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The Complete Works

FIFE, AND A’ THE LANDS ABOUT IT.

This song is Dr. Blacklock’s. He, as well as I, often gave Johnson verses, trifling enough perhaps, but they served as a vehicle to the music.

WERE NA MY HEART LIGHT I WAD DIE.

Lord Hailes, in the notes to his collection of ancient Scots poems, says that this song was the composition of a Lady Grissel Baillie, daughter of the first Earl of Marchmont, and wife of George Baillie, of Jerviswood.

THE YOUNG MAN’S DREAM.

This song is the composition of Balloon Tytler.

STRATHALLAN’S LAMENT.

This air in the composition of one of the worthiest and best-hearted men living—Allan Masterton, schoolmaster in Edinburgh. As he and I were both sprouts of Jacobitism we agreed to dedicate the words and air to that cause.

To tell the matter-of-fact, except when my passions were heated by some accidental cause, my Jacobitism was merely by way of vive la bagatelle.

UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.

The chorus of this is old; the two stanzas are mine.

THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.

Dr. Blacklock told me that Smollet, who was at the bottom a great Jacobite, composed these beautiful and pathetic verses on the infamous depredations of the Duke of Cumberland after the battle of Culloden.

WHAT WILL I DO GIN MY HOGGIE DIE.

Dr. Walker, who was minister at Moffat in 1772, and is now (1791) Professor of Natural History in the University of Edinburgh, told the following anecdote concerning this air.—He said, that some gentlemen, riding a few years ago through Liddesdale, stopped at a hamlet consisting of a few houses, called Moss Platt, when they were struck with this tune, which an old woman, spinning on a rock at her door, was singing. All she could tell concerning it was, that she was taught it when a child, and it was called “What will I do gin my Hoggie die?” No person, except a few females at Moss Platt, knew this fine old tune, which in all probability would have been lost had not one of the gentlemen, who happened to have a flute with him, taken it down.

I DREAM’D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS WERE SPRINGING.

These two stanzas I composed when I was seventeen, and are among the oldest of my printed pieces.

AH! THE POOR SHEPHERD’S MOURNFUL FATE.

Tune—“Gallashiels.”

The old title, “Sour Plums o’ Gallashiels,” probably was the beginning of a song to this air, which is now lost.

The tune of Gallashiels was composed about the beginning of the present century by the Laird of Gallashiel’s piper.

THE BANKS OF THE DEVON.

These verses were composed on a charming girl, a Miss Charlotte Hamilton, who is now married to James M’Kitrick Adair, Esq., physician. She is sister to my worthy friend Gavin Hamilton, of Mauchline, and was born on the banks of the Ayr, but was, at the time I wrote these lines, residing at Herveyston, in Clackmannanshire, on the romantic banks of the little river Devon. I first heard the air from a lady in Inverness, and got the notes taken down for this work.

MILL, MILL O.

The original, or at least a song evidently prior to Ramsay’s is still extant.—It runs thus,

Chorus.

 
“The mill, mill O, and the kill, kill O,
And the coggin o’ Peggy’s wheel, O,
The sack and the sieve, and a’ she did leave,
And danc’d the miller’s reel O.—
As I came down yon waterside,
And by yon shellin-hill O,
There I spied a bonie bonie lass,
And a lass that I lov’d right well O.”
 

WE RAN AND THEY RAN.

The author of “We ran and they ran”—was a Rev. Mr. Murdoch M’Lennan, minister at Crathie, Dee-side.

WALY, WALY.

In the west country I have heard a different edition of the second stanza.—Instead of the four lines, beginning with, “When cockle-shells, &c.,” the other way ran thus:—

 
“O wherefore need I busk my head,
Or wherefore need I kame my hair,
Sin my fause luve has me forsook,
And sys, he’ll never luve me mair.”
 

DUNCAN GRAY.

Dr. Blacklock informed me that he had often heard the tradition, that this air was composed by a carman in Glasgow.

DUMBARTON DRUMS.

This is the last of the West-Highland airs; and from it over the whole tract of country to the confines of Tweedside, there is hardly a tune or song that one can say has taken its origin from any place or transaction in that part of Scotland.—The oldest Ayrshire reel, is Stewarton Lasses, which was made by the father of the present Sir Walter Montgomery Cunningham, alias Lord Lysle; since which period there has indeed been local music in that country in great plenty.—Johnie Faa is the only old song which I could ever trace as belonging to the extensive county of Ayr.

CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN.

This song is by the Duke of Gordon.—The old verses are,

 
“There’s cauld kail in Aberdeen,
And castocks in Strathbogie;
When ilka lad maun hae his lass,
Then fye, gie me my coggie.
Chorus.
My coggie, Sirs, my coggie, Sirs,
I cannot want my coggie;
I wadna gie my three-girr’d cap
For e’er a quene on Bogie.—
There’s Johnie Smith has got a wife,
That scrimps him o’ his coggie,
If she were mine, upon my life
I wad douk her in a bogie.”
 

FOR LAKE OF GOLD.

The country girls in Ayrshire, instead of the line—

 
“She me forsook for a great duke,”
 

say

 
“For Athole’s duke she me forsook;”
 

which I take to be the original reading.

These were composed by the late Dr. Austin, physician at Edinburgh.—He had courted a lady, to whom he was shortly to have been married; but the Duke of Athole having seen her, became so much in love with her, that he made proposals of marriage, which were accepted of, and she jilted the doctor.

HERE’S A HEALTH TO MY TRUE LOVE, &c.

This song is Dr. Blacklock’s. He told me that tradition gives the air to our James IV. of Scotland.

HEY TUTTI TAITI.

I Have met the tradition universally over Scotland, and particularly about Stirling, in the neighbourhood of the scene, that this air was Robert Bruce’s march at the battle of Bannockburn.

RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING.

I Composed these verses on Miss Isabella M’Leod, of Raza, alluding to her feelings on the death of her sister, and the still more melancholy death of her sister’s husband, the late Earl of Loudon; who shot himself out of sheer heart-break at some mortifications he suffered, owing to the deranged state of his finances.

TAK YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE.

A part of this old song, according to the English set of it, is quoted in Shakspeare.

YE GODS, WAS STREPHON’S PICTURE BLEST?

Tune—“Fourteenth of October.”

The title of this air shows that it alludes to the famous king Crispian, the patron of the honourable corporation of shoemakers.—St. Crispian’s day falls on the fourteenth of October old style, as the old proverb tells:

 
“On the fourteenth of October
Was ne’er a sutor sober.”
 

SINCE ROBB’D OF ALL THAT CHARM’D MY VIEWS.

The old name of this air is, “the Blossom o’ the Raspberry.” The song is Dr. Blacklock’s.

YOUNG DAMON.

This air is by Oswald.

KIRK WAD LET ME BE.

Tradition in the western parts of Scotland tells that this old song, of which there are still three stanzas extant, once saved a covenanting clergyman out of a scrape. It was a little prior to the revolution, a period when being a Scots covenanter was being a felon, that one of their clergy, who was at that very time hunted by the merciless soldiery, fell in, by accident, with a party of the military. The soldiers were not exactly acquainted with the person of the reverend gentleman of whom they were in search; but from suspicious circumstances, they fancied that they had got one of that cloth and opprobrious persuasion among them in the person of this stranger. “Mass John” to extricate himself, assumed a freedom of manners, very unlike the gloomy strictness of his sect; and among other convivial exhibitions, sung (and some traditions say, composed on the spur of the occasion) “Kirk wad let me be,” with such effect, that the soldiers swore he was a d–d honest fellow, and that it was impossible he could belong to those hellish conventicles; and so gave him his liberty.

The first stanza of this song, a little altered, is a favourite kind of dramatic interlude acted at country weddings, in the south-west parts of the kingdom. A young fellow is dressed up like an old beggar; a peruke, commonly made of carded tow, represents hoary locks; an old bonnet; a ragged plaid, or surtout, bound with a straw rope for a girdle; a pair of old shoes, with straw ropes twisted round his ankles, as is done by shepherds in snowy weather: his face they disguise as like wretched old age as they can: in this plight he is brought into the wedding-house, frequently to the astonishment of strangers, who are not in the secret, and begins to sing—

 
“O, I am a silly auld man,
My name it is auld Glenae,” &c.
 

He is asked to drink, and by and bye to dance, which after some uncouth excuses he is prevailed on to do, the fiddler playing the tune, which here is commonly called “Auld Glenae;” in short he is all the time so plied with liquor that he is understood to get intoxicated, and with all the ridiculous gesticulations of an old drunken beggar, he dances and staggers until he falls on the floor; yet still in all his riot, nay, in his rolling and tumbling on the floor, with some or other drunken motion of his body, he beats time to the music, till at last he is supposed to be carried out dead drunk.

MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN.

I composed these verses out of compliment to a Mrs. M’Lachlan, whose husband is an officer in the East Indies.

BLYTHE WAS SHE.

I composed these verses while I stayed at Ochtertyre with Sir William Murray.—The lady, who was also at Ochtertyre at the same time, was the well-known toast, Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lentrose; she was called, and very justly, “The Flower of Strathmore.”

JOHNNIE FAA, OR THE GYPSIE LADDIE.

The people in Ayrshire begin this song—

 
“The gypsies cam to my Lord Cassilis’ yett.”—
 

They have a great many more stanzas in this song than I ever yet saw in any printed copy.—The castle is still remaining at Maybole, where his lordship shut up his wayward spouse, and kept her for life.

TO DAUNTON ME.

The two following old stanzas to this tune have some merit:

 
“To daunton me, to daunton me,
O ken ye what it is that’ll daunton me?—
There’s eighty-eight and eighty-nine,
And a’ that I hae borne sinsyne,
There’s cess and press and Presbytrie,
I think it will do meikle for to daunton me.
But to wanton me, to wanton me,
O ken ye what it is that wad wanton me—
To see gude corn upon the rigs,
And banishment amang the Whigs,
And right restor’d where right sud be,
I think it would do meikle for to wanton me.”
 

THE BONNIE LASS MADE THE BED TO ME.

“The Bonnie Lass made the Bed to me,” was composed on an amour of Charles II. when skulking in the North, about Aberdeen, in the time of the usurpation. He formed une petite affaire with a daughter of the house of Portletham, who was the “lass that made the bed to him:”—two verses of it are,

 
“I kiss’d her lips sae rosy red,
While the tear stood blinkin in her e’e;
I said, My lassie, dinna cry,
For ye ay shall make the bed to me.
She took her mither’s holland sheets,
And made them a’ in sarks to me;
Blythe and merry may she be,
The lass that made the bed to me.”
 

ABSENCE.

A song in the manner of Shenstone.

This song and air are both by Dr. Blacklock.

I HAD A HORSE AND I HAD NAE MAIR.

This story is founded on fact. A John Hunter, ancestor to a very respectable farming family, who live in a place in the parish, I think, of Galston, called Bar-mill, was the luckless hero that “had a horse and had nae mair.”—For some little youthful follies he found it necessary to make a retreat to the West-Highlands, where “he feed himself to a Highland Laird,” for that is the expression of all the oral editions of the song I ever heard.—The present Mr. Hunter, who told me the anecdote, is the great-grandchild of our hero.

UP AND WARN A’ WILLIE.

This edition of the song I got from Tom Niel, of facetious fame, in Edinburgh. The expression “Up and warn a’ Willie,” alludes to the Crantara, or warning of a Highland clan to arms. Not understanding this, the Lowlanders in the west and south say, “Up and waur them a’,” &c.

A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK.

This song I composed on Miss Jenny Cruikshank, only child of my worthy friend Mr. William Cruikshank, of the High-School, Edinburgh. This air is by a David Sillar, quondam merchant, and now schoolmaster in Irvine. He is the Davie to whom I address my printed poetical epistle in the measure of the Cherry and the Slae.

AULD ROB MORRIS.

It is remark-worthy that the song of “Holy and Fairly,” in all the old editions of it, is called “The Drunken Wife o’ Galloway,” which localizes it to that country.

RATTLIN, ROARIN WILLIE.

The last stanza of this song is mine; it was composed out of compliment to one of the worthiest fellows in the world, William Dunbar, Esq., writer to the signet, Edinburgh, and Colonel of the Crochallan Corps, a club of wits who took that title at the time of raising the fencible regiments.

WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER STORMS.

This song I composed on one of the most accomplished of women, Miss Peggy Chalmers, that was, now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of Forbes and Co.’s bank, Edinburgh.

TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.

This song I composed about the age of seventeen.

NANCY’S GHOST.

This song is by Dr. Blacklock.

TUNE YOUR FIDDLES, ETC.

This song was composed by the Rev. John Skinner, nonjuror clergyman at Linshart, near Peterhead. He is likewise author of “Tullochgorum,” “Ewie wi’ the crooked Horn,” “John o’ Badenyond,” &c., and what is of still more consequence, he is one of the worthiest of mankind. He is the author of an ecclesiastical history of Scotland. The air is by Mr. Marshall, butler to the Duke of Gordon; the first composer of strathspeys of the age. I have been told by somebody, who had it of Marshall himself, that he took the idea of his three most celebrated pieces, “The Marquis of Huntley’s Reel,” his “Farewell,” and “Miss Admiral Gordon’s Reel,” from the old air, “The German Lairdie.”

GILL MORICE.

This plaintive ballad ought to have been called Child Maurice, and not Gil Maurice. In its present dress, it has gained immortal honour from Mr. Home’s taking from it the ground-work of his fine tragedy of Douglas. But I am of opinion that the present ballad is a modern composition; perhaps not much above the age of the middle of the last century; at least I should be glad to see or hear of a copy of the present words prior to 1650. That it was taken from an old ballad, called “Child Maurice,” now lost, I am inclined to believe; but the present one may be classed with “Hardyknute,” “Kenneth,” “Duncan, the Laird of Woodhouselie,” “Lord Livingston,” “Binnorie,” “The Death of Monteith,” and many other modern productions, which have been swallowed by many readers as ancient fragments of old poems. This beautiful plaintive tune was composed by Mr. M’Gibbon, the selector of a collection of Scots tunes. R. B.

In addition to the observations on Gil Morice, I add, that of the songs which Captain Riddel mentions, “Kenneth” and “Duncan” are juvenile compositions of Mr. M’Kenzie, “The Man of Feeling.”—M’Kenzie’s father showed them in MS. to Dr. Blacklock, as the productions of his son, from which the Doctor rightly prognosticated that the young poet would make, in his more advanced years, a respectable figure in the world of letters.

This I had from Blacklock.

TIBBIE DUNBAR.

This tune is said to be the composition of John M’Gill, fiddler, in Girvan. He called it after his own name.

WHEN I UPON THY BOSOM LEAN.

This song was the work of a very worthy facetious old fellow, John Lapraik, late of Dalfram, near Muirkirk; which little property he was obliged to sell in consequence of some connexion as security for some persons concerned in that villanous bubble the ayr bank. He has often told me that he composed this song one day when his wife had been fretting o’er their misfortunes.

MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY.

Tune—“Highlander’s Lament.”

The oldest title I ever heard to this air, was, “The Highland Watch’s Farewell to Ireland.” The chorus I picked up from an old woman in Dumblane; the rest of the song is mine.

THE HIGHLAND CHARACTER.

This tune was the composition of Gen. Reid, and called by him “The Highland, or 42d Regiment’s March.” The words are by Sir Harry Erskine.

LEADER-HAUGHS AND YARROW.

There is in several collections, the old song of “Leader-Haughs and Yarrow.” It seems to have been the work of one of our itinerant minstrels, as he calls himself, at the conclusion of his song, “Minstrel Burn.”

THE TAILOR FELL THRO’ THE BED, THIMBLE AN’ A’.

This air is the march of the corporation of tailors. The second and fourth stanzas are mine.

BEWARE O’ BONNIE ANN.

I composed this song out of compliment to Miss Ann Masterton, the daughter of my friend Allan Masterton, the author of the air of Strathallan’s Lament, and two or three others in this work.

THIS IS NO MINE AIN HOUSE.

The first half stanza is old, the rest is Ramsay’s. The old words are—

 
“This is no mine ain house,
My ain house, my ain house;
This is no mine ain house,
I ken by the biggin o’t.
Bread and cheese are my door-cheeks,
My door-cheeks, my door-cheeks;
Bread and cheese are my door-cheeks,
And pancakes the riggin o’t.
This is no my ain wean;
My ain wean, my ain wean;
This is no my ain wean,
I ken by the greetie o’t.
I’ll tak the curchie aff my head,
Aff my head, aff my head;
I’ll tak the curchie aff my head,
And row’t about the feetie o’t.”
 

The tune is an old Highland air, called “Shuan truish willighan.”

LADDIE, LIE NEAR ME.

This song is by Blacklock.

THE GARDENER AND HIS PAIDLE.

This air is the “Gardener’s March.” The title of the song only is old; the rest is mine.

THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.

Tune.—“Seventh of November.”

I composed this song out of compliment to one of the happiest and worthiest married couples in the world, Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, and his lady. At their fire-side I have enjoyed more pleasant evenings than at all the houses of fashionable people in this country put together; and to their kindness and hospitality I am indebted for many of the happiest hours of my life.

THE GABERLUNZIE MAN.

The “Gaberlunzie Man” is supposed to commemorate an intrigue of James the Fifth. Mr. Callander, of Craigforth, published some years ago an edition of “Christ’s Kirk on the Green,” and the “Gaberlunzie Man,” with notes critical and historical. James the Fifth is said to have been fond of Gosford, in Aberlady parish, and that it was suspected by his contemporaries, that in his frequent excursions to that part of the country, he had other purposes in view besides golfing and archery. Three favourite ladies, Sandilands, Weir, and Oliphant (one of them resided at Gosford, and the others in the neighbourhood), were occasionally visited by their royal and gallant admirer, which gave rise to the following advice to his majesty, from Sir David Lindsay, of the Mount, Lord Lyon.

 
“Sow not your seed on Sandylands,
spend not your strength in Weir,
And ride not on an Elephant,
For gawing o’ your gear.”
 

MY BONNIE MARY.

This air is Oswald’s; the first half stanza of the song is old, the rest mine.

THE BLACK EAGLE.

This song is by Dr. Fordyce, whose merits as a prose writer are well known.

JAMIE, COME TRY ME.

This air is Oswald’s; the song mine.

THE LAZY MIST.

This song is mine.

JOHNIE COPE.

This satirical song was composed to commemorate General Cope’s defeat at Preston Pans, in 1745, when he marched against the Clans.

The air was the tune of an old song, of which I have heard some verses, but now only remember the title, which was,

 
“Will ye go the coals in the morning.”
 

I LOVE MY JEAN.

This air is by Marshall; the song I composed out of compliment to Mrs. Burns.

N.B. It was during the honeymoon.

CEASE, CEASE, MY DEAR FRIEND, TO EXPLORE.

The song is by Dr. Blacklock; I believe, but am not quite certain, that the air is his too.

AULD ROBIN GRAY.

This air was formerly called, “The bridegroom greets when the sun gangs down.” The words are by Lady Ann Lindsay, of the Balcarras family.

DONALD AND FLORA.

This is one of those fine Gaelic tunes, preserved from time immemorial in the Hebrides; they seem to be the ground-work of many of our finest Scots pastoral tunes. The words of this song were written to commemorate the unfortunate expedition of General Burgoyne in America, in 1777.

O WERE I ON PARNASSUS’ HILL.

This air is Oswald’s; the song I made out of compliment to Mrs. Burns.

THE CAPTIVE ROBIN.

This air is called “Robie donna Gorach.”

THERE’S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY.

This air is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it his lament for his brother. The first half-stanza of the song is old; the rest mine.

MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS.

The first half-stanza of this song is old; the rest is mine.

CA’ THE EWES AND THE KNOWES.

This beautiful song is in true old Scotch taste, yet I do not know that either air or words were in print before.

THE BRIDAL O’T.

This song is the work of a Mr. Alexander Ross, late schoolmaster at Lochlee; and author of a beautiful Scots poem, called “The Fortunate Shepherdess.”

 
“They say that Jockey ‘ll speed weel o’t,
They say that Jockey ‘ll speed weel o’t,
For he grows brawer ilka day,
I hope we’ll hae a bridal o’t:
For yesternight nae farder gane,
The backhouse at the side wa’ o’t,
He there wi’ Meg was mirden seen,
I hope we’ll hae a bridal o’t.
An’ we had but a bridal o’t,
An’ we had but a bridal o’t,
We’d leave the rest unto gude luck,
Altho’ there should betide ill o’t:
For bridal days are merry times,
And young folks like the coming o’t,
And scribblers they bang up their rhymes,
And pipers they the bumming o’t.
The lasses like a bridal o’t,
The lasses like a bridal o’t,
Their braws maun be in rank and file,
Altho’ that they should guide ill o’t:
The boddom o’ the kist is then
Turn’d up into the inmost o’t,
The end that held the kecks sae clean,
Is now become the teemest o’t.
The bangster at the threshing o’t.
The bangster at the threshing o’t,
Afore it comes is fidgin-fain,
And ilka day’s a clashing o’t:
He’ll sell his jerkin for a groat,
His linder for anither o’t,
And e’er he want to clear his shot,
His sark’ll pay the tither o’t
The pipers and the fiddlers o’t,
The pipers and the fiddlers o’t,
Can smell a bridal unco’ far,
And like to be the middlers o’t;
Fan^[296] thick and threefold they convene,
Ilk ane envies the tither o’t,
And wishes nane but him alane
May ever see anither o’t.
Fan they hae done wi’ eating o’t,
Fan they hae done wi’ eating o’t,
For dancing they gae to the green,
And aiblins to the beating o’t:
He dances best that dances fast,
And loups at ilka reesing o’t,
And claps his hands frae hough to hough,
And furls about the feezings o’t.”
 

TODLEN HAME.

This is perhaps the first bottle song that ever was composed.

THE BRAES O’ BALLOCHMYLE.

This air is the composition of my friend Allan Masterton, in Edinburgh. I composed the verses on the amiable and excellent family of Whitefoords leaving Ballochmyle, when Sir John’s misfortunes had obliged him to sell the estate.

THE RANTIN’ DOG, THE DADDIE O’T.

I composed this song pretty early in life, and sent it to a young girl, a very particular acquaintance of mine, who was at that time under a cloud.

THE SHEPHERD’S PREFERENCE.

This song is Dr. Blacklock’s.—I don’t know how it came by the name, but the oldest appellation of the air was, “Whistle and I’ll come to you, my lad.”

It has little affinity to the tune commonly known by that name.

THE BONIE BANKS OF AYR.

I composed this song as I conveyed my chest so far on the road to Greenock, where I was to embark in a few days for Jamaica.

I meant it as my farewell dirge to my native land.

JOHN O’ BADENYON.

This excellent song is the composition of my worthy friend, old Skinner, at Linshart.

 
“When first I cam to be a man
Of twenty years or so,
I thought myself a handsome youth,
And fain the world would know;
In best attire I stept abroad,
With spirits brisk and gay,
And here and there and everywhere,
Was like a morn in May;
No care had I nor fear of want,
But rambled up and down,
And for a beau I might have pass’d
In country or in town;
I still was pleas’d where’er I went,
And when I was alone,
I tun’d my pipe and pleas’d myself
Wi’ John o’ Badenyon.
Now in the days of youthful prime
A mistress I must find,
For love, I heard, gave one an air
And ev’n improved the mind:
On Phillis fair above the rest
Kind fortune fixt my eyes,
Her piercing beauty struck my heart,
And she became my choice;
To Cupid now with hearty prayer
I offer’d many a vow;
And danc’d, and sung, and sigh’d, and swore,
As other lovers do;
But, when at last I breath’d my flame,
I found her cold as stone;
I left the jilt, and tun’d my pipe
To John o’ Badenyon.
When love had thus my heart beguil’d
With foolish hopes and vain,
To friendship’s port I steer’d my course,
And laugh’d at lover’s pain
A friend I got by lucky chance
’Twas something like divine,
An honest friend’s a precious gift,
And such a gift was mine:
And now, whatever might betide,
A happy man was I,
In any strait I knew to whom
I freely might apply;
A strait soon came: my friend I try’d;
He heard, and spurn’d my moan;
I hy’d me home, and tun’d my pipe
To John o’ Badenyon.
Methought I should be wiser next,
And would a patriot turn,
Began to doat on Johnny Wilks,
And cry up Parson Horne.
Their manly spirit I admir’d,
And prais’d their noble zeal,
Who had with flaming tongue and pen
Maintain’d the public weal;
But e’er a month or two had past,
I found myself betray’d,
’Twas self and party after all,
For a’ the stir they made;
At last I saw the factious knaves
Insult the very throne,
I curs’d them a’, and tun’d my pipe
To John o’ Badenyon.”
 

A WAUKRIFE MINNIE.

I picked up this old song and tune from a country girl in Nithsdale.—I never met with it elsewhere in Scotland.

 
“Whare are you gaun, my bonie lass,
Whare are you gaun, my hinnie,
She answer’d me right saucilie,
An errand for my minnie.
O whare live ye, my bonnie lass,
O whare live ye, my hinnie,
By yon burn-side, gin ye maun ken,
In a wee house wi’ my minnie.
But I foor up the glen at e’en,
To see my bonie lassie;
And lang before the gray morn cam,
She was na hauf sa sacie.
O weary fa’ the waukrife cock,
And the foumart lay his crawin!
He wauken’d the auld wife frae her sleep,
A wee blink or the dawin.
An angry wife I wat she raise,
And o’er the bed she brought her;
And wi’ a mickle hazle rung
She made her a weel pay’d dochter.
O fare thee weel, my bonie lass!
O fare thee weel, my hinnie!
Thou art a gay and a bonie lass,
But thou hast a waukrife minnie.”
 

TULLOCHGORUM.

This first of songs, is the master-piece of my old friend Skinner. He was passing the day, at the town of Cullen, I think it was, in a friend’s house whose name was Montgomery. Mrs. Montgomery observing, en passant, that the beautiful reel of Tullochgorum wanted words, she begged them of Mr. Skinner, who gratified her wishes, and the wishes of every Scottish song, in this most excellent ballad.

These particulars I had from the author’s son, Bishop Skinner, at Aberdeen.

FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT.

This song is mine, all except the chorus.

AULD LANG SYNE.

Ramsay here, as usual with him, has taken the idea of the song, and the first line, from the old fragment which may be seen in the “Museum,” vol. v.

WILLIE BREW’D A PECK O’ MAUT.

This air is Masterton’s; the song mine.—The occasion of it was this:—Mr. W. Nicol, of the High-School, Edinburgh, during the autumn vacation being at Moffat, honest Allan, who was at that time on a visit to Dalswinton, and I, went to pay Nicol a visit.—We had such a joyous meeting that Mr. Masterton and I agreed, each in our own way, that we should celebrate the business.

KILLIECRANKIE.

The battle of Killiecrankie was the last stand made by the clans for James, after his abdication. Here the gallant Lord Dundee fell in the moment of victory, and with him fell the hopes of the party. General Mackay, when he found the Highlanders did not pursue his flying army, said, “Dundee must be killed, or he never would have overlooked this advantage.” A great stone marks the spot where Dundee fell.

THE EWIE WI’ THE CROOKED HORN.

Another excellent song of old Skinner’s.

CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD.

It is remarkable of this air that it is the confine of that country where the greatest part of our Lowland music (so far as from the title, words, &c., we can localize it) has been composed. From Craigie-burn, near Moffat, until one reaches the West Highlands, we have scarcely one slow air of any antiquity.

The song was composed on a passion which a Mr. Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, had for a Miss Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelpdale. This young lady was born at Craigie-burn Wood.—The chorus is part of an old foolish ballad.

FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOVE.

I added the four last lines, by way of giving a turn to the theme of the poem, such as it is.

HUGHIE GRAHAM

There are several editions of this ballad.—This, here inserted, is from oral tradition in Ayrshire, where, when I was a boy, it was a popular song.—It originally had a simple old tune, which I have forgotten.

 
“Our lords are to the mountains gane,
A hunting o’ the fallow deer,
And they have gripet Hughie Graham,
For stealing o’ the bishop’s mare.
And they have tied him hand and foot,
And led him up, thro’ Stirling town;
The lads and lasses met him there,
Cried, Hughie Graham, thou art a loun.
O lowse my right hand free, he says,
And put my braid sword in the same;
He’s no in Stirling town this day,
Dare tell the tale to Hughie Graham.
Up then bespake the brave Whitefoord,
As he sat by the bishop’s knee,
Five hundred white stots I’ll gie you,
If ye’ll let Hughie Graham gae free.
O haud your tongue, the bishop says,
And wi’ your pleading let me be;
For tho’ ten Grahams were in his coat,
Hughie Graham this day shall die.
Up then bespake the fair Whitefoord,
As she sat by the bishop’s knee;
Five hundred white pence I’ll gie you,
If ye’ll gie Hughie Graham to me.
O haud your tongue now, lady fair,
And wi’ your pleading let it be;
Altho’ ten Grahams were in his coat,
It’s for my honour he maun die.
They’ve ta’en him to the gallows knowe,
He looked to the gallows tree,
Yet never colour left his cheek,
Nor ever did he blink his e’e
At length he looked around about,
To see whatever he could spy:
And there he saw his auld father,
And he was weeping bitterly.
O haud your tongue, my father dear,
And wi’ your weeping let it be;
Thy weeping’s sairer on my heart,
Than a’ that they can do to me.
And ye may gie my brother John
My sword that’s bent in the middle clear;
And let him come at twelve o’clock,
And see me pay the bishop’s mare.
And ye may gie my brother James
My sword that’s bent in the middle brown;
And bid him come at four o’clock,
And see his brother Hugh cut down.
Remember me to Maggy my wife,
The neist time ye gang o’er the moor,
Tell her she staw the bishop’s mare,
Tell her she was the bishop’s whore.
And ye may tell my kith and kin,
I never did disgrace their blood;
And when they meet the bishop’s cloak,
To mak it shorter by the hood.”
 

A SOUTHLAND JENNY.