I.

As o'er the Highland hills I hied, The Camerons in array I spied; Lochiel's proud standard waving wide, In all its ancient glory. The martial pipe loud pierced the sky, The bard arose, resounding high Their valour, faith, and loyalty, That shine in Scottish story.

No more the trumpet calls to arms, Awaking battle's fierce alarms, But every hero's bosom warms With songs of exultation. While brave Lochiel at length regains, Through toils of war, his native plains, And, won by glorious wounds, attains His high paternal station.

Let now the voice of joy prevail, And echo wide from hill to vale; Ye warlike clans, arise and hail Your laurell'd chiefs returning. O'er every mountain, every isle, Let peace in all her lustre smile, And discord ne'er her day defile With sullen shades of mourning.

M'Leod, M'Donald, join the strain, M'Pherson, Fraser, and M'Lean; Through all your bounds let gladness reign, Both prince and patriot praising; Whose generous bounty richly pours The streams of plenty round your shores; To Scotia's hills their pride restores, Her faded honours raising.

Let all the joyous banquet share, Nor e'er let Gothic grandeur dare, With scowling brow, to overbear, A vassal's right invading. Let Freedom's conscious sons disdain To crowd his fawning, timid train, Nor even own his haughty reign, Their dignity degrading.

Ye northern chiefs, whose rage unbroke Has still repell'd the tyrant's shock; Who ne'er have bow'd beneath his yoke, With servile base prostration;-- Let each now train his trusty band, 'Gainst foreign foes alone to stand, With undivided heart and hand, For Freedom, King, and Nation.

MRS JOHN HUNTER.

Anne Home was born in the year 1742. She was the eldest daughter of Robert Home, of Greenlaw, in Berwickshire, surgeon of Burgoyne's Regiment of Light Horse, and afterwards physician in Savoy. By contracting an early marriage, in which affection overcame more prudential considerations, both her parents gave offence to their relations, who refused to render them pecuniary assistance. Her father, though connected with many families of rank, and himself the son of a landowner, was consequently obliged to depend, in the early part of his career, on his professional exertions for the support of his family. His circumstances appear subsequently to have been more favourable. In July 1771, Miss Home became the wife of John Hunter, the distinguished anatomist, to whom she bore two children. She afforded evidence of her early poetical talent, by composing, before she had completed her twenty-third year, the song beginning, "Adieu! ye streams that smoothly glide." This appeared in the _Lark_, an Edinburgh periodical, in the year 1765. In 1802, she published a collection of her poems, in an octavo volume, which she inscribed to her son, John Banks Hunter.

During the lifetime of her distinguished husband, Mrs Hunter was in the habit of receiving at her table, and sharing in the conversation of, the chief literary persons of her time. Her evening _conversazioni_ were frequented by many of the more learned, as well as fashionable persons in the metropolis. On the death of her husband, which took place in 1793, she sought greater privacy, though she still continued to reside in London. By those who were admitted to her intimacy, she was not more respected for her superior talents and intelligence, than held in esteem for her unaffected simplicity of manners. She was the life of her social

## parties, sustaining the happiness of the hour by her elegant

conversation, and encouraging the diffident by her approbation. Amiable in disposition, she was possessed of a beautiful countenance and a handsome person. She wrote verses with facility, but she sought no distinction as a poet, preferring to be regarded as a good housewife and an agreeable member of society. In her latter years, she obtained amusement in resuming the song-writing habits of her youth, and in corresponding with her more intimate friends. She likewise derived pleasure in the cultivation of music: she played with skill, and sung with singular grace.

Mrs Hunter died at London, on the 7th January 1821, after a lingering illness. Several of her lyrics had for some years appeared in the collections of national poetry. Those selected for the present work have long maintained a wide popularity. The songs evince a delicacy of thought, combined with a force and sweetness of expression.

THE INDIAN DEATH-SONG.

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day, But glory remains when their lights fade away. Begin, ye tormentors, your threats are in vain, For the son of Alknomook will never complain.

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow; Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low. Why so slow? Do you wait till I shrink from the pain? No! the son of Alknomook shall never complain.

Remember the wood where in ambush we lay, And the scalps which we bore from your nation away: Now the flame rises fast; ye exult in my pain; But the son of Alknomook can never complain.

I go to the land where my father is gone; His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son. Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from pain, And thy son, O Alknomook! has scorn'd to complain.

MY MOTHER BIDS ME BIND MY HAIR.

My mother bids me bind my hair With bands of rosy hue, Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare, And lace my boddice blue.

"For why," she cries, "sit still and weep, While others dance and play?" Alas! I scarce can go or creep, While Lubin is away.

'Tis sad to think the days are gone, When those we love were near; I sit upon this mossy stone, And sigh when none can hear.

And while I spin my flaxen thread, And sing my simple lay, The village seems asleep or dead, Now Lubin is away.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.[4]

Adieu! ye streams that smoothly glide, Through mazy windings o'er the plain; I 'll in some lonely cave reside, And ever mourn my faithful swain.

Flower of the forest was my love, Soft as the sighing summer's gale, Gentle and constant as the dove, Blooming as roses in the vale.

Alas! by Tweed my love did stray, For me he search'd the banks around; But, ah! the sad and fatal day, My love, the pride of swains, was drown'd.

Now droops the willow o'er the stream; Pale stalks his ghost in yonder grove; Dire fancy paints him in my dream; Awake, I mourn my hopeless love.

[4] Of the "Flowers of the Forest," two other versions appear in the Collections. That version beginning, "I've heard the lilting at our yow-milking," is the composition of Miss Jane Elliot, the daughter of Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto, Lord Justice-Clerk, who died in 1766. She composed the song about the middle of the century, in imitation of an old version to the same tune. The other version, which is the most popular of the three, with the opening line, "I 've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling," was also the composition of a lady, Miss Alison Rutherford; by marriage, Mrs Cockburn, wife of Mr Patrick Cockburn, advocate. Mrs Cockburn was a person of highly superior accomplishments. She associated with her learned contemporaries, by whom she was much esteemed, and died at Edinburgh in 1794, at an advanced age. "The forest" mentioned in the song comprehended the county of Selkirk, with portions of Peeblesshire and Lanarkshire. This was a hunting-forest of the Scottish kings.

THE SEASON COMES WHEN FIRST WE MET.

The season comes when first we met, But you return no more; Why cannot I the days forget, Which time can ne'er restore? O! days too sweet, too bright to last, Are you, indeed, for ever past?

The fleeting shadows of delight, In memory I trace; In fancy stop their rapid flight, And all the past replace; But, ah! I wake to endless woes, And tears the fading visions close!

OH, TUNEFUL VOICE! I STILL DEPLORE.

Oh, tuneful voice! I still deplore Those accents which, though heard no more, Still vibrate in my heart; In echo's cave I long to dwell, And still would hear the sad farewell, When we were doom'd to part.

Bright eyes! O that the task were mine, To guard the liquid fires that shine, And round your orbits play-- To watch them with a vestal's care, And feed with smiles a light so fair, That it may ne'er decay!

DEAR TO MY HEART AS LIFE'S WARM STREAM.[5]

Dear to my heart as life's warm stream, Which animates this mortal clay; For thee I court the waking dream, And deck with smiles the future day; And thus beguile the present pain, With hopes that we shall meet again!

Yet will it be as when the past Twined every joy, and care, and thought, And o'er our minds one mantle cast, Of kind affections finely wrought. Ah, no! the groundless hope were vain, For so we ne'er can meet again!

May he who claims thy tender heart, Deserve its love as I have done! For, kind and gentle as thou art, If so beloved, thou 'rt fairly won. Bright may the sacred torch remain, And cheer thee till we meet again!

[5] These lines were addressed by Mrs Hunter to her daughter, on the occasion of her marriage.

THE LOT OF THOUSANDS.

When hope lies dead within the heart, By secret sorrow close conceal'd, We shrink lest looks or words impart What must not be reveal'd.

'Tis hard to smile when one would weep, To speak when one would silent be; To wake when one should wish to sleep, And wake to agony.

Yet such the lot by thousands cast, Who wander in this world of care, And bend beneath the bitter blast, To save them from despair.

But Nature waits her guests to greet, Where disappointments cannot come, And Time guides, with unerring feet, The weary wanderers home.

ALEXANDER, DUKE OF GORDON.

Alexander, the fourth Duke of Gordon, was born in the year 1743, and died on the 17th of January 1827, in the eighty-fourth year of his age. Chiefly remembered as a kind patron of the poet Burns, his name is likewise entitled to a place in the national minstrelsy as the author of an excellent version of the often-parodied song, "Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." Of this song, the first words, written to an older tune, appeared in the second volume of Herd's "Collection," in 1776. These begin--

"Cauld kail in Aberdeen, And castocks in Strabogie; But yet I fear they 'll cook o'er soon, And never warm the cogie."

The song is anonymous, as is the version, first published in Dale's "Scottish Songs," beginning--

"There 's cauld kail in Aberdeen, And castocks in Strabogie, Where ilka lad maun hae his lass, But I maun hae my cogie."

A third version, distinct from that inserted in the text, was composed by William Reid, a bookseller in Glasgow, who died in 1831. His song is scarcely known. The Duke's song, with which Burns expressed himself as being "charmed," was first published in the second volume of Johnson's "Musical Museum." It is not only gay and animating, but has the merit of being free of blemishes in want of refinement, which affect the others. The "Bogie" celebrated in the song, it may be remarked, is a river in Aberdeenshire, which, rising in the parish of Auchindoir, discharges its waters into the Deveron, a little distance below the town of Huntly. It gives its name to the extensive and rich valley of Strathbogie, through which it proceeds.

CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN.

There 's cauld kail in Aberdeen, And castocks in Strabogie; Gin I hae but a bonnie lass, Ye 're welcome to your cogie. And ye may sit up a' the night, And drink till it be braid daylight; Gi'e me a lass baith clean and tight, To dance the reel o' Bogie.

In cotillions the French excel, John Bull loves country dances; The Spaniards dance fandangoes well; Mynheer an all'mande prances; In foursome reels the Scots delight, At threesomes they dance wondrous light, But twasomes ding a' out o' sight, Danced to the reel o' Bogie.

Come, lads, and view your partners weel, Wale each a blythesome rogie; I'll tak this lassie to mysel', She looks sae keen and vogie. Now, piper lads, bang up the spring, The country fashion is the thing, To pree their mou's ere we begin To dance the reel o' Bogie.

Now ilka lad has got a lass, Save yon auld doited fogie, And ta'en a fling upon the grass, As they do in Strabogie. But a' the lasses look sae fain, We canna think oursel's to hain, For they maun hae their come again, To dance the reel o' Bogie.

Now a' the lads hae done their best, Like true men o' Strabogie, We 'll stop a while and tak' a rest, And tipple out a cogie. Come now, my lads, and tak your glass, And try ilk ither to surpass, In wishing health to every lass, To dance the reel o' Bogie.

MRS GRANT OF CARRON.

Mrs Grant of Carron, the reputed author of one song, which has long maintained a favoured place, was a native of Aberlour, on the banks of the Spey, in the county of Banff. She was born about the year 1745, and was twice married--first, to her cousin, Mr Grant of Carron, near Elchies, on the river Spey, about the year 1763; and, secondly, to Dr Murray, a physician in Bath. She died at Bath about the year 1814.

In his correspondence with George Thomson, Burns, alluding to the song of Mrs Grant, "Roy's Wife," remarks that he had in his possession "the original words of a song for the air in the handwriting of the lady who composed it," which, he adds, "are superior to any edition of the song which the public has seen." He subsequently composed an additional version himself, beginning, "Canst thou leave me thus, my Katie?" but this, like others of the bard's conversions of Scottish songs into an English dress, did not become popular. The verses by his female friend, in which the lady is made to be the sufferer by misplaced affection, and commencing, "Stay, my Willie, yet believe me," though published, remain likewise in obscurity. "Roy's Wife" was originally written to an old tune called the "Ruffian's Rant," but this melody is now known by the name of its favourite words. The sentiment of the song is peculiarly pleasing. The rejected lover begins by loudly complaining of his wrongs, and the broken assurances of his former sweetheart: then he suddenly recalls what were her good qualities; and the recollection of these causes him to forgive her marrying another, and even still to extend towards her his warmest sympathies.

ROY'S WIFE OF ALDIVALLOCH.

Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, Wat ye how she cheated me As I cam' o'er the braes of Balloch!

She vow'd, she swore she wad be mine, She said she lo'ed me best o' onie; But, ah! the fickle, faithless quean, She 's ta'en the carl, and left her Johnnie! Roy's wife, &c.

Oh, she was a canty quean, An' weel could dance the Hieland walloch! How happy I, had she been mine, Or I been Roy of Aldivalloch! Roy's wife, &c.

Her hair sae fair, her e'en sae clear, Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bonnie! To me she ever will be dear, Though she's for ever left her Johnnie! Roy's wife, &c.

ROBERT COUPER, M.D.

Dr Couper was born in the parish of Sorbie, in Wigtonshire, on the 22d of September 1750. His father rented the farm of Balsier in that parish. With a view towards the ministry in the Scottish Church, he proceeded to the University of Glasgow in 1769; but being deprived of both his parents by death before the completion of the ordinary period of academical study, and his pecuniary means being limited, he quitted the country for America, where he became tutor to a family in Virginia. He now contemplated taking orders in the Episcopal Church, but on the outbreak of the War of Independence in 1776 he returned to Britain without fulfilling this intention. He resumed his studies at Glasgow preparatory to his seeking a surgeon's diploma; and he afterwards established himself as a medical practitioner in Newton-Stewart, a considerable village in his native county. From this place he removed to Fochabers, about the year 1788, on being recommended, by his friend Dr Hamilton, Professor of Anatomy at Glasgow, as physician to the Duke of Gordon. Before entering on this new sphere of practice, he took the degree of M.D. At Fochabers he remained till the year 1806, when he again returned to the south. He died at Wigton on the 18th January 1818. From a MS. Life of Dr Couper, in the possession of a gentleman in Wigton, and communicated to Dr Murray, author of "The Literary History of Galloway," these leading events of Dr Couper's life were first published by Mr Laing, in his "Additional Illustrations to the Scots Musical Museum," vol. iv. p. 513.

Dr Couper published "Poetry, chiefly in the Scottish Language" (Inverness, 1804), 2 vols. 12mo. Among some rubbish, and much tawdry versification, there is occasional power, which, however, is insufficient to compensate for the general inferiority. There are only a few songs, but these are superior to the poems; and those following are not unworthy of a place among the modern national minstrelsy.

KINRARA.

TUNE--_"Neil Gow."_

Red gleams the sun on yon hill-tap, The dew sits on the gowan; Deep murmurs through her glens the Spey, Around Kinrara rowan. Where art thou, fairest, kindest lass? Alas! wert thou but near me, Thy gentle soul, thy melting eye, Would ever, ever cheer me.

The lav'rock sings among the clouds, The lambs they sport so cheerie, And I sit weeping by the birk: O where art thou, my dearie? Aft may I meet the morning dew, Lang greet till I be weary; Thou canna, winna, gentle maid! Thou canna be my dearie.

THE SHEELING.

TUNE--_"The Mucking o' Geordie's Byre."_

Oh, grand bounds the deer o'er the mountain, And smooth skims the hare o'er the plain; At noon, the cool shade by the fountain Is sweet to the lass and her swain. The ev'ning sits down dark and dreary; Oh, yon 's the loud joys of the ha'; The laird sings his dogs and his dearie-- Oh, he kens na his singin' ava.

But oh, my dear lassie, when wi' thee, What 's the deer and the maukin to me? The storm soughin' wild drives me to thee, And the plaid shelters baith me and thee. The wild warld then may be reeling, Pride and riches may lift up their e'e; My plaid haps us baith in the sheeling-- That 's a' to my lassie and me.

THE EWE-BUGHTS, MARION.[6]

Oh, mind ye the ewe-bughts, my Marion? It was ther I forgather'd wi' thee; The sun smiled sweet ower the mountain, And saft sough'd the leaf on the tree.

Thou wast fair, thou wast bonnie, my Marion, And lovesome thy rising breast-bane; The dew sat in gems ower thy ringlets, By the thorn when we were alane.

There we loved, there thou promised, my Marion, Thy soul--a' thy beauties were mine; Crouse we skipt to the ha' i' the gloamin', But few were my slumbers and thine.

Fell war tore me lang frae thee, Marion, Lang wat'ry and red was my e'e; The pride o' the field but inflamed me To return mair worthy o' thee.

Oh, aye art thou lovely, my Marion, Thy heart bounds in kindness to me; And here, oh, here is my bosom, That languish'd, my Marion, for thee.

[6] These verses form a modernised version of the old and popular song, "Will ye gae to the ewe-bughts, Marion?" The air is extremely beautiful.

LADY ANNE BARNARD.

Lady Anne Lindsay was the eldest of a family of eight sons and three daughters, born to James, Earl of Balcarres, by his spouse, Anne Dalrymple, a daughter of Sir Robert Dalrymple, of Castleton, Bart. She was born at Balcarres, in Fife, on the 8th of December 1750. Inheriting a large portion of the shrewdness long possessed by the old family of Lindsay, and a share of talent from her mother, who was a person of singular energy, though somewhat capricious in temper, Lady Anne evinced, at an early age, an uncommon amount of sagacity. Fortunate in having her talents well directed, and naturally inclined towards the acquisition of learning, she soon began to devote herself to useful reading, and even to literary composition. The highly popular ballad of "Auld Robin Gray" was written when she had only attained her twenty-first year. According to her own narrative, communicated to Sir Walter Scott, she had experienced loneliness on the marriage of her younger sister, who accompanied her husband to London, and had sought relief from a state of solitude by attempting the composition of song. An old Scottish melody,[7] sung by an eccentric female, an attendant on Lady Balcarres, was connected with words unsuitable to the plaintive nature of the air; and, with the design of supplying the defect, she formed the idea of writing "Auld Robin Gray." The hero of the ballad was the old herdsman at Balcarres. To the members of her own family Lady Anne only communicated her new ballad--scrupulously concealing the fact of her authorship from others, "perceiving the shyness it created in those who could write nothing."

While still in the bloom of youth, the Earl of Balcarres died, and the Dowager Countess having taken up her residence in Edinburgh, Lady Anne experienced increased means of acquainting herself with the world of letters. At her mother's residence she met many of the literary persons of consideration in the northern metropolis, including such men as Lord Monboddo, David Hume, and Henry Mackenzie. To comfort her sister, Lady Margaret Fordyce, who was now a widow, she subsequently removed to London, where she formed the acquaintance of the principal personages then occupying the literary and political arena, such as Burke, Sheridan, Dundas, and Windham. She also became known to the Prince of Wales, who continued to entertain for her the highest respect. In 1793, she married Andrew Barnard, Esq., son of the Bishop of Limerick, and afterwards secretary, under Lord Macartney, to the colony at the Cape of Good Hope. She accompanied her husband to the Cape, and had meditated a voyage to New South Wales, that she might minister, by her benevolent counsels, towards the reformation of the convicts there exiled. On the death of her husband in 1807, she again resided with her widowed sister, the Lady Margaret, till the year 1812, when, on the marriage of her sister to Sir James Burges, she occupied a house of her own, and continued to reside in Berkeley Square till the period of her death, which took place on the 6th of May 1825.

To entire rectitude of principle, amiability of manners, and kindliness of heart, Anne Barnard added the more substantial, and, in females, the more uncommon quality of eminent devotedness to intellectual labour. Literature had been her favourite pursuit from childhood, and even in advanced life, when her residence was the constant resort of her numerous relatives, she contrived to find leisure for occasional literary _réunions_, while her forenoons were universally occupied in mental improvement. She maintained a correspondence with several of her brilliant contemporaries, and, in her more advanced years, composed an interesting narrative of family Memoirs. She was skilled in the use of the pencil, and sketched scenery with effect. In conversation she was acknowledged to excel; and her stories[8] and anecdotes were a source of delight to her friends. She was devotedly pious, and singularly benevolent: she was liberal in sentiment, charitable to the indigent, and sparing of the feelings of others. Every circle was charmed by her presence; by her condescension she inspired the diffident; and she banished dulness by the brilliancy of her humour. Her countenance, it should be added, wore a pleasant and animated expression, and her figure was modelled with the utmost elegance of symmetry and grace. Her sister, Lady Margaret Fordyce, was eminently beautiful.

The popularity obtained by the ballad of "Auld Robin Gray" has seldom been exceeded in the history of any other metrical composition. It was sung in every fashionable circle, as well as by the ballad-singers, from Land's-end to John o' Groat's; was printed in every collection of national songs, and drew tears from our military countrymen both in America and India. With the exception of Pinkerton, every writer on Scottish poetry and song has awarded it a tribute of commendation. "The elegant and accomplished authoress," says Ritson, "has, in this beautiful production, to all that tenderness and simplicity for which the Scottish song has been so much celebrated, united a delicacy of expression which it never before attained." "'Auld Robin Gray,'" says Sir Walter Scott, "is that real pastoral which is worth all the dialogues which Corydon and Phillis have had together, from the days of Theocritus downwards."

During a long lifetime, till within two years of her death, Lady Anne Barnard resisted every temptation to declare herself the author of the popular ballad, thus evincing her determination not to have the secret wrested from her till she chose to divulge it. Some of those inducements may be enumerated. The extreme popularity of the ballad might have proved sufficient in itself to justify the disclosure; but, apart from this consideration, a very fine tune had been put to it by a doctor of music;[9] a romance had been founded upon it by a man of eminence; it was made the subject of a play, of an opera, and of a pantomime; it had been claimed by others; a sequel had been written to it by some scribbler, who professed to have composed the whole ballad; it had been assigned an antiquity far beyond the author's time; the Society of Antiquaries had made it the subject of investigation; and the author had been advertised for in the public prints, a reward being offered for the discovery. Never before had such general interest been exhibited respecting any composition in Scottish verse.

In the "Pirate," published in 1823, the author of "Waverley" had compared the condition of Minna to that of Jeanie Gray, in the words of Lady Anne, in a sequel which she had published to the original ballad:--

"Nae langer she wept, her tears were a' spent; Despair it was come, and she thought it content; She thought it content, but her cheek it grew pale, And she droop'd like a snowdrop broke down by the hail!"

At length, in her seventy-third year, and upwards of half a century after the period of its composition, the author voluntarily made avowal of the authorship of the ballad and its sequel. She wrote to Sir Walter Scott, with whom she was acquainted, requesting him to inform his _personal friend_, the author of "Waverley," that she was indeed the author. She enclosed a copy to Sir Walter, written in her own hand; and, with her consent, in the course of the following year, he printed "Auld Robin Gray" as a contribution to the Bannatyne Club.

The second part has not acquired such decided popularity, and it has not often been published with it in former Collections. Of the fact of its inequality, the accomplished author was fully aware: she wrote it simply to gratify the desire of her venerable mother, who often wished to know how "the unlucky business of Jeanie and Jamie ended." The Countess, it may be remarked, was much gratified by the popularity of the ballad; and though she seems, out of respect to her daughter's feelings, to have retained the secret, she could not resist the frequent repetition of it to her friends.

In the character of Lady Anne Barnard, the defective point was a certain want of decision, which not only led to her declining many distinguished and advantageous offers for her hand, but tended, in some measure, to deprive her of posthumous fame. Illustrative of the latter fact, it has been recorded that, having entrusted to Sir Walter Scott a volume of lyrics, composed by herself and by others of the noble house of Lindsay, with permission to give it to the world, she withdrew her consent after the compositions had been printed in a quarto volume, and were just on the eve of being published. The copies of the work, which was entitled "Lays of the Lindsays," appear to have been destroyed. One lyric only has been recovered, beginning, "Why tarries my love?" It is printed as the composition of Lady Anne Barnard, in a note appended to the latest edition of Johnson's "Musical Museum," by Mr C. K. Sharpe, who transcribed it from the _Scots Magazine_ for May 1805. The popular song, "Logie o' Buchan," sometimes attributed to Lady Anne in the Collections, did not proceed from her pen, but was composed by George Halket, parochial schoolmaster of Rathen, in Aberdeenshire, about the middle of the last century.

[7] The name of this old melody is, "The Bridegroom greets when the Sun gangs down."--See Stenhouse's Notes to Johnson's "Musical Museum," vol. iv. p. 280; the "Lives of the Lindsays," by Lord Lindsay, vol. ii., pp. 314, 332, 392. Lond. 1849, 3 vols., 8vo.

[8] "She was entertaining a large party of distinguished guests at dinner, when a hitch occurred in the kitchen. The old servant came up behind her and whispered, 'My lady, you must tell another story--the second course won't be ready for five minutes!'"--Letter of General Lindsay to Lord Lindsay, "Lives of the Lindsays," vol. ii. p. 387.

[9] The Rev. William Leeves, of Wrington, to whose tune the ballad is now sung.--See an account of Mr Leeves' claims to the authorship of the tune, &c., in Johnson's "Musical Museum;" Stenhouse's Notes, vol. iv. p. 231.

AULD ROBIN GRAY.

## PART I.

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye 's come hame, And a' the warld to rest are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, Unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and he sought me for his bride, But saving a crown-piece, he had naething beside; To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea, And the crown and the pound they were baith for me.

He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day, When my father brake his arm, and the cow was stown away; My mither she fell sick--my Jamie at the sea; And auld Robin Gray came a-courting me.

My father couldna wark, and my mither couldna spin; I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win;-- Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e, Said, "Jeanie, oh, for their sakes, will ye no marry me?"

My heart it said na, and I look'd for Jamie back; But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack; The ship was a wrack--why didna Jamie dee? Or why am I spared to cry, Wae is me?

My father urged me sair--my mither didna speak; But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break; They gied him my hand--my heart was in the sea-- And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.

I hadna been his wife a week but only four, When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door, I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think it he, Till he said, "I'm come hame, love, to marry thee."

Oh, sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a'; I gied him a kiss, and bade him gang awa';-- I wish that I were dead, but I'm nae like to dee; For though my heart is broken, I'm but young, wae is me!

I gang like a ghaist, and carena much to spin; I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin; But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, For oh, Robin Gray, he is kind to me!

## PART II.

The spring had pass'd over, 'twas summer nae mair, And, trembling, were scatter'd the leaves in the air; "Oh, winter," cried Jeanie, "we kindly agree, For wae looks the sun when he shines upon me."

Nae langer she wept, her tears were a' spent; Despair it was come, and she thought it content; She thought it content, but her cheek was grown pale, And she droop'd like a snow-drop broke down by the hail.

Her father was sad, and her mother was wae, But silent and thoughtfu' was auld Robin Gray; He wander'd his lane, and his face was as lean As the side of a brae where the torrents have been.

He gaed to his bed, but nae physic would take, And often he said, "It is best, for her sake!" While Jeanie supported his head as he lay, The tears trickled down upon auld Robin Gray.

"Oh, greet nae mair, Jeanie!" said he, wi' a groan; "I 'm nae worth your sorrow--the truth maun be known; Send round for your neighbours--my hour it draws near, And I 've that to tell that it 's fit a' should hear.

"I 've wrang'd her," he said, "but I kent it o'er late; I 've wrang'd her, and sorrow is speeding my date; But a 's for the best, since my death will soon free A faithfu' young heart, that was ill match'd wi' me.

"I lo'ed and I courted her mony a day, The auld folks were for me, but still she said nay; I kentna o' Jamie, nor yet o' her vow;-- In mercy forgi'e me, 'twas I stole the cow!

"I cared not for crummie, I thought but o' thee; I thought it was crummie stood 'twixt you and me; While she fed your parents, oh! did you not say, You never would marry wi' auld Robin Gray?

"But sickness at hame, and want at the door-- You gi'ed me your hand, while your heart it was sore; I saw it was sore, why took I her hand? Oh, that was a deed to my shame o'er the land!

"How truth, soon or late, comes to open daylight! For Jamie cam' back, and your cheek it grew white; White, white grew your cheek, but aye true unto me. Oh, Jeanie, I 'm thankfu'--I 'm thankfu' to dee!

"Is Jamie come here yet?" and Jamie he saw; "I 've injured you sair, lad, so I leave you my a'; Be kind to my Jeanie, and soon may it be! Waste no time, my dauties, in mournin' for me."

They kiss'd his cauld hands, and a smile o'er his face Seem'd hopefu' of being accepted by grace; "Oh, doubtna," said Jamie, "forgi'en he will be, Wha wadna be tempted, my love, to win thee?"

* * * * *

The first days were dowie, while time slipt awa'; But saddest and sairest to Jeanie of a' Was thinking she couldna be honest and right, Wi' tears in her e'e, while her heart was sae light.

But nae guile had she, and her sorrow away, The wife of her Jamie, the tear couldna stay; A bonnie wee bairn--the auld folks by the fire-- Oh, now she has a' that her heart can desire!

In an earlier continuation of the original ballad, there are some good stanzas, which, however, the author had thought proper to expunge from the piece in its altered and extended form. One verse, descriptive of Robin Gray's feelings, on observing the concealed and withering grief of his spouse, is beautiful for its simplicity:--

"Nae questions he spier'd her concerning her health, He look'd at her often, but aye 'twas by stealth; When his heart it grew grit, and, sighin', he feign'd To gang to the door to see if it rain'd."

SONG.

Why tarries my love? Ah! where does he rove? My love is long absent from me. Come hither, my dove, I 'll write to my love, And send him a letter by thee.

To find him, swift fly! The letter I 'll tie Secure to thy leg with a string. Ah! not to my leg, Fair lady, I beg, But fasten it under my wing.

Her dove she did deck, She drew o'er his neck A bell and a collar so gay; She tied to his wing The scroll with a string, Then kiss'd him and sent him away.

It blew and it rain'd, The pigeon disdain'd To seek shelter; undaunted he flew, Till wet was his wing, And painful his string, So heavy the letter it grew.

It flew all around, Till Colin he found, Then perch'd on his head with the prize; Whose heart, while he reads, With tenderness bleeds, For the pigeon that flutters and dies.

JOHN TAIT.

John Tait was, in early life, devoted to the composition of poetry. In Ruddiman's _Edinburgh Weekly Magazine_ for 1770, he repeatedly published verses in the Poet's Corner, with his initials attached, and in subsequent years he published anonymously the "Cave of Morar," "Poetical Legends," and other poems. "The Vanity of Human Wishes, an Elegy, occasioned by the Untimely Death of a Scots Poet," appears under the signature of J. Tait, in "Poems on Various Subjects by Robert Fergusson,

## Part II.," Edinburgh, 1779, 12mo. He was admitted as a Writer to the

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]