Signet on the 21st of November 1781; and in July 1805 was appointed
Judge of Police, on a new police system being introduced into Edinburgh.
In the latter capacity he continued to officiate till July 1812, when a
new Act of Parliament entrusted the settlement of police cases, as
formerly, to the magistrates of the city. Mr Tait died at his house in
Abercromby Place, on the 29th of August 1817.
"The Banks of the Dee," the only popular production from the pen of the
author, was composed in the year 1775, on the occasion of a friend
leaving Scotland to join the British forces in America, who were then
vainly endeavouring to suppress that opposition to the control of the
mother country which resulted in the permanent establishment of American
independence. The song is set to the Irish air of "Langolee." It was
printed in Wilson's Collection of Songs, which was published at
Edinburgh in 1779, with four additional stanzas by a Miss Betsy B----s,
of inferior merit. It was re-published in "The Goldfinch" (Edinburgh,
1782), and afterwards was inserted in Johnson's "Musical Museum." Burns,
in his letter to Mr George Thomson, of 7th April 1793, writes--"'The
Banks of the Dee' is, you know, literally 'Langolee' to slow time. The
song is well enough, but has some false imagery in it; for instance--
"'And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree.'
In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, but never from
a tree; and, in the second place, there never was a nightingale seen or
heard on the banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any other river in
Scotland. Creative rural imagery is always comparatively flat."
Thirty years after its first appearance, Mr Tait published a new edition
of the song in Mr Thomson's Collection, vol. iv., in which he has, by
alterations on the first half stanza, acknowledged the justice of the
strictures of the Ayrshire bard. The stanza is altered thus:
"'Twas summer, and softly the breezes were blowing,
And sweetly the _wood-pigeon coo'd from the tree_;
At the foot of a rock, where the _wild rose was growing_,
I sat myself down on the banks of the Dee."
The song, it may be added, has in several collections been erroneously
attributed to John Home, author of the tragedy of "Douglas."
THE BANKS OF THE DEE.
'Twas summer, and softly the breezes were blowing,
And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree,
At the foot of a rock where the river was flowing,
I sat myself down on the banks of the Dee.
Flow on, lovely Dee, flow on, thou sweet river,
Thy banks' purest stream shall be dear to me ever,
For there first I gain'd the affection and 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 rude roaring billows,
The kindest and sweetest of all the gay fellows,
And left me to wander 'mongst those 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.
HECTOR MACNEILL.
Hector Macneill was born on the 22d of October 1746, in the villa of
Rosebank, near Roslin; and, to to use his own words, "amidst the murmur
of streams and the shades of Hawthornden, may be said to have inhaled
with life the atmosphere of a poet."[10] Descended from an old family,
who possessed a small estate in the southern district of Argyllshire,
his father, after various changes of fortune, had obtained a company in
the 42d Regiment, with which he served during several campaigns in
Flanders. From continued indisposition, and consequent inability to
undergo the fatigues of military life, he disposed of his commission,
and retired, with his wife and two children, to the villa of Rosebank,
of which he became the owner. A few years after the birth of his son
Hector, he felt necessitated, from straitened circumstances, to quit
this beautiful residence; and he afterwards occupied a farm on the banks
of Loch Lomond. Such a region of the picturesque was highly suitable for
the development of those poetical talents which had already appeared in
young Hector, amidst the rural amenities of Roslin. In his eleventh
year, he wrote a drama, after the manner of Gay; and the respectable
execution of his juvenile attempts in versification gained him the
approbation of Dr Doig, the learned rector of the grammar-school of
Stirling, who strongly urged his father to afford him sufficient
instruction, to enable him to enter upon one of the liberal professions.
Had Captain Macneill's circumstances been prosperous, this counsel might
have been adopted, for the son's promising talents were not unnoticed by
his father; but pecuniary difficulties opposed an unsurmountable
obstacle.
An opulent relative, a West India trader, resident in Bristol, had paid
the captain a visit; and, attracted by the shrewdness of the son Hector,
who was his namesake, offered to retain him in his employment, and to
provide for him in life. After two years' preparatory education, he was
accordingly sent to Bristol, in his fourteenth year. He was destined to
an adventurous career, singularly at variance with his early
predilections and pursuits. By his relative he was designed to sail in a
slave ship to the coast of Guinea; but the intercession of some female
friends prevented his being connected with an expedition so uncongenial
to his feelings. He was now despatched on board a vessel to the island
of St Christopher's, with the view of his making trial of a seafaring
life, but was provided with recommendatory letters, in the event of his
preferring employment on land. With a son of the Bristol trader he
remained twelvemonths; and, having no desire to resume his labours as a
seaman, he afterwards sailed for Guadaloupe, where he continued in the
employment of a merchant for three years, till 1763, when the island was
ceded to the French. Dismissed by his employer, with a scanty balance of
salary, he had some difficulty in obtaining the means of transport to
Antigua; and there, finding himself reduced to entire dependence, he was
content, without any pecuniary recompense, to become assistant to his
relative, who had come to the town of St John's. From this unhappy
condition he was rescued, after a short interval. He was possessed of a
knowledge of the French language; a qualification which, together with
his general abilities, recommended him to fill the office of assistant
to the Provost-Marshal of Grenada. This appointment he held for three
years, when, hearing of the death of his mother and sister, he returned
to Britain. On the death of his father, eighteen months after his
arrival, he succeeded to a small patrimony, which he proceeded to invest
in the purchase of an annuity of £80 per annum. With this limited
income, he seems to have planned a permanent settlement in his native
country; but the unexpected embarrassment of the party from whom he had
purchased the annuity, and an attachment of an unfortunate nature,
compelled him to re-embark on the ocean of adventure. He accepted the
office of assistant-secretary on board Admiral Geary's flag-ship, and
made two cruises with the grand fleet. Proposing again to return to
Scotland, he afterwards resigned his appointment; but he was induced, by
the remonstrances of his friends, Dr Currie, and Mr Roscoe, of
Liverpool, to accept a similar situation on board the flag-ship of Sir
Richard Bickerton, who had been appointed to take the chief command of
the naval power in India. In this post, many of the hardships incident
to a seafaring life fell to his share; and being present at the last
indecisive action with "Suffrein," he had likewise to encounter the
perils of war. His present connexion subsisted three years; but Macneill
sickened in the discharge of duties wholly unsuitable for him, and
longed for the comforts of home. His resources were still limited, but
he flattered himself in the expectation that he might earn a subsistence
as a man of letters. He fixed his residence at a farm-house in the
vicinity of Stirling; and, amidst the pursuits of literature, the
composition of verses, and the cultivation of friendship, he contrived,
for a time, to enjoy a considerable share of happiness. But he speedily
discovered the delusion of supposing that an individual, entirely
unknown in the literary world, could at once be able to establish his
reputation, and inspire confidence in the bookselling trade, whose
favour is so essential to men of letters. Discouraged in longer
persevering in the attempt of procuring a livelihood at home, Macneill,
for the fourth time, took his departure from Britain. Provided with
letters of introduction to influential and wealthy persons in Jamaica,
he sailed for that island on a voyage of adventure; being now in his
thirty-eighth year, and nearly as unprovided for as when he had first
left his native shores, twenty-four years before. On his arrival at
Kingston, he was employed by the collector of customs, whose
acquaintance he had formed on the voyage; but this official soon found
he could dispense with his services, which he did, without aiding him in
obtaining another situation. The individuals to whom he had brought
letters were unable or unwilling to render him assistance, and the
unfortunate adventurer was constrained, in his emergency, to accept the
kind invitation of a medical friend, to make his quarters with him till
some satisfactory employment might occur. He now discovered two intimate
companions of his boyhood settled in the island, in very prosperous
circumstances, and from these he received both pecuniary aid and the
promise of future support. Through their friendly offices, his two sons,
who had been sent out by a generous friend, were placed in situations of
respectability and emolument. But the thoughts of the poet himself were
directed towards Britain. He sailed from Jamaica, with a thousand plans
and schemes hovering in his mind, equally vague and indefinite as had
been his aims and designs during the past chapter of his history. A
small sum given him as the pay of an inland ensigncy, now conferred on
him, but antedated, sufficed to defray the expenses of the voyage.
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 £100
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 _Encyclopædia
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 £50 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 Gaël. 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 _Encyclopædia 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
"Encyclopædia 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 inspiréd 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.
JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.[36]
John Anderson, my jo, John,
I wonder what ye mean,
To rise sae early in the morn,
And sit sae late at e'en;
Ye 'll blear out a' your een, John,
And why should you do so?
Gang sooner to your bed at e'en,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
When Nature first began
To try her canny hand, John,
Her masterpiece was man;
And you amang them a', John,
Sae trig frae tap to toe--
She proved to be nae journeyman,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
Ye were my first conceit;
And ye needna think it strange, John,
That I ca' ye trim and neat;
Though some folks say ye 're auld, John,
I never think ye so;
But I think ye 're aye the same to me,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We 've seen our bairns' bairns;
And yet, my dear John Anderson,
I 'm happy in your arms;
And sae are ye in mine, John,
I 'm sure ye 'll ne'er say, No;
Though the days are gane that we have seen,
John Anderson, my jo.
[36] These stanzas are in continuation of Burns's song, "John Anderson,
my jo." Five other stanzas have been added to the continuation by some
unknown hand, which will be found in the "Book of Scottish Song," p. 54.
Glasgow, 1853.
FAIR, MODEST FLOWER.
TUNE--_"Ye Banks and Braes o' bonnie Doon."_
Fair, modest flower, of matchless worth!
Thou sweet, enticing, bonny gem;
Blest is the soil that gave thee birth,
And bless'd thine honour'd parent stem.
But doubly bless'd shall be the youth
To whom thy heaving bosom warms;
Possess'd of beauty, love, and truth,
He 'll clasp an angel in his arms.
Though storms of life were blowing snell,
And on his brow sat brooding care,
Thy seraph smile would quick dispel
The darkest gloom of black despair.
Sure Heaven hath granted thee to us,
And chose thee from the dwellers there;
And sent thee from celestial bliss,
To shew what all the virtues are.
KATE O' GOWRIE.[37]
TUNE--_"Locherroch Side."_
When Katie was scarce out nineteen,
Oh, but she had twa coal-black een!
A bonnier lass ye wadna seen
In a' the Carse o' Gowrie.
Quite tired o' livin' a' his lane,
Pate did to her his love explain,
And swore he 'd be, were she his ain,
The happiest lad in Gowrie.
Quo' she, "I winna marry thee,
For a' the gear that ye can gi'e;
Nor will I gang a step ajee,
For a' the gowd in Gowrie.
My father will gi'e me twa kye;
My mother 's gaun some yarn to dye;
I 'll get a gown just like the sky,
Gif I 'll no gang to Gowrie."
"Oh, my dear Katie, say nae sae!
Ye little ken a heart that 's wae;
Hae! there 's my hand; hear me, I pray,
Sin' thou 'lt no gang to Gowrie:
Since first I met thee at the shiel,
My saul to thee 's been true and leal;
The darkest night I fear nae deil,
Warlock, or witch in Gowrie.
"I fear nae want o' claes nor nocht,
Sic silly things my mind ne'er taught;
I dream a' nicht, and start about,
And wish for thee in Gowrie.
I lo'e thee better, Kate, my dear,
Than a' my rigs and out-gaun gear;
Sit down by me till ance I swear,
Thou 'rt worth the Carse o' Gowrie."
Syne on her mou' sweet kisses laid,
Till blushes a' her cheeks o'erspread;
She sigh'd, and in soft whispers said,
"Oh, Pate, tak me to Gowrie!"
Quo' he, "Let 's to the auld folk gang;
Say what they like, I 'll bide their bang,
And bide a' nicht, though beds be thrang;
But I 'll hae thee to Gowrie."
The auld folk syne baith gi'ed consent;
The priest was ca'd: a' were content;
And Katie never did repent
That she gaed hame to Gowrie.
For routh o' bonnie bairns had she;
Mair strappin' lads ye wadna see;
And her braw lasses bore the gree
Frae a' the rest o' Gowrie.
[37] See _postea_, in this volume, under article "Lady Nairn."
UPON THE BANKS O' FLOWING CLYDE.[38]
Upon the banks o' flowing Clyde
The lasses busk them braw;
But when their best they hae put on,
My Jeanie dings them a';
In hamely weeds she far exceeds
The fairest o' the toun;
Baith sage and gay confess it sae,
Though drest in russit goun.
The gamesome lamb that sucks its dam,
Mair harmless canna be;
She has nae faut, if sic ye ca't,
Except her love for me;
The sparkling dew, o' clearest hue,
Is like her shining een;
In shape and air wha can compare,
Wi' my sweet lovely Jean.
[38] These two stanzas were written as a continuation of Burns's popular
song, "Of a' the airts the wind can blaw." Two other stanzas were added
by John Hamilton. See _ante_, p. 124.
ALEXANDER CAMPBELL.
A miscellaneous writer, a poet, and a musical composer, Alexander
Campbell first saw the light at Tombea, on the banks of Loch Lubnaig, in
Perthshire. He was born in 1764, and received such education as his
parents could afford him, which was not very ample, at the parish school
of Callander. An early taste for music induced him to proceed to
Edinburgh, there to cultivate a systematic acquaintance with the art.
Acquiring a knowledge of the science under the celebrated Tenducci and
others, he became himself a teacher of the harpsichord and of vocal
music, in the metropolis. As an upholder of Jacobitism, when it was
scarcely to be dreaded as a political offence, he officiated as organist
in a non-juring chapel in the vicinity of Nicolson Street; and while so
employed had the good fortune to form the acquaintance of Burns, who was
pleased to discover in an individual entertaining similar state
sentiments with himself, an enthusiastic devotion to national melody and
song.
Mr Campbell was twice married; his second wife was the widow of a
Highland gentleman, and he was induced to hope that his condition might
thus be permanently improved. He therefore relinquished his original
vocation, and commenced the study of physic, with the view of obtaining
an appointment as surgeon in the public service; but his sanguine hopes
proved abortive, and, to complete his mortification, his wife left him
in Edinburgh, and sought a retreat in the Highlands. He again procured
some employment as a teacher of music; and about the year 1810, one of
his expedients was to give lessons in drawing. He was a man of a fervent
spirit, and possessed of talents, which, if they had been adequately
cultivated, and more concentrated, might have enabled him to attain
considerable distinction; but, apparently aiming at the reputation of
universal genius, he alternately cultivated the study of music, poetry,
painting, and physic. At a more recent period, Sir Walter Scott found
him occasional employment in transcribing manuscripts; and during the
unhappy remainder of his life he had to struggle with many difficulties.
One of his publications bears the title of "Odes and Miscellaneous
Poems, by a Student of Medicine in the University of Edinburgh,"
Edinburgh, 1790, 4to. These lucubrations, which attracted no share of
public attention, were followed by "The Guinea Note, a Poem, by Timothy
Twig, Esquire," Edinburgh, 1797, 4to. His next work is entitled, "An
Introduction to the History of Poetry in Scotland, with Illustrations by
David Allan," Edinburgh, 1798, 4to. This work, though written in a
rambling style, contains a small proportion of useful materials very
unskilfully digested. "A Dialogue on Scottish Music," prefixed, had the
merit of conveying to Continental musicians for the first time a correct
acquaintance with the Scottish scale, the author receiving the
commendations of the greatest Italian and German composers. The work
likewise contains "Songs of the Lowlands," a selection of some of the
more interesting specimens of the older minstrelsy. In 1802 he published
"A Tour from Edinburgh through various parts of North Britain," in two
volumes quarto, illustrated with engravings from sketches executed by
himself. This work met with a favourable reception, and has been
regarded as the most successful of his literary efforts. In 1804 he
sought distinction as a poet by giving to the world "The Grampians
Desolate," a long poem, in one volume octavo. In this production he
essays "to call the attention of good men, wherever dispersed throughout
our island, to the manifold and great evils arising from the
introduction of that system which has within these last forty years
spread among the Grampians and Western Isles, and is the leading cause
of a depopulation that threatens to extirpate the ancient race of the
inhabitants of those districts." That system to which Mr Campbell
refers, he afterwards explains to be the monopoly of sheep-stores, a
subject scarcely poetical, but which he has contrived to clothe with
considerable smoothness of versification. The last work which issued
from Mr Campbell's pen was "Albyn's Anthology, a Select Collection of
the Melodies and Vocal Poetry Peculiar to Scotland and the Isles,
hitherto Unpublished." The publication appeared in 1816, in two parts,
of elegant folio. It was adorned by the contributions of Sir Walter
Scott, James Hogg, and other poets of reputation. The preface contains
"An Epitome of the History of Scottish Poetry and Music from the
Earliest Times." His musical talents have a stronger claim to
remembrance than either his powers as a poet or his skill as a writer.
Yet his industry was unremitted, and his researches have proved
serviceable to other writers who have followed him on the same themes.
Only a few lyrical pieces proceeded from his pen; these were first
published in "Albyn's Anthology." From this work we have extracted two
specimens.
Mr Campbell died of apoplexy on the 15th of May 1824, after a life much
chequered by misfortune. He left various MSS. on subjects connected with
his favourite studies, which have fortunately found their way into the
possession of Mr Laing, to whom the history of Scottish poetry is
perhaps more indebted than to any other living writer. The poems in this
collection, though bearing marks of sufficient elaboration, could not be
recommended for publication. Mr Campbell was understood to be a
contributor to _The Ghost_, a forgotten periodical, which ran a short
career in the year 1790. It was published in Edinburgh twice a week, and
reached the forty-sixth number; the first having appeared on the 25th of
April, the last on the 16th of November. He published an edition of a
book, curious in its way--Donald Mackintosh's "Collection of Gaelic
Proverbs, and Familiar Phrases; Englished anew!" Edinburgh, 1819, 12mo.
The preface contains a characteristic account of the compiler, who
described himself as "a priest of the old Scots Episcopal Church, and
last of the non-jurant clergy in Scotland."
NOW WINTER'S WIND SWEEPS.
Now winter's wind sweeps o'er the mountains,
Deeply clad in drifting snow;
Soundly sleep the frozen fountains;
Ice-bound streams forget to flow:
The piercing blast howls loud and long,
The leafless forest oaks among.
Down the glen, lo! comes a stranger,
Wayworn, drooping, all alone;--
Haply, 'tis the deer-haunt Ranger!
But alas! his strength is gone!
He stoops, he totters on with pain,
The hill he 'll never climb again.
Age is being's winter season,
Fitful, gloomy, piercing cold;
Passion weaken'd, yields to reason,
Man feels _then_ himself grown old;
His senses one by one have fled,
His very soul seems almost dead.
THE HAWK WHOOPS ON HIGH.
The hawk whoops on high, and keen, keen from yon' cliff,
Lo! the eagle on watch eyes the stag cold and stiff;
The deer-hound, majestic, looks lofty around,
While he lists with delight to the harp's distant sound;
Is it swept by the gale, as it slow wafts along
The heart-soothing tones of an olden times' song?
Or is it some Druid who touches, unseen,
"The Harp of the North," newly strung now I ween?
'Tis Albyn's own minstrel! and, proud of his name,
He proclaims him chief bard, and immortal his fame!--
He gives tongue to those wild lilts that ravish'd of old,
And soul to the tales that so oft have been told;
Hence Walter the Minstrel shall flourish for aye,
Will breathe in sweet airs, and live long as his "Lay;"
To ages unnumber'd thus yielding delight,
Which will last till the gloaming of Time's endless night.
MRS DUGALD STEWART.
Helen D'Arcy Cranstoun, the second wife of the celebrated Professor
Stewart, is entitled to a more ample notice in a work on Modern Scottish
Song than the limited materials at our command enable us to supply. She
was the third daughter of the Hon. George Cranstoun, youngest son of
William, fifth Lord Cranstoun. She was born in the year 1765, and became
the wife of Professor Dugald Stewart on the 26th July 1790. Having
survived her husband ten years, she died at Warriston House, in the
neighbourhood of Edinburgh, on the 28th of July 1838. She was the sister
of the Countess Purgstall (the subject of Captain Basil Hall's "Schloss
Hainfeld"), and of George Cranstoun, a senator of the College of
Justice, by the title of Lord Corehouse.
The following pieces from the pen of the accomplished author are replete
with simple beauty and exquisite tenderness.
THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL.
TUNE--_"Ianthe the Lovely."_
The tears I shed must ever fall:
I mourn not for an absent swain;
For thoughts may past delights recall,
And parted lovers meet again.
I weep not for the silent dead:
Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er;
And those they loved their steps shall tread,
And death shall join to part no more.
Though boundless oceans roll'd between,
If certain that his heart is near,
A conscious transport glads each scene,
Soft is the sigh and sweet the tear.
E'en when by death's cold hand removed,
We mourn the tenant of the tomb,
To think that e'en in death he loved,
Can gild the horrors of the gloom.
But bitter, bitter are the tears
Of her who slighted love bewails;
No hope her dreary prospect cheers,
No pleasing melancholy hails.
Hers are the pangs of wounded pride,
Of blasted hope, of wither'd joy;
The flattering veil is rent aside,
The flame of love burns to destroy.
In vain does memory renew
The hours once tinged in transport's dye;
The sad reverse soon starts to view,
And turns the past to agony.
E'en time itself despairs to cure
Those pangs to every feeling due:
Ungenerous youth! thy boast how poor,
To win a heart, and break it too!
No cold approach, no alter'd mien,
Just what would make suspicion start;
No pause the dire extremes between--
He made me blest, and broke my heart:[39]
From hope, the wretched's anchor, torn,
Neglected and neglecting all;
Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn,
The tears I shed must ever fall.
[39] The four first lines of the last stanza are by Burns.
RETURNING SPRING, WITH GLADSOME RAY.[40]
Returning spring, with gladsome ray,
Adorns the earth and smoothes the deep:
All nature smiles, serene and gay,
It smiles, and yet, alas! I weep.
But why, why flows the sudden tear,
Since Heaven such precious boons has lent,
The lives of those who life endear,
And, though scarce competence, content?
Sure, when no other bliss was mine
Than that which still kind Heaven bestows,
Yet then could peace and hope combine
To promise joy and give repose.
Then have I wander'd o'er the plain,
And bless'd each flower that met my view;
Thought Fancy's power would ever reign,
And Nature's charms be ever new.
I fondly thought where Virtue dwelt,
That happy bosom knew no ill--
That those who scorn'd me, time would melt,
And those I loved be faultless still.
Enchanting dreams! kind was your art
That bliss bestow'd without alloy;
Or if soft sadness claim'd a part,
'Twas sadness sweeter still than joy.
Oh! whence the change that now alarms,
Fills this sad heart and tearful eye,
And conquers the once powerful charms
Of youth, of hope, of novelty?
'Tis sad Experience, fatal power!
That clouds the once illumined sky,
That darkens life's meridian hour,
And bids each fairy vision fly.
She paints the scene--how different far
From that which youthful fancy drew!
Shews joy and freedom oft at war,
Our woes increased, our comforts few.
And when, perhaps, on some loved friend
Our treasured fondness we bestow,
Oh! can she not, with ruthless hand,
Change even that friend into a foe?
See in her train cold Foresight move,
Shunning the rose to 'scape the thorn;
And Prudence every fear approve,
And Pity harden into scorn!
The glowing tints of Fancy fade,
Life's distant prospects charm no more;
Alas! are all my hopes betray'd?
Can nought my happiness restore?
Relentless power! at length be just,
Thy better skill alone impart;
Give Caution, but withhold Distrust,
And guard, but harden not, my heart!
[40] These tender and beautiful verses are transcribed from Johnson's
"Musical Museum," in a note to which they were first published by the
editor, Mr David Laing. He remarks that he "has reason to believe" that
they are from the pen of Mrs Stewart. (See Johnson's "Musical Museum,"
vol. iv. p. 366, _new edition_. Edinburgh, 1853.)
ALEXANDER WILSON.
The author of the celebrated "American Ornithology" is entitled to an
honourable commemoration as one of the minstrels of his native land.
Alexander Wilson was born at Paisley on the 6th of July 1766. His father
had for some time carried on a small trade as a distiller; but the son
was destined by his parents for the clerical profession, in the National
Church--a scheme which was frustrated by the death of his mother in his
tenth year, leaving a large family of children to the sole care of his
father. He had, however, considerably profited by the instruction
already received at school; and having derived from his mother a taste
for music and a relish for books, he invoked the muse in solitude, and
improved his mind by miscellaneous reading. His father contracted a
second marriage when Alexander had reached his thirteenth year; and it
became necessary that he should prepare himself for entering upon some
handicraft employment. He became an apprentice to his brother-in-law,
William Duncan, a weaver in his native town; and on completing his
indenture, he wrought as a journeyman, during the three following years,
in the towns of Paisley, Lochwinnoch, and Queensferry. But the
occupation of weaving, which had from the first been unsuitable to his
tastes, growing altogether irksome, he determined to relinquish it for a
vocation which, if in some respects scarcely more desirable, afforded
him ample means of gratifying his natural desire of becoming familiar
with the topography of his native country. He provided himself with a
pack, as a pedlar, and in this capacity, in company with his
brother-in-law, continued for three years to lead a wandering life. His
devotedness to verse-making had continued unabated from boyhood; he had
written verses at the loom, and had become an enthusiastic votary of the
muse during his peregrinations with his pack. He was now in his
twenty-third year; and with the buoyancy of ardent youth, he thought of
offering to the public a volume of his poems by subscription. In this
attempt he was not successful; nor would any bookseller listen to
proposals of publishing the lucubrations of an obscure pedlar. In 1790,
he at length contrived to print his poems at Paisley, on his own
account, in the hope of being able to dispose of them along with his
other wares. But this attempt was not more successful than his original
scheme, so that he was compelled to return to his father's house at
Lochwinnoch, and resume the obnoxious shuttle. His aspirations for
poetical distinction were not, however, subdued; he heard of the
institution of the _Forum_, a debating society established in Edinburgh
by some literary aspirants, and learning, in 1791, that an early subject
of discussion was the comparative merits of Ramsay and Fergusson as
Scottish poets, he prepared to take a share in the competition. By
doubling his hours of labour at the loom, he procured the means of
defraying his travelling expenses; and, arriving in time for the debate
in the _Forum_, he repeated a poem which he had prepared, entitled the
"Laurel Disputed," in which he gave the preference to Fergusson. He
remained several weeks in Edinburgh, and printed his poem. To Dr
Anderson's "Bee" he contributed several poems, and a prose essay,
entitled "The Solitary Philosopher." Finding no encouragement to settle
in the metropolis, he once more returned to his father's house in the
west. He now formed the acquaintance of Robert Burns, who testified his
esteem for him both as a man and a poet. In 1792, he published
anonymously his popular ballad of "Watty and Meg," which he had the
satisfaction to find regarded as worthy of the Ayrshire Bard.
The star of the poet was now promising to be in the ascendant, but an
untoward event ensued. In the ardent enthusiasm of his temperament, he
was induced to espouse in verse the cause of the Paisley hand-loom
operatives in a dispute with their employers, and to satirise in strong
invective a person of irreproachable reputation. For this offence he was
prosecuted before the sheriff, who sentenced him to be imprisoned for a
few days, and publicly to burn his own poem in the front of the jail.
This satire is entitled "The Shark; or, Long Mills detected." Like many
other independents, he mistook anarchy in France for the dawn of liberty
in Europe; and his sentiments becoming known, he was so vigilantly
watched by the authorities, that he found it was no longer expedient for
him to reside in Scotland. He resolved to emigrate to America; and,
contriving by four months' extra labour, and living on a shilling
weekly, to earn his passage-money, he sailed from Portpatrick to
Belfast, and from thence to Newcastle, in the State of Delaware, where
he arrived on the 14th July 1794. During the voyage he had slept on
deck, and when he landed, his finances consisted only of a few
shillings; yet, with a cheerful heart, he walked to Philadelphia, a
distance of thirty-three miles, with only his fowling-piece on his
shoulder. He shot a red-headed woodpecker by the way,--an omen of his
future pursuits, for hitherto he had devoted no attention to the study
of ornithology.
He was first employed by a copperplate-printer in Philadelphia, but
quitted this occupation for the loom, at which he worked about a year in
Philadelphia, and at Shepherdstown, in Virginia. In 1795, he traversed a
large portion of the State of New Jersey as a pedlar, keeping a
journal,--a practice which he had followed during his wandering life in
Scotland. He now adopted the profession of a schoolmaster, and was
successively employed in this vocation at Frankford, in Pennsylvania, at
Milestown, and at Bloomfield, in New Jersey. In preparing himself for
the instruction of others, he essentially extended his own acquaintance
with classical learning, and mathematical science; and by occasional
employment as a land-surveyor, he somewhat improved his finances. In
1801, he accepted the appointment of teacher in a seminary in
Kingsessing, on the river Schuylkill, about four miles from
Philadelphia,--a situation which, though attended with limited
emolument, proved the first step in his path to eminence. He was within
a short distance of the residence of William Bartram, the great American
naturalist, with whom he became intimately acquainted; he also formed
the friendship of Alexander Lawson, an emigrant engraver, who initiated
him in the art of etching, colouring, and engraving. Discovering an
aptitude in the accurate delineation of birds, he was led to the study
of ornithology; with which he became so much interested, that he
projected a work descriptive, with drawings, of all the birds of the
Middle States, and even of the Union. About this period he became a
contributor to the "Literary Magazine," conducted by Mr Brockden Brown,
and to Denny's "Portfolio."
Along with a nephew and another friend, Wilson made a pedestrian tour to
the Falls of Niagara, in October 1804, and on his return published in
the "Portfolio" a poetical narrative of his journey, entitled "The
Foresters,"--a production surpassing his previous efforts, and
containing some sublime apostrophes. But his energies were now chiefly
devoted to the accomplishment of the grand design he had contemplated.
Disappointed in obtaining the co-operation of his friend Mr Lawson, who
was alarmed at the extent of his projected adventure, and likewise
frustrated in obtaining pecuniary assistance from the President
Jefferson, on which he had some reason to calculate, he persevered in
his attempts himself, drawing, etching, and colouring the requisite
illustrations. In 1806, he was employed as assistant-editor of a new
edition of Rees' Cyclopedia, by Mr Samuel Bradford, bookseller in
Philadelphia, who rewarded his services with a liberal salary, and
undertook, at his own risk, the publication of his "Ornithology." The
first volume of the work appeared in September 1808, and immediately
after its publication the author personally visited, in the course of
two different expeditions, the Eastern and Southern States, in quest of
subscribers. These journeys were attended with a success scarcely
adequate to the privations which were experienced in their prosecution;
but the "Ornithology" otherwise obtained a wide circulation, and,
excelling in point of illustration every production that had yet
appeared in America, gained for the author universal commendation. In
January 1810, his second volume appeared, and in a month after he
proceeded to Pittsburg, and from thence, in a small skiff, made a
solitary voyage down the Ohio, a distance of nearly six hundred miles.
During this lonely and venturous journey he experienced relaxation in
the composition of a poem, which afterwards appeared under the title of
"The Pilgrim." In 1813, after encountering numerous hardships and
perils, which an enthusiast only could have endured, he completed the
publication of the seventh volume of his great work. But the sedulous
attention requisite in the preparation of the plates of the eighth
volume, and the effect of a severe cold, caught in rashly throwing
himself into a river to swim in pursuit of a rare bird, brought on him a
fatal dysentery, which carried him off, on the 23d of August 1813, in
his forty-eighth year. He was interred in the cemetery of the Swedish
church, Southwark, Philadelphia, where a plain marble monument has been
erected to his memory. A ninth volume was added to the "Ornithology" by
Mr George Ord, an intimate friend of the deceased naturalist; and three
supplementary volumes have been published, in folio, by Charles Lucien
Bonaparte, uncle of the present Emperor of the French.
Amidst his extraordinary deserts as a naturalist, the merits of
Alexander Wilson as a poet have been somewhat overlooked. His poetry, it
may be remarked, though unambitious of ornament, is bold and vigorous in
style, and, when devoted to satire, is keen and vehement. The ballad of
"Watty and Meg," though exception may be taken to the moral, is an
admirable picture of human nature, and one of the most graphic
narratives of the "taming of a shrew" in the language. Allan Cunningham
writes: "It has been excelled by none in lively, graphic fidelity of
touch: whatever was present to his eye and manifest to his ear, he
could paint with a life and a humour which Burns seems alone to
excel."[41] In private life, Wilson was a model of benevolence and of
the social virtues; he was devoid of selfishness, active in beneficence,
and incapable of resentment. Before his departure for America, he waited
on every one whom he conceived he had offended by his juvenile
escapades, and begged their forgiveness; and he did not hesitate to
reprove Burns for the levity too apparent in some of his poems. To his
aged father, who survived till the year 1816, he sent remittances of
money as often as he could afford; and at much inconvenience and
pecuniary sacrifice, he established the family of his brother-in-law on
a farm in the States. He was sober even to abstinence; and was guided in
all his transactions by correct Christian principles. In person, he was
remarkably handsome; his countenance was intelligent, and his eye
sparkling. He never attained riches, but few Scotsmen have left more
splendid memorials of their indomitable perseverance.[42] FOOTNOTES:
[41] The "Songs of Scotland," by Allan Cunningham, vol. i. p. 247.
[42] The most complete collection of his poems appeared in a volume
published under the following title:--"The Poetical Works of Alexander
Wilson; also, his Miscellaneous Prose Writings, Journals, Letters,
Essays, &c., now first Collected: Illustrated by Critical and
Explanatory Notes, with an extended Memoir of his Life and Writings, and
a Glossary." Belfast, 1844, 18vo. A portrait of the author is prefixed.