan fairy nooks, Feath'ry braikens fringe the rocks, 'Neath the brae the burnie jouks, And ilka thing is cheerie, 0. Trees may bud, and birds may sing, Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring, Joy to me they canna bring, Unless wi' thee, my dearie, 0. BONNIE WOOD OP CBAIGIE-LEA. ROBERT TAHNAHTLL. Thou bonnie wood of Oraigie-lea, Thou bonnie wood of Craigie-lea, Near thee I pass'd life's early day, And won my Mary's heart in thee. 318 THE SONGS OP SCOTLAND The broom, the brier, the birken bush, Bloom bonnie o'er thy flowery lea, An' a' the sweets that ane can wish Frae nature's hand are strew'd on thee. Thou bonnie wood, &c. Far ben thy dark-green planting's shade, The cushat croodles am'rouslyj The mavis, down thy buchted glade, Gars echo ring frae every tree. Thou bonnie wood, &c. Awa'i ye thoughtless, murd'ring gang, Wha tear the nestlings ere they flee I They'll sing you yet a canty sang, Then, in pity let them be I Thou bonnie wood, &c. When winter blaws in sleety showers, Frae aff the Norlan' hills sae hie, He lightly skiffs thy bonnie bowers, As laith to harm a flower in thee. Thou bonnie wood, &o. Though fate should drag me south the line, Or o'er the wide Atlantic sea ; The happy hours I'll ever min' That I in youth ha'e spent in thee. Thou bonnie wood, &c. LANGSYNE. EOBEET TAMNABHiL. Langsyne, beside the woodland burn, Amang the broom sae yellow, I lean'd me 'neath the milkwhite thorn, On nature's mossy pillow ; A' 'round my seat the flowers were Btrew'd, That frae the wildwood I had pu'd^ To weave myseF a simmer snood, To pleasure my dear fellow. I twined the woodbine round the rose, Its richer hues to mellow, Green sprigs of fragrant birk I chose, To busk the sedge sae yellow. The craw-flower blue, and meadow-pink, I wove in primrose-braided link, But little, little did I think, I should have wove the willow. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 319 My bonnie lad was forced afar, Toss'd on the raging billow, Perhaps he's fa'n in bluidy war, Or wreck'd on rooky shallow ; Yet aye I hope for his return, As round our wonted haunts I mourn, And aften by the woodland burn, I pu' the weeping willow. MARJORY MILLER. ROBEKT TANNASHL. Lodder than the trump of fame Is the voice of Marjory Miller ; Time, the wildest beast can tame, She's eternally the same : Loud the mill's incessant clack, Loud the clank of Vulcan's hammer, Loud the deep-mouth'd cataract, But louder far her dinsome clamour ! Nought on earth can eqiial be To lie noise of Marjory. Calm succeeds the tempest's roar, Peace does follow war's confusion, Dogs do bark and soon give o'er, But she barks for evermore : Loud's the sounding bleachfield horn, But her voice is ten times louder ! Red's the sun on winter morn, But her face is ten times redder I She delights in endless strife, Lord preserve's from such a wife ! YE WOOER LADS WHA GREET AN' GRANE. BOEEBT TAMNAHTTJi. Ye wooer lads wha greet an' grane, Wha preach an' fleech, an' mak' a mane, An' pine yoursels to skin and bane, Come a' to Galium Brogach : I'll learn you here the only art, To win a bonnie lassie's heart — Just tip wi' gowd Love's siller dart, Like- dainty Galium Brogaeh. 320 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND I ca'd her aye my sonsie dow, The fairest flower that e'er I knew ; Yet, like a scrapie spankie grew, She fled frae Galium Brogach ;, But soon's she heard the guinea ring, She turn'd as I had been a king, Wi' " Tak' my hand, or ony thing, Dear, dainty Callum Brogach." It's gowd can mak' the blind to see, Can bring respect whare nane would be, And Cupid ne'er shall want his fee Frae dainty Callum Brogach : Nae mair wi' greetin' blind your een, Nae mair wi' sichin' warm the win', But hire the gettlin for your frien', Like dainty Callum Brogach. YE ECHOES THAT RING. ROBERT TAHKATTTT,L. Ye echoes that ring round the woods of Bowgreen, Say, did ye e'er listen sae melting a strain, When lovely young Jessie gaed wand'ring unseen, And sung of her laddie, the pride of the plain ? Aye she sung, '*Willie, my bonny young Willie ! There's no a sweet flow'r on the mountain or valley, Mild blue spreckl'd crawfiow'r, nor wild woodland lily, But tines a' its sweets in my bonny young swain. Thou goddess of love, keep him constant to me, Else, with'ring in sorrow, poor Jessie shall die I " Her laddie had stray'd through the dark leafy wood, His thoughts were a' fix'd on his dear lassie's charms, He heard her sweet voice, all transported he stood, 'Twas the soul of his wishes — he flew to her arms. " No, my dear Jessie ! my lovely young Jessie ! Through summer, through winter I'll daut and caress thee, Thou'rt dearer than life ! thou'rt my ae only lassie ! Then, banish thy bosom these needless alarms ; Yon red setting sun sooner changeful shall be, Ere wav'ring in falsehood I wander frae thee." MY WINSOME MAEY. ROBERT TAMtAKTT.il. Fortune, frowning most severe, Forced me from my native dwelling, Parting with my friends so dear, Cost me many a bitter tear : CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 321 But, like the clouds of early day, Soon my sorrows fled away, When blooming sweet, and smiling gay, I met my winsome Mary. "Wha can sit with gloomy brow, Blest with sic a charming lassie ? Native scenes, I think on you, Yet the change I canna' rue : Wand'ring many a weary mile, Fortune seem'd to low'r, the While, But now she's gi'en me, for the toil, My bonnie winsome Mary. Though our riches are but few, Faithful love is aye a treasure — Ever cheery, kind, and true, Nane but her I e'er can lo'e. Hear me, a' ye powers above!! Powers of sacred truth and love ! "While I live I'll constant prove To my dear winsome Mary. YE DEAB KOMANTIC SHADES. BOBEBT TANNAHTLL. Far from the giddy court of mirth, Where sick'ning follies reign, By Levern banks I wander forth To hail each sylvan scene. All hail ! ye dear romantic shades ! Te banks, ye woods, and sunny glades ! Here oft the musing poet treads In Nature's riches great ; 'Contrasts the country with the town, Makes nature's beauties all his own, And, borne on fancy's wings, looks down On empty pride and fate. By dewy dawn, or sultry noon, Or sober evening gray, I'll often quit the dinsome town, -By Levern banks to stray; Or from the upland's mossy brow, Enjoy the fancy-pleasing view Of streamlets, woods, and fields below, A sweetly varied scene ! Give riches to the miser's care, Let folly shine in fashion's glare, Give me the •wealth of peace and health, With all their happy train. 322 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND THE HIGHLANDER'S INVITATION. EOBEET TANNAHILL. Will you come to the board I've prepared for you? Your drink shall be good, of the true Highland blue; Will you, Donald, will you, Callum, come to the board ? There each shall be great as her own native lord. There'll be plenty of pipe, and a glorious supply Of the good sneesh-te-bacht, and the fine cut-an-dry , Will you, Donald, will you, Callum, come then at e'en ? There be some for the stranger, but more for the frien'. There we'll drink foggy Care to his gloomy abodes, And we'll smoke till we sit in the clouds like the gods ; Will you, Donald, will you, Callum, won't you do so ? 'Tis the way that our forefathers did long ago. And we'll drink to the Cameron, we'll drink to Lochiel, And, for Charlie, we'll drink all the French to the de'il. Will you, Donald, will you, Callum, drink there until There be heads lie like peats if hersel' had her will ! There be groats on the land, there be fish in the sea, And there's fouth in the coggie for friendship and me ; Come then, Donald, come then, Callum, come then to-night, Sure the Highlander be first in the fuddle and- the fight. RAB EORYSON'S BONNET. EOBEBT TANNAHTLL. Ye'll a' hae heard tell o' Rab Roryson's bonnet, Ye'll a' hae heard tell o' Rab Roryson's bonnet ; 'Twas no for itsel', 'twas the head that was in it, Gar'd a' bodies talk o' Rab Roryson's bonnet. This bonnet, that theekit his wonderfu' head, Was his shelter in winter, in summer his shade ; And, at kirk or at market, or bridals, I ween, A braw gawcier bonnet there never was seen. Wi' a round rosy tap, like a muckle blackboyd, It was slouch'd just a kenning on either hand side : Some maintain'd it was black, some maintain'd it was blue, It had something o' baith as a body may trow. But, in sooth, I assure you, for ought that 1 saw, Still his bonnet had naething uncommon ava ; Tho' the haill parish talk'd o' Rab Roryson's bonnet, 'Twas a 1 for the marvellous head that was in it. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 323 That head — let it rest — it is now in the moola, Though in life a' the warld beside it were fools ; Yet o' what kind o' wisdom his head was possest, Nane e'er kent but himsel', sae there's nana that will miss't. WHILE THE GEAY-PINIONED LABK. ROBERT TANNAHILL. While the gray-pinion'd lark early mounts to the skies, And cheerily hails the sweet dawn, And the sun, newly risen, sheds the mist from his eyes, And smiles over mountain and lawn ; Delighted I stray by the fairy-wood side, Where the dew-drops the erowflowers adorn, And Nature, array'd in her midsummer's pride, Sweetly smiles to the smile of the morn. Ye dark waving plantings, ye green shady bowers, Your charms ever varying I view : My soul's dearest transports, my happiest hours, Have owed half their pleasure to you. Sweet Perguslie, hail ! thou'rt the dear sacred grove, Where first my young Muse spread her wing ; Here Nature first wak'd me to rapture and love, And taught me her beauties to sing. THE WANDERING BAED. ROBERT TANNAHILL. Chill the wintry winds were blowing, Foul the murky night was snowing, Through the storm the minstrel, bowing, Sought the inn on yonder XQOor. All within was warm and cheery, All without was cold and dreary, There the wanderer, old and weary, Thought to pass the night secure. Softly rose his mournful ditty, Suiting to his tale of pity ; But the master, scoffing, witty, Check'd his strain with scornful jeer ; " Hoary vagrant, frequent comer, Canst thou guide thy gains of summer ?— No, thou old intruding thrummer, Thou canst have no lodging here." 324 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Slow the bard departed, sighing ; Wounded worth forbade replying ; One last feeble effort trying, _ Faint he sunk no more to rise. Through his harp the breeze sharp ringing, "Wild his dying dirge waB singing, While his soul, from insult springing, Sought its mansion in the skies. Now, though wintry winds be blowing, Night be foul, with raining, snowing, Still the traveller, that way going, Shuns the inn upon the moor. Though within 'tis warm and cheery, Though without 'tis cold and dreary, Still he minds the minstrel weary, Spurn'd from that unfriendly door. FROM THE RUDE BUSTLING CAMP. ROBERT TAMNAHTI.T,. From the' rude bustling c&mp, to the calm rural plain, I'm come, my dear Jeanie, to bless thee again; Still burning for honour our warriors may roam, But the laurel I wish'd for I've won it at home ; All the glories of conquest no joy could impart, When far from the kind little girl of my heart : Now, safely return'd, I will leave thee no more, But love my dear Jeanie till life's latest hour. The sweets of retirement how pleasing to me ! Possessing all worth, my dear Jeanie, in thee ! Our flocks early bleating will make us to joy, And our raptures exceed the warm tints in the sky ; In sweet rural pastimes our days still will glide, Till Time, looking back, will admire at his speed ! Still blooming in virtue, though youth then be o'er, I'll love my dear Jeanie till life's latest hour. COGGIE, THOU HEALS ME. ROBERT TANNAHILL. Dorothy sits i' the cauld ingle neuk ; Her red rosy neb's like a labster tae, Wi' girning, her mou's like the gab o' the fleuk, Wi' smoking, her teeth's like the jet o' the slae. And aye she sings "Weel's me!" aye she sing "Weel's me! Coggie, thou heals me, coggie, thou heals me ; Aye my best friend, wnen there's ony thing ails me : Ne'er shall we part till the day that I die." CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 325 Dorothy ance was a weel tocher'd lass, Had charms like her neighbours, and lovers enew, But she spited them sae wi' her pride and her sauce, They left her for thretty lang simmers to rue. Then aye she sang "Waes me!" aye she sang "Waes me! I'll turn crazy, I'll turn crazy ! Naething in a' the wide world can ease me, De'il take the wooers — what shall, I do ! " Dorothy, dozen'd wi' living her lane, Pu'd at her rock, wi' the tear in her e'e, She thocht on the braw merry days that were gane, And coft a wee cpggie for companie. Now aye she sings " Weel's me ! " aye she sings " WeePs me ! Coggie, thou heals me, coggie, thou heals me ; Aye my best friend, when there's ony thing ails me : Ne'er shall we part till the day that I die." SAIB I BUE THE WITLESS WISH. HOBERT TANNAHTLL. SAIR I rue the witless wish, That gar'd me gang with you at e'en, And sair I rue the birken bush, That screen'd us wi' its leaves sae green. And though ye vow'd ye wad be mine, The tear o' grief aye dims my e'e, For ! I'm fear'd that I may tine The love that ye ha'e promised me ! While ithers seek their e'ening sports, 1 wander, dowie, a' my lane, For when I join their glad resorts, Their daffing gi'es me meikle pain, Alas ! it was na* sae shortsyne, When a' my nights were' spent wi' glee ; But, ! I'm fear'd that I may tine The love that ye ha'e promis'd 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. 326 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND FLY WE TO SOME DESERT ISLE. BOBERT TANNAHILL. Flt we to some desert isle, There we'll pass our days together, Shun the world's derisive smile, Wandering tenants of the heather : Shelter'd in some lonely glen, Far removed from mortal ken, Forget the selfish ways o' men, Nor feel a wish beyond each other. Though my friends deride me still, Jamie, I'll disown thee never ; Let them scorn me as they will, I'll be thine — and thine for ever. What are a' my kin to me, A' their pride o' pedigree ? What were life if wanting thee, And what were death, if we maun sever ! I'LL HIE ME TO THE SHIELING HILL. BOBEBT TANNAHTLL. I'll hie me to the shieling hill, And bide amang the braes, Callum, Ere I gang to Crochan mill, I'll live on hips and slaes, Callum. Wealthy pride but ill can hide Your runkl'd, mizzly shins, Callum, Lyart pow, as white's the tow, And beard as rough's the whins, Callum. Wily woman aft deceives I Sae ye'll think, I ween, Callum, Trees may keep their wither'd leaves, 'Till ance they get the green, Callum. Blithe young Donald's won my heart, Has my willing vow, Callum, Now, for a' your couthy art, I winna marry you, Callum. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 327 THE FLOWER ON LEVEN SIDE. ROBERT TANNAHILL. Ye sunny braes that skirt the Clyde Wi' simmer flowers sae braw, There's ae sweet flower on Leven side, That's fairer than them a' : Yet aye it droops its head in wae, Kegardless o' the sunny ray, And wastes its sweets frae day to day, Beside the lonely shaw ; Wi' leaves a' steep'd in sorrow's dew, Fause, cruel man, it seems to rue, Wha aft the sweetest flower will pu', Then rend its heart in twa. Thou bonny flow'r on Leven side, gin thou'lt be but mine ; I'll tend thee wi' a lover's pride, Wi' love that ne'er shall tine ; I'll take thee to my sheltering bower, And shield thee frae the beating shower, Unharm'd by ought thou'lt bloom secure Frae a' the blasts that blaw : Thy charms surpass the crimson dye That streaks the glowing western sky, But here, unshaded, soon thou'lt die, And lone will be thy fa'. OUE BONNIE SCOTS LADS. ROBERT TANNAHILL. Our bonnie Scots lads, in their green tartan plaids, Their blue-belted bonnets, and feathers sae braw, Kank'd up on the green were fair to be' seen, But my bonnie young laddie was fairest of a', His cheeks were as red as the sweet heather-bell, Or the red western cloud looking down on the snaw, His lang yellow hair o'er his braid shoulders fell, And the een o' the lasses were fix'd on him a'. My heart sunk wi' wae on the wearifu' day, When torn frae my bosom they march'd him awa', He bade me farewell, he cried, " be leel," And his red cheeks were wat wi' the tears that did fa'. Ah ! Harry, my love, though thou ne'er shoul'dst return, Till life's latest hour I thy absence will mourn, And memory shall fade, like the leaf on the tree, Ere my heart spare ae thought on anither but thee. 328 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND MART. ROBERT TANNAHTLL. My Mary is a bonnie lassie, 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. 'Tis no the streamlet-skirted, wood, Wi' a' its leafy bowers, That gars me wait in solitude Among the wEd^prung flowers ; But aft I cast a langing 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 raptured sunk in ither's arms And pest the breckans down ; The pairtrick sung his e'ening note, The rye-craik rispt his clam'rous throat, While there the heavenly vow I got, That erl'd her my own. HIGHLAND LADDIE. BOBEB.I TANNAHTT.T,. Bltthe was the time when he fee'd wi' my father, O, Happy were the days when we herded thegftrher, O, Sweet were the hours when he row'd me in his pladdie, 0, And vow'd to be mine, my dear Highland laddie, O. But, ah ! waes me ! wi' their sodgering sae gaudy, 0, The laird's wyl'd awa' my bra w Highland laddie, O, Misty are the glens and the dark hills sae cloudy, 0, That aye seem'd sae blythe wi' my dear Highland laddie, 0. The Mae-berry banks now are lonesome and dreary, 0; Muddy are the streams that gush'd down sae clearly^ 0, Silent are the rocks that echoed sae gladly, 0> The wild melting strains o' my dear Highland laddie, 0. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 829 He pu'd me the crawberry, ripe frae the boggy fen, He pu'd me the strawberry, red frae the foggy glen, He pu'd me the rowan frae the wild steep sae giddy, 0, Sae loving and kind was my dear Highland laddie, 0. Fareweel, my ewes, and fareweel, my doggie, 0, Fareweel, ye knowes, now sae cheerless and scroggie, 0, Fareweel, Glenfeoch, my mammy and my daddie, 0, I will lea' you a' for my dear Highland laddie, 0. BABBOCHAN JEAN. KOBEET TANNAHILL. 'Tis hinna ye heard, man, o' Barroohan Jean ? And hinna ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean 1 How death and starvation came o'er the haill nation, She wrought sic mischief wi' her twa pawky een ; The lads and the lasses were dying in dizzens, The taen kill'd wi' love, and the tither wi' spleen, The ploughing, the sawing, the shearing, the mawing, A' wark was forgotten for Barrochan Jean ! Frae the south and the north, o'er the Tweed and the Forth, Sic coming and ganging there never was seen, The comers were cheery, the gangers were blearie, Despairing, or hoping for Barroohan Jean. The carlins at hame were a' girning and grajning, The bairns were a' greeting frae morning till e'en, They gat naething for crowdy, but runts boil'd to sowdie, For naething gat growing for Barrochan Jean. The doctors declar'd it was past their descriving, The ministers said 'twas a judgment for sin, But they lookit sae blae, and their hearts were sae wae, I was sure they were dying for Barrochan Jean. The burns on road-sides were a' dry wi' their drinking, Yet a' wadna sloken the drouth i' their skin ; A' around the peat-stacks, and alangst the dyke backs, E'en the winds were a' sighing, sweet Barrochan Jean. The timmer ran done wi' the making o' coffins, Kirkyards o' their sward were a' howkit fu' clean, Dead lovers were packit like herring in barrels, Sic thousands were dying for Barrochan Jean. But mony braw thanks to the Laird o' Grlen-Brodie, The grass owre their graffB is now bonnie'and green, He sta' the proud heart of our wanton young lady, And spoil'd a' the- charms o' her twa pawky een. 330 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND THE COGIE. EOBEET TANNAHTT.L. When poortith cauld, and sour disdain, Hang o'er life's vale sae fogie, The sun that brightens up the scene, Is friendship's kindly cogie. Then, revere the cogie, sirs, The friendly, social cogie ; It gars the wheels o' life rin light, Though e'er sae doilt and clogie. Let pride in fortune's chariots fly, Sae empty, vain, and vogie; The source of wit, the spring of joy, Lies in the social cogie. Then, revere the cogie, sirs, The independent cogie ; And never snool beneath the frown Of onie selfish rogie. Poor modest worth, with heartless e'e, Sits burkling in the bogie, Till she asserts her dignity, By virtue of the cogie. Then, revere the cogie, sirs, The poor man's patron cogie ; It warsals care, it fights life's faughts, And lifts him frae the bogie. Gi'e feckless Spain her weak snail broo, Gi'e France her weel spic'd frogie, Gi'e brither John his luncheon too, But gi'e to us our cogie. Then, revere the cogie, sirs, Our kind heart-warming cogie ; We doubly feel the social tie, When just a wee thought grogie. In days of yore our sturdy sires, Upon their hills sae scrogie, Glow'd with true freedom's warmest files, And fought to save their cogie. Then, revere the cogie, sirs, Our brave forefathers' cogie ; It rous'd them up to doughty deeds, O'er which well lang be vogie. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 331 Then here's may Scotland ne'er fa' down, A cringing coward dogie, But bauldly stand, and bang the loon, Wha'd reave her ofiher cogie. Then, protect the cogie, sirs, Our good auld mither's cogie ; Nor let her luggie e'er be drain'd By ony foreign rogie. WE'LL MEET BESIDE THE DUSKY GLEN. ROBERT TAMNAHIT.T,. We'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn-side, Where the bushes form a cozie den, on yon burn-side : Though the broomy knowes be green, Yet there we may be seen ; But we'll meet — we'll meet at e'en, down by yon burn-side. I'll lead thee to the birken bower on yon burn-side, Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flower, on yon burn-side : There the busy prying eye Ne'er disturbs the lover's joy, While in other's arms they lie, down by yon burn-side. Awa', ye rude unfeelin' crew, frae yon burn-side 1 Those fairy scenes are no for you, by yon burn-side : There fancy smooths her theme, By the sweetly murmurin' stream, And the rock-lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn-side. Now the plantin' taps are tinged wi' gowd on yon burn-side, And gloamin' draws her foggie shroud o'er yon burn-side : Far frae the noisy scene, I'll through the fields alane : There we'll meet, my ain dear Jean 1 down by yon burn-side. NOW WINTEB, WI' HIS CLOUDY BEOW. ROBERT TANNAHELL. Now winter, wi' his cloudy brow, Is far ayont yon mountains, And spring beholds her azure sky Reflected in the fountains. Now, on the budding slaethorn bank, She spreads her early blossom, And wooes the mirly-breasted birds To nestle in her bosom. But lately a' was clad wi' snaw, Sae darksome, dull, and dreary, Now lavrocks sing, to hail the spring, And nature all is cheery. 332 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Then let us leave the town, my love, And seek our country dwelling. Where waving woods, and spreading flow'rs, On every side are smiling. We'll tread again the daisied green, Where first your beauty moved me ; We'll trace again the woodland scene, Where first ye own'd ye loved me. We soon will view the roses blaw In a' the charms of fancy, For doubly dear these pleasures a', When shared with thee, my Nancy. THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN. BOBEHX TAJOfAHTT.L. The midges dance aboon the burn, The dews begin to fa'; The pairtricks down the rushy holm, Set up their e'ening ca\ Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang Rings through the briery shaw, While flitting, gay, the swallows play Around the castle wa'. Beneath the golden gloaming sky, The mavis, mends her lay, The redbreast pours his sweetest strains, To charm the ling'rmg day ; While weary yeldrins seem to wail Their little nestlings torn, The merry wren, frae den to den, Gaes jinking through the thorn. The roses fauld their silken leaves, The foxglove shuts its bell, The honeysuckle, and the birk, Spread fragrance through the dell. Let others crowd the giddy court Of mirth and revelry, The simple joys that nature yields Are dearer far to me. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 333 OCH, HEY! JOHNNIE LAD. KOBERT TANNAH1LL. Och, hey ! Johnnie lad, Ye're no sae kind's ye should ha'e been; Och, hey ! Johnnie lad, Ye didna keep your trySt yestreen. I waited lang heside the wood, Sae wae and weary a' my lane, Ooh, hey ! Johnnie lad, Ye're no sae kind's ye should ha'e been. I looked by the whinny knowe, I looked by the firs sae green, I looked owre the spunkie howe, And aye I thought ye wad ha'e been. The ne'er a supper cross'd my craig, The ne'er a sleep has closed my een, Och, hey ! Johnnie lad', Ye're no sae kind's ye should ha'e been. Gin ye were waiting by. the wood, Then I was waiting by the thorn, I thought it was the place we set, And waited maist till dawning morn. Sae be na vex'd, my bonnie lassie, Let my waiting stand for thine, We'll awa' to Craigton shaw, And seek the joys we tint yestreen. CLEAN PEASE STBAE. EOBEET TANNAHEKL. When John and me were married, Our hadding was but sma', For my minnie, canker'd carline, Wad gi'e us nocht ava. I wair't my fee wi' cannie care, As far as it wad gae ; But, weel I wat, our bridal bed Was clean pease strae. Wi' working late and early, We're come to what you see ; For fortune thrave aneath our hands, Sae eydent aye were we. The lowe o' love made labour light; I'm sure you'll find it sae, When kind ye cuddle down at e'en 'Mang clean pease strae. 334 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND The rose blooms gay on cairny brae As weel's in birken shaw, And love will live in cottage low, As weel's in lofty ha', Sae, lassie, tak' the lad ye like, Whate'er your minnie say, Though ye should mak' your bridal bed 0' clean pease strae. I MARK'D. A GEM OF PEARLY DEW. ROBERT TANNABILL. I maek'd a gem of pearly dew, While wand'ring near yon misty mountain, Which bore the tender flow'r so low, It dropp'd it off into the fountain. So thou hast wrung this gentle heart, Which in its core was proud to wear thee, Till drooping sick beneath thy art, It sighing found it could not bear thee. Adieu, thou faithless fair ! unkind ! Thy falsehood dooms that we must sever ; Thy vows were as the passing wind, That fans the flow'r, then dies for ever. And think not that this gentle heart, Though in its core 'twas proud to wear thee, Shall longer droop beneath thy art ; — No, cruel fair, it cannot bear thee. WITH WAEFU' HEART. ROBERT TANNAHILL. With waefu' heart, and sorrowing' e'e, I saw my Jamie sail awa' ; 'twas a fatal day to me, That day he pass'd the Berwick Law : How joyless now seem'd all behind 1 I lingering stray'd along the shore ; Dark boding fears hung on my mind That I might never see him more. The night came on with heavy rain, Loud, fierce, and wild, the tempest blew ; In mountains roll'd the awful main — Ah, hapless maid I my fears how true ! The landsmen heard their drowning cries, The wreck was seen with dawning day ; My love was found, and now he lies Low in the isle of gloomy May. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 335 boatman, kindly waft me o'er ! The cavern'd rock shall be my home ; 'Twill ease my burden 'd heart to pour Its sorrows o'er his grassy tomb. "With sweetest flowers I'll deck his grave, And tend them through the langsome year; I'll water them ilk morn and eve, With deepest sorrow's warmest tear. MART, WHY WASTE ? BOBEBT TANNAHTLL. " Mart, why thus waste thy youth-time in sorrow ? See, a' around you the flowers sweetly blaw ; Blythe sets the sun o'er the wild cliffs of Jura, Blythe sings the mavis in ilka green shaw." " How can this heart ever mair think of pleasure ? Summer may smile, but delight I ha'e nane ; Cauld in the grave lies my heart's only treasure, Nature seems dead since my Jamie is gane. " This 'kerchief he gave me, a true lover's token, Dear, dear to me was the gift for his sake 1 1 wear't near my heart, but this poor heart is broken, Hope died with Jamie, and left it to break ; Sighing for him, I lie down in the e'ening, Sighing for him, I awake in the morn ; Spent are my days a' in secret repining, Peace to this bosom can never return. " Oft have we wander'd in sweetest retirement, Telling our loves 'neath the moon's silerit beam, Sweet were our meetings of tender endearment, But fled are these joys like a fleet-passing dream. Cruel remembrance, in pity forsake me, Brooding o'er joys that for ever are flown 1 Cruel remembrance, in pity forsake me, Flee to some bosom where grief is unknown !" HARPER OP MULL. BOBEBT TANNAHTLL. When Rosie was faithful, how 'happy was I ! Still gladsome as summer the time glided by : I play'd my heart cheery, while fondly I sang Of the charms of my Rosie the winter nights lang : But now I'm as waefu' as waefu' can be, Come simmer, come winter, 'tis a' ane to me, For the dark gloom of falsehood sae clouds my sad soul, That cheerless for aye is the Harper of Mull. 336 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND I wander the glens and the wild woods alane, In their deepest recesses I make my sad mane,; My harp's mournful melody joins in the strain, While sadly I sing of the days that are gane. Though Eosie is faithless, she's no the less fair, And the thoughts of her beauty but feed my despair ; With painful remembrance my bosom is full, And weary of life is the Harper of Mull. As slumb'ring I lay by the dark -mountain stream, My lovely young Eosie appear'd in my dream ; I thought her still kind, and I ne'er was sae blest, As in fancy I clasp'd the dear nymph to my breast : Thou false fleeting vision, too soon thou wert o'er, Thou wak'dst me to tortures unequall'd before ; But death's silent slumbers my griefs soon shall lull, And the green grass wave over the Harper of Mull. ACCUSE ME NOT, INCONSTANT FAIR. ROBERT TANNAHILL. . Accuse me not, inconstant fair, Of being false to thee, For I was true, would still been so, Had'st thou been true to me : But when I knew thy plighted lips Once to a rival's prest, Love-smother'd independence rose, And spurn'd thee from my breast. The fairest flow'r in nature's field Conceals the rankling thorn ; So thou, sweet flower ! as false as fair, This once kind heart hast torn : 'Twas mine to prove the fellest pangs That slighted love can feel ; 'Tis thine to weep that one rash act, Which bids this long farewell. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 337 HEY DONALD! HOWE DONALD! KOBBKT TAHNAHUJ.. The second, third, and fifth stanzas were written by Mr. Gibson, Greenock. The fourth is by William Motherwell, Tho' simmer .smiles on bant and brae, An' nature bids the heart be gay ; Yet a' the joys o' flow'ry May, Wi' pleasure ne'er can move me. Hey Donald! hpwe Donald So the Captain made his test'ment And submitted to his foe, And we laid him by the, Bam's^born-kirk, 'Tis the way we all must go-t- : Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e I Join all in chorus, jolly boys, And let punch and tears be shed Fox this prince of good old fellows That, alack-a-day ! is dead ; For this prince of Worthy fellows, And a pretty man also, That has left the Saltmarket In sorrow, grief; and woe ! For it ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e I CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 461 MAGGY MACLANE. JAMES MA?"NE, A nephew of Joseph Mayjle, the author of Logan Bikes. James was at one time a printer in ' Glasgow, font latterly edited a newspaper in the Island of Trinidad, where he died in 1842. 1)oon i' the glen by the lown o' the trees, Lies a wee theeket bield, like a 'bike for the bees; But the hinnie there skepp'd — ginye're no dour to 'please — It's -virgin Miss Maggy Maclane ! There's few seek Meg's shed noo, the simmer sun jookin'; It's aye the dry floor, Meg's — the day e'er sae drookin' ! But the heather-blabs hing whare the red blude'sbeen sh6oken I' bruilzies for Maggy Maclane ! Doon by Meg's howf-tree the gbwk comes t,o\ woo ; But the corncraik's aye fley'd at her hallan-door joo ! An' the red-breast ne'er cheepsbut the weird's at his mou', For the last o' the roses that's. gane ! Nae trystin' at Meg's noo — nae Hallowe'en rockins ! Nae howtowdie guttlens — nae mart-puddin' yockins f Nae bane i' the blast's teeth blaws snell up Glendockens 1 Clean bickers wi' Maggy Maclane ! Meg's auld lyart gutcher swarf 'd dead i' the shawe : Her bein, fouthy minnie; — she's aff an' awa' ! The gray on her pow but a simmerly snaw ! — The coutby, cosh Widow Maclane ! titties be tentie ! though, air i' the day wi' ye, — Think that the green grass may ae day be hay wi' ye 1 — Think o' the leal minnie— mayna be aye wi' ye! When sabbin' for Maggy Maclane. Lallan' joes — Hielan' joes- 1 — Meg ance had wale ; Fo'k wi' the siller, and chiefs wi' the tail! The yaud left the burn to drink out o' Meg's pail — The sheltie braw kent " the Maclane." Awa' owre the muir they cam' stottin' an';stoicherin' ! Tramper an' traveller, a' beakin' an' broicherin' ! Cadgers an' cuddy-creels, oigherin' !^ — ^h'oigherin ! " The 1 lanlowpers !" — quo' Maggy Maclane. Cowtes were to fother :— Meg owre the burn flang ! Nowte were, to tether : — Meg, through the wood rang ! The widow she kenn'd-na to Mess or to bann ! Sic waste o' gude wooers to hain ! Yet, aye at the souter, Meg grumph'd her ! an' grumph'd her ! The loot-shouther'd wabster, sjie humph'd her ! and humph'd her! The lamiter tailor, she stump'd her ! an' stump'd her ! Her minnie might groO or grahe' ! 462 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND The tailor he likit cockleekie broo ; An' doon he cam' wi' a beck an' a boo : — Quo' Meg, — " We'se sune tak' the cleoken aff you ;" — An' plump ! i' the burn he's gane ! The widow's cheek redden'd ; her heart it play'd thud ! aye ; Her garters she cuist roon' his neck like a wuddie I She linkit him oot ; but wi' wringin' his duddies, Her weed-ring it's burst in twain ! Wowf was the widow — to haud nor to bing ! The tailor he's aff, an' he's coft a new ring 1 Th' deil squeeze his craig's no wordy the string ! — He's waddet auld Widow Maclane ! Auld? — an' a bride ! Na, ye'd pitied the tea-pat ! saut were the skadyens ! but balm's in Glenlivat I The haggis was bockin' oot bluters o' bree-fat, An' hotch'd to the piper its lane ! — ■ Doon the burnside, i' the lown o' the glen, Meg reists her bird-lane, i' a but-an-a-ben : Steal doon when ye dbw, — i' the dearth, gentlemen, — Te'se be awmous to Maggy Maclane ! Lane banks the virgin — nae white pows now keekin Through key-hole an' cranny ; nae cash blade stan's sleekin' His nicherin' naigie, his gaudamous seekin' 1 Alack for the days that are gane ! Lame's fa'n the souter ! — some steek i' his thie ! The cooper's clean gyte, wi' a hoopin' coughee ! The smith's got sae blin' — wi' a spunk i' his e'e ! — He's tyned glint o' Maggy Maclane ! Meg brake the kirk pew-door — Auld Beukie leuk'd near-na her ! She dunkled her pattie — Young Sneckie ne'er speir'd for her I But the warst's when the wee mouse leuks oot, wi' a tear to her, Frae the meal-kist o' Maggy Maclane 1 EABL MABCH. THOMAS CAMPBELL, The celebrated author of " The Pleasures of Hope." He was born at Glasgow in 1777. His principal works are "The Pleasures of Hope," and "Gertrude of Wyoming;" but some of his minor pieces, such as "The Battle of the Baltic," " Erin-go-Bragh," " The Last Man," &c, are alone sufficient to immortalise him. He died at Boulogne in 1844. Bael 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. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 463 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 ; And am I then forgot — forgot ? — It broke the heart of Ellen. In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, Her cheek as cold as ashes ; Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes To lift their silken lashes. NEVER WEDDING, EVER WOOING. THOMAS CAMPBELL. Nevek wedding, ever wooing, Still a love-torn heart pursuing ; Read you not the wrongs you're doing, In my cheek's pale hue ? All my life with sorrow strewing, Wed — or cease to woo. Rivals banish'd, bosoms plighted, Still our days are disunited ; Now the lamp of hope is lighted, Now half quench'd appears, Damp'd, and wavering, and benighted, 'Midst my sighs and tears. Charms you call your dearest blessing, Lips that thrill at your caressing, Eyes a mutual soul confessing, Soon you'll make them grow Dim, and worthless your possessing, Not with age but woe. WALLACE. THOMAS CAMPBELL. They lighted a taper at the dead of night, And chaunted their holiest hymn ; But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright,' Her eye was all sleepless and dim, — And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord, When a death-watch beat in her lonely room, When her curtain had shook of its own accord, And the raven had flapp'd at her window board, To tell her of her warrior's doom. 464 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Now sing ye the Song, and loudly pray For the sonl of my knight so dear ; . And call me a widow this wretched day, Since the warning^ G/od is here. For a night-mare rides, era my strangled sleep ; The. lord of my bosom is doom'cl to die ; His valorous heart they have wounded deep. And the blood-red tears shall his country weep For Wallace of Elderslie. Yet knew not his country that ominous hour, Ere the loud matin bell was rung, That a trumpet of death on an English tower Had the dirge of her champion sung. When his dungeon light look'd dim and red On the high born blood of a martyr slain, No anthem was sung at his holy deathbed, No weeping there was when'his bosom bled, And his heart was rent in twain. Oh ! it was not thus when his oaken spear Was true to the knight forlorn, And hosts of a thousand were scattered, like deer At the sound of the huntsman's horn. When he strode o'er the wreck of each well-fought field, With the yellow-hair'd chiefs of his native land; For his lance was not shiyer'd, or helmet, or shield, And the sword that seeni'd fit for Archangel to wield, Was light in his terrible hand. But, bleeding and bound, though the Wallace wight For his much lov'd country die, The bugle ne'er sung to a braver Knight Than Wallace of Elderslie. But the day of his glory shall never depart, His head unintomb'd shall; with glory be p&lm'd, .From his blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start, Tho' the raven has fed on his mouldering heart, A nobler was never embalm'd. Julia, DTJGAXD MOOSE, A native of Glasgow, where he was born in 1805. He was apprenticed to Mr. Lumsden, stationer, and while in that gentleman's service he pub- lished his first volume, 1 "The 'African, and other poems" (1829). The success of this venture induced him to print again, and several other volumes were issued by him-during the next ten years. He was for some CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 465 time in business for himself, as bookseller and stationer in Glasgow, but died suddenl7 in 1841. He was interred in the Necropolis, where a handsome monument was soon erected to his memory by his admirers. She was a Sunbeam in the storm,— A star that gently lifted ' Above the dark its beauteous form, When the dull tempest shifted. She loved — that passion like a spell ■ With her young dreams was blended : The flowerets from youth's chaplet fell Before her spring-time ended. In yon church-yard, the flowers are fair Beneath heaven's blue expansion : — But a sweeter gem is lying there, Jn dark oblivion's mansion ; The bud of promise to all eyes — O'er whom the wild wind dashes,— 1 But she shall flourish in the skies, When stars and worlds are ashes. THE CLYDE. DUGAXD MOORE. When cities of old days But meet the savage gaze, Stream of my early ways, Thou wilt roll, Though fleets forsake thy breast, And millions sink to rest — Of the bright and beauteous west Still the soul. When the porch and stately arch, Which now so proudly perch O'er thy billows, on their march To the sea, Are but ashes in the shower ; Still the jocund summer hour From his cloud will weave a bower Over thee,. When the voice of human power Has ceased in mart and bower ; Still the broom and mountain flower Will thee bless j' 2h 466 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND And the mists that love to stray O'er the Highlands, far away, Will come down their deserts gray To thy kiss. And the stranger brown with toil, From the far Atlantic soil, Like the pilgrim of the Nile, Yet may come, To search the solemn heaps, That moulder by thy deeps, Where desolation sleeps, Ever dumb. Though fetters yet should clank O'er the gay and princely rank Of cities on thy bank, All sublime ; Still thou wilt wander on, Till eternity has gone, And broke the dial stone Of old Time. . THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. WILLIAM THOM, Born at Aberdeen in 1789. He was to trade a weaver, and worked at the loom in Aberdeen, Dundee, Newtyle, and finally Inverury. Some of bis poetical pieces then began to attract the attention of " the great," and Us fame spread. He went to London, franked by a Mr. Gordon of Knockespock, his earliest patron, and there met with a reception second only to that received by Burns in Edinburgh. He was not firm enough to stand all the flatteries and favours he received, and he returned to Scotland a broken man; unable to return again to his trade, and dependent upon the efforts of his great friends for support. His personal character has been described as generous, honest, and just. He died at Dundee in 1848. ' When a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame, By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last an' lanely, an' sairly forfairn ? 'Tis the puir dowie laddie — the mitherless bairu ! The mitherless bairnie creeps to his lane bed, Nane covers his eauld back, or haps his bare head ; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, An' lithless the lair o' the mitherless bairn! Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams hover there, 0' hands that wont kindly to kaim his dark hair ! But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stein, That lo'e na the locks o' the mitherless bairn 1 CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 467 The sister wha sang o'er his saftly rock'd bed, . Now rests in the mools whare their mammie is laid ; While the father toils sair his wee bannock to earn, An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. Her spirit that pass'd in yon hourof his birth, Still watches his lone lorn wand'rings on earth, Recording in heaven the blessings they earn, Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn ! Oh ! speak him na harshly — he trembles the while, He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile: - In the dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn, That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn 1 LOVE. WILLIAM THOM. SAT not — " Love will never Breathe in that breast again ; " That " where he bled, must ever All pleasureless remain." Shall tempest-riven blossom, When fair leaves fall away, In coldness close its bosom, 'Gainst beams of milder day, never 1 — nay It blooms — whene'er it may. Though ruthless tempest tear — Though biting frosts subdue — And leave no tendril where Love's pretty flow'rets grew ; The soil, all ravag'd so, Will nurture more and more, And stately roses blow Where gowans droop'd before, Then why — ! why Should sweet love ever die ? I WADNA GI'E MY AIN WIFE. ALEXANDER LAINO, A native of Brechin, where he was horn in 1787. He contributed largely to "Smith's Scottish Minstrel," "Harp of Eenfrewshire," "Whistle Binkie " &c. He carried on the business of Flaxdressiiig, in his native 468 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND town, and by. his industry was enabled to retire from business some time before his death, which took place in 1857. I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see ; I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see ; A bonnier yet I've never seen, A better canna be — I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see ! couthie is my ingle-cheek, An' cheerie is my Jean ; 1 never sefe her angry look, Nor hear her word on ane. She's gude wi' a' the neebours roun', An' aye gude wi' me — I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see ! An' her looks sae kindlie, They melt my heart outright, When o'er the baby at her breast She hangs wi' fond delight ; She looks intill its bpnnie face, An' syne looks to me — I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see. THOUGH DOWIES THE WINTER. ALEXANBEE LAINO. Though dowie's the winter sae gloomie an' drear, happy we've been through the dead o' the year ; ' An' blythe to sic bield as the burnie brae gave ; ■0 mony a nicht ha'e we stoun frae the lave. Now the spring-time has tane the lang e'enings awa', We maunna be seen an' less aften I'll ca', But May-day is coming — our wedding an a', Sae weary na, lassie, though I gang awa'. Our gigglet young lasses are sairly mista'en, They ken at the place wi' his honour I've been, An' ta'en thie plough-haudin' o' bonnie Broomlee, But they kenna wha's coming to baud it wi' me. They ken i' the e'enings I'm aften frae hame ; They say wi' a lass, 'cause I look na to them; They jamph an' they jeer, an' they banter at me, An' twenty they've guess'd o', but never guess'd thee. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 469 I'll sing the haill day, when your dwellin' I'm near ; I'll whistle when ploughin' as far's you can hear, An' aye when I see you, gin nae bodie see, I'll blink to my lassie — my lassie to me. An' aye till that time baith at kirk an' at fair, In taiken o' true love, dear lassie, ye'll wear The green-tartan rookley, my keepsake to thee — An' I the white owerlay ye gifted to me. THE VALE OF CLYDE. JOHN BTKUTHEES, Was torn at East Kilbride, in 1776. He was by trade a shoemaker, but obtained a situation as " corrector of the press " in the office of Kbnll, Blackie, and Co. He afterwards was appointed keeper of the Stirling Library in Glasgow. Strutters was author of several popular works. His "Poor Man's Sabbath" met with a warm reception on its appearance in 1804, and rapidly passed through several editions. His "Harp of Caledonia," in three vols., is a standard work of its class. Admiring nature's simple charms, I left my humble home, Awhile my country's peaceful plains With pilgrim step to roam : I mark'd the leafy summer wave On flowing Irvine's side, But richer far's the robe she wears Within the vale of Clyde. I roam'd the braes of bonnie Doon, The winding banks of Ayr, Where flutters many a small bird gay, Blooms many a flow'ret fair ; But dearer far to me the stem That once was Calder's pride, And blossoms now, the fairest flower, Within the vale of Clyde. Avaunt ! thou life-repressing north ! Ye withering east winds too ! But come, thou all-reviving west, Breathe soft thy genial dew ; Until at length, in peaceful age, This lovely floweret shed Its last green leaf upon my tomb, Within the vale of Clyde. 470 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND ON THE WILD BEABS OF CALDEK. JOHN STEUTHERS. On the wild braes of Calder, I found a fair lily, All drooping with dew in the breath of the morn, A lily more fair never bloom'd in the valley, Nor rose, the gay garden of art to adorn. Sweet, sweet was the fragrance this lily diffused, As blushing, all lonely, it rose on the view, But scanty its shelter, to reptiles exposed, And every chill blast from the cold north that blew. Beneath yon green hill, a small field I had planted, Where the light leafy hazel hangs over the burn ; And a flower such as this, to complete it, was wanted, A flower that might mark the gay season's return. Straight home to adorn it, I bore this fair lily, _ Where, at morn, and at even, I have watch'd it with care ; And blossoming still,, it is queen of the valley, The glory of spring, and the pride of the year. EOBIN TAMSON'S SMIDDY. ALEXANDER RODGER, A native of East Calder, where he was horn in 1784. He went to Glas- gow in 1797, where he joined his maternal relatives, and at their desire apprenticed himself to a weaver. In 1819 he suffered a short imprison- ment on being convicted of ill feeling to the government in consequence of literary aid he gave to one of the revolutionary newspapers which then abounded. He held a situation in the Barrowneld Works near Glasgow, for about eleven years. In 1836 he became sub-editor of the Reformer^ Gazette, and remained in that position till his death, which took place in 1846. My mither men't my auld breeks, An' wow ! but they were duddy, And sent me to get Mally shod At Bobin Tamson's smiddy ; The smiddy stands beside the burn That wimples through the clachan, I never yet gae by the door, But aye I fa' a-laughin'. For Bobin was a walthy carle, An' had ae bonnie dochter; Yet ne'er wad let her tak' a man, Though mony lads had sought her ; And what think ye o' my exploit ? — The time our mare was shoeing, I slippit up beside the lass, An' briskly fell a-wooing. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 471 An' aye she e'ed my auld bracks, The time that we sat oraekin', Quo' I, my lass, ne'er mind the clouts, I've new anes for the makin' ; But gin ye'll just come hame wi' me, An' lea' the carle, your father, Te'se get my breeks to keep in trim, MyseP, an' a' thegither. 'Deed, lad, quo' she, your offer's fair, I really think I'll tak' it, Sae, gang awa', get out the mare, We'll baith slip on the back o't ; For gin I wait my father's time, I'll wait till I be fifty; But na ; — I'll marry in my prime, An' mak' a wife most thrifty. Wow ! Bobin was an angry man, At tyning o' his dochter ; Through a' the kintra-side he ran, An' far an' near he sought her ; But when he cam' to our fire-end, An' fand us baith thegither, Quo' I, gudeman, I've ta'en your bairn, An' ye may tak' my mither. Auld Bobin girn'd an' sheuk his pow, Guid sooth ! quo' he, you're merry, But I'll just tak' ye at your word, An' end this hurry-burry ; So Bobin an' our auld wife Agreed to creep thegither; Now, I ha'e Bobin Tamson's pet, An' Bobin has my mither. MY GUDEMAN SATS ATE TO ME. ALEXANDER RODGER. My gudeman says aye to me, Says aye to me, says aye to me j My gudeman says aye to me, Come cuddle in my bosie ! Though wearin' auld, he's blyther still Than mony a swankie youthfu' chiel, And a' his aim's to see me weel, And keep me snug and cozie. 472 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND For though my cheeks, where roses grew, Ha'e tint their lively glowing hue, My Johnnie's just as kind and true As if I still were rosy. • Out weel-won gear he never drank, He never lived aboon his rank, Yet wi' a neehour blythe and frank, He could be as jocose aye. We ha'e a hame, gude halesome cheer, Contentment, peace, a conscience clear, And rosy bairns to us mair dear. Than treasures o' Potosi : Their minds are form'd in virtue's school, Their fau'ts are check'd wi' temper cool, For my gudeman mak's this his rule, To keep frae hasty blows aye. It ne'er was siller gart us wed, Youth, health, and love, were a' we had, Possess'd o' these we toil'd fu' glad, To shun want's hitter throes aye ; We've had our cares, we've had our toils, We've had our hits o' troubles whiles, Yet, what p' that? my Johnnie's smiles Shed joy o'er a 1 our woes aye. Wi' mutual aid we've trudged through life, A kind gudeman, a cheerfu' wife ; And on we'll jog, un vexed by strife, Towards our journey's close, aye ! And when we're stretch'd upon our bier, Oh may ;our souls, sae faithfu' here, Together spring to yonder sphere, Where love's pure river flows aye. IT'S NO THAT THOU'RT BONNIE. ALEXANDER RODGER. That mak's my heart feel what my tongue canna tell: But oh 1 its the soul beaming out frae thine e'e, That mak's thee sae dear and sae lovely to me. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 473 It's pleasant to look on that mild blushing face, Sae sweetly adorn'd wi' ilk feminine grace, It's joyous to gaze on these tresses sae bright, O'ershading a forehead sae smooth and sae white ; But to dwell on the glances that dart frae thine e'e, Jeanie ! its evendown rapture to me. That form may be wasted by lingering decay, The bloom of that cheek may be wither'd away, Those gay gowden ringlets that yield such delight, By the eauld breath o' time may be changed into white ; But the soul's fervid flashes that brighten thine e'e, Are the offspring o' heaven, and never can die. Let me plough the rough ocean, nor e'er touch the shore, Let me freeze on the coast of the bleak Labradore, Let me pant 'neath the glare of a vertical sun, Where no trees spread their branches, nor streams ever run ; Even thflre, my dear Jeanie, still happy I'd be, If bless'd wi 1 the light o' thy heavenly e'e. BET OF ABERDEEN. ALEXANDER BODQEIL How brightly beams the bonnie moon Frae out the azure sky, While ilka little star aboon Seems sparkling bright wi' joy. How calm the eve ! how blest the hour ! How soft the sylvan scene ! How fit to meet thee, lovely flower ! Sweet Bet of Aberdeen. Now let us wander through the broom, And o'er the flowery lea ; While simmer wafts her rich perfume From yonder hawthorn tree, There on yon mossy bank we'll rest, Where we've sae aften been, Clasp'd to each other's throbbing breast, Sweet Bet of Aberdeen. How sweet to view that face so meek, That dark expressive eye ; To kiss that lovely blushing cheek, Those lips of coral dye ; But oh I to hear thy seraph strains, Thy maiden sighs between, Makes rapture thrill through all my veins, Sweet Bet of Aberdeen/ 474 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Oh ! what to us is wealth or rank ? Or what is pomp or power ? More dear this velvet mossy bank, This blest ecstatic hour ; I'd covet not the monarch's throne, Nor diamond-studded queen, While blest wi' thee, and thee alone, Sweet Bet of Aberdeen. BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK. A1EXANDBB BODGEB. Behave yourBel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk, And dinna be sae rude to me, As kiss me sae before folk. It wadna gi'e me meikle pain, Gin we w ire seen and heard by nane, » To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane ; But guidsake 1 no before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk ; Whate'er ye do, when out o' view, Be cautious aye before folk. Consider, lad, how folk will crack, And what a great affair they'll mak' 0' naething but a simple smack, That's gi'en or ta'en before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk ; Nor gi'e the tongue o' auld or young Occasion to come o'er folk. It's no through hatred o' a kiss, That I sae plainly tell you this ; But, losh ! I tak' it sair amiss To be sae teazed before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; When we're our lane ye may tak' ane, But fient a ane before folk. I'm sure wi' you I've been as free As ony modest lass should be ; But yet it doesna do to see Sic freedom used before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; I'll ne'er submit again to it — So mind you that — before folk, CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 475 Te tell me that my face is fair ; It may be sae — I dinna care — But ne'er again gar't blush sae sair As ye ha'e done before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk ; Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks, But aye be douce before folk. Ye tell me that my lips are sweet, Sio tales, I doubt, are a' deceit ; At ony rate, it's hardly meet To pree their sweets before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk ; Gin that's the case, there's time, and place, But surely no before folk. But, gin you really do insist That I should suffer to be kiss'd, Gae, get a license frae the priest, And mak' me yours before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, , Behave yoursel' before folk ; And when we're ane, baith flesh and bans, Ye may tak' ten — before folk. THE ANSWER. Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk, When, wily elf, your sleeky self Gars me gang gyte before folk ? In a' you do, in a' ye say, Ye've sic a pawkie coaxing way, That my poor wits ye lead astray, An' ding me doilt before folk ! Can I behave, can I behave, Can. I behave before folk, While ye ensnare, can I forbear To kiss you, though before folk ? Can 1 behold that dimpling 'cheek, Whar love 'mang sunny smiles might beek, Yet, howlet-like, my e'elids steek, An' shun sic light, before folk ? Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk, When ilka smile becomes a wile, Enticing me — before folk? 476 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND That lip, like Eve's forbidden fruit, Sweet, plump, an' ripe, sae tempts .me to't, That I maun pree't, though I should rue't, Ay,' twenty times— before folk 1 Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk, When temptingly it offers me So rich a treat — before folk? That gowden hair Bae sunny bright; That shapely neck o' snawy white ; That tongue, even when it tries to flyte, Provokes me till't before folk ! Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk, When ilka charm, young, fresh, an' warm, Cries, " kiss me now " — before folk ? An' ! that pawkie, rowin' e'e," Sae roguishly it blinks on me, I canna, for my saul, let be, Frae kissing you before folk ! Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk, When ilka glint conveys a hint To tak' a smack — before folk? Ye own, that were we baith our lane, Ye wadna grudge to grant me ane ; Weel, gin there be nae harm in't then, What harm is in't before folk ? Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk, Sly hypocrite ! an anchorite Could scarce desist — before folk I But after a' that has been said, Since ye are willing to be wed, We'llha'ea " blythesome bridal " made, When ye'll be mine before folk I Then I'll behave, then I'll behave, Then I'll behave before folk ; For whereas then, ye'll aft get "ten," It winna be before folk 1 CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 477 THE WILD GLEN SAE GREEN. REV. HENRY S. BTDDELL, Was born at Sorbie, Dumfriesshire, in 1798. His father was a Shepherd, and he followed the same occupation till he managed to scrape together sufficient money to enable him to enter the University of Edinburgh. He became a licentiate of the Church of Scotland, but never took any active part in the 'ministry: he resided at Teviothead, where the Duke of Buccjeuch generously allowed him the use of a cottage, a small annuity, and a grant of land. Mr. Eiddell died in 1870. Mr. Eiddell published several volumes of poetry during his life-time, and had the rare pleasure of seeing several of his songs achieve an instant and enthusiastic popularity. " The Wild Glen sae Green," " The Crook and the Plain," and above all, the inspiriting' " Scotland yet," have taken a secure position amongst our popular minstrelsy. His works are pre- sently being edited by Dr. Brydon, of Hawick, with a view to the issue of a complete collected edition. When my flocks upon the heathy hill are lying a' at rest, And the gloamin' spreads its mantle grey o'er the world's dewy breast, I'll tak' my plaid and hasten through yon woody dell unseen, And meet my bonnie lassie on the wild glen sae green. I'll meet her by the trystin' tree that's stannin' a' alane, Where I have carved her name upon the little moss-grey stane, There I will clasp her to my breast, and be mair blest, I ween, Than a' that are aneath the sky, in the wild glen sae green. My faldin' plaid shall shield her frae the gloamin's chilly gale The star o' eve shall mark our joy but shall not tell her tale, Our simple tale o' tender love that tauld sae aft has been, To my bonnie bonnie lassie in the wild glen sae green. Oh ! I could wander earth a' owre nor care for aught o' bliss, If I might share at my return a joy sae pure as this ; And I could spurn a' earthly wealth, a palace and a queen, For my bonnie bonnie lassie in the wild glen sae green. SCOTLAND YET. REV. HENBT S. EIDDELL. Gae, bring my guid auld harp ance mair, Gae, bring it free and fast, For I maun sing anither sang Ere a' my glee be past, And trow ye as I sing, my lads, The burden o't shall be Auld Scotland's howes, and Scotland's knowes, And Scotland's hills for me,— I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet, Wi' a' the honours three. 478 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND The heath waves wild upon her hills, And, foaming frae the fells, Her fountains sing o' freedom still, As they dash down the dells ; ' And weel I lo'e the land, my lads, That's girded by the sea ; Then Scotland's dales, and Scotland's vales, And Scotland's hills for me, — I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet, Wi' a' the honours three. The thistle wags upon the fields, Where Wallace bore his blade, That gave her foeman's dearest bluid, To dye her auld gray plaid ; And looking to the lift, my lads, He sang this doughty glee, Auld Scotland's right, and Scotland's might, And Scotland's hills for me, — I'll drink a cup to Seotland yet, Wi' a' the honours three. They tell o' lands wi' brighter skies, Where freedom's voice ne'er rang, Gri'e me the hills where Ossian lies, And Coila's minstrel sang. For I've nae skill o' lands, my lads, That ken nae to be free, Then Scotland's right, and Scotland's might, And Scotland's hills for me, — j I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet, Wi' a' the honours three. OUES IS THE LAND. EEV. HENET S. KIDDELL. Ours is the land of gallant hearts, The land of lovely forms, The island of the mountain harp, The torrents, and the storms : The land that blooms with freemen's tread, And withers with the slave's ; Where far and deep the green-woods spread, And wild the thistle waves. Ere ever Ossian's lofty voice Had told of Fingal's fame ; Ere ever from their native clime The Roman eagles came, CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 479 Our land had given heroes birth That durst the boldest brave, And taught above tyrannic dust The thistle tufts to wave. What need we say how Wallace fought, And how his foemen fell, Or how on glorious Bannockburn The work went wild and well ? Ours is the land of gallant hearts, The land of honour'd graves, Whose wreath of fame shall ne'er depart, While yet the thistle waves. THE DOWIE DENS 0' YAEEOW. REV. HENBY S. KIDDELL. Oh, sisters, there are midnight dreams That pass not with the morning, Then ask not why my reason swims In a brain so wildly burning. And ask not why I fancy how Yon wee bird sings wi' sorrow, That bluid lies mingled with the dew, In the dowie dens o' Yarrow. My,dream's wild light was not of night, Nor of the dulefu' morning ; Thrice on the stream was seen the gleam That seem'd his sprite returning : For sword-girt men came down the glen An hour before the morrow, And pierced the heart aye true to mine, In the dowie dens o' Yarrow. Oh, there are red red drops o' dew Upon the wild flower's blossom, But they could na cool my burning brow, And shall not stain my bosom. But from the clouds o' yon dark sky A cold cold shroud I'll borrow, And long and deep shall be my sleep In the dowie dens o' Yarrow. Let my form the bluid-dyed floweret press By the heart o' him that lo'ed me, And I'll steal frae his lips a long long kiss In the bower where aft he wooed me. For my arms shall fold and my tresses shieH The form of my death-cold marrow, When the breeze shall bring the raven's wing O'er the dowie dens o' Yarrow. 480 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND THE CROOK AND PLAID. BET. HBNET S. ETDDBIi. I winna lo'e the laddie that ca's the cart and pleugb, Though he should own that tender love that's only felt by few ; For he tljat has this bosom a' to fondest love betray'd, Is the kind and faithfu' laddie that wears the crook and plaid. At morn he climbs the mountains wild, his fleecy flock to view, When the larks sing in the heaven aboon, and the flowers wake 'mang the dew, When the thin mist melts afore the beam, ower gair and glen convey'd, Where the laddie loves to wander still, that wears the crook and plaid. At noon he leans him down, high on the heathy fell, When his flocks feed a' sae bonnilie below him in the dell ; And there he sings o' faithfu' love, till the wilds around are glad ; Oh, how happy is the laddie that wears the crook and plaid ! He pu's the blooms o' heather pure, and the lily-flouir sae meek, For he weens the lily like my brow, and the heath-bell like my cheek. His words are soft and tender as the dew frae heaven shed ; And nane can charm me like the lad that wears the crook and plaid. Beneath the flowery hawthorn-tree, wild growing in the glen, He meets me in the gloamin' gray, when nane on earth can ken ; And leal and tender is his heart beneath the spreading shade, For weel he kens the way, I trow, to row me in his plaid. The youth o' mony riches may to his fair one ride, And woo across a table his many-titled bride; But we will woo beneath the tree, where cheek to cheek is laid — Oh, nae wooer's like the laddie that rows me ,in his plaid ! To own the tales o' faithfu' love, oh, wha wad no comply? Sin' pure love gi'es mair o' happiness than aught aneath the sky ; Where love is in the bosom thus, the heart can ne'er be sad ; Sae, through life, I'll lo'e the laddie that wears the crook and plaid. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 481 THE WEE AULD MAN. KEV. HENET S. BIDDEIi. About the closin' o' the day, The wild green woods amang, 0, A wee auld man cam' doon this< way,. As fast as he could gang, 0. He entered into this wee house, Where unco weel kent he, 0, That there, there lived a virtuous lass,, And fair as fair could be, 0. For he had vow'd to ha'e, 0, To ha'e, 0, to ha'e, 0, For he had vow'd to ha'e, 0, A wifie o' his ain, 0. » He tell't the auld gudewife he'd come Her dochter Jean to woo, 0, And gin she would but come wi' him, She never would it rile, ; For he had oxen, horse, and kye, And sheep upon the hill, 0, And monie a Cannie thing forbye, That should bo at her will, 6. For he had vow'd, &c The auld gudewife replied in turn, Up rising frae her stool, 0, The lass that would your proffer spurn, Would surely be a fool, 0, She to the door made anxious haste, And ca'd young Jeanie in, 0, And when aroun' the fire they're placed, The courtin' did begin, 0, For he had vow'd, &c. The wee auld man tauld ower his tale Wi' croose and cantie glee, ; But Jeanie's heart was hard and cauld, Nae love for him had she, 0. Said she, Auld gouk ! you've act a part That I can ne'er be thine, ; You come to woo my mither's heart, You come nae here for mine, 0. For this is no the way, 0, The way, 0, the way, 0, For this is no the way, 0, A lassie's heart to win, 0. 2l 482 THE SONGS OP SCOTLAND And soon a rap came to the door, And out young Jeanie ran, 0, Said she, You may count ower your store Wi' them that you began, O. The wee auld man rose up in wrath, And loud and lang he swore, O, Syne hirsled up his shouthers baith, And hasten'd to the door, 0. Still vowin' he would ha'e, &c. SCOTIA'S THISTLE. SET. HENBT S. '&XDDELL. Scotia's thistle guards the grave, Where repose her dauntless brave ; Never yet the foot of slave Has trod the wilda of Scotia I Free from tyrants' dark control — Free as waves of ocean roll — Free as thoughts of minstrel's soul, Still roam the sons of Scotia. Scotia's hills of hoary hue, Heaven wraps in wreaths of blue, Watering with it's dearest dew The heathy locks of Scotia. Down each green-wood skirted vale, Guardian spirits, lingering, hail Many a minstrel's melting tale, As told of ancient Scotia. When the shades of eve invest Nature's dew-bespangled breast, How supremely man is blest, In the glens of Scotia. There no dark alarms convey Aught to chase life's charms away, There they live, and live for aye, Bound the homes of Scotia. Wake, my hill harp ! wildly wake ! Sound by lee and lonely lake, Never shall this heart forsake The bonnie wilds of Scotia. Others o'er the ocean's foam, Far to other lands may roam, But for ever be my home Beneath the sky of Scotia. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 483 A STEED, A STEED. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, A native of Glasgow, born in the Barony Parish there in 1797. Being intended for the legal profession he was apprenticed, at the age of fifteen years, in the office of the Sheriff Clerk of Paisley. In 1819 he was appointed Sheriff Clerk Depute of Renfrew, and held that position till 1829. He then removed to Glasgow, where he was appointed editor of the Courier. He died suddenly in 1835. Except the volume of his poems published in 1832 (and afterwards in 1847), the fame of William Motherwell depends almost wholly on one or two works edited by him : but while his poems have given him no mean place among the poets of Scotland, his " Harp of Eenfrewshire (1819) and Minstrelsy Ancient and Modern " (1827) have established his reputation as One of the best expositors of our early popular literature. A Steed 1 a steed of matchless speede 1 A sword of metal keene I Al else to noble heartes is drosse — Al else on earth is meane. The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde, The rowlinge of the drum, The clangor of the trumpet lowde — Be soundes from heaven that come. And, oh ! the thundering presse of knightes, Whenas their war-cryes swelle, May tole from heaven an angel bright, And rouse a fiend from hell. Then mounte ! then mounte, brave gallants all, And don your helmes amaine ; Deathe's couriers, fame and honour, call Us to the flelde againe. No shrewish tears shall fill our eye When the sword-hilt's in our hand ; Heart-whole we'll parte,, and no whit sighe For the fayrest of the land. Let piping swaine, and craven wight, Thus weepe and puling crye; Our buisnesse is like men to fighte, And hero-like to die ! WEAEIE'S WELL. WILLIAM MOTBEBWBLI-. In a saft simmer gloamin', In yon dowie dell, It was there we twa first met By Wearie's cauld well. 484 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND We sat on the brume bank And look'd in the burn, But sidelang we look'd on Ilk ither in turn. The corn-eraik was chinning His sad eerie cry, And the wee stars were dreaming Their path through the sky. The burn babbled freely Its luve to each flower, But we heard and we saw nought In that blessed hour. We heard and we saw nought Above or around : We felt that our love lived, And loathed idle sound. I gazed on your sweet face Till tears fill'd mine e'e, And they drapt on your wee loof — ■ A warld's wealth to ms ! Now the winter snaw's fa'ing On bare holm and lee ; And the cauld wind is strippin' Ilk leaf aff the tree. But the snaw fa's not faster, Nor leaf disna part Sae sune frae the bough, as Faith fades in your heart. Ye've waled out anither Your bridegroom to be ; But can his heart luve sae As mine luvit thee ? Ye'll get biggings and mailins). And monie braw claes, But they a' winna buy back The peace o' past days. Fareweel,' and for ever ! My first luve and last • May thy joys be to come, Mine live in the past. In sorrow and sadness, This hour fa's on me, But light, as thy love, may It fleet over thee. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 485 THE MEEMAIDEN. WILLIAM MOTHEBWELL. The nicht is mirk, and the wind blaws schill, And the white faem weets my bree, And my mind misgi'es me, gay maiden, That the land we sail never see 1 Then up and spak' the mermaiden, And she spak' blythe and free, " I never Baid to my bonnie bridegroom, That on land we sud weddit be. " Oh ! I never said that ane erthlie priest Our bridal blessing should gi'e, And I never said that a landwart bouir Should hald my luve and me." And whare is that priest, my bonnie maiden, If ane erthlie wioht is na he ? " Oh ! the wind will sough, and the sea will rair, When weddit we twa sail be." And whare is that bouir, my bonnie maiden, If on land it suld na be ? " Oh ! my blythe bouir is low," said the mermaiden, "In the bonnie green howes o' the sea: My gay bouir is biggit o' the gude ships' keels, And the banes o' the drowned at sea ; The fisch are the deer that fill my parks, And the water waste my dourie. " And my bouir is sklaitit wi' the big blue waves, And paved wi' the yellow sand, And in my ohaumers grow bonnie white flowers That never grew on land. And have ye e'er seen, my bonnie bridegroom, A leman on earth that wuld gi'e Aiker for aiker o' the red plough'd land, As I'll gi'e to thee o' the sea ? The mune will rise in half ane hour, And the wee bricht starns will shine ; Then we'll sink to my bouir 'neath the wan water Full fifty fathom and nine." A wild, wild skreich, gi'ed the fey bridegroom, And a loud, loud laugh, the bride ; For the mune raise up, and the twa sank down Under the silver'd tide. 486 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND JEANNIE MOBKISON. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west Through mony a weary way ; But never, never, can forget The luve o' life's young day ! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, May weel be black gin Yule ; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule. dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path, And blind my e'en wi' tears : They blind my e'en wi' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part ; Sweet time — and time ! twa bairns at schule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear ; And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, , Bemember'd ever mair. 1 wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof, What our wee heads could think ! When baith bent doun ower ae braid page Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee> Oh mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said, We cleek'd thegither hame ? And mind ye o' the Saturdays, (The schule then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the braea — The broomy braes o' June ? My head rins round and round about, My heart flows like a sea, As ane by ane the thochts rush back 0' schule-time and o' thee. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 487 Oh, mornin' life ! Oh, mornin' hive I Oh, lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts, Like simmer blossoms sprang ! mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin' dinsome toun, To wander by the green burnside, And hear its waters croon ; The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin ' o' the wood, The throssil whusslit sweet. The throssil whusslit in the wood, The burn sang to the trees, And we, with Nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies ; And on the knowe abune the burn, For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat ! Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled down your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak ! That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gush'd all feelings forth, Unsyllabled — unsung ! 1 marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I ha'e been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts As ye ha'e been to me 1 Oh ! tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine ; Oh ! say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ? I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, I've borne a weary lot; But in my wanderings, far or near, Te never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart, Stills travels on its way ; And channels deeper aB it rins The luve o' life's young day. 488 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sinder'd young, I've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue ; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I dee, Did I but ken your heart still dream'd 0' bygane days and me ! THE BLOOM HATH FLED. W TT.T.TATvr MOTHERWELL, The bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary, As spring's rath blossoms die, And sadness hath o'ershadow'd now Thy once bright eye ; But, look on me, the prints of grief Still deeper lie. Farewell ! Thy lips are pale and mute, Mary, Thy step is sad and slow, The morn of gladness hath gone by Thou erst did know ; I, too, am changed like thee, and weep For very woe. Farewell ! It seems as 'twere but yesterday We were the happiest twain, When murmur'd sighs and joyous tears, Dropping like rain, Discoursed my love, and told how loved I was again. Farewell ! 'Twas not in cold and measur'd phrase We gave our passion name : Scorning such tedious eloquence, Our heart's fond flame And long imprisoned feelings fast In deep sobs came. Farewell 1 Would that our love had been the lovo That merest worldlings know, When passion's draught to our doom'd lips Turns utter woe, And our poor dream of happiness Vanishes so ! Farewell I CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 489 But in the wreck of all our hopes, There's yet some touch of bliss, Since fate robs not our ■wretchedness Of this last kiss : Despair, and love, and madness, meet In this, in this. Farewell ! THE LADY OP MY HBAET. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. The murmur of the merry brook, As, gushingly and free, It wimples, with its sun-bright look, Far down yon shelter'd lea, Humming to every drowsy flower A low quaint lullaby, Speaks to my spirit, at this hour, Of love and thee. The music of the gay green wood, When every leaf and tree Is coax'd by winds, of gentlest mood To utter harmony ; And the small birds, that answer make To the winds' fitful glee, In me most blissful visions wake, Of love and thee. The rose perks up its blushing cheek, So soon as it can see, Along the eastern hills, one streak Of the sun's majesty : Laden with dewy gems, it gleams A precious freight to me, For each pure drop thereon meseems A type of thee. And when abroad in summer morn, I hear the blythe bold bee Winding aloft his tiny horn, (An errant knight perdy,) That winged hunter of rare sweets, O'er many a far country, To me a lay of love repeats, Its subject — thee. And when, in midnight hour, I note The stars so pensively, In their mild beauty, onward float Through heaven's own silent sea : 490 THE SONGS OP SCOTLAND My heart is in their voyaging To realms where spirits be, But its mate, in such wandering, . Is ever thee. But, oh, the murmur of the brook, The music of the tree ; The rose with its sweet shamefaced look, The booming of the bee ; The course of each bright voyager, In heaven's unmeasured sea, Would not one heart-pulse of me stir, Loved I not thee I HIE GERMANIE, WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. Oh wae be to the orders that march'd my luve awa', And wae be to the cruel cause that gars my tears doun fo' ! Oh wae be to the bluidy wars in Hie Germanie, for they ha'e ta'en my luve, and left a broken heart to me. The drums beat in the mornin' afore the scriech o' day, And the wee wee fifes piped loud and shrill, while yet the morn was'grey; The bonnie flags were a' unfurl'd, a gallant sight to see, But waes mo for my sodger lad that march'd to Germanie. Oh, lang, lang is the travel to the bonnie Pier o' Leith, Oh dreich it is to gang on foot wi' the snaw drift in the teeth ! And oh, the cauld wind froze the tear that gather'd in my e'e, When I gaed there to see my luve embark for Germanie. I looked ower the braid blue sea, sae lang as could be seen Ae wee bit sail upon the ship, that my sodger lad was in ; But the wind was blawin' sair and snell, and the ship sail'd speedilie, And the waves and Cruel wars ha'e twinn'd my winsome luve frae me. I never think o' dancin', and I downa try to sing, But a' the day I spier what news kind neibour bodies bring; I sometimes knit a stocking, if knittin' it may be, Syne for every loop that I cast on, I'm sure to let doun three. My father says I'm in a pet, my mither jeers at me, And bans me for a dautit wean, in dorts for aye to be ; But little weet they o' the cause that drumles sae my e'e ; Oh they ha'e nae winsome luve like mine in the wars o' G ermanie! CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 491 PAET IV. JACOBITE SONGS. INTRODUCTORY NOTE. On the abdication of James II. in 1688, the Prince of Orange was called to occupy the British throne. That monarch, instead of trying to con- ciliate all classes of his subjects, gave mortal offence to the people of Scotland by two distinct acts affecting respectively the two great divisions of the country. The massacre of Glencoe was, rightly or wrongly, laid by the Highlanders to his account, while the commercial people of the Lowlands could never forgive his conduct in the Darien affair. These two acts kept alive and increased the dissatisfaction felt in Scot- land at the Stuart family being debarred from the throne in favour of the " Oranger." The death of King William was occasioned, as is well known, through his horse stumbling against a mole-hill, and, " The Gentleman in Black " became a standing toast with the Jacobites. During the reign of Queen Anne, the Jacobite feeling naturally weakened, to be revived with greater intensity, when in 1714 the Elector of Hanover (descending from King James I.) succeeded to the throne. The Earl of Mar unfurled the standard of the Stuarts, but after fighting Sherrifmuir, he found he had over estimated his strength, and the rebellion was suppressed. In 1727 George IL ascended the throne, and it was dur- ing his reign that the rebellion of 1745, which so nearly cost him his crown, arose. Prince Charles Edward Stuart was the eldest son of the Chevalier de St. George (son of James H.) His mother was the grand- daughter of John Sobieski, the celebrated King and hero of Poland. The Jacobite Songs have never been properly edited ; Hogg's " Belies," full of blunders and forgeries, having served as the basis for all subsequent collections. We do not yet despair of seeing these songs thrown together so as to form a history of the two rebellions in song and ballad. An attempt has been made here to arrange them in this form, but the limited space at our command, and the popular nature of the work, would not allow anything but the better and more popular songs to be given, leaving aside, of course, rhymes and pasquils innumerable, which often serve to give a better idea of events than even the smooth pages of our ordinary histories. 492 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND YOU'RE WELCOME WHIGS. Composed probably about the time of the Revolution of 1688, when, as Mr. Robert Chambers remarks, the Jacobites " lost power, but acquired wit." You're welcome, Whigs, from Bothwell Brigs, Youre malice is but zeal, boys ; Most holy sprites, the hypocrites, 'Tis sack ye drink, not ale, boys I must aver, ye cannot err, In breaking God's commands, boys If ye infringe bishops' or kings', You've heaven in your hands, boys. Suppose ye cheat, disturb the state, And steep the land wi' blood, boys ; If secretly your treachery Be acted, it is good, boys. The fiend himsel', in midst o' hell, The pope, with his intrigues, boys, You'll equalize in forgeries ; Fair fa' you, pious Whigs, boys. You'll God beseech, in homely speech, To his coat-tail you'll claim, boys ; Seek lippies of grace frae his gawcie face, And bless and not blaspheme, boys. Your teachers they can kiss and pray, In zealous ladies' closets ; Your wits convert by Venus' art ; Your kirk has holy roset. Which death will tie promiscuously, Her members on the vale, boys, For horned beasts the truth attest, That live in Annandale, boys. But if one drink, or shrewdly think A bishop ere was saved, No charity from presbytrye, For that need once be craved. You lie, you lust, you break your trust, And act all kinds of evil, Your covenant makes you a saint, Although you live a devil. From murders, too, as soldiers true, You are advanced well, boys ; You fought like devils, your only rivals, When you were at Dunkeld, boys. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 493 Your -wondrous things great slaughter brings, You kill'd more than you saw, boys ; At Pentland hills ye got your filjs, And now you seem to craw, boys. Let wabsters preach, and ladies teach The art of cuckoldry, boys, When cruel zeal comes in their tail, Then welcome presbytrye, boys. King William's hands, with lovely bands, You're decking with good speed, boys ; If you get leave, you'll reach his sleeve, And then have at his head, boys. You're welcome, Jack, we'll join a plack, To drink your last confusion, That grace and truth we may possess Once more without delusion. BONNIE DUNDEE. SIB WALTER SCOTT. To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claverhouse spoke, " Ere the king's crown go down there are crowns to be broke, So each cavalier who loves honour and me, Let him follow the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. Come, fill up my cup, come, fill up my can, Come, saddle my horses, and call out my men, Come, open the West Port, and let toe gae free, And it's room for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee.'' Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat, But the Provost, douce man, said, just e'en let him be, The toun is well quit of that deil of Dundee. Come, fill up, etc. As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow, Each carlin was flyting and shaking her pow ; But some young plants of grace, they look'd couthie and slee, Thinking — Luck to thy bonnet, thou bonnie Dundee I Come, fill up, etc. With sour-featured saints the Grrassmarket was panged, As if half of the west had set tryste to be hanged ; There was spite in each face, there was fear in each e'e, As they watch'd for the bonnet of bonnie Dundee. Come, fill up, etc. 494 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND The cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears, And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers ; But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway left free, At a toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. Come, fill up, etc. He spurred to the foot of the high castle rock, And to the gay Gordon he gallantly'spoke ; " Let Mons Meg and her marrows three volleys let flee, For love of the bonnets of bonnie Dundee." Come, fill up, etc. The Gordon has asked him whither he goes ; — " Wheresoever shall guide me the soul of Montrose, Tour grace in short space shall have tidings of me, Or that low lies the bonnet of bonnie Dundee. Come, fill up, etc. " There are hills beyond Pentland, and streams beyond Forth ; If there's lords in the Southland, there's chiefs in the North, There are wild dunniewassals three thousand times three, Will cry Hoigh! for the bonnets of bonnie Dundee. Come, fill up, etc. " Away to the hills, to the woods, to the rocks, Ere I own a usurper, I'll crouch to the fox, And tremble, false Whigs, though triumphant ye be, Tou have not seen the last of my bonnet and me. Come, fill up," etc. He waved his proud arm, and the trumpets were blown, The kettle-drums clash'd, and the horsemen rode on, Till on Bavelston crags, and on Clermiston lee, Died away the wild war notes of bonnie Dundee. Come, fill up my cup, come, fill up my can, Come, saddle my horses, and call up my men, Fling all your gates open, and let me gae free, Sae 't is up with the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee. BATTLE OF KILLICEANKIE. While England quietly submitted to the change of government, a desper- ate straggle was going on in Scotland. Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, raised the standard of the King, and, backed by the clans, com- menced a brief campaign on behalf of his Eoyal master. The only meet- ing between the rival forces at all worthy of notice, was that celebrated in the following song, The Battle of Killicrankie, fought July 17, 1689, between 3000 Highlanders under Dundee, and the English army of some 5000 men under General Hugh Mackay. The Battle was short and CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 495 decisive in favour of the Highlanders, Mackay's troops being beaten back on all points with heavy loss. The fruits of the victory were lost to Bong James through the death of Claverhouse, who was mortally wounded early in the fight. Clavers and his Highlandmen, Came down upon the raw, man, Who, being stout, gave many a clout, The lads began to claw then. With sword and targe into their hand, Wi' which they were na slaw, man, Wi' mony a fearful heavy sigh, The lads began to claw, then. O'er bush, o'er bank, o'er ditch, o'er stank, She flang amang them a', man ; The Butter-box got mony knocks, Their riggings paid for a' then. They got their paiks, wi' sudden straiks, Which to their grief they saw, man ; Wi' clinkum clankum o'er their crowns, The lads began to fa 1 then. Her skipt about, herleapt about, And flung amang them a', man ; The English blades got broken heads, Their crowns were cleav'd in twa then. The durk and door made their last hour, And prov'd their final fa', man ; They thought the devil had been there, That play'd them sic a paw then. The solemn league and covenant, Cam whigging up the hills, man, Thought Highland trews durst not refuse For to subscribe their bills then : In Willie's name they thought nae ane Durst stop their course at a', man, But her nain-aell, wi' mony a knock, Cried, " Furich, whigs awa', man." Sir Evan-Dhu, and his men true, Came linking up the brink, man ; The Hogan Dutch they feared such, They bred a horrid stink then. The true Maclean, and his fierce men, Came in amang them a', man ; Nane durst withstand his heavy hand, All fled and ran awa' then. 496 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Och on a ri, och on ari f Why should she lose King Shames,, man ? Och rig m di, och rig in di, She shall break a' her banes then ; With ffirichinish, and stay a-while, And speak a word or twa, man, She's gi'-a straik out o'er the neek, Before ye win awa' then. fy for shame, ye're three for ane, Hur nane-sell's won the day, man ; King Shames' red coats should be hung up, Because they ran awa' then: Had bent their brows, like Highland trues, And made as lang a stay, man, They'd sav'd their king, that sacred thing, "' And Willie'd run away then. KILLICBANKIE. (another version,) From Johnson's Museum, probably touched up by Burns. Whare ha'e ye been sae braw, lad ? Whare ha'e ye been sae brankie, ? Whare ha'e ye been sae braw, lad? Came ye by Killicrankie, ? An ye had been whare I ha'e been, Ye wadna been sae cantie, ; An ye had seen what I ha'e seen, r the braes o' Killicrankie. 0. I faught at land, I faught at sea, At hame I faught my auntie, ;■ But I met the devil and Dundee, On the braes o' Killicrankie, ; An ye had been,' etc. The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr, And Clavers gat a clankie, 0, Or I had fed an Athol gled On the braes o' Killicrankie, 0. An ye had been, etc. fie, Mackay, what gart ye lie I' the bush ayont the brankie, ? Te'd better kiss'd King Willie's loof, Than come to Killicrankie, 0. It's nae shame, it's nae shame, It's nae shame to shank ye, ; There's sour slaes on Athol braes, And deils at Killicrankie, 0. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 497 IT WAS A' FOE OUR RIGHTFIJ' KING. Ascribed to Captain Ogilvie, a cadet of the house of Inyerq^uharity. He took part in the Battle of the Boyne, in the service of King James, and accompanied hisBoyal master into Franqe, being him by the feathers that grow upon his kame ; And round that double kame yet a crown I hope to see, For my bonny cuckoo he is dear to me. 2l 514 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND DONALD MACGILLAVRY. JAMES HOGO. Donald's gane up the hill hard and hungry ; Donald comes down the hill wild and angry; Donald will clear the gouk's nest cleverly : Here's to the king and Donald Macgillavry. Come like a weigh-bauk, Donald Macgillavry, Come like a weigh-bauk, Donald Macgillavry ; Balance them fair, and balance them cleverly : Off wi' the counterfeit, Donald Macgillavry. Donald's run o'er the hill but his tether, man, As he were wud, or stung wi' an ether, man ; When he comes back, there are some will look merrily : Here's to King James, and Donald Macgillavry. Come like a weaver, Donald Macgillavry, Come like a weaver, Donald Macgillavry, Pack on your back, and elwand sae cleverly : Gie him full measure, my Donald Macgillavry. Donald has foughten wi' reif and roguery ; Donald has dinner'd wi' banes and beggary : Better it were for Whigs and 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' newfangleness, They maun be gane : he winna be baukit, man ; He maun hae justice, or faith he'll tak' it, man. Come like a cobbler, Donald Macgillavry, Come like a cobbler, Donald Macgillavry, Beat them, and bore them, and lingel them cleverly : Up wi' King James and Donald Macgillavry I Donald was mumpit wi' mirds and mockery ; Donald was blinded wi' blads o' property ; Aries ran high, but makings were naething, man : Lord, how Donald is flyting and fretting, man I Come like the devil, Donald Macgillavry, Come like the devil, Donald Macgillavry, Skelp them and scaud them that prov'd sae unbritherly : Up wi' King James, and Donald Macgillavry 1 CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 515 JAMIE THE EOVEB. The tenth of June was the birthday of the Chevalier de St. George, here celebrated under the name of Jamie the Bover. " Auchindown," sayffHogg, "is neither more nor less than an old ruinous Castle in Glen-Fiddich, in Banffshire, and it would appear that these festivals in honour of the exiled sovereign had been among the last entertainments given there ; for about that very time the Castle ceased to be inhabited, and we hear of the Knights of Auchindown no more. The building is extremely ancient, no one knows when it was built, or by whom." Of all the days that's in the year, The tenth of June I love most dear, When our white roses will appear, For sake of Jamie the Bover. In tartans hraw our lads are drest, With roses glancing on their hreast ; For among them a' we love him best, Young Jamie they call the Bover. As I came in by Auchindown, The drums did beat, and trumpets sound, And aye the burden o' the tune Was, Up wi' Jamie the Bover ! There's some wha say he's no the thing, And some wha say he's no our king ; But to their teeth we'll rant and sing, Success to Jamie the Bover ! In London there's a huge black bull, That would devour us at his will ; We'll twist his horns out of his skull, And drive the old rogue to Hanover. And hey as he'll rout, and hey as he'll roar, And hey as he'll gloom, as heretofore ! But we'll repay our auld black score, When we get Jamie the Bover. wae's my heart for Nature's change, And ane abroad that's forced to range ! God bless the lad, where'er he remains, And send him safely over ! It's J. and S., I must confess, Stands for his name that I do bless : may he soon his own possess, Young Jamie they call the Bover ! LOCHMABEN GATE. On the 29th May, 1714, there was a horse race held at Lochmaben, and which drew together a great number of spectators. "After the race the Popish and Jacobite gentry, such as Francis Maxwell of Tinwald, John 516 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Maxwell, his brother ; Robert Johnston of Wamphray, Robert Carruthers of Raraerscales, the Master of Burleigh (who was under sentence of death for murder, and had made his escape out of the Tolbooth of Edinburgh a little before he was to have been executed), with several others whom I could name, went to the cross, where in a very solemn manner, before hundreds of witnesses, with drums beating and colours displayed, they did, npon their knees, drink their king's health !" — Roe's History of the Rebellion. As I came by Lochmaben gate, It's there I saw the Johnstons riding ; Away they go, 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 Ramerscale, With Winton and the gallant' Bollo. I asked 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 dangefc, These are rebels to the throne, Reason have we all to know it ; Popish knaves and dogs 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, Uka whinging, praying sinner. 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 1" they all replied, " Welcome, welcome, gallant Tory I" There I shook hands wi' lord and knight, And mony a braw and buskm'd lady : But lang I'll mind Lochmaben gate, And a' our lads for battle ready. And when I gang by Locher Brigs, And o'er the moor, at een or morrow, I'll lend a curse unto the Whigs, That wrought us a' this dool and sorrow. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 517 THE AULD STUAETS BACK AGAIN. Pbobably written about the time of the outbreak of 1715. Glasgow, Ayr, Irvine, Kilmarnock, and the rest of the Western towns were particu- larly zealous on behalf of the reigning family, and so fall under the whip of the satirist in the first part of the song. The latter part refers to a meeting of the principal Jacobite Chiefs convened by the Earl of Mar, and held at his Castle of Braemar, August 26, 1715. Among those present at this council were, the Marquis of Huntly (eldest son of the Duke of Gordon), the Marquis of Tullibardine (eldest son of the Duke of Athol), Earls of Nithsdale, Marischal Traquair, Errol, Southesk, Carn- "wath, Seaforth, Linlithgow; Viscounts Kilsyth, Kenmure, Kingston, and Stonnount; Lords Bollo, Duffus, Drummond, Strathallan, Ognvje, and Nairn ; besides a large attendance of Chiefs and Chieftains represent- ing the Clans. The auld Stuarts back again, The auld Stuarts back again ; Let howlet Whigs do what they can, The Stuarts will be back again. Wha cares for a' their creesby duds, And a' Kilmarnock's so wen suds? We'll whack their hydes and fyle their fuds, And bring the Stuarts back again. There's Ayr and Irvine, wi' the rest, And a' the cronies i' the west, Lord ! sic a scaw'd and scabbit nest, How they'll set up their crack again But wad they come, or dare they come, Afore the bagpipe and the drum, We'll either gar them a' sing dumb, Or " Auld Stuarts back again." Give ear unto my loyal sang, A' ye that ken the right frae rang, And a' that look and think it lang For auld Stuarts back again. Were -ye wi' me to chace the rae, Out owre the hills and far away, And saw the Lords were there that day, To bring the Stuarts back again. There ye might see the noble Mar, Wi' Athol,. Huntly, and Traquair, Seaforth, Kilsyth, and Auldubair, And mony mae, whatreck, again. Then what are a' their westland crews ? We'll gar the tailors tack again : Can they forestand the tartan trewSj And auld Stuarts back again ? , 518 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND THE CHEVALIEE'S MUSTER BOLL. " There can be little doubt but this song, denominated The Chevalier's Muster Boll, has been made and song about the time when the Earl of Mar raised the standard for King James in the North ; but it is so far from being a complete list, that many of the principal chiefs are left out, as Atbol, Broadalbine, Ogilvie, Keith, Stuart, &c, &c. It therefore appears evident to me, that it has been adapted for some festive meeting where all the names of those present were introduced, without regard to the others ; and I have not the least doubt that every name mentioned in the song applied to some particular person, though it is impossible, at this distance of time, to trace each one with certainty." — Hogg. Little wat ye wha's coming, Little wat ye wha's coming, Little wat ye wha's coming, Jock an' Tarn 1 an' a's coming. Duncan's coming, Donald's coming, Colin's coming, Ronald's coming, Dougal's coming, Lauchlan's coming, Alaster and a's coming. Little wat ye wha's coming, Jock an' Tarn an' a's coming. Borland 2 and his men's coming, Cameron' and M'Lean's* coming, Gordon 6 and M'Gregor's coming, Ilka dunywastle's coming, Little wat ye wha's coming, M'Gillivray' and a's coming. Wigton's coming, Nithsdale's coming, Carnwarth's 'coming, Kenmure's coming, Derwentwater and Forster's coming, Widdrington and Nairn's coming, Little wat ye wha's coming, Blithe Cowhill 7 and a's coming. The Laird of M'lntosh 8 is coming, M'Crabie an' M'Donald's coming, M'Kenzie and M'Pherson's coming, And the wild M'Craw's coming. Little wat ye wha's coming, Donald Gun and a's coming. 1 Supposed to mean the Lowlands generally. * A Chieftain of the Clan Macintosh. ' Of LochieL • Sir John McLean. « Marquis of Huntly. ■ Supposed to be McGilUvray, head of one of the Clan Chattan. ' The names in this stanza are those of the Lowland Chiefs. ' The Chief of the Clan. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 519 They gloom, they glour, they look sae big, At ilka stroke they'll fell a Whig : They'll fright the fuds o' the Poekpuds, For mony a buttock hare's coming. Little wat ye wha's coming, Jock and Tarn an' a's coming. THE STANDABD ON THE BEAES 0' MAE. Alexander La tn g, of Brechin. The standard on the braes o' Mar, Is up and streaming rarely ; The gathering pipe on Loeh-na-gar, Is sounding lang and sairly. The Highlandmen Frae hill and glen, In martial hue, With bonnets blue, With belted plaids And burnish'd blades, Are coming late and early. Wha wadna join our noble chief, The Drummond and Glengarry, Macgregor, Murray, Eollo, Keith, Panmure, and gallant Harry ? Macdonald's men, Clan-Eanald's men, Mackenzie's men, Macgillavry's men, Strathallan's men, The Lowlan' men, Of Callander and Airly. Fy ! Donald, up and let's awa'. We canna langer parley, When Jamie's back is at the wa 1 . The lad we lo'e sae dearly. We'll go — we'll go And meet the foe And fling the plaid, And swing the blade, And forward dash, And hack and slash — And fleg the German Carlie. 520 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND THE BATTLE OP SHEBBIFMUIR, Was fought near Dunblane, Perthshire, on the 13th November, 1715, between the Hanoverian forces under the Duke of Argyll, and the Jacobite under the Earl of Mar. The battle at its close was undecided and both sides claimed victory. All the solid advantages, however, remained with the royal troops. There's some say that we wan, Some say that they wan, And some say that nane wan at a', man ; But one thing I'm sure, That at Sherramuir, A battle there was, that I saw, man : And we ran, and they ran, And they ran, and we ran, And we ran, .and they ran awa', man. Argyll l and Belhayen,* Not frighted like Leven,' Which Bothes 4 and Haddington s saw, man ; For they all, with Wightman, 6 Advanced on the right, man, While others took flight, heing raw, man : And we ran, and they ran, etc. Lord Roxburgh 7 was there, In order to share With Douglas, 8 who stood not in awe, man ; Volunteerly to ramble With Lord Loudoun Campbell, 9 Brave Hay " did suffer for a', man : And we ran, and they ran, etc. Sir John Shaw, V 1 . that great knight, With broadsword most bright, On horseback he briskly did charge, man; A hero that's kold, None could him withhold, He stoutly encountered the targemen : And we ran, and they ran, etc. For the cowardly Whittam, 1 * For fear they should cut him, Seeing glittering broadswords with a pa', man, 1 John, Second Duke of Argyll. » Lord Belhaven. » David Leslie, Earl of Leven. 4 s Earls of Eothes and Haddington. ' • Major General in the Koyal Army. ' Kf th Duke of Roxburgh. « Duke of Douglas. » Third Earl of Loudon. 10 Earl of Hay, brother to the Duke of Argyll " Sir John Shaw of Greenock. 12 Major-General in the Royal Army. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 521 And that in such thrang, Made Baird aide-de-camp, .And from the brave clans ran awa, man : And we ran, and they ran, etc. The great Colonel Dow Grade foremost, I trow, When Whittam's dragoons ran awa, man : Except Sandy Baird, And Naughtan the laird, Their horse shaw'd their heels to them a', man : And we ran, and they ran, etc. Brave Mar 1 and Panmure 2 Were firm, I am sure, The latter was kidnapt awa, man, With brisk men about, Brave Harry retook His brother, and laughed at them a', man : And we ran, and they ran, etc. Brave Marshall' and Lithgow, 4 And Glengarry's pith tpo, 6 Assisted by brave Loggia, man, And Gordons the bright, So boldly did fight, That the red-coats took flight and awa', man : And we ran, and they ran, etc. Strathmore 7 and Clanronald, 8 Cry'd still, "Advance, Donald," Till both of these heroes did fa', man ; For there was such hashing, And broadswords a-clashing, Brave Forfar 9 himself got a claw, man : And we ran, and they ran, etc' Lord Perth 10 stood the storm, Seaforth 11 but lukewarm, Kilsyth 13 and Strathallan 18 not slaw, man; And Hamilton 14 pled, The men were not bred, For he had no fancy to fa', man : And we ran, and they ran, etc. 1 The Earl of Mar. 2 The Hon. Henry Maule of Kellie. * George Keith, tenth Earl MarischaL 4 Earl of Calendar and Linlithgow. 5 Archibald Macdonald, chief of Glengarry. * Drummond of Logie- Almond. i John Lyon, fifth Earl of Strathmore and Kinghorn. 8 Ronald Macdonald of Clanronald. " Archibald Douglas, Becond Earl of Forfar. io James Lord Drummond. " William Mackenzie, fifth Earl of Seaforth. » William, Lord Kilsyth. ■ William, Lord Strathallan. 14 George Hamilton, Lieut-General under the Earl of Mar. 522 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Brave gen'rous Southesk, 1 Tullibardine 2 was brisk, Whose father, indeed, would not draw, man, Into the same yoke, Which served for a cloak, To keep the estate 'twixt them twa, man : And we ran, and they ran, etc. Lord Bollo' not fear'd, Eintore* and his beard, Pitsligo* and Ogilvie,* a', man, And brothers Balfours, They stood the first showers, Clackmannan and Burleigh 7 did claw, man: And we ran, and they ran, etc. But Cleppan 8 fought pretty, And Strowan" the witty, A poet that pleases us a', man ; For mine is but rhyme, In respect of what's fine, Or what he is able to draw, man : And we ran, and they ran, &c. For Huntly 10 and Sinclair, 11 , They both play'd the tinkler, With consciences black as a craw, man ; Some Angus and Fifemen, They ran for their life, man, And ne'er a Lot's wife there at a', man : And we ran, and they ran, etc. Then Laurie the traitor, Who betray'd his master, His king and his country, and a', man, -Pretending Mar might, Give orders to fight, To the right of the army awa', man : And we ran, and they ran, etc. Then Laurie for fear, Of what he might hear, Took Drummond's best horse and awa', man, 'Stead of going to Perth, He crossed the Firth, Alongst Stirling bridge, and awa', man ; And we ran, and they ran, etc. » James, fifth Earl of Southesk. » William Murray, Marquis of Tullibardtne. 3 Kobert, Lord Kolta. « William, Earl of Kintore. 7 i W™roes ifPlSto • James, Lord Ogilvie, eldest son of the Earl of Airlie. » Lord BurlairiT Major Clephane of the Jacobite Army. » Robertson of Struan, Chief of IhVolan. 10 Marquis of Huntly. » James, Master of Sinclair. " l "™ m * a - CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 523 To London he press'd, And there he profess'd, That he behav'd best of them a', man ; And so, without strife, Got settled for life, Ten hundred a-year to his fa', man : And we ran, and they ran, etc. In Borrowstounness He resides with disgrace, Till his neck stand in need of a thraw, man, And then, in a tether, He'll swing from a ladder, And go off the stage with a pa', man : And we ran, and they ran, etc. Bob Boy there stood watch 1 On a hill, for to catch ' The booty, for aught that I saw, man, For he ne'er advanc'd, From the place he was stanc'd, Till no more was to do there at a', man : And we ran, and they ran, etc. So we all took the flight, And Moubray the wright, And Lethem the smith was a bra' man, For he took a fit Of the gout, which was wit, By judging it time to withdraw, man : And we ran, and they ran, etc. And trumpet M'Lean, Whose breeks were not clean, Thro' misfortune he happen'd to fa', man, By saving his neck, His trumpet did break, And came off without musick at a', man : And we ran, and they ran, etc. So there such a race was, As ne'er in that place was, And as little chase was at a', man; From each other they run Without touk of drum, They did not make use of a paw, man : And we ran, and they ran, etc. 1 The celebrated outlaw. 524 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND "Whether we ran, or they ran, Or we wan, or they wan, Or if there was winning at a', man, There no man can tell, Save our brave Grenarell, Who first began running of a', man, And we ran, and they ran, etc. Wi' the Earl o' Seaforth, And the Cock o' the North 1 ; But Florence ran fastest of a', man, Save the laird o' Phinaven, Who sware to be even Wi' any general or peer o' them a', man, And we ran, and they ran, etc. BATTLE OF SHEBKAMUIB. SECOND VERSION, Appeared originally as a street song, under the title of " A Dialogue be- tween Will Lickladle and Tom deanqogue, twa shepherds who were feed- ing their flocks on the Ochil Hills on the day the battle of Sherramuir was fought." Its author was the Eev. John Barclay of Muthill, who died in 1798. ■ W. cam ye here the>fight to shun, Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? Or were ye at the Sherramuir, Or did the battle Bee man? T. I saw the battle sair and teugh, And reeking red ran mony a sheugh : My heart for fear ga'e sough for sough, To hear the thuds, and see the cluds 0' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. The redcoat lads, wi' black cockades, To meet them warna slaw, man ; They rush'd, and push'd, and blood out gush'd, And mony a bouk did fa', man. The great Argyll led on his files, I wat they glanc'd for twenty miles ; They hough'd the clans like ninepin kyles, They hack'd and hash'd, while braid swords clash'd, And through they dash'd, and hew'd, and smash'd, Till fey men died awa, man. 1 A popular name for the Duke of Gordon. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 525 But had ye seen the philabegs, And skyrin tartan trews, man, When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs, And covenant true blues, man ; In lines extended lang and large, When baigonets o'erpower'd the targe, And thousands hasten'd to the charge ; Wi' Highland wrath, they frae the sheath Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath. They fled like frighted dows, man. W. how deil, Tam, can that be true ? The chace gaed frae the north, man ? I saw mysel, they did pursue The horsemen back to Forth, man, And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, They took the brig wi' a' their might, And straight to Stirling wing'd their flight; But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut, And mony a huntit, poor redcoat, For fear amaist did swarf, man. T. My sister Kate cam' up the gate Wi' crowdie unto me, man ; She swore she saw some rebels run To Perth and to Dundee, man. Their left hand gen'ral had nae skill, The Angus lads had nae gude will, That day their neighbours' blude to spill ; For fear by foes that they should lose Their cogues o' brose, they scar'd at blows, And hameward fast did flee, man. They've lost some gallant gentlemen Amang the Highland clans, man : I fear my Lord Panmure is slain, Or in his en'mies' hands, man. Now wad ye sing this double flight, Some fell for wrang, and some for right, And mony bade the warld gude-night, Say pell, and mell, wi' muskets knell, How Tories fell, and Whigs to hell Flew aff in frighted bands, man. 526 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND UP AN' WARN A', WILLIE. When we gaed to the braes o' Mar, And to the weapon-shaw, Willie, Wi' true design to serve our king, And banish Whigs awa', Willie Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a' ; For lords and lairds came there bedeen, And vow but they were braw, Willie. Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a' ; Then second sighted Sandy said, We'd do nae gude at a', Willie. But when the army join'd at Perth, The bravest e'er ye saw, Willie, We didna doubt the rogues to rout, Restore our king an' a', Willie. Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a' ; The pipers play'd frae right to left, whirry Whigs awa', Willie. But when the standard was set up, Right fierce the wind did blaw, Willie ; The royal nit upon the tap Down to the ground did fa, Willie. Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a' ; To hear my canty Highland sang Relate the thing I saw, Willie. But when we march'd to Sherramuir, And there the rebels saw, Willie, Brave Argyll attacked our right, Our flank and front, and a', Willie. Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a' ; Traitor Huntly soon gave way, Seaforth, St. Clair, and a', Willie. But brave Glengarry on our right, The rebels' left did claw, Willie, He there the greatest slaughter made That ever Donald saw, Willie. Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a'; And Whittam fyl'd his breeks for fear, And fast did rin awa, Willie. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 527 For he ca'd us a Highland mob, And swore he'd slay us a', Willie ; But we chas'd him back to Stirling brig, Dragoons and foot and a', Willie. Up and warn a,' Willie, Warn, warn a' ; At length we rallied on a hill, And briskly up did draw, Willie. But when Argyll did view our line, And them in order saw, Willie, He straight gaed to Dumblane again, And back his left did draw, Willie. Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a' ; Then we to Auohterarder march'd To wait a better fa', Willie. Now if ye speir wha wan the day, I've tell'd you what I saw, Willie, We baith did fight, and baith were beat, And baith did rin awa', Willie. Up and warn a', Willie, Warn, warn a' ; For second sighted Sandy said We'd do nae good at a', Willie. LAMENT. Arrant the Battle of Sherriffmuir, Mar retreated to Perth, and the army soon afterwards dispersed, leaving the Duke of Argyll to traverse the country without opposition. A number of the insurgents escaped to France, while those who were captured, were either executed, or sent into exile. Hard fate that I should banish'd be, And rebel call'd with scorn, For serving of the kindest prince That ever yet was born. my king, God save my king, Whatever me befall 1 1 would not be in Huntly's case, For honours, lands, and all. My target and my good claymoro Must now lie useless by ; My plaid and trews I heretofore Did wear most cheerfully. my king, etc. 528 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND So cheerfully our king cam o'er, Sent Ecklin to the North ; But treaeh'rously he wasbetray'd By Huntly and Seaforth. , my king, etc. the broom, the bonny bonny broom, The broom of the Cowdenknowes ! 1 wish these lords had staid at hame, And milked their minnies' ewes, my king, etc. wretched Huntly, hide thy head ! Thy king and country's gone, And many a valiant Scot hast thou By villany undone, my king, etc. Farewell, Old Albion, I must take A long and last adieu ; Or bring me back my king again, Or farewell hope and you. my king, etc. Set our true king upon the throne Of his ancestors dear, And send the German cuckold home To starve with his small gear. my king, etc. Then happy days in peace we'll see, And joy in every face ; Confounded all the Whigs sha^l be, . And honest men in place: my king, God save my king, Whatever me befall I 1 would not be in Huntly's case, For honours, lands, and all. KENMURE'S ON AND AWA. Wilijam, Viscount Kenmure, was leader of the Jacobite forces in the south of Scotland in 1715. He was defeated at Preston, and conveyed to London as a prisoner, where he was beheaded on the 24th February, 1716. This song is partly by Burns. Kenmure's on and awa, Willie, Kenmure's on and awa ; And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord That ever Galloway saw. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 529 Success to Kenmure's band, Willie 1 Success to Kenmure's band ! There's no a heart that fears a Whig, That rides by Kenmure's hand. There's a rose in Kenmure's cap, Willie, There's a rose in Kenmure's cap, He'll steep it red in ruddie heart's blude, Afore the battle drap. Here's him that's far awa, Willie, Here's him that's far ) awa, And here's the flower that I lo'e best, The rose that's like the snaw. Kenmure's lads are men, Willie, Kenmure's lads are men, Their hearts and swords are metal true, And that their faes Bhall ken. They'll live, or die wi' fame, Willie, They'll live, or die wi' fame; And soon wi' sound o' victorie May Kenmure's lord come hame. His lady's cheek was red, Willie, His lady's cheek was red, When she saw his steely jupes put on, Which smell'd o' deadly feud. Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie, Here's Kenmure's health in wine ; There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude, Nor yet o' Gordon's line. LOED DBEWENTWATEE'S PAEEWELL. James RADCLnw, Earl of Derwentwater, was another of the victims of the affair at Preston. He was beheaded at London. " Derwentwater," says Smollet, " was an amiable youth, brave, open, generous, hospitable, and humane. His fate drew tears from the spectators, and was a great misfortune to the country in which he lived. He gave bread to multi- tudes of people whom he employed on his estate : the poor, the widow, and the orphan, rejoiced in his bounty." " This " adds Hogg, " is an amiable character, and though smirched with the foulness of rebellion, smells sweetly of heaven." Farewell to pleasant Ditson Hall, My father's ancient seat : A stranger now must call thee his, Which gars my heart to greet. 2 M 530 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Farewell each kindly well-known face, My heart has held so dear : My tenants now must leave their lands, Or hold their lives in fear. No more along the banks of Tyne, I'll rove in autumn gray ; No more I'll hear, at early dawn, The lav'rocks wake the day : Then fare-thee-well, brave Witherington, And Forster ever true. Dear Shaftsbury, and Errington, Eeceive my last adieu. And fare-thee-well, George Collingwood, Since fate has put us down, If thou and I have lost our lives, Our king has lost his crown. Farewell, farewell, my lady dear, 111, ill thou counsell'dst me : I never more may see the babe That smiles upon thy knee. And fare-thee-well, my bonny gray steed, That carried me aye so 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 that rises fromthe sea, Shall rise on me no more. Albeit that here in London town It is my fate to die, carry me to Northumberland, In my father's grave to lie : There chant my solemn requiem In Hexham's holy towers, And let six maids of fair Tynedale Scatter my grave with flowers. And when the head that wears the crown, Shall be laid low like mine, Some honest hearts may then lament For Eadcliff's fallen line. Farewell to pleasant Ditson Hall, My father's ancient seat ; A stranger now must call thee his, Which gars my heart to greet. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 531 OWER THE HILLS AN' PAE AWAY. Ower the hills and far away, It's ower the hills and far away ; Ower the hills and ower the sea The wind has blawn my plaid frae me. My tartan plaid, my ae good sheet, That keepit me frae wind and weet, And held me bien baith night and day, Is ower the hills and far away. There was a wind it cam to me, Ower the south and ower the sea, And it has blawn my corn and hay, Ower the hills and far away. It blew my corn, it blew my gear, It neither left me kid nor steer, And blew my plaid, my only stay, Ower the hills and far away. But though 't has left me bare indeed, And blawn my bonnet off my head, There's something hid in Highland brae ; It hasna blawn my sword away. Then ower the hills and ower the dales, Ower all England and through Wales, The broadsword yet shall bear the sway, Ower the hills and far away. HOW LANG SHALL OUE LAND. WILLIAM HESTON, Tutob to the young Earl Mareschall, and a victim to the failure of the '15. How lang shall our land thus suffer distresses, Whilst traitors, and strangers, and tyrants oppress us ! How lang shall our old, and once brave warlike nation, Thus tamely submit to a base usurpation ? Thus must we be sad, whilst the traitors are vaudie, Till we get a sight of our ain bonnie laddie. Thus must we be gad, whilst the traitors are vaudie, Till we get a sight of our ain bonny laddie. How lang shall we lurk, how lang shall we languish, With faces dejected, and hearts full of anguish? How lang shall the Whigs, perverting all reason, Call honest men knaves, and loyalty treason ? Thus must we be sad, whilst the traitors are vaudie, Till we get a sight of our ain bonnie laddie. Thus must we be sad, etc. 5!2 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Heavens, have pity ! with favour present us ; Eesoue us from strangers that sadly torment us, From Atheists, and Deists, and Whiggish opinions ; Our king return back to his rightful dominions : Then rogues shall be sad, and honest men vaudie, When the throne is possess'd by our ain bonny laddie. Then rogues shall be sad, etc. Our vales shall rejoice, our mountains shall flourish ; Our church, that's oppressed, our monarch will nourish ; Our land shall be glad ; but the Whigs shall be sorry, When the king gets his own, and Heaven the glory. Then rogues shall be sad, but the honest men vaudie, When the throne is possess'd by our ain bonny laddie. The rogues shall be sad, etc. SOMEBODY. Tins first appeared in Hogg's Jacobite Belies ; and, though he does not own it, in all probability was written by Mm. From the failure of the rising in 1715, to the lapding of Prince Charles Edward, the thoughts of the Jacobite party were always bent on the return of the exiled family. My heart is sair, I daurna tell, My heart is sair for somebody ; I would walk a winter's night, For a sight o' somebody. Och hon for somebody ! Och hey for somebody ! I wad do — what wad I not, For the sake o' somebody ! If somebody were come again, Then somebody maun cross the main, And ilka ane will get his ain, ' And I will see my somebody. Och hon, etc. ' What need I kame my tresses bright Or why should coal or candle-light E'er shine in my bower day or night, Since gane is my dear somebody ? Och hon, etc. Oh 1 I hae grutten mony a day For ane that's banish'd far away : I canna sing, and maunna say, How sair I grieve for somebody. Och hon, etc. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 533 WELCOME ROYAL CHAELIE. On the 25th July, 1745, Charles Edward Stuart, the "Bonnie Prince Charlie " of the Jacobites, and the " Young Pretender " of the Hanover- ians, landed at Borodale and began what must now be regarded as one of the most desperate and romantic campaigns r in modern history. The more ardent Highland Chiefs at once welcomed him with all the ardour of their nature, but several still advised delay. Charles, however, had vir- tually thrown away his scabbard, and declined this; and overcoming their scruples, after a few preliminary movements the clans were declared ready, and the standard was raised in the Valley of Glenfinnan. " The spot," says Mr. Chambers, " selected for the rearing of the standard, was a little eminence in the centre of the vale. The Marquis of Tullibardine, whose rank entitled him to the honour, pitched himself on the top of this knoll, supported by two men, on account of his weak state of health. He then flung upon the mountain breeze that flag which, shooting like a streamer from the north, was soon to spread such omens of woe and terror over the peaceful vales of Britain." — History of the Rebellion of 1745-6; p. 48, 1869. When Prance had her assistance lent, Our darling prince to lis she sent, Towards the north his course he bent, His name was Koyal Charlie. But, 0, he was lang o' coming, 0, he was lang o' coming, 0, he was lang o' coming ; — Welcome Royal Charlie ! When he upon the shore did stand, The friends he had within the land Came down and shook him by the hand, And welcom'd Royal Charlie. Wi' " 0, ye've been lang o' coming," etc. The dress that our Prince Charlie had Was bonnet blue and tartan plaid ; And he was a handsome lad ! Few could compare wi' Charlie. But 0, he was lang o' coming, etc. THE GATHERING- OF THE CLANS. 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. 534 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Gather, gather, gather, Prom Loch Morar 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. Gather, gather, gather, Gather from Lochaber glen : Mac-Mic-Eannail calls you ; Come from Taroph, Roy, and Spean. Gather, brave Clan-Donuil, Many sonB of might you know ; Lenochan's your brother, Auchtereehtan and Glencoe. Gather, gather, gather, "lis your prince that needs your arm : Though Maccorinel leaves you, Dread no danger or alarm. Come from field and foray, Come from sickle and from plough ; Come from cairn and correi, From deer-wake and driving to. Gather, bold Clan-Donuil ; Come with haversack and cord ; Come not late with meal or cake, But come with dirk, and gun, and sword. Down into the Lowlands, Plenty bides by dale and burn, Gather, brave Clan-Donuil, Riches wait on your return. GATHERING OF ATHOL. Wha will ride wi' gallant Murray ? Wha will ride wi' Geordie's sel ? He's the flow'r o' a' Glenisla, And the darlin' o' Dunkel'. See the white rose in his bonnet ! See his banner o'er the Tay ! His gude sword he now has drawn it, And has flung the sheath away. Every faithful Murray follows ; First of heroes ! best of men ! Every true and trusty Stewart Blythely leaves his native glen. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 535 Athol lads are lads of honour, Westland rogues are rebels a'; When we come within their border, We may gar the Campbells claw. Menzies he's our friend and brother ; Gask and Strowan are nae slack ! Noble Perth has ta'en the field, And a' the Drummonds at his back. Let us ride wi' gallant Murray, Let us fight for Charlie's crown ; From the right we'll never Binder, Till we bring the tyrants down. Mackintosh, the gallant soldier, Wi' the Grahams and Gordons gay, They have ta'en the field of honour, v Spite of all their chiefs could say. Bend the musket, point the rapier, Shift the brog for Lowland shoe, Scour the durk, and face the danger ; Mackintosh has all to do. COME YE BY ATHOL. JAMES HOGS. Come ye' by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg Down by the Tummel or banks o' the Garry, Saw ye the lads wi' their bonnets and white cockades, Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie. Follow thee 1 Follow thee I wha wadna follow thee ? Lang ha N st thou loved and trusted us fairly 1 Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee, King o' the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince Charlie. I ha'e but ae son, my gallant young Donald, But if I had ten they should follow Glengarry 1 Health to McDonnell and gallant Clan Bonald, For these are the men that will die for their Charlie. Follow thee 1 Follow thee I &c. I'll to Lochiel and Appin, and kneel to them, Down by Lord Murray and Boy of Kildarlie ; Brave Mcintosh, he shall fly to the field wi' them ; These are the lads I can trust wi' my Charlie. Follow thee I Follow thee 1 &c. Down through the Lowlands, down wi' the Whigamore, Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' them rarely ! Bonald and Donald, drive on wi' the broad claymore, Over the necks of the foes o' Prince Charlie. Follow thee 1 Follow thee ! &c. 536 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND WHA'S FOE SCOTLAND AND CHARLIE? wha's for Scotland and Charlie ? wha's for Scotland and Charlie ? He's come o'er the sea To his ain countrie; Now wha's for Scotland and Charlie ? Awa', awa'i auld carlie, Awa'; awa', auld carlie, Gri'e Charlie his crown^ And let him sit down, Whare ye've been sae lang, auld carlie. It's up in the morning early, It's up in the morning early, The bonnie white rose ; The plaid and the hose, Are on for Scotland and Charlie. The swords are drawn now fairly, The swords are drawn now fairly, The swords they are drawn, And the pipes they ha'e blawn A pibroch for Scotland and Charlie. The flags are fleein' fu' rarely, The flags are fleein' fu' rarely, Arid Charlie's awa' To see his ain ha', And to bang his faes right sairly. .Then wha's for Scotland and Charlie ? wha's for Scotland and Charlie ? He's come o'er the sea , To his ain countrie ; Then wha's for Scotland and Charlie ? WHA WADNA FIGHT FOE CHARLIE ? "Wha wadna fight for Charlie ? Wha wadna draw the sword? Wha wadna up and rally, At their royal prince's word ? Think on Scotia's ancient heroes, Think on foreign foes repell'd * Think on glorious Bruce and "Wallace, Wha the proud usurpers quell'd. Wha wadna, etc. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 537 Bouse, rouse, ye kilted warriors I Eouse, ye heroes of the north ! Bouse, and join your chieftain's banners, 'Tis your prince that leads you forth ! Wha wadna, etc. Shall we basely crouch to tyrants ? Shall we own a foreign sway ? Shall a royal Stuart be banish'd While a stranger rules the day ? Wha wadna, etc. See the northern clans advancing ! See Glengarry and Lochiel ! See the brandish'd broad-swords glancing ? Highland hearts are true as steel. Wha wadna, etc. Now our prince has rear'd his banner ; Now triumphant is our cause ; Now the Scottish lion rallies ; Let us strike for prince and laws. Wha wadna, etc. WHA'LL BE KING BUTCHABLIE? LAST NAIBNE. The news frae Moidart cam' yestreen ' Will soon gar mony ferlie ; That ships o' war hae just come in, And landed royal Charlie. Come through the heather, around him gather, Te're a' the welcomer early ; Around him cling, wi' a' your kin, For wha'll be king but Charlie? Come through the heather, around him gather, Come Bonald, come Donald, come a' thegither, And crown your rightfu' lawful king, For wha'll be king but Charlie? The Highland clans, wi' sword in hand, Frae John o' Groats to Airly, Hae to a man declar'd to stand Or fa' wi' royal Charlie. Come through the heather, etc. The Lowlands a', baith great and sma', Wi' mony a lord and laird, hae Declar'd for Scotia's king an' law, And spier ye wha but Charlie ? Come through the heather, etc. 538 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND There's ne'er a lass iu a' the land But vows baith late and early, To man she'll ne'er gie heart or hand, Wha wadna fecht for Charlie. Come through the heather, etc. Then here's a health to Charlie's cause, And be't complete and early ; His very name my heart's blood warms To arms for royal Charlie 1 , Come through the heather, etc. ROYAL CHARLIE. The wind comes ffae the land I love, It moves the flood fu' 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 out — wide smiles the sea, The lily blossoms rarely ; 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 with silks in state, And waved her white hand proudlie, And drew a bright sword from the sheath, And answered high and loudlie : — " I had three sons and a good lord, Wha sold their lives fu' dearlie ; And wi' their dust I'd mingle mine, For love of gallant Charlie. " It wad hae made a hail heart sair, To see our horsemen flying ; And my three bairns, and my good lord, Among the dead and dying : " I snatched a banner — led them back— The white rose flourish'd rarely : The deed I did for royal James I'd do again for Charlie." CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 539 COME BOAT ME O'ER. Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er, Come boat me o'er to Charlie ; I'll gie John Boss anither bawbee To ferry me o'er to Charlie. We'll o'er the water, we'll o'er the sea, We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; Come weel, come wo, we'll gather and go, And live or die wi' Charlie. It's weel I lo'e my Charlie's name, Though some there be abhor him ; But to see Auld Nick gaun hame, And Charlie's faes before him I We'll o'er the water, etc. I swear by moon and stars sae bright, And sun that glances early, If I had twenty thousand lives, I'd gie them a' for Charlie. We'll o'er the water, etc. I ance had sons, but now hae nane ; I bore them toiling sairly ; And I wad bear them a' again, And lose them a' for Charlie ; We'll o'er the water, we'll o'er the sea, We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; Come weel, come wo, we'll gather and go, And live or die wi' Charlie. MACLEAN'S WELCOME. From the Gaelic, by James Hogg. Come o'er the stream, Charlie, dear Charlie, brave Charlie, Come o'er the stream, Charlie, and dine with Maclean ; And though you be weary, we'll make your heart cheery, And welcome our Charlie and his loyal train. We'll bring down the track deer, we'll bring down the black steer, The lamb from the breckan, and doe from the glen : The salt sea we'll harry, and bring to our Charlie, The cream from the bothy, and curd from the pen. Come o'er the stream, Charlie, etc. And you shall drink freely the dews of Glen- Sheerly, That stream in the star-light when kings do not ken, And deep be your meed of the wine that is red, To drink to your sire, and his friend the Maclean. Come o'er the stream, Charlie, etc. 540 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND O'er heath-bells shall trace you, the maids to embrace you, And deck your blue bonnet with flowers of the brae ; And the loveliest Mary in all Glen M'Quarry Shall lie in your bosom till break of the day. Come o'er the stream, Charlie, etc. If aught will invite you, or more will delight you, "Kb ready, a troop of our bold Highlandmen Shall range on the heather with bonnet and feather, Strong arms and broad claymores three hundred and ten. Come o'er the stream, Charlie, etc. THE EESTOEATION. To curb usurpation, by th' assistance of France, With love to his country, see Charlie advance! He's welcome to grace and distinguished this day, The sun brighter shines, and all nature looks gay. Your glasses charge high, 't is in great Charlies' praise ! To his success your voices and instruments raise. Approach, glorious Charles, to this desolate land, And drive out thy foes with thy mighty hand ; The nations shall rise, and join as one man, To crown the brave Charles, the Chief of the Clan. Your glasses, etc. In his train see sweet Peace, fairest queen of the sky, Ev'ry bliss in her look, ev'ry charm in her eye, Whilbt oppression, corruption, vile slav'ry and fear, At his wish'd-for return never more shall appear. Your glasses, etc. Whilst in Pleasure's soft arms millions now court repose, Our hero flies forth, though surrounded with foes ; To free us from tyrants ev'ry danger defies, And in Liberty's cause he conquers or dies ! Your glasses, etc. How hateful's the tyrant who lives by false fame, To satiate his pride sets our country in flame, How glorious the prince, whose great generous mind, Makes true valour consist in relieving mankind ! Your glasses, etc. Ye brave clans, on whom we just honour bestow, think on the source whence our dire evils flow ! Commanded by Charlesj advance to Whitehall, And fix them in chains who would Britons enthral. Your glasses, etc. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 541 TO DAUNTON ME. To daunton me an' me sae young, An' gude King James's eldest son ! that's the thing that ne'er can be, For the man's unborn that'll daunton me ! set me ance on Scottish land An' gie me my braidsword in my hand, Wi' my bonnet blue aboon my bree, An' shaw me the man that'll daunton me. It's nae the battle's deadlie stbure, Nor friends pruived fause that'll gar me cower ; But the reckless hand o' povertie, ! that alane can daunton me. High was I born to kingly gear, But a cuif came in, my cap to wear, But wi' my braidsword I'll let him see He's nae the man to daunton me. O I hae scarce to lay me on, Of kingly fields were ance my ain ; Wi' the moorcock on the mountain-bree, But hardship ne'er can daunton me. Up came the gallant chief Lochiel, An' drew his glaive o' nut-brown steel, Says, " Charlie, set your fit to me, An' shaw me wha will daunton thee ! " YOUNG CHARLIE IS A GALLANT LAD. Young Charlie is a gallant lad, As e'er wore sword and belted plaid ; And lane and friendless though he be, He is the lad that shall wanton me. At Moidart our young prince did land, With seven men at his right hand, And a' to conquer nations three : That is the lad that shall wanton me. wae be to the faithless crew That frae our true king took his due, And banish'd him across the' sea ; Nae wonder that should daunton me. But, Charlie lad, ere it be lang, We'll shaw them a' the right frae wrang ; Argyle and a' our faes shall see That nane on earth can daunton thee. 542 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Then raise the banner, raise it high ; For Charles we'll conquer or we'll die : The clans a' leal and true men be, And shaw me wha will daunton thee ! Our gude King James shall soon Come hame, And traitors a' be put to shame ; Auld Scotland shall again be free ; that's the thing wad wanton me ! THE PIPER 0' DUNDEE. The piper came to our town, To our town, to our town, The piper came to our town, And he played bonnilie. He played a spring the laird to please, A spring brent new frae yont the seas ; And then he ga'e his bags a wheeze, And played anither key. And wasna he a roguey, A roguey, a roguey, And wasna he a roguey, The piper o' Dundee ? He played " The welcome ower the main," And " Ye'se be fou and I'se be fain," And " Auld Stuarts back again," Wi' muckle mirth and glee. He played " The Kirk," he played " The Quier," " The Muffin Dhu " and " Chevalier," And " Lang awa', but welcome here,?' Sae sweet, sae bonnilie. It's some gat swords, and some gat nane, And some were dancing mad their lane, And mony a vow o' weir was taen That night at Amulrie ! There was Tullibardine and Burleigh, And Struan, Keith, and Ogilvie, And brave Carnegie, wha but he, The piper o' Dundee ? CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 543 HE'S OWEE THE HILLS. He's ow're the hills that I lo'e weel ; He's owre the hills we darena name, He's owTe the hills ayont Dumblane, Wha soon will get his welcome hame. My father's gane to fight for him, My brithers winna bide at hame, My mither greets and prays for them, And 'deed she thinks they're no to blame. He's owre the hills, &o. The Whigs may scoff, the Whigs may jeer, But, ah 1 that luve maun be sincere, Which Btill keeps true whate'er betide, An' for his sake leaves a' beside. He's owre the hills, &c. His right these hills, his right these plains ; O'er Highland hearts -secure he reigns ; What lads e'er did, our lads will do : Were I a lad, I'd follow him too. He's owre the hills, &c. Sae noble a look, sae princely an air, Sae gallant and bold, sae young and sae fair ; Oh ! did you but see him, ye'd do as we've done ; Hear him but ance, to his standard you'll run. He's owre the hills, &c. JOHNNIE COPE. On the intelligence of the rising of the clans reaching the government, Sir John Cope, Commander-in-Chief of the forces in Scotland, was in- structed to take measures for the public safety, and at once organise the troops under his command and march to meet the rebels. He left Stir- ling on the 24th August, intending to march to Fort Augustus, and making that his headquarters. He found his march through the High- lands as had and dangerous as though he were in the middle of an enemy's country. THs horses and baggage were stolen at night, and false intelligence was readily given him by the natives. The roads too, were not of the best, and Sir John's army travelled, as became a royal army, with plenty of luxuries. Almost rendered desperate at his increas- ing troubles, Sir John abandoned his intention of making Fort Augustus his headquarters, and turning aside marched on Inverness, which he reached on the 29th August. The enemy gladly seized the opportunity, and left Sir John to proceed in safety, while they marched quickly and safely upon the lowlands. The Highlanders entered Perth on the 3rd Septem- ber, where Prince Charles was proclaimed Regent, and on the 18th of the same month, after a slight resistance on the part of the magistrates, the city of Edinburgh was in his hands. The king was proclaimed at the Cross, and the Palace of Holyrood was once more inhabited by a Stuart. 544 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Sir John Cope soon saw the effect of his move on Inverness, and lost no time in trying to repair it. Bis troops were sent by sea and landed at Dunbar, where, meeting with reinforcements he marched on Edinburgh. The Highland army advanced to meet him, and the two armies met at Preston-pans abont seven or eight miles from Edinburgh. It is needless to narrate ! the easy victory gained by the Highlanders, Sir John seems to have headed the retreat of the Koyal troops in person, and Scotland was for the moment fairly in the possession of the Stuarts. Sie John Cope trode the north right far, Yet ne'er a rebel he cam naur, Until he landed at Dunbar, Kight early in the morning. Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye wauking yet ? Or are ye sleeping, I would wit? haste ye, get up for the drums do beat : fye, Cope, rise in the morning ! He wrote a challenge from Dunbar, " Come fight me, Charlie, an ye daur ; If it be not by the chance of war, I'll give you a merry morning." Hey Johnnie Cope, etc. When Charlie look'd the letter upon, He drew his sword the scabbard from, " So heaven restore to me my own, I'll meet you, Cope, in the morning." Hey, Johnnie Cope, etc. Cope swore with many a bloody word, That he would fight them gun and sword ; But he fled frae his nest like a weel-scar'd bird, And Johnnie he took wing in the morning. Hey Johnnie Cope, etc. It was upon an afternoon, Sir John march'd into Preston town, He says, "My lads, como lean you, down, And we'll fight the boys in the morning." Hey, Johnnie Cope, etc. But when he saw the Highland lads Wi' tartan trews and white cockades, "Wi' swords and guns, and rungs and gauds, Johnnie took wing in the morning ! Hey, Johnnie Cope, etc. On the morrow when he did rise, He look'd between him and the skies ; He saw them wi' their naked thighs, Which feay'd him in the morning. Hey, Johnnie Cope, etc. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 545 then he flee} into Dunbar, Crying for a man-of-war; He thought to have pass'd.fpr a rustic tar, And gotten awa in the morning. Hey, Johnnie Cope, ete. Sir John then into Berwick rade, Just as the deil had been his guide ; Gi'en him the world, he wadna staid T' have foughten'the boys in the morning !. Hey, Johnnie dope, etc. Said the Berwickers unto Sir John, " what's become of all your men ?" 'T faith," sayB he, "I dinnaken; 1 left them a'.this morning." Hey, Johnnie Cope, etc. Says Lord Mark Kerr, " Te are na Mate, To bring us the. news 6' your ain defeat, .1 think you deserve the 'back o' the gate : Get out o' my Bigfht this morning." Hey, Johnnie Cope, etc. JOHNNIE COPE. Thts version was written by Adam Stirvjuig, a farmer at Garleton, in Haddingtonshire. He was born in 1719, and died in 1803. There are numerous versions of this song, the air being a favourite one, and often sung. Each singer abridges and adapts the words to his own taste. Cope sent a challenge frae Dunbar, > " Come, Charlie, meet me an ye dare, And I'll teach you the art of. war, If you'll meet wi' me i' the morning." Hey, Johnnie' Cope, are ye wauking yet? Or are yoirf drums a-beating yet ? If ye were waking I would wait To gang to, the coals i' the morning. When Charlie look'd thei tetter upon, He drew his sword the scabbard from, " Come follow me, my niarry merry men, And we'll meet Johnnie Cope i' the morning." Hey, Johnnie Cope, etc. Now, Johnnie, be as gude^sypur .w.ord, Come let us try baijih fire and sword, And dinna rin awa like a,frigh$ed bird, That's chased fraeit's nest i' the morning. Hey, Johnnie Cope, etc. 2n 546 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND When Johnnie Cope he heard of this, He thought it wadna be amiss To hae a horse in readiness, To flee awa i' the morning. Hey, Johnnie Cope, etc. Fy, now, Johnnie, get up and rin : The Highland bagpipes make a din, It's best to sleep in a- hale skin, For 'twill be a bluidie morning. Hey, Johnnie Cope, etc. When Johnnie Cope to Dunbar came, They speer'd at him, " Where's a' your men ?" " The deil confound me gin I ken, For I left them a' i' the morning." Hey, Johnnie Cope, etc. Now, Johnnie, troth ye were na blate, To come wf the news o' your ain defeat, And leave your men in sic a strait, So early in the morning. Hey, Johnnie Cope, etc. " T faith," quo' Johnnie, " I got a fleg, Wi' their claymores and philabegs ; If I face them again, deil break my legs 1 So I wish you a very gude morning." Hey, Johnnie Cope, etc. COPE'S TRAVELS. General Cope is now come down, And all his men in order ; For to fight our noble Prince, Upon the Highland border. But when he to the Highlands came, He wearied with the ground, man ; And when he heard the Prince was there, He took his heels and ran, man. From Inverness to Lochabers, And there he staid a while, man, From Lochabers to Turriff went, For he was 'fraid to fight, man. From Turriff to Old Meldrum, And since to Aberdeen, man, And staid a while in Aberdeen, Encamp'd on Windmill Brae, man. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 547 Syne took shipping, sailed to sea, Upon a Sabbath-day, man, And at Dunbar was forced to land, For there he ran away, man. With all his force baith men and horse, Went up to Prestonpans, man ; There they thought that they were men, But they prov'd to be nane, man. OUR GALLANT PRINCE IS NOW COME HAME. Our gallant prince is now come hame To Scotland, to proclaim his daddie : May Heav'n protect the royal name Of Stuart, and the tartan plaidie ! my bonnie Highland laddie, My handsome, charming Highland laddie 1 May Heaven still guard, and him reward, Wi's bonnet blue and tartan plaidie ! When first he landed on our strand, The gracefu' looks o' that brave laddie Made every Highland heart to warm, And lang to wear the tartan plaidie. my bonnie, etc. When Geordie heard the news belyve, That he was come before his daddie, He thirty thousand pounds would give, To catch him in his tartan plaidie. my bonnie, etc. But Geordie kend the better way, To stay at hame wi' his braw lady, Wha canna fight, he needs must pay, To ward the glent o' Highland plaidie. my bonnie, etc. He sent John Cope unto the north, Wi' a' his men for battle ready ; But Charlie bauldly sallied forth, Wi' bonnet blue and belted plaidie. my bonnie, etc. Cope rade a race to Inverness, And fand the prince gane south already, Like lion bold, all uncontroll'd Wi' belt and brand, and tartan plaidie. my bonnie, etc. 548 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Cope turn'd the chase, and left the place ; The Lothians was the next land ready ; And then he swore that at Gladsmuir He wad disgrace the Highland plaidie. my bonnie, etc. Says he, " My lads, I tell you true, I'm sorry that they're sae unready ; Small is the task we hare to do, To catch this rebel in his plaidie." my bonnie, etc. The prince he rose by break of day, And blythely was he buskit ready : " Let's march,'.' ,said he ,; " Cope langs to see The bonnet blue and belted plaidie." my bonnie, etc They were na slack, nae flinching back ; In rank and file they marched steady ; For they were be,nt, with one consent, To fight' for him that wore the plaidie. my bonnie, etc. But soon John Cope cried to his men, " Tor gu'desake turn, ye doge, and speed ye, And let each man 'scape as he can, The deil confound the tartan plaidie !" my bonnie, etc. Some rade on horse, some ran on foot ; Their heels were light, their, heads were giddy: But late or air, they'll lang nae man- To meet the lad wi' the Highland plaidie. my bonnie, etc. Now where is Cope, wi' a' his brag? Say, is theioraven gane already? leeze me on my .bonnie lad, Hi? bonnet blue and belted plaidie ! my bonnie, etc. NOW CHARLES ASSERTS HIS FATHER'S RIGHT. Now Charles asserts his father's right, And thus establishes his own, Braving the dangers of the fight, To cleave a passage to the throne. The 'Scots regain their ancient fame, And well their faith and valour show, Supporting their young hero's claim Against a powerful rebel foe. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 549 The God of battle shakes his arm, And makes the doubtful victory shine ; A panic dread their foes disarm ; Who can oppose the will divine ? The rebels shall at length confess Th' undoubted justice of the claim, When lisping babes shall learn to bleBB The long-forgotten Stuart's name. CHARLIE HE'S MY DARLING. The Highlanders re-entered Edinburgh after the battle amid great rejoicing. Jacobitism, which before was afraid to show its head, was now paraded in every corner. The ladies, especially, took up the cause of the young Chevalier with the utmost enthusiasm, and were loud in their ex- pressions of admiration of his appearance and bravery. 'Twas on a Monday morning, Right early in the year, That Charlie came to our town, The young Chevalier. And Charlie he's my darling, My darling, my darling, And Charlie he's my darling, The young Chevalier. As he was walking up the street, The city for to view, there he spied a bonnie lass, The window looking through. And Charlie he's my darling, etc. Sae light's he jumped up the stair, And tirl'd at the pin ; And wha sae ready as hersel To let the laddie in ! . And Charlie he's my darling, etc. He set his Jenny on his knee, All in his Highland dress; For brawly weel he kenn'd the way To please a bonnie lass. And Charlie he's my darling, etc. It's up yon heathery mountain, And. down yon scraggy glen, We daurna gang a milking For Charlie and his men. And Charlie he's my darling, etc. 550 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND AS I CAM' DOWN THE CANONGATE. Fkom Cromek's remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song. As I cam' down the Canongate, The Canongate, the Canongate, As I cam' down the Canongate, I heard a lassie sing, Merry may the keel row, The keel row, the keel row, Merry may the keel row, The ship that my love's in. My love has breath o' roses, 0' roses, o' roses, Wi' arms o' lily posies, To fauld a lassie in. merry etc. My love he wears a bonnet, A bonnet, a bonnet, A snawy rose upon it, A dimple on his chin, merry, etc. THE "WHITE COCKADE. My love was born in Aberdeen, The bonniest lad that e'er was seen : But now he's made our hearts fu' sad, He's taen the field wi' his white cockade* he's a ranting roving blade ! he's a brisk and bonnie lad ! Betide what may, my heart is glad To see my lad wi' his white cockade. leeze me on the philabeg, The hairy hough and garten'd leg I But aye the thing that blinds my e'e Is the white cockade aboon the tree. he's a ranting roving blade, etc. I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel, My rippling-kame, and spinning-wheel, To buy mysel' a tartan plaid, A braid sword, durk, and white cockade. he's a ranting roving blade, etc. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 551 I'll Bell my rokely and my tow, My good gray mare and hawkit cow, That every loyal Scottish lad May take the field wi' his white cockade. he's a ranting roving blade 1 he's a brisk and bonnie lad ; Betide what may, my heart is glad, To see my lad wi' his white cockade. TO TOUR ARMS. To your arms, to your arms, my bonnie Highland lads I To your arms, to your arms, at the touk of the drum 1 The battle trumpet sounds, put on your white cockades, For Charlie, the great prince regent, is come. There is not the man in a' our clan, That would nuckle to the lad that is five feet ten ; And the tune that we strike on the tabor and pipe Is "The king shall enjoy his own again. " To your arms, to your arms ! Charlie yet shall be our king I To your arms' all ye lads that are loyal and true ! To your arms, to your arms ! His valour nane can ding, And he's on to the south wi' a jovial crew : Good luck to the lads that wear the tartan plaids ! Success to Charlie and a' his train I The right and the wrang they a' shall ken ere lang, And the king shall enjoy his own again. The battle of Gladsmuir it was a noble stour, And weel do we ken that our young prince wan ; The gallant Lowland lads, when they saw the tartan plaids, Wheel'd round to the right, and away they ran ; For Master Johnnie Cope, being destitute of hope, Took horse for his life, and left his men ; In their arms he put no trust, for he knew it was just That the king should enjoy his own again. To your arms, to your arms, my bonnie Highland lads ! We winna brook the rule o' a German thing : To your arms, to your arms,wi' your bonnets and your plaids, And hey for Charlie and our ain true king ! Good luck shall be the fa' o' the lad that's awa, The lad whose honour never yet knew stain : The wrang shall gae down, the king get the crown, And ilka honest man his own again. 552 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND WT A HUNDRED PIPERS. LADY HAIBHE. Wi' a hundred pipers an' a' an' a', Wi' a hundred: pipers an' a' an' a', We'll up an' gie them a blaw, a blaw, Wi' a hundred pipers an', a', an' a'. Oh it's owre the Border awa' awa', Its ower the Border awa' awa', We'll on and march to Carlisle ha' ; Wi' its yetts, its castle an' a' an' a'. Oh ! our sodger lads looked braw, looked braw, Wi' their tartans, kilts, an' a' an' a', Wi' their bonnets, an' feathers, an' glitterin' gear, An' Pibrochs soiinditi' sweet and clear ; Will they a' return to their ain dear glen, Will they a' return, our Hielari' men, Second-sichted Sandy looked fu' wae An' mithers grat as they march'd away. Wi a hundred pipers, etc. Oh wha is for'most o' a' o ' a' ; Oh wha does follow the blaw, the blaw ; Bonnie Charlie the king o' us a', hurra! Wi' his hundred pipers an' a' an' a'. His bonnet an' feather he's wavin' high, His prancin' steed seems maist to fly, The nor' win' plays wi' his curly hair, While the pipers blaw in an' unco flare. Wi' a hundred pipers, etc. The Esk was swollen sae red an' sae deep, But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep, Twa thousand swam owre to fell English ground, An' danced themsel's dry to the pibroch'B Bound. i>umfounder'd, the English saw, they saw, Dumfounder'd, they heard the blaw, the blaw, Dumfounder'd they a' ran awa', awa', Prom the hundred pipers an' a' an' a'. Wi' a hundred pipers, etc. THEBE GROWS A BONNIE BRIER BUSH. LADY NAIRND. There grows a bormie brier bush in our kail yard, And white are the blossoms o't in our kail yard, Like wee bit cockauds, to deck our hieland lads, And the lassies lo'e the bormie bush in our kail yard. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 553 An' it's hame, an' it's hame, to the north countrie, An' it's hame, an' it's hame, to the north countrie, Where my bonnie Jean is waiting for me, Wi' a heart kind an' true, in my ain countrie. But were they a' true that were far awa' ? 0' were they a' true that were far awa'? They drew up wi' glaikit Englishers at Carlisle ha', And forgot auld ftien's that were far awa. Ye'll come nae mair, Jamie, where aft ye have been, Ye'll come nae mair, Jamie, to Atholl's green, O'er weel ye lo'ed the dancin' at Carlisle ha', And forgot the hieland hills; that were far awa. I ne'er lo'ed a dance but on Atholl's green, I ne'er lo'ed a lassie, but my dorty Jean, Sair, sair against my will, did 'I bide sae lang awa, And my heart was aye in Atholl's green, at' Carlisle ha'. The brier bush was bonnie ance in our kail yard, The brier bush was bonnie ance in our kail yard, A blast blew ower the bill, that ga'e Atholl's flowers a chill, And the bloom's blawn aff the bonnie bush in our kail yard. FALKIRK MUIE. On the 31st October, after being largely reinforced, Charles continued his march southwards. The army which left Edinburgh amounted to about 6000 men, 3000 of whom were Highlanders, and 500 cavalry. They passed through Carlisle, Kendal, Lancaster, Preston, Wigan, Man- chester, and Macclesfield, and on the 4th December the advanced portion of the army took possession of. Derby, followed immediately after by the whole force. The position had now become critical. Three armies were opposed to them ; one under the command of the Duke of Cumberland, another under Marshal Wade, while a third was stationed to defend London. The Highland Leaders became alarmed at fighting in an unknown country, and counselled a retreat to the North, there to await the royal forces. This was stoutly opposed by Charles, who almost implored them to con- tinue the advanee. A council of war was held on the 5th, at which Lord George Murray expressed the opinion, that they were about to be attacked by three Royal armies, amounting to about 30,000 men, while their own numbers did not how exceed 5000— for the English Jacobites had not joined the Prince's standard with the same enthusiasm as their Northern compatriots ; and the retreat, in spite of all Charles' protestations, seems to have been unanimously agreed upon. The retreat was conducted with much secrecy and dispatch ; and it was not till they reached Falkirk that they were met by a Eoyal army under General Hawley, and after a short struggle the Royalists suffered a complete defeat. Hawley, who had been loud in his denunciations of Cope's incapability, and who had openly 554 THE SONGS OP SCOTLAND wished to show how easily the Highland rabble could be dispersed, received deservedly a good share of the satire of the Eebel rhymsters. Cope's mis- fortunes may be pitied, but Hawley smacks too much of the bully to merit the smallest show of sympathy. Up and rin awa, Hawley, Up and rin awa, Hawley ; The philabegs are coming down To gie your lugs a claw', Hawley; Young Charlie's face at Dunipace, Has gien your mou' a thraw, Hawley; A blasting sight for bastard wight, The warst that e'er he saw, Hawley. Up and rin awa, etc. Gae dight your face, and turn the chase, For fierce the wind does blaw, Hawley ; And Highland Geordie's at your tail, Wi' Drummond, Perth, and a', Hawley. Had ye but staid wi' lady's maid An hour, or maybe twa, Hawley, Your bacon bouk and bastard snout, Ye might hae sav'd them a', Hawley. Up and rin awa, etc. Whene'er you saw the bonnets blue Down frae the Torwood draw, Hawley, A wisp in need did you bestead, Perhaps you needed twa, Hawley. And General Husk, that battle-busk, The prince o' warriors a', Hawley, With whip and spur he cross'd the furr, As fast as he could ca', Hawley. Up and rin awa, etc! I hae but just ae word to say, And ye maun hear it a', Hawley ; We came to charge wi' sword and targe, And nae to hunt ava, Hawley. When we came down aboon the town, And saw nae faes at a', Hawley, We couldna, sooth 1 believe the truth, That ye had left us a', Hawley. Up and rin awa, etc. Nae man bedeen believ'd his een, Till your brave back he saw, Hawley, That bastard brat o' foreign cat Had neither pluck nor paw, Hawley. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 555 We didna ken but ye were men Wha fight for foreign law, Hawley : Gae fill your wame wi' brose at hame, It fits you best of a', Hawley. Up and rin awa, etc. The very frown o' Highland loon, It gart you drap the jaw, Hawley, It happ'd the face of a' disgrace, And sicken'd Southron maw, Hawley. The very gleam o' Highland flame, It pat ye in a thaw, Hawley, Gae back and kiss your daddie's miss ; Ye're nought but cowards a', Hawley. Up and scour awa, Hawley, ; Up and scour awa, Hawley : The Highland dirk is at your doup, And that's the Highland law, Hawley. THE HIGHLANDMEN CAME DOWN THE HILL. The Highlandmen came down the hill, And owre the knowe wi' right gude will : Now Geordie's men may brag their fill, For wow but they were braw, man 1 They had three gen'rals o' the best, Wi' lairds, and lords, and a' the rest, Chiels that were bred to stand the test, And couldna rin awa, man. The Highlandmen are savage loons, Wi' barkit houghs and burly crowns ; They canna stand the thunder-stoun's Of heroes bred wi' care, man — Of men that are their country's stay, These Whiggish braggarts of a day, The Highlandmen came down the brae The heroes were not there, man! Says brave Lochiel, " Pray, have we won ? I see no troop, I hear no- gun." Says Drummond, " Faith, the battle's done, I know not how nor why, man. But, my good lords, this thing I crave, Have we defeat these heroes brave f " Says Murray, " I believe we have : If not, we're here to try, man." 556 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND But tried they up, or tried they down, There was no Foe in Falkirk town. Nor yet in a' the country roun', To break a sword at a', man. They were sae bauld at break o'^ay. When towW the west they took their way; But the Highlandmen came down the brae, And made the dogs to blaw, man. A tyke is but a tyke at best, A coward ne'er will stand the test, And Whigs at morn wha cock'd the crest, Or e'en had got a fa', man. wae befa' these northerr. lads, Wi' their braidswords and white cockades 1 They lend sic hard and heavy blads, Our Whigs nae mair can craw, man. CULLODEN. After the battle of Falkirk, the Highlanders continued their retreat, and on the 18th February, 1746, entered 'Inverness. On the 25th of February, the Duke of Cumberland's army entered Aberdeen, and both sides engaged in petty skirmishes in their district, till on the 8th April, the Duke marched upon the northern capital. The Highland army advanced to Druminossie Moor, about five miles to meet him, and on the 16th April, 1746, engaged in the celebrated battle of CuUoden, which resulted as is well known in the complete defeat of the Highland army. " The battle of Culloden lasted little more than forty minutes,, most of which brief space of time was spent in distant firing, and very little in the active struggle. It was as complete a victory as possible on the part of the Eoyal army, and any other result would have been very discreditable to the English army. Its numbers and condition for fighting were so superior, their artillery did so much for them, and the plan of the battle was so much in their favour, that to have lost the day would have argued a degree of misbehaviour foi which even Preston-pans and Falkirk had not prepared us." — Chambers's History of the Rebellion, 1869; p. SOI. Fair lady, mourn the memory Of all our Scottish fame ! Fair lady, mourn the memory Ev'n of the Scottish name! How proud were we of our young prince, And of his native sway 1 But all our hopes are past and gone, Upon Cullodenday. There was no lack of bravery there, No spare of blood or breath, For, one to two, our foes we dar'd, For freedom or for death. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 557 The bitterness of grief is past, Of terror and dismay : The die was risk'd, and foully cast, Upon Culloden day. And must thou seek a foreign clime, In poverty to pine, No friend or clansman by thy side, No vassal that is thine ? ' Leading thy young son by the hand, And trembling for his life, As at the name of Cumberland He grasps his father's knife. I cannot see thee, lady fair, Turn'd out on the world wide ; I cannot see thee, lady fair, ' Weep on the bleak hill side. Before such noble stem should bend To tyrant's treachery, I'll lay thee with thy gallant sire, Beneath the beecnen tree. I'll hide thee in Clan-Ronald's isles, Where honour still bears sway ; I'll watch the traitor's hovering sails, By islet and by bay : And ere thy honour shall be stain'd, This sword avenge shall thee, And lay thee with thy gallant kin, Below the beechen tree. What is there now in thee, Scotland, To us can pleasure give ? What is there now in thee, Scotland, For which we ought to live ? Since we have stood, and stood in vain, For all that we held dear, Still have we left a sacrifice To offer on our bier. A foreign and fanatic sway Our Southron foes may gall ; The cup is fill'd, they yet shall drink, And they deserve it all. But there is nought for us or ours, In which to hope or trust, But hide, us in our fathers' graves, Amid our fathers' dust. 558 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND CUESES. Scotland and England must be now United in a nation, And we must all perjure and vow, And take the abjuration. The Stuarts' ancient freeborn race, Now we must all give over ; And we must take into their place The bastards of Hanover. Curs'd be the Papists who withdrew The king to their persuasion : Curs'd be that covenanting crew, Who gave the first occasion. Curs'd be the wretch who seiz'd the throne, And marr'd our constitution ; And curs'd be they who helped on That wicked revolution. Curs'd be those traitorous traitors who, By their perfidious knavery, Have brought our nation now into An everlasting slavery. Curs'd be the Parliament, that day, Who gave their confirmation ; And curs'd be every whining Whig, For they have damn'd the nation. BONNIE LADDIE. The barbarities inflicted upon the Highlanders after Crdloden by the Eoyal army, were not lost sight of by the Jacobite wits in their distress. Certainly the Duke of Cumberland allowed his army to conduct them- selves more like a body of savages than " Christian soldiers," and the poets of the party have revenged themselves by sending hi™ down to posterity with a reputation for cruelty as fixed as the evil character given to Macbeth or Eichard HI. by Shakspeare. Geokdie sits in Charlie's chair, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; Deil tak' him gin he bide there, My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; Charlie yet shall mount the throne, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; Weel ye ken it is his own, My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. Weary fa' the Lawland loon, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, Wha took frae him the British cro wn, My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 559 1 But leeze me on the kilted clans, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, That fought for him at Preston-pans, My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. Ken ye the news I hae to tell, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ? Cumberland's awa to hell, My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. » When he came to the Stygian shore, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; The deil himsel' wi' fright did roar, My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. When Charon grim came out to him, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; "Ye 're welcome here, ye devil's limb !" My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. They pat on him a philabeg, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, And unto him they ca'd a peg, My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. How he did skip and he did roar, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie : The deils ne'er saw sic sport before, My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. They took him neist to Satan's ha', Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, To lilt it wi' his grandpapa, My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. The deil sat girnin in the neuk, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, Riving sticks to roast the duke, My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. They pat him neist upon a spit, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, And roasted him baith head and feet, My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. Wi' scalding brunstane and wi' fat, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, They flamm'd his carcase we'el wi 1 that, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. They ate him up baith stoop and roop, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; And that's the gate they serv'd the duke, My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. 560 THE SONGS OP SCOTLAND THE WAES 0' SCOTLAND. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. When I left thee, bonny Scotland, thou wert fair to see I Fresh as. a bonny bride in the morn* Wheffl she maun wedded be. , When I came back to thee, Scotland, Upon a May morn fair, v A bOnny lass sat at our town end, Earning 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 Bee.' Oh hey ! oh hey I for my father auld ! Oh hey I for my mither dear ! And my heart will burst for the bonny lad Wha left me lanesome here." I had gane in my ain Scotland Mae miles than twa or three, When" I saw the head o' my ain father Coming up the gate- to me. "A traitor's head I " and " a traitor's head! " Loud bawl'd a bloody loon ■;' But I drew frae the sheath my glaive o' weir, And straick the reaver down. I hied me hame to my father's ha', My dear auld mither to see; But she lay 'mang the black eizels, Wi' the death-tear in her e'e., " 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 ,^fin5,e ito wear." I 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 grippit him by the belt sae braid, It birsted i' my hand, But I threw him frae his weir-saddle, And drew, my burlie braiid. " Shaw mercy on me 1" quo' the loon, And lpw he knelt on knee : But by his thigh was my father's glaive Whilk gude King Bruce did gie ; CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 561 And buckled round him was the broider'd belt Whilk 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, And I lie o'er my father and mither's grave An hour or twa to weep. 0, fatherless and mitherless, Without a ha' or hame, I maun wander througn dear Scotland, And bide a traitor's blame. ON GALLIA'S SHOEE. HAMILTON OP BANG0UR. On Gallia's shore we sat and wept, When Scotland we thought on, Bobbed of her bravest sons, and all Her ancient spirit gone. Revenge ! the sons of Gallia said, Revenge yorx native land ; Already your insulting foes Crowd the Batavian strand. How Bhall the sons of freedom e'er For foreign conquest fight ; For power, how wield the sword unsheath'd, For liberty and right ? If thee, oh Scotland,. I forget, Even with my latest breath, May foul dishonour stain my name, And bring a coward's death. May sad remorse of fancied guilt My future days employ, If all thy sacred rights are not Above my chiefest joy. Remember England's children, Lord, Who on Drummossie day, Deaf to the voice of kindred love, Baze, raze it quite; did say. And thou, proud Gallia, faithless friend, Whose ruin is not far, Just Heaven, on thy devoted head, Pour all the woes of war, 2o 562 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND When thou thy slaughtered little ones, And ravish'd dames shall see, Such help, such pity, may'st thou have, As Scotland had from thee. FAREWELL TO GLEN-SHALLOCH. james Hoaa. Translated from the Gaelic. Farewell to Grlen-Shalloch, A farewell for ever 1 Farewell to my wee cot, That stands by the river 1 The fall is loud-sounding, In voices that vary, And the echoes surrounding Lament with my Mary. I saw her last night, 'Mid the rooks that enclose them, With a babe at her knee And a babe at her bosom : I heard her sweet voice In the depth of my slumber, And the song that she sung Was of sorrow and cumber. " Sleep sound, my sweet babe, There is nought to alarm thee ; The sons of the valley No power have to harm thee. I'll sing thee to rest In the balloch untrodden, With a coronach sad For the slain of Ciilloden. " The brave were betray'd, And the tyrant is daring To trample and waste us, Unpitying, unsparing. Thy mother no voice has, No feeling that changes, No word, sign, or song, But the lesson of vengeance. " I'll tell thee, my son, How our laurels are withering : 111 gird on thy sword When the clansmen are gathering ; CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 563 I'll bid thee go forth In the cause of true honour, And never return Till thy country hath won her. " Our tower of devotion Is the home of the reaver ; The pride of the ocean Is fallen for ever ; The pine of the forest, That time could not weaken, Is trod in the dust, And its honours are shaken. " Eise, spirits of yore, Ever dauntless in danger 1 For the land that was yours Is the land of the stranger. come from your caverns, All bloodless and hoary, And these fiends of the valley Shall tremble before ye ! " THE FEASEES IN THE COEEEI. " Where is your daddy gane, my little May ? Where has our lady been a' the lang day ? Saw you the red-coats rank on the hall green ? Or heard ye the horn on the mountain yestreen ? " " Ye auld carle graybeard, spier na at me ; Gae spier at the maiden that sits by the sea. The red-coats were here, and it wasna for good, And the raven's turn'd hoarse wi' the waughting o' blood. " listen, auld carle, how roopit his note ! The blood of the Eraser's too hot for his throat, I trow the black traitor's of Sassenach breed ; They prey on the living, and he on the dead. When I was a baby, we ca'd him in joke, The harper of Errick, the priest of the rock ; But now he's our mountain companion no more, The slave of the Saxon, the quaffer of gore." " Sweet little maiden, why talk yoa of death ? The raven's our friend, and he's croaking in wrath : He will not pick up from a bonnetted head, Nor mar the brave form by the tartan that's clad. But point me the cliff where the Fraser abides, Where Foyers, Culduthill, and Gorthaly hides. There's danger at hand, I must speak with them soon, And seek them alone by the light of the moon." 564 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND " Auld carle graybeard, a Mend you should be, For the truth's on your lip, and the tear i' your e'e ; Then seek in the correi that sounds on the brae, And sings to the rock when the breeze is away, I sought them last night with the haunch of the deer, And far in yon cave .they were hiding in fear : There, at the last crow of the brown heather-cock, They pray'd for their prince, knetfd, and slept on the rock. " tell me, auld carle, what will be the fate Of those who are killing the gallant and great ? Who force our brave ,chiefs to the correi to go, And hunt their own prince like the deer or the roe ? " " My sweet little maiden, beyond yon red sun Dwells one who beholds all the deeds that are done : Their crimes on the tyrants one day he'll repay, And the names of the brave shall not perish for aye." THE LOVELY LASS 0' INVERNESS. BOBEBT BUBNS. The lovely lass o' Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure she can see ; For e'en and morn she cries, alas I And aye the saut tear blinds her e'e. Drummbssie moor ! Drummossie day, A waefu' day it was *o me ; For there I lost my father dear, My father dear and brethren three. Their winding sheet's the bluidy lea, Their. graves are growing green to see, And by them lies the dearest lad That ever blest a woman's e'e.. L Now wae to thee thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou be ; For monie a heart thou hast made sair, That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee. THERE LIVED A LASS IN INVERNESS. AILAN CUNNINGHAM. There liv'd a' lass, in Inverness, She was the pride/of p? the town ; Blithe as the lark on gowan tass, Whenfrae the nest 'it's newly flown. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 565 At kirk she wan the auld folks' love, At dance she wan the laddies' een ; She was the blithest o" the blithe At wooster trystes or Hallowe'en. As I came in by Inverness, The simmer sun was sinking down, there I saw the weel-faur'd lass, And she was greeting through the town. The grayhair'd men were a' i' the streets, And auld dames crying (sad to see) : The flower o' the lads o' Inverness Lie bluidy on Culloden lea. She tore her haffet links o' gowd, And dighted aye her comely e'e. My father lies at bluidy Carlisle, At Preston sleep my brethren three ; 1 thought my heart could haud nae 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, 0' love tokens he gave me three ; But he's faulded i' the arms of weir, ; ■ 0, 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 ower, And wauken'd again I winna be. weep, 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. spring is blithesome to the year. Trees sprout, flowers bud, and birds sing hie; But 0, what spring can raise them up Whose bluidy weir has seal'd the e'e. The hand of God hung heavy here, , And lightly touch'd foul tyrahnie ; It strack 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. 566 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LAMENT. Oh ! I am come to the low countrie ! Oohon, oohon, oohrie 1 Without ae penny in my purse, To buy a meal to me. It wasna sae in the Highland hills, Ochon, ochon, oohrie ! Nae woman in the country wide Sae happy was as me : For then I had a score of kye, Ochon, ochon, oohrie! Feeding on yon hill sae high, And giving milk to me ! And there I had three score o' yowes, Ochon, ochon, oohrie ! Skipping on yon bonnie knowes, And casting woo to me. I was the happiest o' the clan : Sair, sair may I repine ; For Donald was the bravest man, And Donald he was mine. Till Charlie he came ower at last, Sae far, to set us free : My Donald's arm it wanted was For Scotland and for me. Their waefa' fate what need I tell ? Bight to the wrang did yield; My Donald and his country fell Upon Culloden field. I hae nocht left me now ava, Ochon, ochon, oohrie I But bonnie orphan lad-weans twa, To seek their bread wi' me. But I hae yet a tocher-band, Ochon, ochon, ochrie ! My winsome Donald's durk and brand, Into their hands to gie. And still ae blink o' hope is left, To lighten my auld e'e ; To see my bairns gie bluidy crowns To them gart Donald die. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 567 Ochon, ochon, oh, Donald, oh ! Ochon, oohon, oohrie ! Nae woman in the world wide Sae wretched now as me I THE EXILE'S LAMENT. Frae the friends and land I love, Driven by fortune's felly spite ; Frae my best belov'd I rove, Never mair to taste delight : Never mair maun hope to find Ease frae toil, relief frae care. When remembrance racks the mind, Pleasure but unveils despair. Brighest climes shall mirk appear, Desert ilka blooming shore, Till the fates, nae mair severe, Friendship, love, and peace restore ; Till revenge, wi' laurell'd head. Bring bur banish'd hame again, And ilka loyal bonny lad Cross the seas and win his ain. A LAMENT. A soldier, for gallant achievements renown'd, Revolv'd in despair the campaigns of his youth ; Then beating his bosom, and sighing profound, That malice itself might have melted to ruth — "Are these," he exclaim'd, "the results of my toil, In want and obscurity thus to retire? For this did compassion restrain me from spoil, When earth was all carnage, and heav'n was on fire ? " My country is ravag'd, my kinsmen are slain, My prince is in exile, and treated -with scorn, My chief is no more — he hath suffer'd in vain — And why should I live on the mountain forlorn ? woe to Macconnal, the selfish, the proud, Disgrace of a name for its loyalty famed! The curses of heaven shall fall on the head Of Oallum and Torqtiil, no more to be named. " For had they but join'd with the just and the brave, The Campbell had fallen, and Scotland been free ; That traitor, of vile usurpation the slave, The foe of the Highlands, of mine, and of me. 568 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND The great they are gone* the destroyer is come, The smoke of Lochaber has redden'd 'the sky : The war-note of freedom for ever is dumb ; For that have I Stood, and with that I will die. " The sun's bright effulgence, the fragrance of air, The varied horizon henceforth- 1 abhor. Give me death, the sole boon of a wreteh in despair, Which fortune can offer, or nature implore." To madness impelled by his griefs aB he spoke, And darting around him a look of disdain, Down headlong :he leapt from a heaven-towering rock, And sleeps where the wretched forbear to complain. LENACHAN'S FABEWELL; FAEE-thee-well, my native cot, Bothy o' the birken tree I Sair the heart' and hard the lot > 0' the lad that parts wi' thee. > Thee, my grandsires fondly rear'd, Then thy wicker-work was full '? Mony a Campbell's glen .he clear'd, Hit the buck and hough'd the bull. In .thy green and grassy crook . Mair lies hid than crusted stanes ; In thy bien and weirdly nook Lie some stout Clan-Gillian banes. Thou wert aye the, kinsman's hame, Bouth and welcome was his fare ; But if serf or Saxon came, He cross'd Murich's hirst nae mair. Never hand in thee yet bred Kendna how the sword to wield ; Never heart of thine had dread Of the foray or the field : Ne'er on straw, mat, bulk, or bed, Son of thine lay, down to die; Every lad within thee bred, Died 'neath heaven's open eye. Charlie Stuart he' came here, For our king, as right became : Wha could shun the Brace's heir? Wha could tine our royal name ? CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 569 1 Firm to stand, and free to fa', Forth he marched right valiantlie. G-ane is Scotland's king and law ! Woe to the Highlands and to me ! Freeman yet, I'll scorn to fret, Here nae langer I maun stay ; But when I my hame forget, May my heart forget to play I Fare-thee-well, my father's cot, Bothy o' the birken tree I Sair the heart and hard the lot 0' the lad that parts wi' thee. WAES ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE. WILLIAM GLEN. When all hope of winning the battle of Culloden had passed, Prince Charles was led from the field, and began that series of wanderings, the details of which have been often given to the public, and by none more vividly than by Mr. Robert Chambers, who concludes his sketch by saving : " For upwards of five months he had skulked as a proscribed fugitive through the mountains and seas of the West Highlands, often in the most imminent danger of being taken, and generally exposed to severe personal hardships. The narrowness of his own escapes is shown strikingly in the circumstance of so many persons being taken immediately after having contributed to his safety. The reader must have already accorded all due praise to the people who, by their kindn ess and fidelity, had been the chief means of working out his deliverance. Scarcely any gentleman to whom he applied for protection, or to aid in effecting his movements, refused to peril their own safety on his account ; hundreds, many of whom were in the humblest walk of life, had been entrusted with the secret, yet, if we overlook the beggar boy in South Uist, and the dubious case of Barrisdale, none had attempted to give him up to his enemies. Thirty thousand pounds had been offered in vain for the life of one human being, in a country where the sum would have purchased a princely estate." — History of the Bebellion of 1745-6, p. 440. , A wee bird came to our ha' door, He warbled sweet and clearly, And aye the o'ercome o' his sang Was " Wae's me for Prince Charlie ! " Oh ! when I heard the bonnie bonnie bird, The tears came drapping rarely, I took my bannet aff my head, For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie. Quo' I, " My bird, my bonnie bonnie bird, Is that a tale ye borrow ? Or is't some words ye've learnt by rote, Or a lilt o' dool and sorrow ? " 570 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND " Oh ! no, no, no ! " the wee bird sang, " I've flown sin morning early ; But sio a day o' wind and rain ! — Oh 1 wae's me for Prince Charlie t " On hills that are by right his airi, He roams a lonely stranger ; On ilka hand he's press'd by want, On ilka side by danger. Yestreen I met him in a glen, My heart near bursted fairly, For sadly chang'd indeed was he — Oh 1 wae's me for Prince Charlie ! " Dark night came on, the tempest howl'd Out owre the hills and valleys ; And whare was't that your prince lay down, Whase hame should been a palace ? He row'd him in a Highland plaid, Which cover'd him but sparely, And slept beneath a bush o' broom — Oh 1 wae's me for Prince Charlie ! " But now the bird saw some redcoats, And he shook his wings wi' anger : " this is no a land for me, I'll tarry here nae langer." A while he hover'd on the wing, Ere he departed fairly : But weel I mind the fareweel strain ; 'Twas " Wae's me for Prince Charlie I " PRINCE CHARLIE'S LAMENT, Ascribed to Daniel "Weir of Greenock. The storm is raging o'er the Kyle, And o'er thy glen, dark Auchnacary, Your Prince has travell'd many a mile, And knows not where to go or tarry. He sees, far in the vale below, The wounded soldier home returning ; And those who wrought this day of woe, Are round yon watchfire dimly burning. Scotland lang shall rue the day She saw Culloden drench'd and gory ; The sword the bravest hearts may stay, But some will tell the mournful Btory. Amidst those hills that are mine ain, I wander here a houseless stranger ; With nought to shield me from the rain, And every hour beset with danger. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 571 Howl on, ye winds, the hills are dark, There shrouded in a gloomy covering ; Then haste thee o'er the sea, my bark, For bloodhounds are around me hov'ring. Scotland, Scotland, fare thee well, Farewell ye hills, I dare not tarry ; Let hist'ry's page my suffrings tell, Farewell ! Clanronald and Glengary. WELCOME TO SKYE. PkixceChak£ES left the mainland, and wandered about the island of Skye. It was in Uist that Flora Macdonald began her romantic adventures with Prince Charles, and it was in Skye she left.him. The " Twa Bonnie Maidens" alluded to Flora Macdonald and to Prince Charles, who for sometime disguised himself as her maid-servant. There are twa bonny maidens, And three bonny maidens, Come over the Minch, And come over the main, Wi' the wind for their way, And the correi for their hame : Let us welcome them bravely Unto Skye again. Come along, come along, Wi' your boatie and your song, You twa bonny maidens, And three bonny maidens ; For the night it is dark, And the red-coat is gone, And you're bravely welcome To Skye again. There is Flora, my honey, So dear and so bonny, And one that is tall, And comely withal ; Put the one as my king, And the other as my queen, They're welcome unto The Isle of Skye again. Come along, come along, Wi' your boatie and your song, You twa bonny maidens, And three bonny maidens ; For the lady of Macoulain She lieth her lane, And you're bravely welcome To Skye again. 572 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Her arm it! is strong, And her petticoat is long, My one bonny.maiden, And twa bonny maidens ; But their bed shall be clean, On the heather mast cram ; And they're welcome unto The Isle of Skye again. Come along, come along, Wi' your boatie and your song, You one bonny maiden. And twa bonny maidens By the sea-moullit's nest I will watch o'er the main ; And you're dearly welcome To Skye again. There's a wind on the tree, ' ; And a ship on the sea,' My twa bonny maidens, My three bonny maidens : On the lea of the rock Your cradle I shall rock ; And you're welcome unto The Isle of Skye again.- Come along, come along, Wi' your boatie and your song, My twa bonny maidens, And three bonny maidens : More sound shall you sleep, When you rock on the deep ; And you'll aye be welcome To Skye again. THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. EOBEKT BCKNS. The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet runs clear through the -vale, The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning, And wild scattered cowslips, bedeck the green dale. But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, When the lingering moments are numbered by care, No flowers gaily springing, Or birds sweetly singing, Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 573 The deed that I dared could it merit their malice, A king and a father to place on his throne ; His right are those 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. Tour deeds proved so loyal, In hot bloody trial, Alas ! can I make, it no better return. BONNIE CHARLIE'S NOW AW A'. On the 10th September, 1746, Prince Charles Edward, after nearly six months' wanderings throughout the Highlands and Islands, embarked on board " L' Hereux," and bade farewell for ever to Scottish ground. About one hundred and thirty followers are said to have accompanied him to France. And so ended the celebrated rebellion of 1745, a rebellion which shook the throne of the reigning family to its centre, and gave rise to feelings of bitterness on the part of the defeated party, which required several generations to efface. Long after the Prince, had left the country the Highlandmen entertained hopes of his return with a sufficient force to enable them to repay the wanton cruelties which had been inflicted on them by the royal army, under the Duke of Cumberland. The conduct of Prince Charles in Ms after life, it is needless to mention, was such as to remove all trace of that nobleness of soul which so enchanted all who came in contact with him in his early career. He died at Florence in 1788. Royal Charlie's now awa', Safely owre the friendly main ; Mony a heart will break in twa, Should'he ne'er come back again. Will you no come back again? Will you no come back again ? Better lo'ed you'll never be, And will you no come back again? Mony a traitor 'mang the isles Brak' the band o' nature's law ; Mony a traitor, wi' his wiles, Sought to wear his life awa'. Will he no come back again? , Will he no come back again ? . Better lo'ed he'll never be,. And. will he no come back again ? The hills he trode were a' his ain, And bed beneath the birken tree ; The bush that hid him on the plain, There's none on earth can claim but he. Will he no come back again ? etc. 574 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND "Whene'er I hear the blackbird sing, Unto the e'ening sinking down, Or merle that makes the woods to ring, To me they hae nae ither soun' Than, will he ne'er come back again, etc. Mony a gallant sodger fought, Mony a gallant chief did fa' ; Death itself were dearly bought, A' for Scotland's king and law. Will he no come back again? etc. Sweet the lav'rock's note and lang, Lilting wildly up the glen ; And aye the- o'ercome o' the sang Is, " Will he no come back again? " Will he no come back again ? etc. BONNIE CHARLIE'S NOW AWA'. LADY NAIBSTE. Bonny Charlie's now awa', Safely owre the friendly main ; Mony a heart will break in twa, Should he ne'er come back again. Will ye no come back again ? Will ye no come back again ? Better lo'ed ye canna be, Will ye no come back again ? Ye trusted in your Hielan' men, They trusted you, dear Charlie, They kent you hidih' in the glen, Your cleadm' was but barely. Will ye no, &c. English bribes were a' in vain, An' e'en tho' puirer we may be, Siller canna buy the heart That beats aye for thine an' thee. Will ye no, &c. We watch'd thee in the gloamin' hour, We watch'd thee in the mornin' grey ; Tho' thirty-thousand pounds they'd gie ; Oh ! there is nane that wad betray. Will ye no, &c. Sweet the laverock's note an lang, Lilting wildly up the glen, But aye to me, he sings ae sang, Will ye no come back again ? Will ye no, &c. CHBONOLOGICAIXY AKKANGED. 57S FLORA MACDONALD^ LAMENT. JAMES HOGG. Fab over yon hills of the heather so green, And down by the correi that sings to the sea, The bonnie young Flora sat sighing her lane, The dew on her plaid and the tear in her e'e. She look'd at a boat which the breezes had swung Away on the wave, like a bird of the main ; And aye as it lessen'd, she sighed and she sung, " Earewell to the lad I shall ne'er see again ! Farewell to my hero, the gallant and young ! , Farewell to the lad I shall ne'er see again ! " The moorcock that crows on the top of Ben-Connal, He kens o' his bed in a sweet mossy hame ; The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs of Clan Konald, Unaw'd and unhunted, his eiry can claim ; The solan can sleep on his shelve of the shore ; The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea : But, oh ! there is ane whose hard fate I deplore ; Nor house, ha', nor hame, in his country has he. The conflict is past, and our name is no more : There's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and me. " The target is torn from the arm of the just, The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave, The claymore for ever in darkness must rust, But red is the sword of the stranger and slave : The hoof of the horse, and the foot of the proud, Have trod o'er the plumes in the bonnet of blue. Why Blept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud, When tyranny revell'd in blood of the true ? Farewell, my young hero, the gallant and good ! The crown of thy fathers is torn from thy brow." LAMENT OF FLORA MACDONALD. • Why, my Charlie, dost thou leave me, Dost thou flee thy Flora's arms? Were thy vows but to deceive me, Valiant o'er my yielding charms? All I bore for thee, sweet Charlie, Want of sleep, fatigue, and care ; BraVd the ocean late and early, Left my friends, for thou wast fair. 576 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND Sleep, ye winds that waft him from me ; Blow, ye wejjtern breezes, blow — Swell the sail ;' for I love Charlie— Ah I they whisper, Flora, no. , Cold she sinks beneath the billow, Dash'd from yonder rocky shore ; . Flora, pride and flower of Isla,- Ne'er to meet her Charlie more. Dark the night, the tempest howling. Bleak along the' western sky ; Hear the dreadful thunders rolling, See the forked lightning fly. No more we'll hear the maid of Isla. Pensive o'er the rooky steep ; Her last sigh was breathed for Charlie 1 As she sunk into the deep. BANNOCKS 0' BABLEY. Bannocks o' bear meal, bannocks o' barley, Here's to the Highlandman's bannocks o' barley I "Wha in a brulzie will first cry " a parley ? " Never the lads wi' the bannocks o' barley ! Bannocks o' bear meal, bannocks o' barley, Here*s to the! Highlandman's bannocks o' barley. Wha drew the gude claymore for Charlie ? Wha cow'd the lowns o' England rarely ? And claw'd their backs at Falkirk fairly ? — Wha but the lads wi' the bannocks o' barley ! Bannocks o' bear meal, etc. Wha when hope was blasted fairly, Stood in ruin wi' bonnie Prince Charlie ? And 'neath the Duke's bluidy paws dreed fu' sairly ? Wha but the lads wi' the bannocks o' barley ! Bannocks o' bear meal, etc. CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 577 LEWIE GORDON. DB. AXEXANDEK GBDBES. Lewis, third son of the Duke of Gordon, declared for Prince Charles, in 1715. He was attainted, and died in France in 1754. Oh ! send Lewie Gordon hame, And the lad I daurna name ; Though his hack be at the wa', Here's to him that's far awa 1 Ooh hon ! my Highland man, Och, my bonny Highland man ; Weel would I my true-love ken, Amang ten thousand Highland men. Oh ! to see his tartan-trews, Bonnet blue, and laigh-heel'd shoes ; Philabeg aboon his knee ; That's the lad that I'll gang wi' ! Ooh hon 1 etc. The, princely youth of whom I sing, Is fitted for to be a king ; On his breast he wears a star ; You'd tak' him for the god of war. Och hon! etc. Oh to see this princely one Seated on a royal throne ! Disasters a' would disappear, Then begins the jub'lee year ! Och hon ! etc. HERE'S A HEALTH. Here's a health to them that's away, Here's a health to them that's away, Here's a health to him that was here yestreen, But durstna bide till day. wha winna drink it dry? wha winna drink it dry ? Wha winna drink to the lad that's gane, Is nane o' our company. Let him be swung on a tree, Let him be swung on a tree ; Wha winna drink to the lad that's gane, Can ne'er be the man for me. It's good to be merry and wise, It's good to be honest and true, It's good to be aff wi' the auld king, Afore we be on wi' the new. 2p THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND HERE'S HIS HEALTH IN WATER. Although his back be at the wa', Another was the fau'tor,; Although his back be at the wa', Yet here's his health in water. He gat the skaith, he gat the scorn, I lo'e him yet the better ; Though in the muir I hide forlorn, I'll drink his healjjh in Water. Although his back Be at the wa', Yet here's his health in water. I'll maybe live to see the day That hunds shall get the halter, And drink his health in usquebae,, As I do now in water. I yet may stand as I hae stood, Wi' him through rout and slaughter, And bathe my hands in scoundrel blood, As I do now in water. Although Tiis back be at the wa', Yet here's his health in water. THOUGH GEORDIE REIGNS IN JAMIE'S STEAD. Though Geordie reigns in Jamie's stead, I'm griev'd, yet scorn to shaw that ; I'll ne'er look down, nor hang my head To rebel Whig, for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, And thrice as muckle's a' that, He's far beyond Dumblane the night, That Shall be king for a' that. Fe wears a broadsword by his side, And weel he kens to draw that ; The target and the Highland plaid, The shoulder belt, and a' that : A bonnet bound with ribbons blue, The white cockade and a' that, The tartan hose and philabeg, Which makes us blythe, for a' that. The Whigs think a' that weal is won, But, faith, they maunna fa' that ; They think our loyal hearts dung down, But we'll be blythe, for a' that, CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 579 For still we trust that Providence Will us relieve from a' that, And send us hame our gallant prince ; Then we'll be blythe, for a' that. But what will the Whigs say syne, When they're mista'en in a' that? When Geordie maun fling by the crown, And hat, and wig, and a' that ? The flames will get baith hat and wig, As often they've done a' that;. Our Highland lad will get the crown, And we'll be blythe, for a' that. Then will your braw militia lads <■ Rewarded be for a' that, When they fling by their black cockades ; A hellish badge I ca' that. As night is banish'd by the day, The white shall drive awa that ;, The sun shall then his beams display, And we'll be blythe, for a' that. OH! HE?S BEEN LANG C COMING. The youth that should hae been bur king, Was dress'd in yellow, red', and, green, A braver lad' ye wadna seen, Than our brave royal Charlie. Oh 1 he's been lang o' coming, Lang, lang, lang o' coming, Oh ! he's been lang o' coming, Welcome royal' CharlSef. At Falkirk and at Prestonpans, Supported by the Highland clans, They broke the Hanoverian bands, For our brave royal Charlie. Oh t he's been lang, etc. The valient chief, the brave Lochiel, He met Prince Charlie on the dale ; Then, ! what kindness did prevail, Between the Chief and Charlie. Oh! he's been lang, etc. come and quaff along wi* me, And drink a bumper, three times three, To. him that's come to set us free, Huzy ! rejoice for Charlie. Oh ! he's been lang, ; etc. THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND We darena brew a peck o' maut, But Geordie says it is a faut ; And to our kail cannot get saut, For want of royal Charlie. Oh ! he's been lang, etc. Now our good king abroad is gone, A German whelp now fills the throne, And whelps it is denied by none. Are brutes compared to Charlie. Oh ! he's' been lang, etc. Now our good king is turned awa', A German whelp now rules us a' ; And tho' we're forc'd against our law, The right belongs to Charlie. Ohl he's been lang, etc. If we had but our Charlie back, We wadna fear the German's crack ; Wi' a' his thieving, hungry pack, The right belongs to Charlie. On I he's been lang, etc. 0, Charlie come and lead the way, No German whelp shall bear the sway, Tho' ilka dog maun hae his day ; The right belongs to Charlie. Oh! he's been lang, etc. THE EMIGRANT. Mat morning had shed her first streamers on high, O'er Canada, opening all pale on the sky! Still dazzling and white was the robe that she wore, Except where the mountain wave lash'd on the shore. Ear heaved the young sun, like a lamp on the wave. And loud screamed the gull o'er his foam-beaten cave, When an old lyart swain on a headland stood high, With the staff'in his hand, and the tear in his eye. His old tartan plaid, and his bonnet so blue, Declared from what country his lineage he drew ; His visage so wan, and his accents so low, Announced the companion of sorrow and woe. " Ah, welcome thou sun, to thy canopy grand, And to me, for thou com'st from my dear native land I Again dost thou leave that sweet isle of the sea, To beam on these winter-bound valleys and me ! CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED. 581 " How sweet in my own native valley to roam, Bach face was a friend's, and each house was a home ; To drag our live thousands from river to bay, Or chase the dun deer o'er the mountains so gray. " Now forced from my home and my blithe halls away, The son of the stranger has made them a prey : My family and friends to extremity driven, Contending for life both with earth and with heaven. " My oountry," they said — " but they told me a lie, Her valleys were barren, inclement her sky ; Even now in the glens, 'mong her mountains so blue, The primrose and daisy are blooming in dew. " How could she expel from those mountains of heath, The clans who maintained them in danger and death ; Who ever were ready the broadsword to draw, In defence of her honour, her freedom,' and law. " We stood by our Stuart, till one fatal blow Loosed ruin triumphant, and valour laid low ; The lords whom we trusted, and lived but to please, Then turned us adrift to the storms and the, seas. " gratitude I where didst thou linger the while ? What region afar is illumed with thy smile ? That orb of the sky for a home will I crave, When yon sun rises red on the Emigrant's grave 1" ITAME, HAME, HAME. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie ! 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 i' the bud and the leaf upon the tree, The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie. Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie I The green leaf o' loyalty's beginning for to fa', The bonny white rose it is withering an a' ; But I'll water't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, An' green it will grow in my ain countrie. 582 THE SONGS 0» SCOTLAND Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, hame, hame, hame to my ain oountrie ! There's nought now frae ruin my countries can save, But the keys of kind heaven to open the grave, That a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie, May rise again and fight for their ain oountrie. Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, hame, hame, hame to my ain oountrie ! , 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 blythe in my e'e- " I'll shine on ye yet in your ain oountrie." HILL OF LOCHIEL. JAMES H03G. •Long have I pined' for thee ; Land of my infancy, Now wilL I kneel on thee, Hill of Lochiel ; Hill of the sturdy steer, Hill of the roe and deer, Hill of the streamlet clear, I love thee well. • When in my youthful prime, Correi and crag to climb, Or towering cliff sublime Was my delight ; Scaling the eagle's nest, Wounding the raven's- breast, Skimming the mountain's crest, Gladsome and light. When at the break of morn, Proud o'er thy temples borne, Bythed the red-deer's horn, How my heart beat ! Then, when with stunned leap, Boll'd he adown the steep, Never did hero reap Conquest so great. Then rose a bolder game, Young Charlie Stuart came, Cameron, that loyal name Foremost must be : CHKONOLOGICALLY AEEANGED. 583 Hard then our warrior meed, Glorious our warrior deed, Still we were doom'd to bleed By treachery. Then did the red blood stream, Then was the broadsword's gleam, Quenoh'd in fair freedom's beam, No more to shine. Then was the morning's brow, Bed with the fiery glow, Fell hall and hamlet low, All that were mine. Then was our maiden young, First aye in battle strong, Fir'd at her prince's wrong, Forc'd to give way : Broke was the golden cup, Gone Caledonia's hope, Faithful and true men drop, Fast in the clay. Fair in a hostile land, Stretch'd on a foreign strand, Oft has the tear-drop bland, Scorch'd as it fell. Once was I spurn'd from thee, Long have I mourn'd for thee, Now I'm return'd to thee, • Hill of Lochiel. McCORQUODALE ANTj Co., PRINTERS, GLASGOW. ■■'■'.■ .' . >;. '■ .. , ■.- ■ '.>:-:.-. '.■ ;, ■ i '.-,