Before leaving Scotland for Jamaica, Macneill had commenced a poem, founded on a Highland tradition; and to the completion of this production he assiduously devoted himself during his homeward voyage. It was published at Edinburgh in 1789, under the title of "The Harp, a Legendary Tale." In the previous year, he published a pamphlet in vindication of slavery, entitled, "On the Treatment of the Negroes in Jamaica." This pamphlet, written to gratify the wishes of an interested friend, rather than as the result of his own convictions, he subsequently endeavoured to suppress. For several years, Macneill persevered in his unsettled mode of life. On his return from Jamaica, he resided in the mansion of his friend, Mr Graham of Gartmore, himself a writer of verses, as well as a patron of letters; but a difference with the family caused him to quit this hospitable residence. After passing some time with his relatives in Argyllshire, he entertained a proposal of establishing himself in Glasgow, as partner of a mercantile house, but this was terminated by the dissolution of the firm; and a second attempt to succeed in the republic of letters had an equally unsuccessful issue. In Edinburgh, whither he had removed, he was seized with a severe nervous illness, which, during the six following years, rendered him incapable of sustained physical exertion. With a little money, which he contrived to raise on his annuity, he retired to a small cottage at St Ninians; but his finances again becoming reduced, he accepted of the hospitable invitation of his friends, Major Spark and his lady, to become the inmate of their residence of Viewforth House, Stirling. At this period, Macneill composed the greater number of his best songs, and produced his poem of "Scotland's Skaith, or the History of Will and Jean," which was published in 1795, and speedily gained him a wide reputation. Before the close of twelvemonths, it passed through no fewer than fourteen editions. A sequel, entitled "The Waes o' War," which appeared in 1796, attained nearly an equal popularity. The original ballad was composed during the author's solitary walks along the promenades of the King's Park, Stirling, while he was still suffering mental depression. It was completed in his own mind before any of the stanzas were committed to paper.

The hope of benefiting his enfeebled constitution in a warm climate induced him to revisit Jamaica. As a parting tribute to his friends at Stirling, he published, in 1799, immediately before his departure, a descriptive poem, entitled "The Links of Forth, or a Parting Peep at the Carse of Stirling," which, regarded as the last effort of a dying poet, obtained a reception fully equal to its merits.

On the oft-disappointed and long unfortunate poet the sun of prosperity at length arose. On his arrival in Jamaica, one of his early friends, Mr John Graham, of Three-Mile-River, settled on him an annuity of L100 a-year; and, in a few months afterwards, they sailed together for Britain, the poet's health being essentially improved. Macneill now fixed his permanent residence in Edinburgh, and, with the proceeds of several legacies bequeathed to him, together with his annuity, was enabled to live in comparative affluence. The narrative of his early adventures and hardships is supposed to form the basis of a novel, entitled "The Memoirs of Charles Macpherson, Esq.," which proceeded from his pen in 1800. In the following year, he published a complete edition of his poetical works, in two duodecimo volumes. In 1809, he published "The Pastoral, or Lyric Muse of Scotland," in a thin quarto volume; and about the same time, anonymously, two other works in verse, entitled "Town Fashions, or Modern Manners Delineated," and "Bygone Times and Late-come Changes." His last work, "The Scottish Adventurers," a novel, appeared in 1812, in two octavo volumes.

The latter productions of Hector Macneill, both in prose and verse, tended rather to diminish than increase his fame. They exhibit the sentiments of a querulous old man, inclined to cling to the habits of his youth, and to regard any improvement as an act of ruthless innovation. As the author of some excellent songs, and one of the most popular ballads in the Scottish language, his name will continue to be remembered. His songs, "Mary of Castlecary," "My boy, Tammie," "Come under my plaidie," "I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane," "Donald and Flora," and "Dinna think, bonnie lassie," will retain a firm hold of the popular mind. His characteristic is tenderness and pathos, combined with unity of feeling, and a simplicity always genuine and true to nature. Allan Cunningham, who forms only a humble estimate of his genius, remarks that his songs "have much softness and truth, an insinuating grace of manners, and a decorum of expression, with no small skill in the dramatic management of the stories."[11] The ballad of "Scotland's Skaith" ranks among the happiest conceptions of the Scottish Doric muse; rural life is depicted with singular force and accuracy, and the debasing consequences of the inordinate use of ardent spirits among the peasantry, are delineated with a vigour and power, admirably adapted to suit the author's benevolent intention in the suppression of intemperance.

During his latter years, Macneill was much cherished among the fashionables of the capital. He was a tall, venerable-looking old man; and although his complexion was sallow, and his countenance somewhat austere, his agreeable and fascinating conversation, full of humour and replete with anecdote, rendered him an acceptable guest in many social circles. He displayed a lively, but not a vigorous intellect, and his literary attainments were inconsiderable. Of his own character as a man of letters, he had evidently formed a high estimate. He was prone to satire, but did not unduly indulge in it. He was especially impatient of indifferent versification; and, among his friends, rather discouraged than commended poetical composition. Though long unsettled himself, he was loud in his commendations of industry; and, from the gay man of the world, he became earnest on the subject of religion. For several years, his health seems to have been unsatisfactory. In a letter to a friend, dated Edinburgh, January 30, 1813, he writes:—"Accumulating years and infirmities are beginning to operate very sensibly upon me now, and yearly do I experience their increasing influence. Both my hearing and my sight are considerably weakened, and, should I live a few years longer, I look forward to a state which, with all our love for life, is certainly not to be envied.... My pen is my chief amusement. Reading soon fatigues, and loses its zest; composition never, till over-exertion reminds me of my imprudence, by sensations which too frequently render me unpleasant during the rest of the day." On the 15th of March 1818, in his seventy-second year, the poet breathed his last, in entire composure, and full of hope.

[10] We quote from an autobiography of the poet, the original of which is in the possession of one of his surviving friends. We have likewise to acknowledge our obligations to Dr Muschet, of Birkhill, near Stirling, for communicating some interesting letters of Macneill, addressed to his late father. The late Mr John Campbell, Writer to the Signet, had undertaken to supply a memoir for this work, partly from his own recollections of his deceased friend; but, before he could fulfil his promise, he was called to rest with his fathers. We have, however, taken advantage of his reminiscences of the bard, orally communicated to us. An intelligent abridgment of the autobiography appears in Blackwood's Magazine, vol. iv. p. 273. See likewise the Encyclopaedia Britannica, vol. xv. p. 307.

[11] "The Songs of Scotland, Ancient and Modern," by Allan Cunningham, vol. i. p. 242. London, 1825; 4 vols. 12mo.



MARY OF CASTLECARY.[12]

TUNE—"Bonnie Dundee."

"Oh, saw ye my wee thing? saw ye my ain thing? Saw ye my true love, down on yon lee? Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at the gloamin'? Sought she the burnie whare flow'rs the haw-tree? Her hair it is lint-white; her skin it is milk-white; Dark is the blue o' her saft rolling e'e; Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses: Whare could my wee thing wander frae me?"

"I saw na your wee thing, I saw na your ain thing, Nor saw I your true love, down on yon lea; But I met my bonnie thing, late in the gloamin', Down by the burnie whare 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 ony till ance she lo'ed me. Her name it is Mary; she 's frae Castlecary; Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee;— Fair as your face is, were 't fifty times fairer, Young bragger, she ne'er would gi'e kisses to thee."

"It was, then, your Mary; she 's frae Castlecary; 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— "Ye 's rue sair, this morning, your boasts and your scorning; Defend, ye fause traitor! fu' loudly ye lie."

"Awa' wi' beguiling," cried the youth, smiling;— Aff went the bonnet; the lint-white locks flee; The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing— Fair stood the lo'ed maid wi' the dark rolling e'e. "Is it my wee thing? is it mine ain thing? Is it my true love here that I see?" "Oh, Jamie, forgi'e me! your heart 's constant to me; I 'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee!"

[12] This song was first published, in May 1791, in The Bee, an Edinburgh periodical, conducted by Dr James Anderson.



MY BOY, TAMMY.[13]

"Whare hae ye been a' day, My boy, Tammy? Whare hae ye been a' day, My boy, Tammy?" "I 've been by burn and flow'ry brae, Meadow green, and mountain gray, Courting o' this young thing, Just come frae her mammy."

"And whare got ye that young thing, My boy, Tammy?" "I gat her down in yonder howe, Smiling on a broomy knowe, Herding a wee lamb and ewe For her poor mammy."

"What said ye to the bonnie bairn, My boy, Tammy?" "I praised her een, sae bonny blue, Her dimpled cheek, and cherry mou'; I pree'd it aft, as ye may true;— She said she 'd tell her mammy.

"I held her to my beating heart, My young, my smiling lammie! 'I hae a house, it cost me dear; I 've wealth o' plenishin' 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 gi'en me meat, she 's gi'en me claise, She 's been my comfort a' my days; My father's death brought mony waes— I canna leave my mammy.'"

"We 'll tak her hame, and mak her fain, My ain kind-hearted lammie; We 'll gi'e her meat, we 'll gi'e her claise, We 'll be her comfort a' her days." The wee thing gi'es her hand and says— "There! gang and ask my mammy."

"Has she been to kirk wi' thee, My boy, Tammy?" "She has been to kirk wi' me, And the tear was in her e'e; But, oh! she 's but a young thing, Just come frae her mammy."

[13] This beautiful ballad was first printed, in 1791, in The Bee. It is adapted to an old and sweet air, to which, however, very puerile words were attached.



OH, TELL ME HOW FOR TO WOO![14]

TUNE—"Bonnie Dundee."

"Oh, tell me, bonnie young lassie! Oh, tell me how for to woo! Oh, tell me, bonnie sweet lassie! Oh, tell me how for to woo! 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 how for to woo!

"Far hae I wander'd to see thee, dear lassie! Far hae I ventured across the saut sea; Far hae I travell'd ower moorland and mountain, Houseless and weary, sleep'd cauld on the lea. Ne'er hae I tried yet to mak love to onie, For ne'er lo'ed I onie till ance I lo'ed you; Now we 're alane in the green-wood sae bonnie— Oh, tell me how for to woo!"

"What care I for your wand'ring, young laddie? What care I for your crossing the sea? It was na for naething ye left poor young Peggie; It was for my tocher ye cam' to court me. Say, hae ye gowd to busk me aye gaudie? Ribbons, and perlins, and breast-knots enew? A house that is canty, with wealth in 't, my laddie? Without this ye never need try for to woo."

"I hae na gowd to busk ye aye gaudie; I canna buy ribbons and perlins enew; I 've naething to brag o' house, or o' plenty, I 've little to gi'e, but a heart that is true. I cam' na for tocher—I ne'er heard o' onie; I never lo'ed Peggy, nor e'er brak my vow: I 've wander'd, puir fule! for a face fause as bonnie: I little thocht this was the way for to woo."

"Our laird has fine houses, and guineas o' gowd He 's youthfu', he 's blooming, and comely to see. The leddies are a' ga'en wud for the wooer, And yet, ilka e'ening, he leaves them for me. Oh, saft in the gloaming, his love he discloses! And saftly, yestreen, as I milked my cow, He swore that my breath it was sweeter than roses, And a' the gait hame he did naething but woo."

"Ah, Jenny! the young laird may brag o' his siller, His houses, his lands, and his lordly degree; His speeches for true love may drap sweet as honey, But trust me, dear Jenny, he ne'er lo'ed like me. The wooin' o' gentry are fine words o' fashion— The faster they fa' as the heart is least true; The dumb look o' love 's aft the best proof o' passion; The heart that feels maist is the least fit to woo."

"Hae na ye roosed my cheeks like the morning? Hae na ye roosed my cherry-red mou'? Hae na ye come ower sea, moor, and mountain? What mair, Johnnie, need ye to woo? Far ye wander'd, I ken, my dear laddie; Now that ye 've found me, there 's nae cause to rue; Wi' health we 'll hae plenty—I 'll never gang gaudie; 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 o' transport fill'd ilk lover's e'e; The burnie ran sweet by their side as they sabbit, And sweet sang the mavis aboon on the tree. He clasp'd her, he press'd her, and ca'd her his hinny; And aften he tasted her honey-sweet mou'; And aye, 'tween ilk kiss, she sigh'd to her Johnnie, "Oh, laddie! weel can ye woo."

[14] Mr Graham, of Gartmore, an intimate friend of Hector Macneill, composed a song, having a similar burden, the chorus proceeding thus:—

"Then, tell me how to woo thee, love; Oh, tell me how to woo thee! For thy dear sake nae care I'll take, Though ne'er another trow me."

This was published by Sir Walter Scott, in the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," as a production of the reign of Charles I.



LASSIE WI' THE GOWDEN HAIR.

Lassie wi' the gowden hair, Silken snood, and face sae fair; Lassie wi' the yellow hair, Thinkna to deceive me. Lassie wi' the gowden hair, Flattering smile, and face sae fair, Fare ye weel! for never mair Johnnie will believe ye. Oh, no! Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn; Oh, no! Mary Bawn, ye 'll nae mair deceive me.

Smiling, twice ye made me troo, Twice, poor fool! I turn'd to woo; Twice, fause maid! ye brak your vow; Now I 've sworn to leave ye. Twice, fause maid! ye brak your vow; Twice, poor fool! I 've learn'd to rue; Come ye yet to mak me troo? Thrice ye 'll ne'er deceive me. No, no! Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn; Oh, no! Mary Bawn; thrice ye 'll ne'er deceive me.

Mary saw him turn to part; Deep his words sank in her heart; Soon the tears began to start— "Johnnie, will ye leave me?" Soon the tears began to start, Grit and gritter grew his heart; "Yet a word before we part, Love could ne'er deceive ye. Oh, no! Johnnie doo, Johnnie doo, Johnnie doo; Oh, no! Johnnie doo—love could ne'er deceive ye."

Johnnie took a parting keek; Saw the tears drap owre her cheek; Pale she stood, but couldna speak— Mary 's cured o' smiling. Johnnie took anither keek— Beauty's rose has left her cheek; Pale she stands, and canna speak. This is nae beguiling. Oh, no! Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn, dear Mary Bawn; Oh, no; Mary Bawn—love has nae beguiling.



COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE.

TUNE—"Johnnie M'Gill."

"Come under my plaidie, the night 's gaun to fa'; Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift, and the snaw; Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me, There 's room in 't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa. Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me, I 'll hap ye frae every cauld blast that can blaw: Oh, come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me! There 's room in 't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa."

"Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie, auld Donald, gae 'wa, I fear na the cauld blast, the drift, nor the snaw; Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie, I 'll no sit beside ye; Ye may be my gutcher;—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; Oh, nane dances sae lightly, sae gracefu', sae tightly! His cheek 's like the new rose, his brow 's like the snaw."

"Dear Marion, let that flee stick fast to the wa'; Your Jock 's but a gowk, and has naething ava; The hale o' his pack he has now on his back— He 's thretty, and I am but threescore and twa. Be frank now and kindly; I 'll busk ye aye finely; To kirk or to market they '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 's aye tauld me, my mither and a', Ye 'd mak a gude husband, and keep me aye braw; It 's true I lo'e Johnnie, he 's gude and he 's bonnie; But, waes me! ye ken he has naething ava. I hae little tocher; you '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 threescore and twa."

She crap in ayont him, aside the stane wa', Whare Johnnie was list'ning, and heard her tell a'; The day was appointed, his proud heart it dunted, And strack 'gainst his side as if bursting in twa. He wander'd hame weary, the night it was dreary; And, thowless, he tint his gate 'mang the deep snaw; The owlet was screamin' while Johnnie cried, "Women Wad marry Auld Nick if he 'd keep them aye braw."



I LO'ED NE'ER A LADDIE BUT ANE.[15]

I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane, He lo'ed ne'er a lassie but me; He 's willing to mak' me his ain, And his ain I am willing to be. He has coft me a rokelay o' blue, And a pair o' mittens o' green; The price was a kiss o' my mou', And I paid him the debt yestreen.

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 and sweet! His sense drives ilk fear far awa'! I listen, poor fool! and I greet; Yet how sweet are the tears as they fa'!

"Dear lassie," he cries, wi' a jeer, "Ne'er heed what the auld anes will say; Though we 've little to brag o', near fear— What 's gowd to a heart that is wae? Our laird has baith honours and wealth, Yet see how he 's dwining wi' care; Now we, though we 've naething but health, Are cantie and leal evermair.

"O Marion! the heart that is true, Has something mair costly than gear! Ilk e'en it has naething to rue, Ilk morn it has naething to fear. Ye warldlings! gae hoard up your store, And tremble for fear aught ye tyne; Guard your treasures wi' lock, bar, and door, While here in my arms I lock mine!"

He ends wi' a kiss and a smile— Wae 's me! can I tak' it amiss? My laddie 's unpractised in guile, He 's free aye to daut and to kiss! Ye lasses wha lo'e to torment Your wooers wi' fause scorn and strife, Play your pranks—I hae gi'en my consent, And this nicht I 'm Jamie's for life!

[15] The first stanza of this song, along with a second, which is unsuitable for insertion, has been ascribed, on the authority of Burns, to the Rev. John Clunie, minister of Borthwick, in Mid-Lothian, who died in 1819, aged sixty-two. Ritson, however, by prefixing the letters "J. D." to the original stanza would seem to point to a different author.



DONALD AND FLORA.[16]

I.

When merry hearts were gay, Careless of aught but play, Poor Flora slipt away, Sadd'ning to Mora;[17] Loose flow'd her yellow hair, Quick heaved her bosom bare, As to the troubled air She vented her sorrow.

II.

"Loud howls the stormy wist, Cold, cold is winter's blast; Haste, then, O Donald, haste, Haste to thy Flora! Twice twelve long months are o'er, Since on a foreign shore You promised to fight no more, But meet me in Mora."

III.

"'Where now is Donald dear?' Maids cry with taunting sneer; 'Say, is he still sincere To his loved Flora?' Parents upbraid my moan, Each heart is turn'd to stone: 'Ah, Flora! thou 'rt now alone, Friendless in Mora!'

IV.

"Come, then, O come away! Donald, no longer stay; Where can my rover stray From his loved Flora! Ah! sure he ne'er can be False to his vows and me; Oh, Heaven!—is not yonder he, Bounding o'er Mora!"

V.

"Never, ah! wretched fair!" Sigh'd the sad messenger, "Never shall Donald mair Meet his loved Flora! Cold as yon mountain snow Donald thy love lies low; He sent me to soothe thy woe, Weeping in Mora.

VI.

"Well fought our gallant men On Saratoga's plain; Thrice fled the hostile train From British glory. But, ah! though our foes did flee, Sad was such victory— Truth, love, and loyalty Fell far from Mora.

VII.

"'Here, take this love-wrought plaid,' Donald, expiring, said; 'Give it to yon dear maid Drooping in Mora. Tell her, O Allan! tell Donald thus bravely fell, And that in his last farewell He thought on his Flora.'"

VIII.

Mute stood the trembling fair, Speechless with wild despair; Then, striking her bosom bare, Sigh'd out, "Poor Flora! Ah, Donald! ah, well-a-day!" Was all the fond heart could say: At length the sound died away Feebly in Mora.

[16] This fine ballad was written by Macneill, to commemorate the death of his friend, Captain Stewart, a brave officer, betrothed to a young lady in Athole, who, in 1777, fell at the battle of Saratoga, in America. The words, which are adapted to an old Gaelic air, appear with music in Smith's "Scottish Minstrel," vol. iii. p. 28. The ballad, in the form given above, has been improved in several of the stanzas by the author, on his original version, published in Johnson's "Museum." See the "Museum," vol. iv. p. 238.

[17] Mora is the name of a small valley in Athole, so designated by the two lovers.



MY LUVE'S IN GERMANY.[18]

TUNE—"Ye Jacobites by name."

My luve 's in Germanie, send him hame, send him hame; My luve 's in Germanie, send him hame; My luve 's in Germanie, Fighting brave for royalty: He may ne'er his Jeanie see— Send him hame.

He 's as brave as brave can be—send him hame, send him hame; He 's as brave as brave can be—send him hame; He 's as brave as brave can be, He wad rather fa' than flee; His life is dear to me— Send him hame.

Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, bonnie dame, bonnie dame, Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, bonnie dame; Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, But he fell in Germanie, In the cause of royalty, Bonnie 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 'll ne'er come ower the sea, To his love and ain countrie: This warld 's nae mair for me— Willie 's gane!

[18] This song was originally printed on a single sheet, by N. Stewart and Co., Edinburgh, in 1794, as the lament of a lady on the death of an officer. It does not appear in Macneill's "Poetical Works," but he asserted to Mr Stenhouse his claims to the authorship.—Johnson's "Museum," vol. iv. p. 323.



DINNA THINK, BONNIE LASSIE.[19]

TUNE—"Clunie's Reel."

"Oh, dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee! Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee; Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee; I 'll tak a stick into my hand, and come again and see thee."

"Far 's the gate ye hae to gang; dark 's the night, and eerie; Far 's the gate ye hae to gang; dark 's the night, and eerie; Far 's the gate ye hae to gang; dark 's the night, and eerie; Oh, stay this night wi' your love, and dinna gang and leave me."

"It 's but a night and hauf a day that I 'll leave my dearie; But a night and hauf a day that I 'll leave my dearie; But a night and hauf a day that I 'll leave my dearie; Whene'er the sun gaes west the loch, I 'll come again and see thee."

"Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and leave me; Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and leave me; When a' the lave are sound asleep, I 'm dull and eerie; And a' the lee-lang night I 'm sad, wi' thinking on my dearie."

"Oh, dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee! Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee; Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee; Whene'er the sun gaes out o' sight, I 'll come again and see thee."

"Waves are rising o'er the sea; winds blaw loud and fear me; Waves are rising o'er the sea; winds blaw loud and fear me; While the winds and waves do roar, I am wae and drearie; And gin ye lo'e me as ye say, ye winna gang and leave me."

"Oh, 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 ye."

Frae his hand he coost his stick; "I winna gang and leave thee;" Threw his plaid into the neuk; "Never can I grieve thee;" Drew his boots, and flang them by; cried, "My lass, be cheerie; I 'll kiss the tear frae aff thy cheek, and never leave my dearie."

[19] The last verse of this song was added by John Hamilton. The song, on account of this addition, was not included by Macneill in the collected edition of his "Poetical Works." One of Miss Blamire's songs has the same opening line; and it has been conjectured by Mr Maxwell, the editor of her poems, that Macneill had been indebted to her song for suggesting his verses.



MRS GRANT OF LAGGAN.

Mrs Anne Grant, commonly styled of Laggan, to distinguish her from her contemporary, Mrs Grant of Carron, was born at Glasgow, in February 1755. Her father, Mr Duncan Macvicar, was an officer in the army, and, by her mother, she was descended from the old family of Stewart, of Invernahyle, in Argyllshire. Her early infancy was passed at Fort-William; but her father having accompanied his regiment to America, and there become a settler, in the State of New York, at a very tender age she was taken by her mother across the Atlantic, to her new home. Though her third year had not been completed when she arrived in America, she retained a distinct recollection of her landing at Charlestown. By her mother she was taught to read, and a well-informed serjeant made her acquainted with writing. Her precocity for learning was remarkable. Ere she had reached her sixth year, she had made herself familiar with the Old Testament, and could speak the Dutch language, which she had learned from a family of Dutch settlers. The love of poetry and patriotism was simultaneously evinced. At this early period, she read Milton's "Paradise Lost" with attention, and even appreciation; and glowed with the enthusiastic ardour of a young heroine over the adventures of Wallace, detailed in the metrical history of Henry, the Minstrel. Her juvenile talent attracted the notice of the more intelligent settlers in the State, and gained her the friendship of the distinguished Madame Schuyler, whose virtues she afterwards depicted in her "Memoirs of an American Lady."

In 1768, along with his wife and daughter, Mr Macvicar returned to Scotland, his health having suffered by his residence in America; and, during the three following summers, his daughter found means of gratifying her love of song, on the banks of the Cart, near Glasgow. The family residence was now removed to Fort-Augustus, where Mr Macvicar had received the appointment of barrack-master. The chaplain of the fort was the Rev. James Grant, a young clergyman, related to several of the more respectable families in the district, who was afterwards appointed minister of the parish of Laggan, in Inverness-shire. At Fort-Augustus, he had recommended himself to the affections of Miss Macvicar, by his elegant tastes and accomplished manners, and he now became the successful suitor for her hand. They were married in 1779, and Mrs Grant, to approve herself a useful helpmate to her husband, began assiduously to acquaint herself with the manners and habits of the humbler classes of the people. The inquiries instituted at this period were turned to an account more extensive than originally contemplated. Mr Grant, who was constitutionally delicate, died in 1801, leaving his widow and eight surviving children without any means of support, his worldly circumstances being considerably embarrassed.

On a small farm which she had rented, in the vicinity of her late husband's parish, Mrs Grant resided immediately subsequent to his decease; but the profits of the lease were evidently inadequate for the comfortable maintenance of the family. Among the circle of her friends she was known as a writer of verses; in her ninth year, she had essayed an imitation of Milton; and she had written poetry, or at least verses, on the banks of the Cart and at Fort-Augustus. To aid in supporting her family, she was strongly advised to collect her pieces into a volume; and, to encourage her in acting upon this recommendation, no fewer than three thousand subscribers were procured for the work by her friends. The celebrated Duchess of Gordon proved an especial promoter of the cause. In 1803, a volume of poems appeared from her pen, which, though displaying no high powers, was favourably received, and had the double advantage of making her known, and of materially aiding her finances. From the profits, she made settlement of her late husband's liabilities; and now perceiving a likelihood of being able to support her family by her literary exertions, she abandoned the lease of her farm. She took up her residence near the town of Stirling, residing in the mansion of Gartur, in that neighbourhood. In 1806, she again appeared before the public as an author, by publishing a selection of her correspondence with her friends, in three duodecimo volumes, under the designation of "Letters from the Mountains." This work passed through several editions. In 1808, Mrs Grant published the life of her early friend, Madame Schuyler, under the designation of "Memoirs of an American Lady," in two volumes.

From the rural retirement of Gartur, she soon removed to the town of Stirling; but in 1810, as her circumstances became more prosperous, she took up her permanent abode in Edinburgh. Some distinguished literary characters of the Scottish capital now resorted to her society. She was visited by Sir Walter Scott, Francis Jeffrey, James Hogg, and others, attracted by the vivacity of her conversation. The "Essays on the Superstitions of the Highlanders of Scotland" appeared in 1811, in two volumes; in 1814, she published a metrical work, in two parts, entitled "Eighteen Hundred and Thirteen;" and, in the year following, she produced her "Popular Models and Impressive Warnings for the Sons and Daughters of Industry."

In 1825, Mrs Grant received a civil-list pension of L50 a-year, in consideration of her literary talents, which, with the profits of her works and the legacies of several deceased friends, rendered the latter period of her life sufficiently comfortable in respect of pecuniary means. She died on the 7th of November 1838, in the eighty-fourth year of her age, and retaining her faculties to the last. A collection of her correspondence was published in 1844, in three volumes octavo, edited by her only surviving son, John P. Grant, Esq.

As a writer, Mrs Grant occupies a respectable place. She had the happy art of turning her every-day observation, as well as the fruits of her research, to the best account. Her letters, which she published at the commencement of her literary career, as well as those which appeared posthumously, are favourable specimens of that species of composition. As a poet, she attained to no eminence. "The Highlanders," her longest and most ambitious poetical effort, exhibits some glowing descriptions of mountain scenery, and the stern though simple manners of the Gael. Of a few songs which proceed from her pen, that commencing, "Oh, where, tell me where?" written on the occasion of the Marquis of Huntly's departure for Holland with his regiment, in 1799, has only become generally known. It has been parodied in a song, by an unknown author, entitled "The Blue Bells of Scotland," which has obtained a wider range of popularity.



OH, WHERE, TELL ME WHERE?

"Oh, where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone? Oh, where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone?" "He 's gone, with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done, And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home. He 's gone, with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done, And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home."

"Oh, where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay? Oh, where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay?" "He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid Spey, And many a blessing follow'd him, the day he went away. He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid Spey, And many a blessing follow'd him, the day he went away."

"Oh, what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear? Oh, what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear?" "A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war, And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star; A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war, And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star."

"Suppose, ah, suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound, Should pierce your Highland laddie, and all your hopes confound!" "The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly; The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye; The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly, And for his king and country dear with pleasure he would die!"

"But I will hope to see him yet, in Scotland's bonny bounds; But I will hope to see him yet, in Scotland's bonny bounds. His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds, While, wide through all our Highland hills, his warlike name resounds; His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds, While, wide through all our Highland hills, his warlike name resounds."



OH, MY LOVE, LEAVE ME NOT![20]

AIR—"Bealach na Gharraidh."

Oh, my love, leave me not! Oh, my love, leave me not! Oh, my love, leave me not! Lonely and weary.

Could you but stay a while, And my fond fears beguile, I yet once more could smile, Lightsome and cheery.

Night, with her darkest shroud, Tempests that roar aloud, Thunders that burst the cloud, Why should I fear ye?

Till the sad hour we part, Fear cannot make me start; Grief cannot break my heart Whilst thou art near me.

Should you forsake my sight, Day would to me be night; Sad, I would shun its light, Heartless and weary.

[20] From Albyn's "Anthology," vol. i. p. 42. Edinburgh, 1816, 4to.



JOHN MAYNE.

John Mayne, chiefly known as the author of "The Siller Gun," a poem descriptive of burgher habits in Scotland towards the close of the century, was born at Dumfries, on the 26th of March 1759. At the grammar school of his native town, under Dr Chapman, the learned rector, whose memory he has celebrated in the third canto of his principal poem, he had the benefit of a respectable elementary education; and having chosen the profession of a printer, he entered at an early age the printing office of the Dumfries Journal. In 1782, when his parents removed to Glasgow, to reside on a little property to which they had succeeded, he sought employment under the celebrated Messrs Foulis, in whose printing establishment he continued during the five following years. He paid a visit to London in 1785, with the view of advancing his professional interests, and two years afterwards he settled in the metropolis.

Mayne, while a mere stripling, was no unsuccessful wooer of the Muse; and in his sixteenth year he produced the germ of that poem on which his reputation chiefly depends. This production, entitled "The Siller Gun," descriptive of a sort of walkingshaw, or an ancient practice which obtained in his native town, of shooting, on the king's birth-day, for a silver tube or gun, which had been presented by James VI. to the incorporated trades, as a prize to the best marksman, was printed at Dumfries in 1777, on a small quarto page. The original edition consisted of twelve stanzas; in two years it increased to two cantos; in 1780, it was printed in three cantos; in 1808, it was published in London with a fourth; and in 1836, just before his death, the author added a fifth. The latest edition was published by subscription, in an elegant duodecimo volume.

In 1780, in the pages of Ruddiman's Weekly Magazine, Mayne published a short poem on "Halloween," which suggested Burns's celebrated poem on the same subject. In 1781, he published at Glasgow his song of "Logan Braes," of which Burns afterwards composed a new version.

In London, Mayne was first employed as printer, and subsequently became joint-editor and proprietor, along with Dr Tilloch, of the Star evening newspaper. With this journal he retained a connexion till his death, which took place at London on the 14th of March 1836.

Besides the humorous and descriptive poem of "The Siller Gun," which, in the opinion of Sir Walter Scott, surpasses the efforts of Ferguson, and comes near to those of Burns,[21] Mayne published another epic production, entitled "Glasgow," which appeared in 1803, and has passed through several editions. In the same year he published "English, Scots, and Irishmen," a chivalrous address to the population of the three kingdoms. To the literary journals, his contributions, both in prose and verse, were numerous and interesting. Many of his songs and ballads enriched the columns of the journal which he so long and ably conducted. In early life, he maintained a metrical correspondence with Thomas Telford, the celebrated engineer, who was a native of the same county, and whose earliest ambition was to earn the reputation of a poet.[22]

Possessed of entire amiability of disposition, and the utmost amenity of manners, John Mayne was warmly beloved among the circle of his friends. Himself embued with a deep sense of religion, though fond of innocent humour, he preserved in all his writings a becoming respect for sound morals, and is entitled to the commendation which a biographer has awarded him, of having never committed to paper a single line "the tendency of which was not to afford innocent amusement, or to improve and increase the happiness of mankind." He was singularly modest and even retiring. His eulogy has been pronounced by Allan Cunningham, who knew him well, that "a better or warmer-hearted man never existed." The songs, of which we have selected the more popular, abound in vigour of expression and sentiment, and are pervaded by a genuine pathos.

[21] See Note to "Lady of the Lake."

[22] See the Encyclopaedia Britannica, vol. xxi. p. 170.



LOGAN BRAES.[23]

By Logan's streams, that rin sae deep, Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep, I've herded sheep, or gather'd slaes, Wi' my dear lad, on Logan braes. But, waes my heart! thae days are gane, And I wi' grief may herd alane; While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

Nae mair at Logan kirk will he Atween the preachings meet wi' me, Meet wi' me, or, whan it's mirk, Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk. I weel may sing thae days are gane— Frae kirk and 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 daunder dowie and forlane; I sit alane, beneath the tree Where aft he kept his tryste wi' me. Oh, could I see thae days again, My lover skaithless, and my ain! Beloved by friends, revered by faes, We'd live in bliss on Logan braes.

[23] This song originally consisted of two stanzas, the third stanza being subsequently added by the author. It is adapted to a beautiful old air, "Logan Water," incongruously connected with some indecorous stanzas. Burns deemed Mayne's version an elder production of the Scottish muse, and attempted to modernise the song, but his edition is decidedly inferior. Other four stanzas have been added, by some anonymous versifier, to Mayne's verses, which first appeared in Duncan's "Encyclopaedia of Scottish, English, and Irish Songs," printed at Glasgow in 1836, 2 vols. 12mo. In those stanzas the lover is brought back to Logan braes, and consummates his union with his weeping shepherdess. The stream of Logan takes its rise among the hills separating the parishes of Lesmahago and Muirkirk, and, after a flow of eight miles, deposits its waters into the Nethan river.



HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL.[24]

I wish I were where Helen lies, For night and day on me she cries; And, like an angel, to the skies Still seems to beckon me! For me she lived, for me she sigh'd, For me she wish'd to be a bride; For me in life's sweet morn she died On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

Where Kirtle waters gently wind, As Helen on my arm reclined, A rival with a ruthless mind Took deadly aim at me. My love, to disappoint the foe, Rush'd in between me and the blow; And now her corse is lying low, On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell, I curse the hand by which she fell— The fiend who made my heaven a hell, And tore my love from me! For if, when all the graces shine, Oh! if on earth there 's aught divine, My Helen! all these charms were thine, They centred all in thee!

Ah! what avails it that, amain, I clove the assassin's head in twain? No peace of mind, my Helen slain, No resting-place for me. I see her spirit in the air— I hear the shriek of wild despair, When murder laid her bosom bare, On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

Oh! when I 'm sleeping in my grave, And o'er my head the rank weeds wave, May He who life and spirit gave Unite my love and me! Then from this world of doubts and sighs, My soul on wings of peace shall rise, And, joining Helen in the skies, Forget Kirkconnel-Lee.

[24] During the reign of Mary, Queen of Scots, a young lady, of great personal attractions and numerous accomplishments, named Helen Irving, daughter of Irving of Kirkconnel, in Annandale, was betrothed to Adam Fleming de Kirkpatrick, a young gentleman of fortune in the neighbourhood. Walking with her lover on the banks of the Kirtle, she was slain by a shot which had been aimed at Fleming by a disappointed rival. The melancholy history has been made the theme of three different ballads, two of these being old. The present ballad, by Mr Mayne, was inserted by Sir Walter Scott in the Edinburgh Annual Register of 1815.



THE WINTER SAT LANG.

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 those that were farest awa'. Oh, were they but here that are farest awa'! Oh, were they but here that are dear to us a'! Our cares would seem light and our sorrow but sma', If they were but here that are far frae us a'!

Last week, when our hopes were o'erclouded 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 hae a being ye 'se aye hae a ha', Wi' plenty to keep out the frost and the snaw."

My mither, o'erjoy'd at this change in her state, By the bairn she doated on early and late, Gi'es thanks night and day to the Giver of a', There 's been naething unworthy o' him that 's awa'! Then here is to them that are far frae us a', The friend that ne'er fail'd us, though farest awa'! Health, peace, and prosperity wait on us a'; And a blithe comin' hame to the friend that 's awa'!



MY JOHNNIE.

AIR—"Johnnie's Gray Breeks."

Jenny's heart was frank and free, And wooers she had mony, yet The 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 dee, 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 or gear mair plenty, yet Though war's alarms, and Johnnie's charms, Had gart her oft look eerie, yet She sung wi' glee, "I hope to be My Johnnie's ain dearie yet.

"What though he's now gane far awa', Whare 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 dee, His bairns to him endear me yet."



THE TROOPS WERE EMBARKED.

The troops were all embark'd on board, The ships were under weigh, And loving wives, and maids adored, Were weeping round the bay.

They parted from their dearest friends, From all their heart desires; And Rosabel to Heaven commends The man her soul admires!

For him she fled from soft repose, Renounced a parent's care; He sails to crush his country's foes, She wanders in despair!

A seraph in an infant's frame Reclined upon her arm; And sorrow in the lovely dame Now heighten'd every charm:

She thought, if fortune had but smiled— She thought upon her dear; But when she look'd upon his child, Oh, then ran many a tear!

"Ah! who will watch thee as thou sleep'st? Who 'll sing a lullaby, Or rock thy cradle when thou weep'st, If I should chance to die?"

On board the ship, resign'd to fate, Yet planning joys to come, Her love in silent sorrow sate Upon a broken drum.

He saw her lonely on the beach; He saw her on the strand; And far as human eye can reach He saw her wave her hand!

"O Rosabel! though forced to go, With thee my soul shall dwell, And Heaven, who pities human woe, Will comfort Rosabel!"



JOHN HAMILTON.

Of the personal history of John Hamilton only a few particulars can be ascertained. He carried on business for many years as a music-seller in North Bridge Street, Edinburgh, and likewise gave instructions in the art of instrumental music to private families. He had the good fortune to attract the favour of one of his fair pupils—a young lady of birth and fortune—whom he married, much to the displeasure of her relations. He fell into impaired health, and died on the 23d of September 1814, in the fifty-third year of his age. To the lovers of Scottish melody the name of Mr Hamilton is familiar, as a composer of several esteemed and beautiful airs. His contributions to the department of Scottish song entitle his name to an honourable place.



THE RANTIN' HIGHLANDMAN.

Ae morn, last ouk, as I gaed out To flit a tether'd ewe and lamb, I met, as skiffin' ower the green, A jolly, rantin' Highlandman. His shape was neat, wi' feature sweet, And ilka smile my favour wan; I ne'er had seen sae braw a lad As this young rantin' Highlandman.

He said, "My dear, ye 're sune asteer; Cam' ye to hear the lav'rock's sang? Oh, wad ye gang and wed wi' me, And wed a rantin' Highlandman? In summer days, on flow'ry braes, When frisky are the ewe and lamb, I 'se row ye in my tartan plaid, And be your rantin' Highlandman.

"Wi' heather bells, that sweetly smell, I 'll deck your hair, sae fair and lang, If ye 'll consent to scour the bent Wi' me, a rantin' Highlandman. We 'll big a cot, and buy a stock, Syne do the best that e'er we can; Then come, my dear, ye needna fear To trust a rantin' Highlandman."

His words, sae sweet, gaed to my heart, And fain I wad hae gi'en my han'; Yet durstna, lest my mither should Dislike a rantin' Highlandman. But I expect he will come back; Then, though my kin should scauld and ban, I 'll ower the hill, or whare he will, Wi' my young rantin' Highlandman.



UP IN THE MORNIN' EARLY.[25]

Cauld blaws the wind frae north to south; The drift is drifting sairly; The sheep are cow'rin' in the heuch; Oh, sirs, it 's winter fairly! Now, up in the mornin's no for me, Up in the mornin' early; I'd rather gae supperless to my bed Than rise in the mornin' early.

Loud roars the blast amang the woods, And tirls the branches barely; On hill and house hear how it thuds! The frost is nippin' sairly. Now, up in the mornin's no for me, Up in the mornin' early; To sit a' nicht wad better agree Than rise in the mornin' early.

The sun peeps ower yon southland hills, Like ony timorous carlie; Just blinks a wee, then sinks again; And that we find severely. Now, up in the mornin's no for me, Up in the mornin' early; When snaw blaws in at the chimley cheek, Wha 'd rise in the mornin' early?

Nae linties lilt on hedge or bush: Poor things! they suffer sairly; In cauldrife quarters a' the nicht, A' day they feed but sparely. Now, up in the mornin's no for me, Up in the mornin' early; A pennyless purse I wad rather dree, Than rise in the mornin' early.

A cosie house and canty wife Aye keep a body cheerly; And pantries stowed wi' meat and drink, They answer unco rarely. But up in the mornin'—na, na, na! Up in the mornin' early! The gowans maun glint on bank and brae When I rise in the mornin' early.

[25] Burns composed two verses to the same tune, which is very old. It was a favourite of Queen Mary, the consort of William III. In his "Beggar's Opera," Gay has adopted the tune for one of his songs. It was published, in 1652, by John Hilton, as the third voice to what is called a "Northern Catch" for three voices, beginning—"I'se gae wi' thee, my sweet Peggy."



GO TO BERWICK, JOHNNIE.[26]

Go to Berwick, Johnnie; Bring her frae the Border; Yon sweet bonnie lassie, Let her gae nae farther. English loons will twine ye O' the lovely treasure; But we 'll let them ken A sword wi' them we 'll measure.

Go to Berwick, Johnnie, And regain your honour; Drive them ower the Tweed, And show our Scottish banner. I am Rob, the King, And ye are Jock, my brither; But, before we lose her, We 'll a' there thegither.

[26] These stanzas are founded on some lines of old doggerel, beginning—

"Go, go, go, Go to Berwick, Johnnie; Thou shalt have the horse, And I shall have the pony."



MISS FORBES' FAREWELL TO BANFF.

Farewell, ye fields an' meadows green! The blest retreats of peace an' love; Aft have I, silent, stolen from hence, With my young swain a while to rove. Sweet was our walk, more sweet our talk, Among the beauties of the spring; An' aft we 'd lean us on a bank, To hear the feather'd warblers sing.

The azure sky, the hills around, Gave double beauty to the scene; The lofty spires of Banff in view— On every side the waving grain. The tales of love my Jamie told, In such a saft an' moving strain, Have so engaged my tender heart, I 'm loth to leave the place again.

But if the Fates will be sae kind As favour my return once more, For to enjoy the peace of mind In those retreats I had before: Now, farewell, Banff! the nimble steeds Do bear me hence—I must away; Yet time, perhaps, may bring me back, To part nae mair from scenes so gay.



TELL ME, JESSIE, TELL ME WHY?

Tell me, Jessie, tell me why My fond suit you still deny? Is your bosom cold as snow? Did you never feel for woe? Can you hear, without a sigh, Him complain who for you could die? If you ever shed a tear, Hear me, Jessie, hear, O hear!

Life to me is not more dear Than the hour brings Jessie here; Death so much I do not fear As the parting moment near. Summer smiles are not so sweet As the bloom upon your cheek; Nor the crystal dew so clear As your eyes to me appear.

These are part of Jessie's charms, Which the bosom ever warms; But the charms by which I 'm stung, Come, O Jessie, from thy tongue! Jessie, be no longer coy; Let me taste a lover's joy; With your hand remove the dart, And heal the wound that 's in my heart.



THE HAWTHORN.

Last midsummer's morning, as going to the fair, I met with young Jamie, wh'as taking the air; He ask'd me to stay with him, and indeed he did prevail, Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale— That blooms in the valley, that blooms in the vale, Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale.

He said he had loved me both long and sincere, That none on the green was so gentle and fair; I listen'd with pleasure to Jamie's tender tale, Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale— That blooms in the valley, &c.

"Oh, haste," says he, "to hear the birds in the grove, How charming their song, and enticing to love! The briers that with roses perfume the passing gale, And meet the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale"— That blooms in the valley, &c.

His words were so moving, and looks soft and kind, Convinced me the youth had nae guile in his mind; My heart, too, confess'd him the flower of the dale, Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale— That blooms in the valley, &c.

Yet I oft bade him go, for I could no longer stay, But leave me he would not, nor let me away; Still pressing his suit, and at last did prevail, Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale— That blooms in the valley, &c.

Now tell me, ye maidens, how could I refuse? His words were so sweet, and so binding his vows! We went and were married, and Jamie loves me still, And we live beside the hawthorn that blooms in the vale— That blooms in the valley, that blooms in the vale, We live beside the hawthorn that blooms in the vale.



OH, BLAW, YE WESTLIN' WINDS![27]

Oh, blaw, ye westlin' winds, blaw saft Amang the leafy trees! Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale, Bring hame the laden bees; And bring the lassie back to me, That 's aye sae neat and clean; Ae blink of her wad banish care, Sae lovely is my Jean.

What sighs and vows, amang the knowes, Hae pass'd atween us twa! How fain to meet, how wae to part, That day she gaed awa'! The Powers aboon can only ken, To whom the heart is seen, That nane can be sae dear to me As my sweet, lovely Jean.

[27] These verses were written as a continuation to Burns's "Of a' the airts the wind can blaw." Other two stanzas were added to the same song by W. Reid.—See postea.



JOANNA BAILLIE.

Joanna Baillie was born on the 11th of September 1762, in the manse of Bothwell, in Lanarkshire. Her father, Dr James Baillie, was descended from the old family of Baillie of Lamington, and was consequently entitled to claim propinquity with the distinguished Principal Robert Baillie, and the family of Baillie of Jerviswood, so celebrated for its Christian patriotism. The mother of Joanna likewise belonged to an honourable house: she was a descendant of the Hunters of Hunterston; and her two brothers attained a wide reputation in the world of science—Dr William Hunter being an eminent physician, and Mr John Hunter the greatest anatomist of his age. Joanna—a twin, the other child being still-born—was the youngest of a family of three children. Her only brother was Dr Matthew Baillie, highly distinguished in the medical world. Agnes, her sister, who was eldest of the family, remained unmarried, and continued to live with her under the same roof.

In the year 1768, Dr Baillie was transferred from the parochial charge of Bothwell to the office of collegiate minister of Hamilton,—a town situate, like his former parish, on the banks of the Clyde. He was subsequently elected Professor of Divinity in the University of Glasgow. After his death, which took place in 1778, his daughters both continued, along with their widowed mother, to live at Long Calderwood, in the vicinity of Hamilton, until 1784, when they all accepted an invitation to reside with Dr Matthew Baillie, who had entered on his medical career in London, and had become possessor of a house in Great Windmill Street, built by his now deceased uncle, Dr Hunter.

Though evincing no peculiar promptitude in the acquisition of learning, Joanna had, at the very outset of life, exhibited remarkable talent in rhyme-making. She composed verses before she could read, and, before she could have fancied a theatre, formed dialogues for dramatic representations, which she carried on with her companions. But she did not early seek distinction as an author. At the somewhat mature age of twenty-eight, after she had gone to London, she first published, and that anonymously, a volume of miscellaneous poems, which did not excite any particular attention. In 1798, she published, though anonymously at first, "A Series of Plays: in which it is attempted to delineate the stronger Passions of the Mind, each Passion being the subject of a Tragedy and a Comedy." In a lengthened preliminary dissertation, she discoursed regarding the drama in all its relations, maintaining the ascendency of simple nature over every species of adornment and decoration. "Let one simple trait of the human heart, one expression of passion, genuine and true to nature," she wrote, "be introduced, and it will stand forth alone in the boldness of reality, whilst the false and unnatural around it fades away upon every side, like the rising exhalations of the morning." The reception of these plays was sufficient to satisfy the utmost ambition of the author, and established the foundation of her fame. "Nothing to compare with them had been produced since the great days of the English drama; and the truth, vigour, variety, and dignity of the dramatic portraits, in which they abound, might well justify an enthusiasm which a reader of the present day can scarcely be expected to feel. This enthusiasm was all the greater, when it became known that these remarkable works, which had been originally published anonymously, were from the pen of a woman still young, who had passed her life in domestic seclusion."[28] Encouraged by the success of the first volume of her dramas on the "Passions," the author added a second in 1802, and a third in 1812. During the interval, she published a volume of miscellaneous dramas in 1804, and produced the "Family Legend" in 1810,—a tragedy, founded upon a Highland tradition. With a prologue by Sir Walter Scott, and an epilogue by Henry Mackenzie, the "Family Legend" was produced at the Edinburgh theatre, under the auspices of the former illustrious character; and was ably supported by Mrs Siddons, and by Terry, then at the commencement of his career. It was favourably received during ten successive performances. "You have only to imagine all that you could wish to give success to a play," wrote Sir Walter Scott to the author, "and your conceptions will still fall short of the complete and decided triumph of the 'Family Legend.' The house was crowded to a most extraordinary degree; many people had come from your native capital of the west; everything that pretended to distinction, whether from rank or literature, was in the boxes; and in the pit, such an aggregate mass of humanity as I have seldom, if ever, witnessed in the same space." Other two of her plays, "Count Basil" and "De Montfort," brought out in London, the latter being sustained by Kemble and Siddons, likewise received a large measure of general approbation; but a want of variety of incident prevented their retaining a position on the stage. In 1836, she produced three additional volumes of dramas; her career as a dramatic writer thus extending over the period of nearly forty years.

Subsequent to her leaving Scotland, in 1784, Joanna Baillie did not return to her native kingdom, unless on occasional visits. On the marriage of her brother to a sister of the Lord Chief-Justice Denman, in 1791, she passed some years at Colchester; but she subsequently fixed her permanent habitation at Hampstead. Her mother died in 1806. At Hampstead, in the companionship of her only sister, whose virtues she has celebrated in one of her poems, and amidst the society of many of the more distinguished literary characters of the metropolis, she continued to enjoy a large amount of comfort and happiness. Her pecuniary means were sufficiently abundant, and rendered her entirely independent of the profits of her writings. Among her literary friends, one of the most valued was Sir Walter Scott, who, being introduced to her personal acquaintance on his visit to London in 1806, maintained with her an affectionate and lasting intimacy. The letters addressed to her are amongst the most interesting of his correspondence in his Memoir by his son-in-law. He evinced his estimation of her genius by frequently complimenting her in his works. In his "Epistle to William Erskine," which forms the introduction to the third canto of "Marmion," he thus generously eulogises his gifted friend:—

"Or, if to touch such chord be thine, Restore the ancient tragic line, And emulate the notes that wrung From the wild harp, which silent hung By silver Avon's holy shore, Till twice a hundred years roll'd o'er; When she, the bold Enchantress, came, With fearless hand and heart on flame! From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure, And swept it with a kindred measure, Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove With Montfort's hate and Basil's love, Awakening at the inspired strain, Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived again."

To Joanna, Scott inscribed his fragmental drama of "Macduff's Cross," which was included in a Miscellany published by her in 1823.

Though a penury of incident, and a defectiveness of skill in sustaining an increasing interest to the close, will probably prevent any of her numerous plays from being renewed on the stage, Joanna Baillie is well entitled to the place assigned her as one of the first of modern dramatists. In all her plays there are passages and scenes surpassed by no contemporaneous dramatic writer. Her works are a magazine of eloquent thoughts and glowing descriptions. She is a mistress of the emotions, and

"Within her mighty page, Each tyrant passion shews his woe and rage."

The tragedies of "Count Basil" and "De Montfort" are her best plays, and are well termed by Sir Walter Scott a revival of the great Bard of Avon. Forcible and energetic in style, her strain never becomes turgid or diverges into commonplace. She is masculine, but graceful; and powerful without any ostentation of strength. Her personal history was the counterpart of her writings. Gentle in manners and affable in conversation, she was a model of the household virtues, and would have attracted consideration as a woman by her amenities, though she had possessed no reputation in the world of letters. She was eminently religious and benevolent. Her countenance bore indication of a superior intellect and deep penetration. Though her society was much cherished by her contemporaries, including distinguished foreigners who visited the metropolis, her life was spent in general retirement. She was averse to public demonstration, and seemed scarcely conscious of her power. She died at Hampstead, on the 23d of February 1851, at the very advanced age of eighty-nine, and a few weeks after the publication of her whole Works in a collected form.

The songs of Joanna Baillie immediately obtained an honourable place in the minstrelsy of her native kingdom. They are the simple and graceful effusions of a heart passionately influenced by the melodies of the "land of the heath and the thistle," and animated by those warm affections so peculiarly nurtured in the region of "the mountain and the flood." "Fy, let us a' to the wedding," "Saw ye Johnnie comin'?" "It fell on a morning when we were thrang," and "Woo'd, and married, and a'," maintain popularity among all classes of Scotsmen throughout the world. Several of the songs were written for Thomson's "Melodies," and "The Harp of Caledonia," a collection of songs published at Glasgow in 1821, in three vols. 12mo, under the editorial care of John Struthers, author of "The Poor Man's Sabbath." The greater number are included in the present work.

[28] Literary Gazette, March 1851.



THE MAID OF LLANWELLYN.

I 've no sheep on the mountain, nor boat on the lake, Nor coin in my coffer to keep me awake, Nor corn in my garner, nor fruit on my tree— Yet the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.

Soft tapping, at eve, to her window I came, And loud bay'd the watch-dog, loud scolded the dame; For shame, silly Lightfoot; what is it to thee, Though the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me?

Rich Owen will tell you, with eyes full of scorn, Threadbare is my coat, and my hosen are torn: Scoff on, my rich Owen, for faint is thy glee When the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.

The farmer rides proudly to market or fair, The clerk, at the alehouse, still claims the great chair; But of all our proud fellows the proudest I 'll be, While the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.

For blythe as the urchin at holiday play, And meek as the matron in mantle of gray, And trim as the lady of gentle degree, Is the maid of Llanwellyn who smiles upon me.



GOOD NIGHT, GOOD NIGHT!

The sun is sunk, the day is done, E'en stars are setting one by one; Nor torch nor taper longer may Eke out the pleasures of the day; And since, in social glee's despite, It needs must be, Good night, good night!

The bride into her bower is sent, And ribbald rhyme and jesting spent; The lover's whisper'd words and few Have bade the bashful maid adieu; The dancing-floor is silent quite— No foot bounds there, Good night, good night!

The lady in her curtain'd bed, The herdsman in his wattled shed, The clansman in the heather'd hall, Sweet sleep be with you, one and all! We part in hope of days as bright As this now gone—Good night, good night!

Sweet sleep be with us, one and all! And if upon its stillness fall The visions of a busy brain, We 'll have our pleasure o'er again; To warm the heart, to charm the sight, Gay dreams to all! Good night, good night!



THOUGH RICHER SWAINS THY LOVE PURSUE.

Though richer swains thy love pursue, In Sunday gear and bonnets new; And every fair before thee lay Their silken gifts, with colours gay— They love thee not, alas! so well As one who sighs, and dare not tell; Who haunts thy dwelling, night and noon, In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon.

I grieve not for my wayward lot, My empty folds, my roofless cot; Nor hateful pity, proudly shown, Nor altered looks, nor friendship flown; Nor yet my dog, with lanken sides, Who by his master still abides; But how wilt thou prefer my boon, In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon?



POVERTY PARTS GUDE COMPANIE.[29]

AIR—"Todlin' Hame."

When white was my owrelay as foam of the linn, And siller was chinking my pouches within; When my lambkins were bleating on meadow and brae, As I gaed to my love in new cleeding sae gay— Kind was she, and my friends were free; But poverty parts gude companie.

How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of delight! The piper play'd cheerly, the cruisie burn'd bright; And link'd in my hand was the maiden sae dear, As she footed the floor in her holiday gear. Woe is me! and can it then be, That poverty parts sic companie?

We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk; We met in the sunshine, we met in the mirk; And the sound of her voice, and the blinks of her een, The cheering and life of my bosom have been. Leaves frae the tree at Martinmas flee, And poverty parts sweet companie.

At bridal and in fair I 've braced me wi' pride, The bruse I hae won, and a kiss of the bride; And loud was the laughter, gay fellows among, When I utter'd my banter, or chorus'd my song. Dowie to dree are jesting and glee, When poverty parts gude companie.

Wherever I gaed the blythe lasses smiled sweet, And mithers and aunties were mair than discreet, While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board; But now they pass by me, and never a word. So let it be; for the worldly and slie Wi' poverty keep nae companie.

But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart; The spaewife has tauld me to keep up my heart; For wi' my last sixpence her loof I hae cross'd, And the bliss that is fated can never be lost. Cruelly though we ilka day see How poverty parts dear companie.

[29] This song was written for Thomson's "Melodies." "Todlin' Hame," the air to which it is adapted, appears in Ramsay's "Tea-Table Miscellany" as an old song. The words begin—"When I hae a saxpence under my thum." Burns remarks that "it is perhaps one of the first bottle-songs that ever was composed."



FY, LET US A' TO THE WEDDING.[30]

Fy, let us a' to the wedding, For they will be lilting there; For Jock's to be married to Maggie, The lass wi' the gowden hair. And there will be jilting and jeering, And glancing of bonnie dark een; Loud laughing and smooth-gabbit speering O' questions, baith pawky and keen.

And there will be Bessy, the beauty, Wha raises her cock-up sae hie, And giggles at preachings and duty; Gude grant that she gang nae ajee! And there will be auld Geordie Tanner, Wha coft a young wife wi' his gowd; She 'll flaunt wi' a silk gown upon her, But, wow! he looks dowie and cowed.

And braw Tibby Fowler, the heiress, Will perk at the top o' the ha', Encircled wi' suitors, whase care is To catch up the gloves when they fa'. Repeat a' her jokes as they 're cleckit, And haver and glower in her face, When tocherless Mays are negleckit— A crying and scandalous case.

And Mysie, whase clavering aunty Wad match her wi' Jamie, the laird; And learns the young fouk to be vaunty, But neither to spin nor to caird. And Andrew, whase granny is yearning To see him a clerical blade, Was sent to the college for learning, And cam' back a coof, as he gaed.

And there will be auld Widow Martin, That ca's hersel' thretty and twa! And thrawn-gabbit Madge, wha for certain Was jilted by Hab o' the Shaw. And Elspy, the sewster, sae genty— A pattern of havens and sense— Will straik on her mittens sae dainty, And crack wi' Mess John in the spence.

And Angus, the seer o' ferlies, That sits on the stane at his door, And tells about bogles, and mair lies Than tongue ever utter'd before. And there will be Bauldy, the boaster, Sae ready wi' hands and wi' tongue; Proud Paty and silly Sam Foster, Wha quarrel wi' auld and wi' young.

And Hugh, the town-writer, I 'm thinking, That trades in his lawyerly skill, Will egg on the fighting and drinking, To bring after grist to his mill. And Maggie—na, na! we 'll be civil, And let the wee bridie abee; A vilipend tongue it is evil, And ne'er was encouraged by me.

Then fy, let us a' to the wedding, For they will be lilting there, Frae mony a far-distant ha'ding, The fun and the feasting to share. For they will get sheep's-head and haggis, And browst o' the barley-mow; E'en he that comes latest and lagis May feast upon dainties enow.

Veal florentines, in the o'en baken, Weel plenish'd wi' raisins and fat; Beef, mutton, and chuckies, a' taken Het reekin' frae spit and frae pat. And glasses (I trow 'tis nae said ill) To drink the young couple gude luck, Weel fill'd wi' a braw beechen ladle, Frae punch-bowl as big as Dumbuck.

And then will come dancing and daffing, And reelin' and crossin' o' han's, Till even auld Lucky is laughing, As back by the aumry she stan's. Sic bobbing, and flinging, and whirling, While fiddlers are making their din; And pipers are droning and skirling, As loud as the roar o' the linn.

Then fy, let us a' to the wedding, For they will be lilting there; For Jock 's to be married to Maggie, The lass wi' the gowden hair.

[30] This song is a new version of "The Blythesome Bridal," beginning, "Fy, let us a' to the bridal," which first appeared in Watson's Collection, in 1706, and of which the authorship was generally assigned to Francis Semple of Beltrees, in Renfrewshire, who lived in the middle of the seventeenth century, though more recently it has been attributed to Sir William Scott of Thirlestane, in Selkirkshire, who flourished in the beginning of last century. The words of the original song are coarse, but humorous.



HOOLY AND FAIRLY.[31]

Oh, neighbours! what had I to do for to marry? My wife she drinks posset and wine o' Canary; And ca's me a niggardly, thrawn-gabbit cairly. O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly; O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!

She sups, wi' her kimmers, on dainties enow, Aye bowing, and smirking, and wiping her mou'; While I sit aside, and am helpit but sparely. O gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly; O gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!

To fairs, and to bridals, and preachings an' a', She gangs sae light-headed, and buskit sae braw, In ribbons and mantuas, that gar me gae barely. O gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly; O gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly!

I' the kirk sic commotion last Sabbath she made, Wi' babs o' red roses, and breast-knots o'erlaid; The dominie stickit the psalm very nearly. O gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly; O gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!

She 's warring and flyting frae mornin' till e'en, And if ye gainsay her, her een glower sae keen; Then tongue, neive, and cudgel, she 'll lay on me sairly. O gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly; O gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!

When tired wi' her cantrips, she lies in her bed— The wark a' negleckit, the chalmer unred— While a' our gude neighbours are stirring sae early. O gin my wife wad wark timely and fairly! Timely and fairly, timely and fairly; O gin my wife wad wark timely and fairly!

A word o' gude counsel or grace she 'll hear none; She bandies the elders, and mocks at Mess John; While back in his teeth his own text she flings sairly. O gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly; O gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly!

I wish I were single, I wish I were freed; I wish I were doited, I wish I were dead; Or she in the mouls, to dement me nae mairly. What does it 'vail to cry, Hooly and fairly! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly; Wasting my health to cry, Hooly and fairly.

[31] The style of this song and the chorus are borrowed from "The Drucken Wife o' Gallowa'," a song which first appeared in the "Charmer," a collection of songs, published at Edinburgh in 1751, but the authorship of which is unknown.



THE WEARY PUND O' TOW.

A young gudewife is in my house, And thrifty means to be, But aye she 's runnin' to the town Some ferlie there to see. The weary pund, the weary pund, the weary pund o' tow, I soothly think, ere it be spun, I 'll wear a lyart pow.

And when she sets her to her wheel, To draw her threads wi' care, In comes the chapman wi' his gear, And she can spin nae mair. The weary pund, &c.

And then like ony merry May, At fairs maun still be seen, At kirkyard preachings near the tent, At dances on the green. The weary pund, &c.

Her dainty ear a fiddle charms, A bagpipe 's her delight, But for the crooning o' her wheel She disna care a mite. The weary pund, &c.

"You spake, my Kate, of snaw-white webs Made o' your hinkum twine, But, ah! I fear our bonnie burn Will ne'er lave web o' thine. The weary pund, &c.

"Nay, smile again, my winsome mate, Sic jeering means nae ill; Should I gae sarkless to my grave, I'll loe and bless thee still." The weary pund, &c.



THE WEE PICKLE TOW.[32]

A lively young lass had a wee pickle tow, And she thought to try the spinnin' o't; She sat by the fire, and her rock took alow, And that was an ill beginnin' o't. Loud and shrill was the cry that she utter'd, I ween; The sudden mischanter brought tears to her een; Her face it was fair, but her temper was keen; O dole for the ill beginnin' o't!

She stamp'd on the floor, and her twa hands she wrung, Her bonny sweet mou' she crookit, O! And fell was the outbreak o' words frae her tongue; Like ane sair demented she lookit, O! "Foul fa' the inventor o' rock and o' reel! I hope, gude forgi'e me! he 's now wi' the d—l, He brought us mair trouble than help, wot I weel; O dole for the ill beginnin' o't!

"And now, when they 're spinnin' and kempin' awa', They 'll talk o' my rock and the burnin' o't, While Tibbie, and Mysie, and Maggie, and a', Into some silly joke will be turnin' it: They 'll say I was doited, they 'll say I was fu'; They 'll say I was dowie, and Robin untrue; They 'll say in the fire some luve-powther I threw, And that made the ill beginning o't.

"O curst be the day, and unchancy the hour, When I sat me adown to the spinnin' o't! Then some evil spirit or warlock had power, And made sic an ill beginnin' o't. May Spunkie my feet to the boggie betray, The lunzie folk steal my new kirtle away, And Robin forsake me for douce Effie Gray, The next time I try the spinnin' o't."

[32] "The Wee Pickle Tow" is an old air, to which the words of this song were written.



THE GOWAN GLITTERS ON THE SWARD.

The gowan glitters on the sward, The lav'rock's in the sky, And collie on my plaid keeps ward, And time is passing by. Oh, no! sad and slow, And lengthen'd on the ground; The shadow of our trysting bush It wears so slowly round.

My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west, My lambs are bleating near; But still the sound that I lo'e best, Alack! I canna hear. Oh, no! sad and slow, The shadow lingers still; And like a lanely ghaist I stand, And croon upon the hill.

I hear below the water roar, The mill wi' clacking din, And lucky scolding frae the door, To ca' the bairnies in. Oh, no! sad and slow, These are nae sounds for me; The shadow of our trysting bush It creeps sae drearily!

I coft yestreen, frae chapman Tam, A snood o' bonnie blue, And promised, when our trysting cam', To tie it round her brow. Oh, no! sad and slow, The mark it winna pass; The shadow o' that dreary bush Is tether'd on the grass.

O now I see her on the way! She 's past the witch's knowe; She 's climbing up the brownie's brae— My heart is in a lowe. Oh, no! 'tis not so, 'Tis glamrie I hae seen; The shadow o' that hawthorn bush Will move nae mair till e'en.

My book o' grace I 'll try to read, Though conn'd wi' little skill; When collie barks I 'll raise my head, And find her on the hill. Oh, no! sad and slow, The time will ne'er be gane; The shadow o' our trysting bush Is fix'd like ony stane.



SAW YE JOHNNIE COMIN'?

"Saw ye Johnnie comin'?" quo' she; "Saw ye Johnnie comin'? Wi' his blue bonnet on his head, And his doggie rinnin'. Yestreen, about the gloamin' time, I chanced to see him comin', Whistling merrily the tune That I am a' day hummin'," quo' she; "I am a' day hummin'.

"Fee him, faither, fee him," quo' she; "Fee him, faither, fee him; A' the wark about the house Gaes wi' me when I see him: A' the wark about the house I gang sae lightly through it; And though ye pay some merks o' gear, Hoot! ye winna rue it," quo' she; "No; ye winna rue it."

"What wad I do wi' him, hizzy? What wad I do wi' him? He 's ne'er a sark upon his back, And I hae nane to gi'e him." "I hae twa sarks into my kist, And ane o' them I 'll gi'e him; And for a merk o' mair fee, Oh, dinna stand wi' him," quo' she; "Dinna stand wi' him.

"Weel do I lo'e him," quo' she; "Weel do I lo'e him; The brawest lads about the place Are a' but hav'rels to him. Oh, fee him, father; lang, I trow, We 've dull and dowie been: He 'll haud the plough, thrash i' the barn, And crack wi' me at e'en," quo' she; "Crack wi' me at e'en."



IT FELL ON A MORNING.[33]

It fell on a morning when we were thrang— Our kirn was gaun, our cheese was making, And bannocks on the girdle baking— That ane at the door chapp'd loud and lang; But the auld gudewife, and her Mays sae tight, Of this stirring and din took sma' notice, I ween; For a chap at the door in braid daylight Is no like a chap when heard at e'en.

Then the clocksie auld laird of the warlock glen, Wha stood without, half cow'd, half cheerie. And yearn'd for a sight of his winsome dearie, Raised up the latch and came crousely ben. His coat was new, and his owrelay was white, And his hose and his mittens were coozy and bein; But a wooer that comes in braid daylight Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.

He greeted the carlin' and lasses sae braw, And his bare lyart pow he smoothly straikit, And looked about, like a body half glaikit, On bonny sweet Nanny, the youngest of a': "Ha, ha!" quo' the carlin', "and look ye that way? Hoot! let nae sic fancies bewilder ye clean— An elderlin' man, i' the noon o' the day, Should be wiser than youngsters that come at e'en."

"Na, na," quo' the pawky auld wife; "I trow You 'll fash na your head wi' a youthfu' gilly, As wild and as skeigh as a muirland filly; Black Madge is far better and fitter for you." He hem'd and he haw'd, and he screw'd in his mouth, And he squeezed his blue bonnet his twa hands between; For wooers that come when the sun 's in the south Are mair awkward than wooers that come at e'en.

"Black Madge she is prudent." "What 's that to me?" "She is eident and sober, has sense in her noddle— Is douce and respeckit." "I carena a boddle; I 'll baulk na my luve, and my fancy 's free." Madge toss'd back her head wi' a saucy slight, And Nanny run laughing out to the green; For wooers that come when the sun shines bright Are no like the wooers that come at e'en.

Awa' flung the laird, and loud mutter'd he, "All the daughters of Eve, between Orkney and Tweed, O: Black and fair, young and old, dame, damsel, and widow, May gang, wi' their pride, to the wuddy for me." But the auld gudewife, and her Mays sae tight, For a' his loud banning cared little, I ween; For a wooer that comes in braid daylight Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.

[33] This song was contributed by Miss Baillie to "The Harp of Caledonia."



WOO'D, AND MARRIED, AND A'.[34]

The bride she is winsome and bonnie, Her hair it is snooded sae sleek; And faithful and kind is her Johnnie, Yet fast fa' the tears on her cheek. New pearlings are cause o' her sorrow— New pearlings and plenishing too; The bride that has a' to borrow Has e'en right muckle ado. Woo'd, and married, and a'; Woo'd, and married, and a'; And is na she very weel aff, To be woo'd, and married, and a'?

Her mither then hastily spak— "The lassie is glaikit wi' pride; In my pouches I hadna a plack The day that I was a bride. E'en tak to your wheel and be clever, And draw out your thread in the sun; The gear that is gifted, it never Will last like the gear that is won. Woo'd, and married, an' a', Tocher and havings sae sma'; I think ye are very weel aff To be woo'd, and married, and a'."

"Toot, toot!" quo' the gray-headed faither; "She 's less of a bride than a bairn; She 's ta'en like a cowt frae the heather, Wi' sense and discretion to learn. Half husband, I trow, and half daddy, As humour inconstantly leans; A chiel maun be constant and steady, That yokes wi' a mate in her teens. Kerchief to cover so neat, Locks the winds used to blaw; I 'm baith like to laugh and to greet, When I think o' her married at a'."

Then out spak the wily bridegroom, Weel waled were his wordies, I ween,— "I 'm rich, though my coffer be toom, Wi' the blinks o' your bonnie blue een; I 'm prouder o' thee by my side, Though thy ruffles or ribbons be few, Than if Kate o' the Craft were my bride, Wi' purples and pearlings enew. Dear and dearest of ony, I 've woo'd, and bookit, and a'; And do you think scorn o' your Johnnie, And grieve to be married at a'?"

She turn'd, and she blush'd, and she smiled, And she lookit sae bashfully down; The pride o' her heart was beguiled, And she play'd wi' the sleeve o' her gown; She twirl'd the tag o' her lace, And she nippit her boddice sae blue; Syne blinkit sae sweet in his face, And aff like a maukin she flew. Woo'd, and married, and a', Married and carried awa'; She thinks hersel' very weel aff, To be woo'd, and married, and a'.

[34] Of the song, "Woo'd, and married, and a'," there is another version, published in Johnson's "Musical Museum," vol. i. p. 10, which was long popular among the ballad-singers. This was composed by Alexander Ross, schoolmaster of Lochlee, author of "Helenore, or the Fortunate Shepherdess." A song, having a similar commencement, had previously been current on the Border.



WILLIAM DUDGEON.

Though the author of a single popular song, William Dudgeon is entitled to a place among the modern contributors to the Caledonian minstrelsy. Of his personal history, only a very few facts have been recovered. He was the son of a farmer in East-Lothian, and himself rented an extensive farm at Preston, in Berwickshire. During his border tour in May 1787, the poet Burns met him at Berrywell, the residence of the father of his friend Mr Robert Ainslie, who acted as land-steward on the estate of Lord Douglas in the Merse. In his journal, Burns has thus recorded his impression of the meeting:—"A Mr Dudgeon, a poet at times, a worthy, remarkable character, natural penetration, a great deal of information, some genius, and extreme modesty." Dudgeon died in October 1813, about his sixtieth year.



UP AMONG YON CLIFFY ROCKS.

Up among yon cliffy rocks Sweetly rings the rising echo, To the maid that tends the goats Lilting o'er her native notes. Hark, she sings, "Young Sandy 's kind, An' he 's promised aye to lo'e me; Here 's a brooch I ne'er shall tine, Till he 's fairly married to me. Drive away, ye drone, Time, And bring about our bridal day.

"Sandy herds a flock o' sheep; Aften does he blaw the whistle In a strain sae saftly sweet, Lammies list'ning daurna bleat. He 's as fleet 's the mountain roe, Hardy as the Highland heather, Wading through the winter snow, Keeping aye his flock together; But a plaid, wi' bare houghs, He braves the bleakest norlan' blast.

"Brawly can he dance and sing, Canty glee or Highland cronach; Nane can ever match his fling, At a reel or round a ring, In a brawl he 's aye the bangster: A' his praise can ne'er be sung By the langest-winded sangster; Sangs that sing o' Sandy, Seem short, though they were e'er sae lang."



WILLIAM REID.

William Reid was born at Glasgow on the 10th of April 1764. His father, a baker by trade, was enabled to give him a good education at the school of his native city. At an early age he was apprenticed to Messrs Dunlop and Wilson, booksellers; and in the year 1790, along with another enterprising individual, he commenced a bookselling establishment, under the firm of "Brash and Reid." In this business, both partners became eminently successful, their shop being frequented by the literati of the West. The poet Burns cultivated the society of Mr Reid, who proved a warm friend, as he was an ardent admirer, of the Ayrshire bard. He was an enthusiastic patron of literature, was fond of social humour, and a zealous promoter of the interests of Scottish song. Between 1795 and 1798, the firm published in numbers, at one penny each, "Poetry, Original and Selected," which extended to four volumes. To this publication, both Mr Reid, and his partner, Mr Brash, made some original contributions. The work is now very scarce, and is accounted valuable by collectors. Mr Reid died at Glasgow, on the 29th of November 1831, leaving a widow and a family.



THE LEA RIG.[35]

Will ye gang o'er the lea rig, My ain kind dearie, O! And cuddle there fu' kindly Wi' me, my kind dearie, O! At thorny bush, or birken tree, We 'll daff and never weary, O! They 'll scug ill een frae you and me, My ain kind dearie, O!

Nae herds wi' kent or colly there, Shall ever come to fear ye, O! But lav'rocks, whistling in the air, Shall woo, like me, their dearie, O! While ithers herd their lambs and ewes, And toil for warld's gear, my jo, Upon the lea my pleasure grows, Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O!

At gloamin', if my lane I be, Oh, but I'm wondrous eerie, O! And mony a heavy sigh I gie, When absent frae my dearie, O! But seated 'neath the milk-white thorn, In ev'ning fair and clearie, O! Enraptured, a' my cares I scorn, When wi' my kind dearie, O!

Whare through the birks the burnie rows, Aft hae I sat fu' cheerie, O! Upon the bonny greensward howes, Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O! I've courted till I've heard the craw Of honest chanticleerie, O! Yet never miss'd my sleep ava, Whan wi' my kind dearie, O!

For though the night were ne'er sae dark, And I were ne'er sae weary, O! I'd meet thee on the lea rig, My ain kind dearie, O! While in this weary world of wae, This wilderness sae dreary, O! What makes me blythe, and keeps me sae? 'Tis thee, my kind dearie, O!

[35] The two first stanzas of this song are the composition of the gifted and unfortunate Robert Fergusson. It is founded on an older ditty, beginning, "I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig." See Johnson's "Musical Museum," vol. iv. p. 53.