The Modern Scottish Minstrel, Volume 1.
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Title: The Modern Scottish Minstrel, Volume 1.
Editor: Charles Rogers
Release date: May 15, 2006 [eBook #18396]
Language: English
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[Illustration:
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.
F.S.A. SCOT.
VOL. I.
THE AULD HOUSE O' GASK.
_THE BIRTH PLACE OF LADY NAIRN._
_(Copied by permission of Patterson & Sons)_
EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO THE QUEEN.]
* * * * *
[Illustration:
SIR WALTER SCOTT BART.
Lithographed for the Modern Scottish Minstrel, by Schenck & McFarlane.]
* * * * *
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
OR,
THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND OF THE
PAST HALF CENTURY.
WITH
Memoirs of the Poets,
AND
SKETCHES AND SPECIMENS
IN ENGLISH VERSE OF THE MOST CELEBRATED
MODERN GAELIC BARDS.
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.
F.S.A. SCOT.
IN SIX VOLUMES;
VOL. I.
EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO HER MAJESTY.
M.DCCC.LV.
EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY,
PAUL'S WORK.
TO
WILLIAM STIRLING, ESQ. OF KEIR, M.P.,
AN ENLIGHTENED SENATOR, AN ACCOMPLISHED SCHOLAR, AND AN INGENIOUS POET,
THIS FIRST VOLUME
OF
The Modern Scottish Minstrel
IS,
WITH HIS KIND PERMISSION, MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED,
BY
HIS VERY OBEDIENT, FAITHFUL SERVANT,
CHARLES ROGERS.
PREFACE.
Scotland has probably produced a more patriotic and more extended
minstrelsy than any other country in the world. Those Caledonian
harp-strains, styled by Sir Walter Scott "gems of our own mountains,"
have frequently been gathered into caskets of national song, but have
never been stored in any complete cabinet; while no attempt has been
made, at least on an ample scale, to adapt, by means of suitable
metrical translations, the minstrelsy of the Gaël for Lowland melody.
The present work has been undertaken with the view of supplying these
deficiencies, and with the further design of extending the fame of those
cultivators of Scottish song--hitherto partially obscured by untoward
circumstances, or on account of their own diffidence--and of affording a
stimulus towards the future cultivation of national poetry.
The plan of the work is distinct from that of every previous collection
of Scottish song--the more esteemed lyrical compositions of the various
bards being printed along with the memoirs of the respective authors,
while the names of the poets have been arranged in chronological order.
Those have been considered as _modern_ whose lives extend into the past
half-century; and the whole of these have consequently been included in
the work. Several Highland bards who died a short period before the
commencement of the century have, however, been introduced. Of all the
Scottish poets, whether lyrical or otherwise, who survived the period
indicated, biographical sketches will be supplied in the course of the
publication, together with memoirs of the principal modern collectors,
composers and vocalists. The memoirs, so far as is practicable, will be
prepared from original materials, of which the Editor, after a very
extensive correspondence, has obtained a supply more ample and more
interesting than, he flatters himself, has ever been attained by any
collector of northern minstrelsy. The work will extend to six volumes,
each of the subsequent volumes being accompanied by a dissertation on a
distinct department of Scottish poetry and song. Each volume will be
illustrated with two elegant engravings. In the course of the work, many
original compositions will be presented, recovered from the MSS. of the
deceased poets, or contributed by distinguished living bards.
For the department of the "Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy," the Editor has
obtained the assistance of a learned friend, intimately familiar with
the language and poetry of the Highlands. To this esteemed co-adjutor
the reader is indebted for the revisal of the Gaelic department of this
work, as well as for the following prefatory observations on the
subject:--
"Among the intelligent natives of the Highlands, it is well known
that the Gaelic language contains a quantity of poetry, which, how
difficult soever to transfuse into other tongues and idioms, never
fails to touch the heart, and excite enthusiastic feelings. The
plan of 'The Modern Scottish Minstrel' restricts us to a period
less favourable to the inspirations of the Celtic muse than remoter
times. If it is asked, What could be gained by recurring to a more
distant period? or what this unlettered people have really to shew
for their bardic pretensions? we answer, that there is extant a
large and genuine collection of Highland minstrelsy, ranging over a
long exciting period, from the days of Harlaw to the expedition of
Charles Edward. The 'Prosnachadh Catha,' or battle-song, that led
on the raid of Donald the Islander on the Garioch, is still sung;
the 'Woes of the Children of the Mist' are yet rehearsed in the
ears of their children in the most plaintive measures. Innerlochy
and Killiecrankie have their appropriate melodies; Glencoe has its
dirge; both the exiled Jameses have their pæan and their lament;
Charles Edward his welcome and his wail;--all in strains so varied,
and with imagery so copious, that their repetition is continually
called for, and their interest untiring.
"All that we have to offer belongs to recent times; but we cannot
aver that the merit of the verses is inferior. The interest of the
subjects is certainly immeasurably less; but, perhaps, not less
propitious to the lilts and the luinneags, in which, as in her
music and imitative dancing, the Highland border has found her best
Lowland acceptation.
"We are not aware that we need except any piece, out of the more
ancient class, that seems not to admit of being rivalled by some of
the compositions of Duncan Ban (Macintyre), Rob Donn, and a few
others that come into our own series, if we exclude the pathetic
'Old Bard's Wish,' 'The Song of the Owl,' and, perhaps, Ian Lom's
'Innerlochy.'
"But, while this may be so far satisfactory to our readers, we are
under the necessity of claiming their charitable forbearance for
the strangers of the mountain whom we are to introduce to their
acquaintance. The language, and, in some respects, the imagery and
versification, are as foreign to the usages of the Anglo-Saxon as
so many samples of Orientalism. The transfusion of the Greek and
Latin choral metres is a light effort to the difficulty of
imitating the rhythm, or representing the peculiar vein of these
song-enamoured mountaineers. Those who know how a favourite ode of
Horace, or a lay of Catullus, is made to look, except in mere
paraphrase, must not talk of the poorness or triteness of the
Highlander's verses, till they are enabled to do them justice by a
knowledge of the language. We disdain any attempt to make those
bards sing in the mere English taste, even if we could so translate
them as to make them speak or sing better than they do. The fear of
his sarcasms prevented Dr Johnson from hearing one literal version
during his whole sojourn in the Highlands. Sir Walter Scott wished
that somebody might have the manliness to recover Highland poetry
from the mystification of paraphrase or imposture, and to present
it genuine to the English reader. In that spirit we promise to
execute our task; and we shall rejoice if even a very moderate
degree of success should attend our endeavours to obtain for the
sister muse some share of that popularity to which we believe her
entitled."
In respect of the present volume of "The Modern Scottish Minstrel," the
Editor has to congratulate himself on his being enabled to present, for
the first time in a popular form, the more esteemed lays of Carolina,
Baroness Nairn, author of "The Laird o' Cockpen," "The Land o' the
Leal," and a greater number of popular lyrics than any other Caledonian
bard, Burns alone excepted. Several pieces of this accomplished lady,
not previously published, have been introduced, through the kindness of
her surviving friends. The memoir of the Baroness has been prepared from
original documents entrusted to the Editor. For permission to engrave
"The Auld House o' Gask," Lady Nairn's birth-place, the Editor's thanks
are due to Mr Paterson, music-seller in Edinburgh.
While the present volume of "The Modern Scottish Minstrel" is offered to
the public with becoming diffidence, the Editor is not without a faint
ray of hope that, if health and sufficient leisure are afforded him, the
present publication may be found the most ample and satisfactory
repository of national song which has at any period been offered to the
public.
ARGYLE HOUSE, STIRLING,
_April 18, 1855._
CONTENTS.
PAGE
JOHN SKINNER, 1
Tullochgorum, 11
John o' Badenyon, 13
The ewie wi' the crookit horn, 17
O! why should old age so much wound us? 20
Still in the wrong, 22
Lizzy Liberty, 24
The stipendless parson, 28
The man of Ross, 31
A song on the times, 33
WILLIAM CAMERON, 35
As o'er the Highland hills I hied, 37
MRS JOHN HUNTER, 39
The Indian death-song, 41
My mother bids me bind my hair, 41
The flowers of the forest, 42
The season comes when first we met, 43
Oh, tuneful voice! I still deplore, 44
Dear to my heart as life's warm stream, 44
The lot of thousands, 45
ALEXANDER, DUKE OF GORDON, 46
Cauld kail in Aberdeen, 48
MRS GRANT OF CARRON, 50
Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, 52
ROBERT COUPER, M.D., 53
Kinrara, 55
The sheeling, 55
The ewe-bughts, Marion, 56
LADY ANNE BARNARD, 58
Auld Robin Gray, 64
" " Part II., 65
Why tarries my love? 68
JOHN TAIT, 70
The banks of the Dee, 72
HECTOR MACNEILL, 73
Mary of Castlecary, 82
My boy, Tammy, 83
Oh, tell me how for to woo, 85
Lassie wi' the gowden hair, 87
Come under my plaidie, 89
I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane, 90
Donald and Flora, 92
My luve's in Germany, 95
Dinna think, bonnie lassie, 96
MRS GRANT OF LAGGAN, 99
Oh, where, tell me where? 104
Oh, my love, leave me not, 106
JOHN MAYNE, 107
Logan braes, 110
Helen of Kirkconnel, 111
The winter sat lang, 113
My Johnnie, 114
The troops were embarked, 115
JOHN HAMILTON, 117
The rantin' Highlandman, 118
Up in the mornin' early, 119
Go to Berwick, Johnnie, 121
Miss Forbes' farewell to Banff, 121
Tell me, Jessie, tell me why? 122
The hawthorn, 123
Oh, blaw, ye westlin' winds! 124
JOANNA BAILLIE, 126
The maid of Llanwellyn, 132
Good night, good night! 133
Though richer swains thy love pursue, 134
Poverty parts good companie, 134
Fy, let us a' to the wedding, 136
Hooly and fairly, 139
The weary pund o' tow, 141
The wee pickle tow, 142
The gowan glitters on the sward, 143
Saw ye Johnnie comin'? 145
It fell on a morning, 146
Woo'd, and married, and a', 148
WILLIAM DUDGEON, 151
Up among yon cliffy rocks, 152
WILLIAM REID, 153
The lea rig, 154
John Anderson, my jo (a continuation), 155
Fair, modest flower, 157
Kate o' Gowrie, 157
Upon the banks o' flowing Clyde, 159
ALEXANDER CAMPBELL, 161
Now winter's wind sweeps, 165
The hawk whoops on high, 166
MRS DUGALD STEWART, 167
The tears I shed must ever fall, 168
Returning spring, with gladsome ray, 169
ALEXANDER WILSON, 172
Connel and Flora, 179
Matilda, 179
Auchtertool, 182
CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRN, 184
The ploughman, 194
Caller herrin', 195
The land o' the leal, 196
The Laird o' Cockpen, 198
Her home she is leaving, 200
The bonniest lass in a' the warld, 201
My ain kind dearie, O! 202
He 's lifeless amang the rude billows, 202
Joy of my earliest days, 203
Oh, weel's me on my ain man, 204
Kind Robin lo'es me 205
Kitty Reid's house, 205
The robin's nest, 206
Saw ye nae my Peggy? 208
Gude nicht, and joy be wi' ye a'! 209
Cauld kail in Aberdeen, 210
He 's ower the hills that I lo'e weel, 211
The lass o' Gowrie, 213
There grows a bonnie brier bush, 215
John Tod, 216
Will ye no come back again? 218
Jamie the laird, 219
Songs of my native land, 220
Castell Gloom, 221
Bonnie Gascon Ha', 223
The auld house, 224
The hundred pipers, 226
The women are a' gane wud, 227
Jeanie Deans, 228
The heiress, 230
The mitherless lammie, 231
The attainted Scottish nobles, 232
True love is watered aye wi' tears, 233
Ah, little did my mother think, 234
Would you be young again? 235
Rest is not here, 236
Here's to them that are gane, 237
Farewell, O farewell! 238
The dead who have died in the Lord, 239
JAMES NICOL, 240
Blaw saftly, ye breezes, 242
By yon hoarse murmurin' stream, 242
Haluckit Meg, 244
My dear little lassie, 246
JAMES MONTGOMERY, 247
"Friendship, love, and truth," 253
The Swiss cowherd's song in a foreign land, 254
German war-song, 254
Via Crucis, via Lucis, 255
Verses to a robin-redbreast, 257
Slavery that was, 258
ANDREW SCOTT, 260
Rural content, or the muirland farmer, 263
Symon and Janet, 265
Coquet water, 268
The young maid's wish for peace, 269
The fiddler's widow, 271
Lament for the death of an Irish chief, 272
The departure of summer, 273
SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART., 275
It was an English ladye bright, 289
Lochinvar, 290
Where shall the lover rest, 292
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, 294
Hail to the chief who in triumph advances, 295
The heath this night must be my bed, 297
The imprisoned huntsman, 298
He is gone on the mountain, 299
A weary lot is thine, fair maid, 300
Allen-a-Dale, 300
The cypress wreath, 302
The cavalier, 303
Hunting song, 304
Oh, say not, my love, with that mortified air, 315
* * * * *
METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.
ROBERT MACKAY (ROB DONN), 309
The song of winter, 311
Dirge for Ian Macechan, 315
The song of the forsaken drover, 315
Isabel Mackay--the maid alone, 318
Evan's Elegy, 321
DOUGAL BUCHANAN, 322
A clagionn--the skull, 326
Am bruadar--the dream, 330
DUNCAN MACINTYRE, 334
Mairi bhān ōg (Mary, the young, the fair-haired), 335
Bendourain, the Otter Mount, 336
The bard to his musket, 347
JOHN MACODRUM, 351
Oran na h-aois (the song of age), 352
NORMAN MACLEOD (TORMAID BAN), 355
Caberfae, 357
* * * * *
GLOSSARY, 363
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL
JOHN SKINNER.
Among those modern Scottish poets whose lives, by extending to a
considerably distant period, render them connecting links between the
old and recent minstrelsy of Caledonia, the first place is due to the
Rev. John Skinner. This ingenious and learned person was born on the 3d
of October 1721, at Balfour, in the parish of Birse, and county of
Aberdeen. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was parochial
schoolmaster; but two years after his son's birth, he was presented to
the more lucrative situation of schoolmaster of Echt, a parish about
twelve miles distant from Aberdeen. He discharged the duties of this
latter appointment during the long incumbency of fifty years. He was
twice married. By his first union with Mrs Jean Gillanders, the relict
of Donald Farquharson of Balfour, was born an only child, the subject of
this memoir. The mother dying when the child was only two years old, the
charge of his early training depended solely on his father, who for
several years remained a widower. The paternal duties were adequately
performed: the son, while a mere youth, was initiated in classical
learning, and in his thirteenth year he became a successful competitor
for a bursary or exhibition in Marischal College, Aberdeen. At the
University, during the usual philosophical course of four years, he
pursued his studies with diligence and success; and he afterwards became
an usher in the parish schools of Kemnay and Monymusk.
From early youth, young Skinner had courted the Muse of his country, and
composed verses in the Scottish dialect. When a mere stripling, he could
repeat, which he did with enthusiasm, the long poem by James I. of
"Christ-kirk on the Green;" he afterwards translated it into Latin
verse; and an imitation of the same poem, entitled "The Monymusk
Christmas Ba'ing," descriptive of the diversions attendant on the annual
Christmas gatherings for playing the game of foot-ball at Monymusk,
which he composed in his sixteenth year, attracting the notice of the
lady of Sir Archibald Grant, Bart. of Monymusk, brought him the favour
of that influential family. Though the humble usher of a parish school,
he was honoured with the patronage of the worthy baronet and his lady,
became an inmate of their mansion, and had the uncontrolled use of its
library. The residence of the poet in Monymusk House indirectly conduced
towards his forming those ecclesiastical sentiments which exercised such
an important influence on his subsequent career. The Episcopal clergyman
of the district was frequently a guest at the table of Sir Archibald;
and by the arguments and persuasive conversation of this person, Mr
Skinner was induced to enlist his sympathies in the cause of the
Episcopal or non-juring clergy of Scotland. They bore the latter
appellation from their refusal, during the existence of the exiled
family of Stewart, to take the oath of allegiance to the House of
Hanover. In 1740, on the invitation of Mr Robert Forbes, Episcopal
minister at Leith, afterwards a bishop, Mr Skinner, in the capacity of
private tutor to the only son of Mr Sinclair of Scolloway, proceeded to
Zetland, where he acquired the intimate friendship of the Rev. Mr
Hunter, the only non-juring clergyman in that remote district. There he
remained only one year, owing to the death of the elder Mr Sinclair, and
the removal of his pupil to pursue his studies in a less retired
locality. He lamented the father's death in Latin, as well as in English
verse. He left Scolloway with the best wishes of the family; and as a
substantial proof of the goodwill of his friend Mr Hunter, he received
in marriage the hand of his eldest daughter.
Returning to Aberdeenshire, he was ordained a presbyter of the Episcopal
Church, by Bishop Dunbar of Peterhead; and in November 1742, on the
unanimous invitation of the people, he was appointed to the pastoral
charge of the congregation at Longside. Uninfluenced by the soarings of
ambition, he seems to have fixed here, at the outset, a permanent
habitation: he rented a cottage at Linshart in the vicinity, which,
though consisting only of a single apartment, besides the kitchen,
sufficed for the expenditure of his limited emoluments. In every respect
he realised Goldsmith's description of the village pastor:--
"A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a-year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place."
Secluded, however, as were Mr Skinner's habits, and though he never had
interfered in the political movements of the period, he did not escape
his share in those ruthless severities which were visited upon the
non-juring clergy subsequent to the last Rebellion. His chapel was
destroyed by the soldiers of the barbarous Duke of Cumberland; and, on
the plea of his having transgressed the law by preaching to more than
four persons without subscribing the oath of allegiance, he was, during
six months, detained a prisoner in the jail of Aberdeen.
Entering on the sacred duties of the pastoral office, Mr Skinner appears
to have checked the indulgence of his rhyming propensities. His
subsequent poetical productions, which include the whole of his popular
songs, were written to please his friends, or gratify the members of his
family, and without the most distant view to publication. In 1787, he
writes to Burns, on the subject of Scottish song:--"While I was young, I
dabbled a good deal in these things; but on getting the black gown, I
gave it pretty much over, till my daughters grew up, who, being all
tolerably good singers, plagued me for words to some of their favourite
tunes, and so extorted those effusions which have made a public
appearance, beyond my expectations, and contrary to my intentions; at
the same time, I hope there is nothing to be found in them
uncharacteristic or unbecoming the cloth, which I would always wish to
see respected." Some of Mr Skinner's best songs were composed at a
sitting, while they seldom underwent any revision after being committed
to paper. To the following incident, his most popular song,
"Tullochgorum," owed its origin. In the course of a visit he was making
to a friend in Ellon (not Cullen, as has been stated on the authority of
Burns), a dispute arose among the guests on the subject of Whig and Tory
politics, which, becoming somewhat too exciting for the comfort of the
lady of the house, in order to bring it promptly to a close, she
requested Mr Skinner to suggest appropriate words for the favourite air,
"The Reel of Tullochgorum." Mr Skinner readily complied, and, before
leaving the house, produced what Burns, in a letter to the author,
characterised as "the best Scotch song ever Scotland saw." The name of
the lady who made the request to the poet was Mrs Montgomery, and hence
the allusion in the first stanza of the ballad:--
"Come gie 's a sang, Montgomery cried,
And lay your disputes all aside;
What signifies 't for folks to chide
For what was done before them?
Let Whig and Tory all agree," &c.
Though claiming no distinction as a writer of verses, Mr Skinner did not
conceal his ambition to excel in another department of literature. In
1746, in his twenty-fifth year, he published a pamphlet, in defence of
the non-juring character of his Church, entitled "A Preservative against
Presbytery." A performance of greater effort, published in 1757, excited
some attention, and the unqualified commendation of the learned Bishop
Sherlock. In this production, entitled "A Dissertation on Jacob's
Prophecy," which was intended as a supplement to a treatise on the same
subject by Dr Sherlock, the author has established, by a critical
examination of the original language, that the words in Jacob's prophecy
(Gen. xlix. 10), rendered "sceptre" and "lawgiver" in the authorised
version, ought to be translated "tribeship" and "typifier," a difference
of interpretation which obviates some difficulties respecting the exact
fulfilment of this remarkable prediction. In a pamphlet printed in 1767,
Mr Skinner again vindicated the claims and authority of his Church; and
on this occasion, against the alleged misrepresentations of Mr Norman
Sievewright, English clergyman at Brechin, who had published a work
unfavourable to the cause of Scottish Episcopacy. His most important
work, "An Ecclesiastical History of Scotland, from the first appearance
of Christianity in that kingdom," was published in the year 1788, in two
octavo volumes. This publication, which is arranged in the form of
letters to a friend, and dedicated, in elegant Latin verse, "Ad Filium
et Episcopum," (to his son, and bishop), by partaking too rigidly of a
sectarian character, did not attain any measure of success. Mr Skinner's
other prose works were published after his death, together with a Memoir
of the author, under the editorial care of his son, Bishop Skinner of
Aberdeen. These consist of theological essays, in the form of "Letters
addressed to Candidates for Holy Orders," "A Dissertation on the
Sheckinah, or Divine Presence with the Church or People of God," and "An
Essay towards a literal or true radical exposition of the Song of
Songs," the whole being included in two octavo volumes, which appeared
in 1809. A third volume was added, containing a collection of the
author's compositions in Latin verse, and his fugitive songs and ballads
in the Scottish dialect--the latter portion of this volume being at the
same time published in a more compendious form, with the title,
"Amusements of Leisure Hours; or, Poetical Pieces, chiefly in the
Scottish dialect."
Though living in constant retirement at Linshart, the reputation of the
Longside pastor, both as a poet and a man of classical taste, became
widely extended, and persons distinguished in the world of letters
sought his correspondence and friendship. With Dr Gleig, afterwards
titular Bishop of Brechin, Dr Doig of Stirling, and John Ramsay of
Ochtertyre, he maintained an epistolary intercourse for several years.
Dr Gleig, who edited the _Encyclopædia Britannica_, consulted Mr Skinner
respecting various important articles contributed to that valuable
publication. His correspondence with Doig and Ramsay was chiefly on
their favourite topic of philology. These two learned friends visited Mr
Skinner in the summer of 1795, and entertained him for a week at
Peterhead. This brief period of intellectual intercourse was regarded by
the poet as the most entirely pleasurable of his existence; and the
impression of it on the vivid imagination of Mr Ramsay is recorded in a
Latin eulogy on his northern correspondent, which he subsequently
transmitted to him. A poetical epistle addressed by Mr Skinner to Robert
Burns, in commendation of his talents, was characterized by the Ayrshire
Bard as "the best poetical compliment he had ever received." It led to a
regular correspondence, which was carried on with much satisfaction to
both parties. The letters, which chiefly relate to the preparation of
Johnson's _Musical Museum_, then in the course of publication, have been
included in his published correspondence. Burns never saw Mr Skinner; he
had not informed himself as to his locality during the prosecution of
his northern tour, and had thus the mortification of ascertaining that
he had been in his neighbourhood, without having formed his personal
acquaintance. To Mr Skinner's son, whom he accidentally met in Aberdeen
on his return, he expressed a deep regret for the blunder, as "he would
have gone twenty miles out of his way to visit the author of
'Tullochgorum.'"
As a man of ingenuity, various acquirements, and agreeable manners, Mr
Skinner was held in much estimation among his contemporaries. Whatever
he read, with the assistance of a commonplace-book, he accurately
remembered, and could readily turn to account; and, though his library
was contained in a closet of five feet square, he was abundantly well
informed on every ordinary topic of conversation. He was fond of
controversial discussion, and wielded both argument and wit with a power
alarming to every antagonist. Though keen in debate, he was however
possessed of a most imperturbable suavity of temper. His conversation
was of a playful cast, interspersed with anecdote, and free from every
affectation of learning. As a clergyman, Mr Skinner enjoyed the esteem
and veneration of his flock. Besides efficiently discharging his
ministerial duties, he practised gratuitously as a physician, having
qualified himself, by acquiring a competent acquaintance with the
healing art at the medical classes in Marischal College. His pulpit
duties were widely acceptable; but his discourses, though edifying and
instructive, were more the result of the promptitude of the preacher
than the effects of a painstaking preparation. He abandoned the aid of
the manuscript in the pulpit, on account of the untoward occurrence of
his notes being scattered by a startled fowl, in the early part of his
ministry, while he was addressing his people from the door of his house,
after the wanton destruction of his chapel.
In a scene less calculated to invite poetic inspiration no votary of the
muse had ever resided. On every side of his lonely dwelling extended a
wild uncultivated plain; nor for miles around did any other human
habitation relieve the monotony of this cheerless solitude. In her
gayest moods, Nature never wore a pleasing aspect in _Long-gate_, nor
did the distant prospect compensate for the dreary gloominess of the
surrounding landscape. For his poetic suggestions Mr Skinner was wholly
dependent on the singular activity of his fancy; as he derived his chief
happiness in his communings with an attached flock, and in the endearing
intercourse of his family. Of his children, who were somewhat numerous
he contrived to afford the whole, both sons and daughters, a superior
education; and he had the satisfaction, for a long period of years, to
address one of his sons as the bishop of his diocese.
The death of Mr Skinner's wife, in the year 1799, fifty-eight years
after their marriage, was the most severe trial which he seems to have
experienced. In a Latin elegy, he gave expression to the deep sense
which he entertained of his bereavement. In 1807, his son, Bishop
Skinner, having sustained a similar bereavement, invited his aged father
to share the comforts of his house; and after ministering at Longside
for the remarkably lengthened incumbency of sixty-five years, Mr Skinner
removed to Aberdeen. But a greater change was at hand; on the 16th of
June 1807, in less than a week after his arrival, he was suddenly seized
with illness, and almost immediately expired. His remains were interred
in the churchyard of Longside; and the flock to which he had so long
ministered placed over the grave a handsome monument, bearing, on a
marble tablet, an elegant tribute to the remembrance of his virtues and
learning. At the residence of Bishop Skinner, he had seen his
descendants in the fourth generation.
Of Mr Skinner's songs, printed in this collection, the most popular are
"Tullochgorum," "John o' Badenyon," and "The Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn."
The whole are pervaded by sprightliness and good-humoured pleasantry.
Though possessing the fault of being somewhat too lengthy, no
song-compositions of any modern writer in Scottish verse have, with the
exception of those of Burns, maintained a stronger hold of the Scottish
heart, or been more commonly sung in the social circle.
TULLOCHGORUM.
I.
Come gie 's a sang, Montgomery cried,
And lay your disputes all aside,
What signifies 't for folks to chide
For what was done before them:
Let Whig and Tory all agree,
Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,
Whig and Tory all agree,
To drop their Whig-mig-morum;
Let Whig and Tory all agree
To spend the night wi' mirth and glee,
And cheerful sing alang wi' me
The Reel o' Tullochgorum.
II.
O Tullochgorum 's my delight,
It gars us a' in ane unite,
And ony sumph that keeps a spite,
In conscience I abhor him:
For blythe and cheerie we'll be a',
Blythe and cheerie, blythe and cheerie,
Blythe and cheerie we'll be a',
And make a happy quorum;
For blythe and cheerie we'll be a'
As lang as we hae breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',
The Reel o' Tullochgorum.
III.
What needs there be sae great a fraise
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays?
I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys
For half a hunder score o' them;
They're dowf and dowie at the best,
Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie,
Dowf and dowie at the best,
Wi' a' their variorum;
They're dowf and dowie at the best,
Their _allegros_ and a' the rest,
They canna' please a Scottish taste,
Compared wi' Tullochgorum.
IV.
Let warldly worms their minds oppress
Wi' fears o' want and double cess,
And sullen sots themsells distress
Wi' keeping up decorum:
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Sour and sulky shall we sit,
Like old philosophorum?
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,
Nor ever try to shake a fit
To th' Reel o' Tullochgorum?
V.
May choicest blessings aye attend
Each honest, open-hearted friend,
And calm and quiet be his end,
And a' that's good watch o'er him;
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,
Peace and plenty be his lot,
And dainties a great store o' them:
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Unstain'd by any vicious spot,
And may he never want a groat,
That 's fond o' Tullochgorum!
VI.
But for the sullen, frumpish fool,
That loves to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,
And discontent devour him;
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
Dool and sorrow be his chance,
And nane say, Wae 's me for him!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Wi' a' the ills that come frae France,
Wha e'er he be that winna dance
The Reel o' Tullochgorum.
JOHN O' BADENYON
I.
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 I had, nor fear of want,
But rambled up and down,
And for a beau I might have past
In country or in town;
I still was pleased where'er I went,
And when I was alone,
I tuned my pipe and pleased myself
Wi' John o' Badenyon.
II.
Now in the days of youthful prime
A mistress I must find,
For _love_, I heard, gave one an air
And e'en improved the mind:
On Phillis fair above the rest
Kind fortune fix'd 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 danced and sung, and sigh'd and swore,
As other lovers do;
But, when at last I breathed my flame,
I found her cold as stone;
I left the girl, and tuned my pipe
To John o' Badenyon.
III.
When _love_ had thus my heart beguiled
With foolish hopes and vain;
To _friendship's_ port I steer'd my course,
And laugh'd at lovers' pain;
A friend I got by lucky chance,
'Twas something like divine,
An honest friend 's a precious gift,
And such a gift was mine;
And now whatever 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 hied me home, and tuned my pipe
To John o' Badenyon.
IV.
Methought I should be wiser next,
And would a _patriot_ turn,
Began to doat on Johnny Wilkes
And cry up Parson Horne.[1]
Their manly spirit I admired,
And praised their noble zeal,
Who had with flaming tongue and pen
Maintain'd the public weal;
But e'er a month or two had pass'd,
I found myself betray'd,
'Twas _self_ and _party_, after all,
For a' the stir they made;
At last I saw the factious knaves
Insult the very throne,
I cursed them a', and tuned my pipe
To John o' Badenyon.
V.
What next to do I mused awhile,
Still hoping to succeed;
I pitch'd on _books_ for company,
And gravely tried to read:
I bought and borrow'd everywhere,
And studied night and day,
Nor miss'd what dean or doctor wrote
That happen'd in my way:
Philosophy I now esteem'd
The ornament of youth,
And carefully through many a page
I hunted after truth.
A thousand various schemes I tried,
And yet was pleased with none;
I threw them by, and tuned my pipe
To John o' Badenyon.
VI.
And now, ye youngsters everywhere,
That wish to make a show,
Take heed in time, nor fondly hope
For happiness below;
What you may fancy pleasure here,
Is but an empty name,
And _girls_, and _friends_, and _books_, and so,
You 'll find them all the same.
Then be advised, and warning take
From such a man as me;
I 'm neither Pope nor Cardinal,
Nor one of high degree;
You 'll meet displeasure everywhere;
Then do as I have done,
E'en tune your pipe and please yourselves
With John o' Badenyon.
[1] This song was composed when Wilkes, Horne, and others, were exciting
a commotion about liberty.
THE EWIE WI' THE CROOKIT HORN.
I.
Were I but able to rehearse
My Ewie's praise in proper verse,
I 'd sound it forth as loud and fierce
As ever piper's drone could blaw;
The Ewie wi' the crookit horn,
Wha had kent her might hae sworn
Sic a Ewe was never born,
Hereabout nor far awa';
Sic a Ewe was never born,
Hereabout nor far awa'.
II.
I never needed tar nor keil
To mark her upo' hip or heel,
Her crookit horn did as weel
To ken her by amo' them a';
She never threaten'd scab nor rot,
But keepit aye her ain jog-trot,
Baith to the fauld and to the cot,
Was never sweir to lead nor caw;
Baith to the fauld and to the cot, &c.
III.
Cauld nor hunger never dang her,
Wind nor wet could never wrang her,
Anes she lay an ouk and langer
Furth aneath a wreath o' snaw:
Whan ither ewies lap the dyke,
And eat the kail, for a' the tyke,
My Ewie never play'd the like,
But tyc'd about the barn wa';
My Ewie never play'd the like, &c.
IV.
A better or a thriftier beast
Nae honest man could weel hae wist,
For, silly thing, she never mist
To hae ilk year a lamb or twa':
The first she had I gae to Jock,
To be to him a kind o' stock,
And now the laddie has a flock
O' mair nor thirty head ava';
And now the laddie has a flock, &c.
V.
I lookit aye at even' for her,
Lest mishanter should come o'er her,
Or the fowmart might devour her,
Gin the beastie bade awa;
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn,
Well deserved baith girse and corn,
Sic a Ewe was never born,
Hereabout nor far awa';
Sic a Ewe was never born, &c.
VI.
Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping,
(Wha can speak it without _greeting_?)
A villain cam' when I was sleeping,
Sta' my Ewie, horn, and a':
I sought her sair upo' the morn,
And down aneath a buss o' thorn
I got my Ewie's crookit horn,
But my Ewie was awa';
I got my Ewie's crookit horn, &c.
VII.
O! gin I had the loon that did it,
Sworn I have as well as said it,
Though a' the warld should forbid it,
I wad gie his neck a thra':
I never met wi' sic a turn
As this sin' ever I was born,
My Ewie, wi' the crookit horn,
Silly Ewie, stown awa';
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c.
VIII.
O! had she died o' crook or cauld,
As Ewies do when they grow auld,
It wad na been, by mony fauld,
Sae sair a heart to nane o's a':
For a' the claith that we hae worn,
Frae her and her's sae aften shorn,
The loss o' her we could hae born,
Had fair strae-death ta'en her awa';
The loss o' her we could hae born, &c.
IX.
But thus, poor thing, to lose her life,
Aneath a bleedy villain's knife,
I 'm really fleyt that our guidwife
Will never win aboon 't ava:
O! a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn,
Call your muses up and mourn,
Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn
Stown frae 's, and fell'd and a'!
Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c.
O! WHY SHOULD OLD AGE SO MUCH WOUND US?
TUNE--_"Dumbarton Drums."_
I.
O! why should old age so much wound us?[2]
There is nothing in it all to confound us:
For how happy now am I,
With my old wife sitting by,
And our bairns and our oys all around us;
For how happy now am I, &c.
II.
We began in the warld wi' naething,
And we 've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ae thing;
We made use of what we had,
And our thankful hearts were glad,
When we got the bit meat and the claithing;
We made use of what we had, &c.
III.
We have lived all our lifetime contented,
Since the day we became first acquainted:
It 's true we 've been but poor,
And we are so to this hour,
But we never yet repined or lamented;
It 's true we 've been but poor, &c.
IV.
When we had any stock, we ne'er vauntit,
Nor did we hing our heads when we wantit;
But we always gave a share
Of the little we could spare,
When it pleased a kind Heaven to grant it;
But we always gave a share, &c.
V.
We never laid a scheme to be wealthy,
By means that were cunning or stealthy;
But we always had the bliss--
And what further could we wiss?--
To be pleased with ourselves, and be healthy;
But we always had the bliss, &c.
VI.
What though we cannot boast of our guineas?
We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies;
And these, I 'm certain, are
More desirable by far
Than a bag full of poor yellow steinies;
And these, I am certain, are, &c.
VII.
We have seen many wonder and ferly,
Of changes that almost are yearly,
Among rich folks up and down,
Both in country and in town,
Who now live but scrimply and barely;
Among rich folks up and down, &c.
VIII.
Then why should people brag of prosperity?
A straiten'd life we see is no rarity;
Indeed, we 've been in want,
And our living 's been but scant,
Yet we never were reduced to need charity;
Indeed, we 've been in want, &c.
IX.
In this house we first came together,
Where we 've long been a father and mither;
And though not of stone and lime,
It will last us all our time;
And I hope we shall ne'er need anither;
And though not of stone and lime, &c.
X.
And when we leave this poor habitation,
We 'll depart with a good commendation;
We 'll go hand in hand, I wiss,
To a better house than this,
To make room for the next generation;
We 'll go hand in hand, I wiss, &c.
Then why should old age so much wound us? &c.
[2] This tune requires O to be added at the end of each of the long
lines, but in reading the song the O is better omitted.
STILL IN THE WRONG.
I.
It has long been my fate to be thought in the _wrong_,
And my fate it continues to be;
The wise and the wealthy still make it their song,
And the clerk and the cottar agree.
There is nothing I do, and there 's nothing I say,
But some one or other thinks wrong;
And to please them I find there is no other way,
But do nothing, and still hold my tongue.
II.
Says the free-thinking Sophist, "The times are refined
In sense to a wondrous degree;
Your old-fashion'd faith does but fetter the mind,
And it 's _wrong_ not to seek to be free."
Says the sage Politician, "Your natural share
Of talents would raise you much higher,
Than thus to crawl on in your present low sphere,
And it 's _wrong_ in you not to aspire."
III.
Says the Man of the World, "Your dull stoic life
Is surely deserving of blame?
You have children to care for, as well as a wife,
And it 's _wrong_ not to lay up for them."
Says the fat Gormandiser, "To eat and to drink
Is the true _summum bonum_ of man:
Life is nothing without it, whate'er you may think,
And it 's _wrong_ not to live while you can."
IV.
Says the new-made Divine, "Your old modes we reject,
Nor give ourselves trouble about them:
It is manners and dress that procure us respect,
And it 's _wrong_ to look for it without them."
Says the grave peevish Saint, in a fit of the spleen,
"Ah! me, but your manners are vile:
A parson that 's blythe is a shame to be seen,
And it 's _wrong_ in you even to smile."
V.
Says the Clown, when I tell him to do what he ought,
"Sir, whatever your character be,
To obey you in this I will never be brought,
And it 's _wrong_ to be meddling with me."
Says my Wife, when she wants this or that for the house,
"Our matters to ruin must go:
Your reading and writing is not worth a souse,
And it 's _wrong_ to neglect the house so."
VI.
Thus all judge of me by their taste or their wit,
And I 'm censured by old and by young,
Who in one point agree, though in others they split,
That in something I 'm still in the _wrong_.
But let them say on to the end of the song,
It shall make no impression on me:
If to differ from such be to be in the _wrong_,
In the _wrong_ I hope always to be.
LIZZY LIBERTY.
TUNE--_"Tibbie Fowler i' the Glen."_
I.
There lives a lassie i' the braes,
And Lizzy Liberty they ca' her,
When she has on her Sunday's claes,
Ye never saw a lady brawer;
So a' the lads are wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her!
II.
Her mither ware a tabbit mutch,
Her father was an honest dyker,
She 's a black-eyed wanton witch,
Ye winna shaw me mony like her:
So a' the lads are wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her!
III.
A kindly lass she is, I 'm seer,
Has fowth o' sense and smeddum in her,
And nae a swankie far nor near,
But tries wi' a' his might to win her:
They 're wooing at her, fain would hae her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her!
IV.
For kindly though she be, nae doubt,
She manna thole the marriage tether,
But likes to rove and rink about,
Like Highland cowt amo' the heather:
Yet a' the lads are wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.
V.
It 's seven year, and some guid mair,
Syn Dutch Mynheer made courtship till her,
A merchant bluff and fu' o' care,
Wi' chuffy cheeks, and bags o' siller;
So Dutch Mynheer was wooing at her,
Courting her, but cudna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.
VI.
Neist to him came Baltic John,
Stept up the brae, and leukit at her,
Syne wear his wa', wi' heavy moan,
And in a month or twa forgat her:
Baltic John was wooing at her,
Courting her, but cudna get her;
Filthy elf, she 's nae herself, wi' sae mony wooing at her.
VII.
Syne after him cam' Yankie Doodle,
Frae hyne ayont the muckle water;
Though Yankie 's nae yet worth a boddle,
Wi' might and main he would be at her:
Yankie Doodle 's wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.
VIII.
Now Monkey French is in a roar,
And swears that nane but he sall hae her,
Though he sud wade through bluid and gore,
It 's nae the king sall keep him frae her:
So Monkey French is wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.
IX.
For France, nor yet her Flanders' frien',
Need na think that she 'll come to them;
They 've casten aff wi' a' their kin,
And grace and guid have flown frae them;
They 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.
X.
A stately chiel they ca' John Bull
Is unco thrang and glaikit wi' her;
And gin he cud get a' his wull,
There 's nane can say what he wad gi'e her:
Johnny Bull is wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Filthy Ted, she 'll never wed, as lang 's sae mony 's wooing at her.
XI.
Even Irish Teague, ayont Belfast,
Wadna care to speir about her;
And swears, till he sall breathe his last,
He 'll never happy be without her:
Irish Teague is wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.
XII.
But Donald Scot 's the happy lad,
Though a' the lave sud try to rate him;
Whan he steps up the brae sae glad,
She disna ken maist whare to set him:
Donald Scot is wooing at her,
Courting her, will maybe get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.
XIII.
Now, Donald, tak' a frien's advice--
I ken fu' weel ye fain wad hae her;
As ye are happy, sae be wise,
And ha'd ye wi' a smackie frae her:
Ye 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her,
Courting her, will maybe get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her.
XIV.
Ye 're weel, and wat'sna, lad, they 're sayin',
Wi' getting leave to dwall aside her;
And gin ye had her a' your ain,
Ye might na find it mows to guide her:
Ye 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her,
Courting her, will maybe get her;
Cunning quean, she 's ne'er be mine, as lang 's sae mony 's wooing at her.
THE STIPENDLESS PARSON.
TUNE--_"A Cobbler there was,"_ &c.
I.
How happy a life does the Parson possess,
Who would be no greater, nor fears to be less;
Who depends on his book and his gown for support,
And derives no preferment from conclave or court!
Derry down, &c.
II.
Without glebe or manse settled on him by law,
No stipend to sue for, nor vic'rage to draw;
In discharge of his office he holds him content,
With a croft and a garden, for which he pays rent.
Derry down, &c.
III.
With a neat little cottage and furniture plain,
And a spare room to welcome a friend now and then;
With a good-humour'd wife in his fortune to share,
And ease him at all times of family care.
Derry down, &c.
IV.
With a few of the Fathers, the oldest and best,
And some modern extracts pick'd out from the rest;
With a Bible in Latin, and Hebrew, and Greek,
To afford him instruction each day of the week.
Derry down, &c.
V.
What children he has, if any are given,
He thankfully trusts to the kindness of Heaven;
To religion and virtue he trains them while young,
And with such a provision he does them no wrong.
Derry down, &c.
VI.
With labour below, and with help from above,
He cares for his flock, and is bless'd with their love:
Though his living, perhaps, in the main may be scant,
He is sure, while they have, that he 'll ne'er be in want.
Derry down, &c.
VII.
With no worldly projects nor hurries perplex'd,
He sits in his closet and studies his text;
And while he converses with Moses or Paul,
He envies not bishop, nor dean in his stall.
Derry down, &c.
VIII.
Not proud to the poor, nor a slave to the great,
Neither factious in church, nor pragmatic in state,
He keeps himself quiet within his own sphere,
And finds work sufficient in preaching and prayer.
Derry down, &c.
IX.
In what little dealings he 's forced to transact,
He determines with plainness and candour to act;
And the great point on which his ambition is set,
Is to leave at the last neither riches nor debt.
Derry down, &c.
X.
Thus calmly he steps through the valley of life,
Unencumber'd with wealth, and a stranger to strife;
On the bustlings around him unmoved he can look,
And at home always pleased with his wife and his book.
Derry down, &c.
XI.
And when, in old age, he drops into the grave,
This humble remembrance he wishes to have:
"By good men respected, by the evil oft tried,
Contented he lived, and lamented he died!"
Derry down, &c.
THE MAN OF ROSS.
TUNE--_"Miss Ross's Reel."_
I.
When fops and fools together prate,
O'er punch or tea, of this or that,
What silly poor unmeaning chat
Does all their talk engross!
A nobler theme employs my lays,
And thus my honest voice I raise
In well-deserved strains to praise
The worthy Man of Ross.
II.
His lofty soul (would it were mine!)
Scorns every selfish, low design,
And ne'er was known to repine,
At any earthly loss:
But still contented, frank, and free,
In every state, whate'er it be,
Serene and staid we always see
The worthy Man of Ross.
III.
Let misers hug their worldly store,
And gripe and pinch to make it more;
Their gold and silver's shining ore
He counts it all but dross:
'Tis better treasure he desires;
A surer stock his passion fires,
And mild benevolence inspires
The worthy Man of Ross.
IV.
When want assails the widow's cot,
Or sickness strikes the poor man's hut,
When blasting winds or foggy rot
Augment the farmer's loss:
The sufferer straight knows where to go,
With all his wants and all his woe;
For glad experience leads him to
The worthy Man of Ross.
V.
This Man of Ross I 'll daily sing,
With vocal note and lyric string,
And duly, when I 've drank the king,
He 'll be my second toss.
May Heaven its choicest blessings send
On such a man, and such a friend;
And still may all that 's good attend
The worthy Man of Ross.
VI.
Now, if you ask about his name,
And where he lives with such a fame,
Indeed, I 'll say you are to blame,
For truly, _inter nos_,
'Tis what belongs to you and me,
And all of high or low degree,
In every sphere to try to be
The worthy Man of Ross.
A SONG ON THE TIMES.
TUNE--_"Broom of the Cowdenknows."_
I.
When I began the world first,
It was not as 'tis now;
For all was plain and simple then,
And friends were kind and true:
Oh, the times, the weary, weary times!
The times that I now see;
I think the world 's all gone wrong,
From what it used to be.
II.
There were not then high capering heads,
Prick'd up from ear to ear;
And cloaks and caps were rarities,
For gentle folks to wear:
Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.
III.
There 's not an upstart mushroom now,
But what sets up for taste;
And not a lass in all the land,
But must be lady-dress'd:
Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.
IV.
Our young men married then for love,
So did our lasses too;
And children loved their parents dear,
As children ought to do:
Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.
V.
For oh, the times are sadly changed--
A heavy change indeed!
For truth and friendship are no more,
And honesty is fled:
Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.
VI.
There 's nothing now prevails but pride,
Among both high and low;
And strife, and greed, and vanity,
Is all that 's minded now:
Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.
VII.
When I look through the world wide,
How times and fashions go,
It draws the tears from both my eyes,
And fills my heart with woe:
Oh, the times, the weary, weary times!
The times that I now see;
I wish the world were at an end,
For it will not mend for me!
WILLIAM CAMERON.
William Cameron, minister of Kirknewton, in the county of Edinburgh, was
educated in Marischal College, Aberdeen, where he was a pupil of Dr
Beattie, "who ever after entertained for him much esteem." A letter,
addressed to him by this eminent professor, in 1774, has been published
by Sir William Forbes;[3] and his name is introduced at the beginning of
Dr Beattie's "Letter to the Rev. Hugh Blair, D.D., on the Improvement of
Psalmody in Scotland. 1778, 8vo:"--"The message you lately sent me, by
my friend Mr Cameron, has determined me to give you my thoughts at some
length upon the subject of it."
He died in his manse, on the 17th of November 1811, in the 60th year of
his age, and the 26th year of his ministry. He was a considerable writer
of verses, and his compositions are generally of a respectable order. He
was the author of a "Collection of Poems," printed at Edinburgh in 1790,
in a duodecimo volume; and in 1781, along with the celebrated John Logan
and Dr Morrison, minister of Canisbay, he contributed towards the
formation of a collection of Paraphrases from Scripture, which, being
approved of by the General Assembly, are still used in public worship
in the Church of Scotland. A posthumous volume of verses by Mr Cameron,
entitled "Poems on Several Occasions," was published by subscription in
1813--8vo, pp. 132. The following song, which was composed by Mr
Cameron, on the restoration of the forfeited estates by Act of
Parliament, in 1784, is copied from Johnson's "Musical Museum." It
affords a very favourable specimen of the author's poetical talents.
[3] Forbes's "Life of Beattie," vol. i. p. 375.
AS O'ER THE HIGHLAND HILLS I HIED.
TUNE--_"As I came in by Auchindoun."_
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]
I.
When merry hearts were gay,
Careless of aught but play,
Poor Flora slipt away,
Sadd'ning to Mora;[17]
Loose flow'd her yellow hair,
Quick heaved her bosom bare,
As to the troubled air
She vented her sorrow.
II.
"Loud howls the stormy wist,
Cold, cold is winter's blast;
Haste, then, O Donald, haste,
Haste to thy Flora!
Twice twelve long months are o'er,
Since on a foreign shore
You promised to fight no more,
But meet me in Mora."
III.
"'Where now is Donald dear?'
Maids cry with taunting sneer;
'Say, is he still sincere
To his loved Flora?'
Parents upbraid my moan,
Each heart is turn'd to stone:
'Ah, Flora! thou 'rt now alone,
Friendless in Mora!'
IV.
"Come, then, O come away!
Donald, no longer stay;
Where can my rover stray
From his loved Flora!
Ah! sure he ne'er can be
False to his vows and me;
Oh, Heaven!--is not yonder he,
Bounding o'er Mora!"
V.
"Never, ah! wretched fair!"
Sigh'd the sad messenger,
"Never shall Donald mair
Meet his loved Flora!
Cold as yon mountain snow
Donald thy love lies low;
He sent me to soothe thy woe,
Weeping in Mora.
VI.
"Well fought our gallant men
On Saratoga's plain;
Thrice fled the hostile train
From British glory.
But, ah! though our foes did flee,
Sad was such victory--
Truth, love, and loyalty
Fell far from Mora.
VII.
"'Here, take this love-wrought plaid,'
Donald, expiring, said;
'Give it to yon dear maid
Drooping in Mora.
Tell her, O Allan! tell
Donald thus bravely fell,
And that in his last farewell
He thought on his Flora.'"
VIII.
Mute stood the trembling fair,
Speechless with wild despair;
Then, striking her bosom bare,
Sigh'd out, "Poor Flora!
Ah, Donald! ah, well-a-day!"
Was all the fond heart could say:
At length the sound died away
Feebly in Mora.
[16] This fine ballad was written by Macneill, to commemorate the death
of his friend, Captain Stewart, a brave officer, betrothed to a young
lady in Athole, who, in 1777, fell at the battle of Saratoga, in
America. The words, which are adapted to an old Gaelic air, appear with
music in Smith's "Scottish Minstrel," vol. iii. p. 28. The ballad, in
the form given above, has been improved in several of the stanzas by the
author, on his original version, published in Johnson's "Museum." See
the "Museum," vol. iv. p. 238.
[17] Mora is the name of a small valley in Athole, so designated by the
two lovers.
MY LUVE'S IN GERMANY.[18]
TUNE--_"Ye Jacobites by name."_
My luve 's in Germanie, send him hame, send him hame;
My luve 's in Germanie, send him hame;
My luve 's in Germanie,
Fighting brave for royalty:
He may ne'er his Jeanie see--
Send him hame.
He 's as brave as brave can be--send him hame, send him hame;
He 's as brave as brave can be--send him hame;
He 's as brave as brave can be,
He wad rather fa' than flee;
His life is dear to me--
Send him hame.
Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, bonnie dame, bonnie dame,
Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, bonnie dame;
Your luve ne'er learnt to flee,
But he fell in Germanie,
In the cause of royalty,
Bonnie dame.
He 'll ne'er come ower the sea--Willie 's slain, Willie 's slain;
He 'll ne'er come ower the sea--Willie 's gane!
He 'll ne'er come ower the sea,
To his love and ain countrie:
This warld 's nae mair for me--
Willie 's gane!
[18] This song was originally printed on a single sheet, by N. Stewart
and Co., Edinburgh, in 1794, as the lament of a lady on the death of an
officer. It does not appear in Macneill's "Poetical Works," but he
asserted to Mr Stenhouse his claims to the authorship.--Johnson's
"Museum," vol. iv. p. 323.
DINNA THINK, BONNIE LASSIE.[19]
TUNE--_"Clunie's Reel."_
"Oh, dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee!
Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee;
Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee;
I 'll tak a stick into my hand, and come again and see thee."
"Far 's the gate ye hae to gang; dark 's the night, and eerie;
Far 's the gate ye hae to gang; dark 's the night, and eerie;
Far 's the gate ye hae to gang; dark 's the night, and eerie;
Oh, stay this night wi' your love, and dinna gang and leave me."
"It 's but a night and hauf a day that I 'll leave my dearie;
But a night and hauf a day that I 'll leave my dearie;
But a night and hauf a day that I 'll leave my dearie;
Whene'er the sun gaes west the loch, I 'll come again and see thee."
"Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and leave me;
Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and leave me;
When a' the lave are sound asleep, I 'm dull and eerie;
And a' the lee-lang night I 'm sad, wi' thinking on my dearie."
"Oh, dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee!
Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee;
Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee;
Whene'er the sun gaes out o' sight, I 'll come again and see thee."
"Waves are rising o'er the sea; winds blaw loud and fear me;
Waves are rising o'er the sea; winds blaw loud and fear me;
While the winds and waves do roar, I am wae and drearie;
And gin ye lo'e me as ye say, ye winna gang and leave me."
"Oh, never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee!
Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee;
Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee;
E'en let the world gang as it will, I 'll stay at hame and cheer ye."
Frae his hand he coost his stick; "I winna gang and leave thee;"
Threw his plaid into the neuk; "Never can I grieve thee;"
Drew his boots, and flang them by; cried, "My lass, be cheerie;
I 'll kiss the tear frae aff thy cheek, and never leave my dearie."
[19] The last verse of this song was added by John Hamilton. The song,
on account of this addition, was not included by Macneill in the
collected edition of his "Poetical Works." One of Miss Blamire's songs
has the same opening line; and it has been conjectured by Mr Maxwell,
the editor of her poems, that Macneill had been indebted to her song for
suggesting his verses.
MRS GRANT OF LAGGAN.
Mrs Anne Grant, commonly styled of Laggan, to distinguish her from her
contemporary, Mrs Grant of Carron, was born at Glasgow, in February
1755. Her father, Mr Duncan Macvicar, was an officer in the army, and,
by her mother, she was descended from the old family of Stewart, of
Invernahyle, in Argyllshire. Her early infancy was passed at
Fort-William; but her father having accompanied his regiment to America,
and there become a settler, in the State of New York, at a very tender
age she was taken by her mother across the Atlantic, to her new home.
Though her third year had not been completed when she arrived in
America, she retained a distinct recollection of her landing at
Charlestown. By her mother she was taught to read, and a well-informed
serjeant made her acquainted with writing. Her precocity for learning
was remarkable. Ere she had reached her sixth year, she had made herself
familiar with the Old Testament, and could speak the Dutch language,
which she had learned from a family of Dutch settlers. The love of
poetry and patriotism was simultaneously evinced. At this early period,
she read Milton's "Paradise Lost" with attention, and even
appreciation; and glowed with the enthusiastic ardour of a young heroine
over the adventures of Wallace, detailed in the metrical history of
Henry, the Minstrel. Her juvenile talent attracted the notice of the
more intelligent settlers in the State, and gained her the friendship of
the distinguished Madame Schuyler, whose virtues she afterwards depicted
in her "Memoirs of an American Lady."
In 1768, along with his wife and daughter, Mr Macvicar returned to
Scotland, his health having suffered by his residence in America; and,
during the three following summers, his daughter found means of
gratifying her love of song, on the banks of the Cart, near Glasgow. The
family residence was now removed to Fort-Augustus, where Mr Macvicar had
received the appointment of barrack-master. The chaplain of the fort was
the Rev. James Grant, a young clergyman, related to several of the more
respectable families in the district, who was afterwards appointed
minister of the parish of Laggan, in Inverness-shire. At Fort-Augustus,
he had recommended himself to the affections of Miss Macvicar, by his
elegant tastes and accomplished manners, and he now became the
successful suitor for her hand. They were married in 1779, and Mrs
Grant, to approve herself a useful helpmate to her husband, began
assiduously to acquaint herself with the manners and habits of the
humbler classes of the people. The inquiries instituted at this period
were turned to an account more extensive than originally contemplated.
Mr Grant, who was constitutionally delicate, died in 1801, leaving his
widow and eight surviving children without any means of support, his
worldly circumstances being considerably embarrassed.
On a small farm which she had rented, in the vicinity of her late
husband's parish, Mrs Grant resided immediately subsequent to his
decease; but the profits of the lease were evidently inadequate for the
comfortable maintenance of the family. Among the circle of her friends
she was known as a writer of verses; in her ninth year, she had essayed
an imitation of Milton; and she had written poetry, or at least verses,
on the banks of the Cart and at Fort-Augustus. To aid in supporting her
family, she was strongly advised to collect her pieces into a volume;
and, to encourage her in acting upon this recommendation, no fewer than
three thousand subscribers were procured for the work by her friends.
The celebrated Duchess of Gordon proved an especial promoter of the
cause. In 1803, a volume of poems appeared from her pen, which, though
displaying no high powers, was favourably received, and had the double
advantage of making her known, and of materially aiding her finances.
From the profits, she made settlement of her late husband's liabilities;
and now perceiving a likelihood of being able to support her family by
her literary exertions, she abandoned the lease of her farm. She took up
her residence near the town of Stirling, residing in the mansion of
Gartur, in that neighbourhood. In 1806, she again appeared before the
public as an author, by publishing a selection of her correspondence
with her friends, in three duodecimo volumes, under the designation of
"Letters from the Mountains." This work passed through several editions.
In 1808, Mrs Grant published the life of her early friend, Madame
Schuyler, under the designation of "Memoirs of an American Lady," in two
volumes.
From the rural retirement of Gartur, she soon removed to the town of
Stirling; but in 1810, as her circumstances became more prosperous, she
took up her permanent abode in Edinburgh. Some distinguished literary
characters of the Scottish capital now resorted to her society. She was
visited by Sir Walter Scott, Francis Jeffrey, James Hogg, and others,
attracted by the vivacity of her conversation. The "Essays on the
Superstitions of the Highlanders of Scotland" appeared in 1811, in two
volumes; in 1814, she published a metrical work, in two parts, entitled
"Eighteen Hundred and Thirteen;" and, in the year following, she
produced her "Popular Models and Impressive Warnings for the Sons and
Daughters of Industry."
In 1825, Mrs Grant received a civil-list pension of £50 a-year, in
consideration of her literary talents, which, with the profits of her
works and the legacies of several deceased friends, rendered the latter
period of her life sufficiently comfortable in respect of pecuniary
means. She died on the 7th of November 1838, in the eighty-fourth year
of her age, and retaining her faculties to the last. A collection of her
correspondence was published in 1844, in three volumes octavo, edited by
her only surviving son, John P. Grant, Esq.
As a writer, Mrs Grant occupies a respectable place. She had the happy
art of turning her every-day observation, as well as the fruits of her
research, to the best account. Her letters, which she published at the
commencement of her literary career, as well as those which appeared
posthumously, are favourable specimens of that species of composition.
As a poet, she attained to no eminence. "The Highlanders," her longest
and most ambitious poetical effort, exhibits some glowing descriptions
of mountain scenery, and the stern though simple manners of the Gaël. Of
a few songs which proceed from her pen, that commencing, "Oh, where,
tell me where?" written on the occasion of the Marquis of Huntly's
departure for Holland with his regiment, in 1799, has only become
generally known. It has been parodied in a song, by an unknown author,
entitled "The Blue Bells of Scotland," which has obtained a wider range
of popularity.
OH, WHERE, TELL ME WHERE?
"Oh, where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone?
Oh, where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone?"
"He 's gone, with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done,
And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home.
He 's gone, with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done,
And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home."
"Oh, where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay?
Oh, where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay?"
"He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid Spey,
And many a blessing follow'd him, the day he went away.
He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid Spey,
And many a blessing follow'd him, the day he went away."
"Oh, what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear?
Oh, what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear?"
"A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war,
And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star;
A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war,
And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star."
"Suppose, ah, suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound,
Should pierce your Highland laddie, and all your hopes confound!"
"The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly;
The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye;
The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly,
And for his king and country dear with pleasure he would die!"
"But I will hope to see him yet, in Scotland's bonny bounds;
But I will hope to see him yet, in Scotland's bonny bounds.
His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds,
While, wide through all our Highland hills, his warlike name resounds;
His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds,
While, wide through all our Highland hills, his warlike name resounds."
OH, MY LOVE, LEAVE ME NOT![20]
AIR--_"Bealach na Gharraidh."_
Oh, my love, leave me not!
Oh, my love, leave me not!
Oh, my love, leave me not!
Lonely and weary.
Could you but stay a while,
And my fond fears beguile,
I yet once more could smile,
Lightsome and cheery.
Night, with her darkest shroud,
Tempests that roar aloud,
Thunders that burst the cloud,
Why should I fear ye?
Till the sad hour we part,
Fear cannot make me start;
Grief cannot break my heart
Whilst thou art near me.
Should you forsake my sight,
Day would to me be night;
Sad, I would shun its light,
Heartless and weary.
[20] From Albyn's "Anthology," vol. i. p. 42. Edinburgh, 1816, 4to.
JOHN MAYNE.
John Mayne, chiefly known as the author of "The Siller Gun," a poem
descriptive of burgher habits in Scotland towards the close of the
century, was born at Dumfries, on the 26th of March 1759. At the grammar
school of his native town, under Dr Chapman, the learned rector, whose
memory he has celebrated in the third canto of his principal poem, he
had the benefit of a respectable elementary education; and having chosen
the profession of a printer, he entered at an early age the printing
office of the _Dumfries Journal_. In 1782, when his parents removed to
Glasgow, to reside on a little property to which they had succeeded, he
sought employment under the celebrated Messrs Foulis, in whose printing
establishment he continued during the five following years. He paid a
visit to London in 1785, with the view of advancing his professional
interests, and two years afterwards he settled in the metropolis.
Mayne, while a mere stripling, was no unsuccessful wooer of the Muse;
and in his sixteenth year he produced the germ of that poem on which his
reputation chiefly depends. This production, entitled "The Siller Gun,"
descriptive of a sort of _walkingshaw_, or an ancient practice which
obtained in his native town, of shooting, on the king's birth-day, for a
silver tube or gun, which had been presented by James VI. to the
incorporated trades, as a prize to the best marksman, was printed at
Dumfries in 1777, on a small quarto page. The original edition consisted
of twelve stanzas; in two years it increased to two cantos; in 1780, it
was printed in three cantos; in 1808, it was published in London with a
fourth; and in 1836, just before his death, the author added a fifth.
The latest edition was published by subscription, in an elegant
duodecimo volume.
In 1780, in the pages of Ruddiman's _Weekly Magazine_, Mayne published a
short poem on "Halloween," which suggested Burns's celebrated poem on
the same subject. In 1781, he published at Glasgow his song of "Logan
Braes," of which Burns afterwards composed a new version.
In London, Mayne was first employed as printer, and subsequently became
joint-editor and proprietor, along with Dr Tilloch, of the _Star_
evening newspaper. With this journal he retained a connexion till his
death, which took place at London on the 14th of March 1836.
Besides the humorous and descriptive poem of "The Siller Gun," which, in
the opinion of Sir Walter Scott, surpasses the efforts of Ferguson, and
comes near to those of Burns,[21] Mayne published another epic
production, entitled "Glasgow," which appeared in 1803, and has passed
through several editions. In the same year he published "English, Scots,
and Irishmen," a chivalrous address to the population of the three
kingdoms. To the literary journals, his contributions, both in prose and
verse, were numerous and interesting. Many of his songs and ballads
enriched the columns of the journal which he so long and ably conducted.
In early life, he maintained a metrical correspondence with Thomas
Telford, the celebrated engineer, who was a native of the same county,
and whose earliest ambition was to earn the reputation of a poet.[22]
Possessed of entire amiability of disposition, and the utmost amenity of
manners, John Mayne was warmly beloved among the circle of his friends.
Himself embued with a deep sense of religion, though fond of innocent
humour, he preserved in all his writings a becoming respect for sound
morals, and is entitled to the commendation which a biographer has
awarded him, of having never committed to paper a single line "the
tendency of which was not to afford innocent amusement, or to improve
and increase the happiness of mankind." He was singularly modest and
even retiring. His eulogy has been pronounced by Allan Cunningham, who
knew him well, that "a better or warmer-hearted man never existed." The
songs, of which we have selected the more popular, abound in vigour of
expression and sentiment, and are pervaded by a genuine pathos.
[21] See Note to "Lady of the Lake."
[22] See the _Encyclopædia Britannica_, vol. xxi. p. 170.
LOGAN BRAES.[23]
By Logan's streams, that rin sae deep,
Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep,
I've herded sheep, or gather'd slaes,
Wi' my dear lad, on Logan braes.
But, waes my heart! thae days are gane,
And I wi' grief may herd alane;
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
Nae mair at Logan kirk will he
Atween the preachings meet wi' me,
Meet wi' me, or, whan it's mirk,
Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk.
I weel may sing thae days are gane--
Frae kirk and fair I come alane,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
At e'en, when hope amaist is gane,
I daunder dowie and forlane;
I sit alane, beneath the tree
Where aft he kept his tryste wi' me.
Oh, could I see thae days again,
My lover skaithless, and my ain!
Beloved by friends, revered by faes,
We'd live in bliss on Logan braes.
[23] This song originally consisted of two stanzas, the third stanza
being subsequently added by the author. It is adapted to a beautiful old
air, "Logan Water," incongruously connected with some indecorous
stanzas. Burns deemed Mayne's version an elder production of the
Scottish muse, and attempted to modernise the song, but his edition is
decidedly inferior. Other four stanzas have been added, by some
anonymous versifier, to Mayne's verses, which first appeared in Duncan's
"Encyclopædia of Scottish, English, and Irish Songs," printed at Glasgow
in 1836, 2 vols. 12mo. In those stanzas the lover is brought back to
Logan braes, and consummates his union with his weeping shepherdess. The
stream of Logan takes its rise among the hills separating the parishes
of Lesmahago and Muirkirk, and, after a flow of eight miles, deposits
its waters into the Nethan river.
HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL.[24]
I wish I were where Helen lies,
For night and day on me she cries;
And, like an angel, to the skies
Still seems to beckon me!
For me she lived, for me she sigh'd,
For me she wish'd to be a bride;
For me in life's sweet morn she died
On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!
Where Kirtle waters gently wind,
As Helen on my arm reclined,
A rival with a ruthless mind
Took deadly aim at me.
My love, to disappoint the foe,
Rush'd in between me and the blow;
And now her corse is lying low,
On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!
Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell,
I curse the hand by which she fell--
The fiend who made my heaven a hell,
And tore my love from me!
For if, when all the graces shine,
Oh! if on earth there 's aught divine,
My Helen! all these charms were thine,
They centred all in thee!
Ah! what avails it that, amain,
I clove the assassin's head in twain?
No peace of mind, my Helen slain,
No resting-place for me.
I see her spirit in the air--
I hear the shriek of wild despair,
When murder laid her bosom bare,
On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!
Oh! when I 'm sleeping in my grave,
And o'er my head the rank weeds wave,
May He who life and spirit gave
Unite my love and me!
Then from this world of doubts and sighs,
My soul on wings of peace shall rise,
And, joining Helen in the skies,
Forget Kirkconnel-Lee.
[24] During the reign of Mary, Queen of Scots, a young lady, of great
personal attractions and numerous accomplishments, named Helen Irving,
daughter of Irving of Kirkconnel, in Annandale, was betrothed to Adam
Fleming de Kirkpatrick, a young gentleman of fortune in the
neighbourhood. Walking with her lover on the banks of the Kirtle, she
was slain by a shot which had been aimed at Fleming by a disappointed
rival. The melancholy history has been made the theme of three different
ballads, two of these being old. The present ballad, by Mr Mayne, was
inserted by Sir Walter Scott in the Edinburgh _Annual Register_ of 1815.
THE WINTER SAT LANG.
The winter sat lang on the spring o' the year,
Our seedtime was late, and our mailing was dear;
My mither tint her heart when she look'd on us a',
And we thought upon those that were farest awa'.
Oh, were they but here that are farest awa'!
Oh, were they but here that are dear to us a'!
Our cares would seem light and our sorrow but sma',
If they were but here that are far frae us a'!
Last week, when our hopes were o'erclouded wi' fear,
And nae ane at hame the dull prospect to cheer;
Our Johnnie has written, frae far awa' parts,
A letter that lightens and hauds up our hearts.
He says, "My dear mither, though I be awa',
In love and affection I 'm still wi' ye a';
While I hae a being ye 'se aye hae a ha',
Wi' plenty to keep out the frost and the snaw."
My mither, o'erjoy'd at this change in her state,
By the bairn she doated on early and late,
Gi'es thanks night and day to the Giver of a',
There 's been naething unworthy o' him that 's awa'!
Then here is to them that are far frae us a',
The friend that ne'er fail'd us, though farest awa'!
Health, peace, and prosperity wait on us a';
And a blithe comin' hame to the friend that 's awa'!
MY JOHNNIE.
AIR--_"Johnnie's Gray Breeks."_
Jenny's heart was frank and free,
And wooers she had mony, yet
The sang was aye, "Of a' I see,
Commend me to my Johnnie yet.
For ear' and late, he has sic gate
To mak' a body cheerie, that
I wish to be, before I dee,
His ain kind dearie yet."
Now Jenny's face was fu' o' grace,
Her shape was sma' and genty-like,
And few or nane in a' the place,
Had gowd or gear mair plenty, yet
Though war's alarms, and Johnnie's charms,
Had gart her oft look eerie, yet
She sung wi' glee, "I hope to be
My Johnnie's ain dearie yet.
"What though he's now gane far awa',
Whare guns and cannons rattle, yet
Unless my Johnnie chance to fa'
In some uncanny battle, yet
Till he return my breast will burn
Wi' love that weel may cheer me yet,
For I hope to see, before I dee,
His bairns to him endear me yet."
THE TROOPS WERE EMBARKED.
The troops were all embark'd on board,
The ships were under weigh,
And loving wives, and maids adored,
Were weeping round the bay.
They parted from their dearest friends,
From all their heart desires;
And Rosabel to Heaven commends
The man her soul admires!
For him she fled from soft repose,
Renounced a parent's care;
He sails to crush his country's foes,
She wanders in despair!
A seraph in an infant's frame
Reclined upon her arm;
And sorrow in the lovely dame
Now heighten'd every charm:
She thought, if fortune had but smiled--
She thought upon her dear;
But when she look'd upon his child,
Oh, then ran many a tear!
"Ah! who will watch thee as thou sleep'st?
Who 'll sing a lullaby,
Or rock thy cradle when thou weep'st,
If I should chance to die?"
On board the ship, resign'd to fate,
Yet planning joys to come,
Her love in silent sorrow sate
Upon a broken drum.
He saw her lonely on the beach;
He saw her on the strand;
And far as human eye can reach
He saw her wave her hand!
"O Rosabel! though forced to go,
With thee my soul shall dwell,
And Heaven, who pities human woe,
Will comfort Rosabel!"
JOHN HAMILTON.
Of the personal history of John Hamilton only a few particulars can be
ascertained. He carried on business for many years as a music-seller in
North Bridge Street, Edinburgh, and likewise gave instructions in the
art of instrumental music to private families. He had the good fortune
to attract the favour of one of his fair pupils--a young lady of birth
and fortune--whom he married, much to the displeasure of her relations.
He fell into impaired health, and died on the 23d of September 1814, in
the fifty-third year of his age. To the lovers of Scottish melody the
name of Mr Hamilton is familiar, as a composer of several esteemed and
beautiful airs. His contributions to the department of Scottish song
entitle his name to an honourable place.
THE RANTIN' HIGHLANDMAN.
Ae morn, last ouk, as I gaed out
To flit a tether'd ewe and lamb,
I met, as skiffin' ower the green,
A jolly, rantin' Highlandman.
His shape was neat, wi' feature sweet,
And ilka smile my favour wan;
I ne'er had seen sae braw a lad
As this young rantin' Highlandman.
He said, "My dear, ye 're sune asteer;
Cam' ye to hear the lav'rock's sang?
Oh, wad ye gang and wed wi' me,
And wed a rantin' Highlandman?
In summer days, on flow'ry braes,
When frisky are the ewe and lamb,
I 'se row ye in my tartan plaid,
And be your rantin' Highlandman.
"Wi' heather bells, that sweetly smell,
I 'll deck your hair, sae fair and lang,
If ye 'll consent to scour the bent
Wi' me, a rantin' Highlandman.
We 'll big a cot, and buy a stock,
Syne do the best that e'er we can;
Then come, my dear, ye needna fear
To trust a rantin' Highlandman."
His words, sae sweet, gaed to my heart,
And fain I wad hae gi'en my han';
Yet durstna, lest my mither should
Dislike a rantin' Highlandman.
But I expect he will come back;
Then, though my kin should scauld and ban,
I 'll ower the hill, or whare he will,
Wi' my young rantin' Highlandman.
UP IN THE MORNIN' EARLY.[25]
Cauld blaws the wind frae north to south;
The drift is drifting sairly;
The sheep are cow'rin' in the heuch;
Oh, sirs, it 's winter fairly!
Now, up in the mornin's no for me,
Up in the mornin' early;
I'd rather gae supperless to my bed
Than rise in the mornin' early.
Loud roars the blast amang the woods,
And tirls the branches barely;
On hill and house hear how it thuds!
The frost is nippin' sairly.
Now, up in the mornin's no for me,
Up in the mornin' early;
To sit a' nicht wad better agree
Than rise in the mornin' early.
The sun peeps ower yon southland hills,
Like ony timorous carlie;
Just blinks a wee, then sinks again;
And that we find severely.
Now, up in the mornin's no for me,
Up in the mornin' early;
When snaw blaws in at the chimley cheek,
Wha 'd rise in the mornin' early?
Nae linties lilt on hedge or bush:
Poor things! they suffer sairly;
In cauldrife quarters a' the nicht,
A' day they feed but sparely.
Now, up in the mornin's no for me,
Up in the mornin' early;
A pennyless purse I wad rather dree,
Than rise in the mornin' early.
A cosie house and canty wife
Aye keep a body cheerly;
And pantries stowed wi' meat and drink,
They answer unco rarely.
But up in the mornin'--na, na, na!
Up in the mornin' early!
The gowans maun glint on bank and brae
When I rise in the mornin' early.
[25] Burns composed two verses to the same tune, which is very old. It
was a favourite of Queen Mary, the consort of William III. In his
"Beggar's Opera," Gay has adopted the tune for one of his songs. It was
published, in 1652, by John Hilton, as the third voice to what is called
a "Northern Catch" for three voices, beginning--"I'se gae wi' thee, my
sweet Peggy."
GO TO BERWICK, JOHNNIE.[26]
Go to Berwick, Johnnie;
Bring her frae the Border;
Yon sweet bonnie lassie,
Let her gae nae farther.
English loons will twine ye
O' the lovely treasure;
But we 'll let them ken
A sword wi' them we 'll measure.
Go to Berwick, Johnnie,
And regain your honour;
Drive them ower the Tweed,
And show our Scottish banner.
I am Rob, the King,
And ye are Jock, my brither;
But, before we lose her,
We 'll a' there thegither.
[26] These stanzas are founded on some lines of old doggerel,
beginning--
"Go, go, go,
Go to Berwick, Johnnie;
Thou shalt have the horse,
And I shall have the pony."
MISS FORBES' FAREWELL TO BANFF.
Farewell, ye fields an' meadows green!
The blest retreats of peace an' love;
Aft have I, silent, stolen from hence,
With my young swain a while to rove.
Sweet was our walk, more sweet our talk,
Among the beauties of the spring;
An' aft we 'd lean us on a bank,
To hear the feather'd warblers sing.
The azure sky, the hills around,
Gave double beauty to the scene;
The lofty spires of Banff in view--
On every side the waving grain.
The tales of love my Jamie told,
In such a saft an' moving strain,
Have so engaged my tender heart,
I 'm loth to leave the place again.
But if the Fates will be sae kind
As favour my return once more,
For to enjoy the peace of mind
In those retreats I had before:
Now, farewell, Banff! the nimble steeds
Do bear me hence--I must away;
Yet time, perhaps, may bring me back,
To part nae mair from scenes so gay.
TELL ME, JESSIE, TELL ME WHY?
Tell me, Jessie, tell me why
My fond suit you still deny?
Is your bosom cold as snow?
Did you never feel for woe?
Can you hear, without a sigh,
Him complain who for you could die?
If you ever shed a tear,
Hear me, Jessie, hear, O hear!
Life to me is not more dear
Than the hour brings Jessie here;
Death so much I do not fear
As the parting moment near.
Summer smiles are not so sweet
As the bloom upon your cheek;
Nor the crystal dew so clear
As your eyes to me appear.
These are part of Jessie's charms,
Which the bosom ever warms;
But the charms by which I 'm stung,
Come, O Jessie, from thy tongue!
Jessie, be no longer coy;
Let me taste a lover's joy;
With your hand remove the dart,
And heal the wound that 's in my heart.
THE HAWTHORN.
Last midsummer's morning, as going to the fair,
I met with young Jamie, wh'as taking the air;
He ask'd me to stay with him, and indeed he did prevail,
Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale--
That blooms in the valley, that blooms in the vale,
Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale.
He said he had loved me both long and sincere,
That none on the green was so gentle and fair;
I listen'd with pleasure to Jamie's tender tale,
Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale--
That blooms in the valley, &c.
"Oh, haste," says he, "to hear the birds in the grove,
How charming their song, and enticing to love!
The briers that with roses perfume the passing gale,
And meet the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale"--
That blooms in the valley, &c.
His words were so moving, and looks soft and kind,
Convinced me the youth had nae guile in his mind;
My heart, too, confess'd him the flower of the dale,
Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale--
That blooms in the valley, &c.
Yet I oft bade him go, for I could no longer stay,
But leave me he would not, nor let me away;
Still pressing his suit, and at last did prevail,
Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale--
That blooms in the valley, &c.
Now tell me, ye maidens, how could I refuse?
His words were so sweet, and so binding his vows!
We went and were married, and Jamie loves me still,
And we live beside the hawthorn that blooms in the vale--
That blooms in the valley, that blooms in the vale,
We live beside the hawthorn that blooms in the vale.
OH, BLAW, YE WESTLIN' WINDS![27]
Oh, blaw, ye westlin' winds, blaw saft
Amang the leafy trees!
Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale,
Bring hame the laden bees;
And bring the lassie back to me,
That 's aye sae neat and clean;
Ae blink of her wad banish care,
Sae lovely is my Jean.
What sighs and vows, amang the knowes,
Hae pass'd atween us twa!
How fain to meet, how wae to part,
That day she gaed awa'!
The Powers aboon can only ken,
To whom the heart is seen,
That nane can be sae dear to me
As my sweet, lovely Jean.
[27] These verses were written as a continuation to Burns's "Of a' the
airts the wind can blaw." Other two stanzas were added to the same song
by W. Reid.--See _postea_.
JOANNA BAILLIE.
Joanna Baillie was born on the 11th of September 1762, in the manse of
Bothwell, in Lanarkshire. Her father, Dr James Baillie, was descended
from the old family of Baillie of Lamington, and was consequently
entitled to claim propinquity with the distinguished Principal Robert
Baillie, and the family of Baillie of Jerviswood, so celebrated for its
Christian patriotism. The mother of Joanna likewise belonged to an
honourable house: she was a descendant of the Hunters of Hunterston; and
her two brothers attained a wide reputation in the world of science--Dr
William Hunter being an eminent physician, and Mr John Hunter the
greatest anatomist of his age. Joanna--a twin, the other child being
still-born--was the youngest of a family of three children. Her only
brother was Dr Matthew Baillie, highly distinguished in the medical
world. Agnes, her sister, who was eldest of the family, remained
unmarried, and continued to live with her under the same roof.
In the year 1768, Dr Baillie was transferred from the parochial charge
of Bothwell to the office of collegiate minister of Hamilton,--a town
situate, like his former parish, on the banks of the Clyde. He was
subsequently elected Professor of Divinity in the University of
Glasgow. After his death, which took place in 1778, his daughters both
continued, along with their widowed mother, to live at Long Calderwood,
in the vicinity of Hamilton, until 1784, when they all accepted an
invitation to reside with Dr Matthew Baillie, who had entered on his
medical career in London, and had become possessor of a house in Great
Windmill Street, built by his now deceased uncle, Dr Hunter.
Though evincing no peculiar promptitude in the acquisition of learning,
Joanna had, at the very outset of life, exhibited remarkable talent in
rhyme-making. She composed verses before she could read, and, before she
could have fancied a theatre, formed dialogues for dramatic
representations, which she carried on with her companions. But she did
not early seek distinction as an author. At the somewhat mature age of
twenty-eight, after she had gone to London, she first published, and
that anonymously, a volume of miscellaneous poems, which did not excite
any particular attention. In 1798, she published, though anonymously at
first, "A Series of Plays: in which it is attempted to delineate the
stronger Passions of the Mind, each Passion being the subject of a
Tragedy and a Comedy." In a lengthened preliminary dissertation, she
discoursed regarding the drama in all its relations, maintaining the
ascendency of simple nature over every species of adornment and
decoration. "Let one simple trait of the human heart, one expression of
passion, genuine and true to nature," she wrote, "be introduced, and it
will stand forth alone in the boldness of reality, whilst the false and
unnatural around it fades away upon every side, like the rising
exhalations of the morning." The reception of these plays was sufficient
to satisfy the utmost ambition of the author, and established the
foundation of her fame. "Nothing to compare with them had been produced
since the great days of the English drama; and the truth, vigour,
variety, and dignity of the dramatic portraits, in which they abound,
might well justify an enthusiasm which a reader of the present day can
scarcely be expected to feel. This enthusiasm was all the greater, when
it became known that these remarkable works, which had been originally
published anonymously, were from the pen of a woman still young, who had
passed her life in domestic seclusion."[28] Encouraged by the success of
the first volume of her dramas on the "Passions," the author added a
second in 1802, and a third in 1812. During the interval, she published
a volume of miscellaneous dramas in 1804, and produced the "Family
Legend" in 1810,--a tragedy, founded upon a Highland tradition. With a
prologue by Sir Walter Scott, and an epilogue by Henry Mackenzie, the
"Family Legend" was produced at the Edinburgh theatre, under the
auspices of the former illustrious character; and was ably supported by
Mrs Siddons, and by Terry, then at the commencement of his career. It
was favourably received during ten successive performances. "You have
only to imagine all that you could wish to give success to a play,"
wrote Sir Walter Scott to the author, "and your conceptions will still
fall short of the complete and decided triumph of the 'Family Legend.'
The house was crowded to a most extraordinary degree; many people had
come from your native capital of the west; everything that pretended to
distinction, whether from rank or literature, was in the boxes; and in
the pit, such an aggregate mass of humanity as I have seldom, if ever,
witnessed in the same space." Other two of her plays, "Count Basil" and
"De Montfort," brought out in London, the latter being sustained by
Kemble and Siddons, likewise received a large measure of general
approbation; but a want of variety of incident prevented their retaining
a position on the stage. In 1836, she produced three additional volumes
of dramas; her career as a dramatic writer thus extending over the
period of nearly forty years.
Subsequent to her leaving Scotland, in 1784, Joanna Baillie did not
return to her native kingdom, unless on occasional visits. On the
marriage of her brother to a sister of the Lord Chief-Justice Denman, in
1791, she passed some years at Colchester; but she subsequently fixed
her permanent habitation at Hampstead. Her mother died in 1806. At
Hampstead, in the companionship of her only sister, whose virtues she
has celebrated in one of her poems, and amidst the society of many of
the more distinguished literary characters of the metropolis, she
continued to enjoy a large amount of comfort and happiness. Her
pecuniary means were sufficiently abundant, and rendered her entirely
independent of the profits of her writings. Among her literary friends,
one of the most valued was Sir Walter Scott, who, being introduced to
her personal acquaintance on his visit to London in 1806, maintained
with her an affectionate and lasting intimacy. The letters addressed to
her are amongst the most interesting of his correspondence in his Memoir
by his son-in-law. He evinced his estimation of her genius by frequently
complimenting her in his works. In his "Epistle to William Erskine,"
which forms the introduction to the third canto of "Marmion," he thus
generously eulogises his gifted friend:--
"Or, if to touch such chord be thine,
Restore the ancient tragic line,
And emulate the notes that wrung
From the wild harp, which silent hung
By silver Avon's holy shore,
Till twice a hundred years roll'd o'er;
When she, the bold Enchantress, came,
With fearless hand and heart on flame!
From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure,
And swept it with a kindred measure,
Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove
With Montfort's hate and Basil's love,
Awakening at the inspiréd strain,
Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived again."
To Joanna, Scott inscribed his fragmental drama of "Macduff's Cross,"
which was included in a Miscellany published by her in 1823.
Though a penury of incident, and a defectiveness of skill in sustaining
an increasing interest to the close, will probably prevent any of her
numerous plays from being renewed on the stage, Joanna Baillie is well
entitled to the place assigned her as one of the first of modern
dramatists. In all her plays there are passages and scenes surpassed by
no contemporaneous dramatic writer. Her works are a magazine of eloquent
thoughts and glowing descriptions. She is a mistress of the emotions,
and
"Within _her_ mighty page,
Each tyrant passion shews his woe and rage."
The tragedies of "Count Basil" and "De Montfort" are her best plays, and
are well termed by Sir Walter Scott a revival of the great Bard of Avon.
Forcible and energetic in style, her strain never becomes turgid or
diverges into commonplace. She is masculine, but graceful; and powerful
without any ostentation of strength. Her personal history was the
counterpart of her writings. Gentle in manners and affable in
conversation, she was a model of the household virtues, and would have
attracted consideration as a woman by her amenities, though she had
possessed no reputation in the world of letters. She was eminently
religious and benevolent. Her countenance bore indication of a superior
intellect and deep penetration. Though her society was much cherished by
her contemporaries, including distinguished foreigners who visited the
metropolis, her life was spent in general retirement. She was averse to
public demonstration, and seemed scarcely conscious of her power. She
died at Hampstead, on the 23d of February 1851, at the very advanced age
of eighty-nine, and a few weeks after the publication of her whole Works
in a collected form.
The songs of Joanna Baillie immediately obtained an honourable place in
the minstrelsy of her native kingdom. They are the simple and graceful
effusions of a heart passionately influenced by the melodies of the
"land of the heath and the thistle," and animated by those warm
affections so peculiarly nurtured in the region of "the mountain and the
flood." "Fy, let us a' to the wedding," "Saw ye Johnnie comin'?" "It
fell on a morning when we were thrang," and "Woo'd, and married, and
a'," maintain popularity among all classes of Scotsmen throughout the
world. Several of the songs were written for Thomson's "Melodies," and
"The Harp of Caledonia," a collection of songs published at Glasgow in
1821, in three vols. 12mo, under the editorial care of John Struthers,
author of "The Poor Man's Sabbath." The greater number are included in
the present work.
[28] _Literary Gazette_, March 1851.
THE MAID OF LLANWELLYN.
I 've no sheep on the mountain, nor boat on the lake,
Nor coin in my coffer to keep me awake,
Nor corn in my garner, nor fruit on my tree--
Yet the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.
Soft tapping, at eve, to her window I came,
And loud bay'd the watch-dog, loud scolded the dame;
For shame, silly Lightfoot; what is it to thee,
Though the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me?
Rich Owen will tell you, with eyes full of scorn,
Threadbare is my coat, and my hosen are torn:
Scoff on, my rich Owen, for faint is thy glee
When the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.
The farmer rides proudly to market or fair,
The clerk, at the alehouse, still claims the great chair;
But of all our proud fellows the proudest I 'll be,
While the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.
For blythe as the urchin at holiday play,
And meek as the matron in mantle of gray,
And trim as the lady of gentle degree,
Is the maid of Llanwellyn who smiles upon me.
GOOD NIGHT, GOOD NIGHT!
The sun is sunk, the day is done,
E'en stars are setting one by one;
Nor torch nor taper longer may
Eke out the pleasures of the day;
And since, in social glee's despite,
It needs must be, Good night, good night!
The bride into her bower is sent,
And ribbald rhyme and jesting spent;
The lover's whisper'd words and few
Have bade the bashful maid adieu;
The dancing-floor is silent quite--
No foot bounds there, Good night, good night!
The lady in her curtain'd bed,
The herdsman in his wattled shed,
The clansman in the heather'd hall,
Sweet sleep be with you, one and all!
We part in hope of days as bright
As this now gone--Good night, good night!
Sweet sleep be with us, one and all!
And if upon its stillness fall
The visions of a busy brain,
We 'll have our pleasure o'er again;
To warm the heart, to charm the sight,
Gay dreams to all! Good night, good night!
THOUGH RICHER SWAINS THY LOVE PURSUE.
Though richer swains thy love pursue,
In Sunday gear and bonnets new;
And every fair before thee lay
Their silken gifts, with colours gay--
They love thee not, alas! so well
As one who sighs, and dare not tell;
Who haunts thy dwelling, night and noon,
In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon.
I grieve not for my wayward lot,
My empty folds, my roofless cot;
Nor hateful pity, proudly shown,
Nor altered looks, nor friendship flown;
Nor yet my dog, with lanken sides,
Who by his master still abides;
But how wilt thou prefer my boon,
In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon?
POVERTY PARTS GUDE COMPANIE.[29]
AIR--_"Todlin' Hame."_
When white was my owrelay as foam of the linn,
And siller was chinking my pouches within;
When my lambkins were bleating on meadow and brae,
As I gaed to my love in new cleeding sae gay--
Kind was she, and my friends were free;
But poverty parts gude companie.
How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of delight!
The piper play'd cheerly, the cruisie burn'd bright;
And link'd in my hand was the maiden sae dear,
As she footed the floor in her holiday gear.
Woe is me! and can it then be,
That poverty parts sic companie?
We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk;
We met in the sunshine, we met in the mirk;
And the sound of her voice, and the blinks of her een,
The cheering and life of my bosom have been.
Leaves frae the tree at Martinmas flee,
And poverty parts sweet companie.
At bridal and in fair I 've braced me wi' pride,
The _bruse_ I hae won, and a kiss of the bride;
And loud was the laughter, gay fellows among,
When I utter'd my banter, or chorus'd my song.
Dowie to dree are jesting and glee,
When poverty parts gude companie.
Wherever I gaed the blythe lasses smiled sweet,
And mithers and aunties were mair than discreet,
While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board;
But now they pass by me, and never a word.
So let it be; for the worldly and slie
Wi' poverty keep nae companie.
But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart;
The spaewife has tauld me to keep up my heart;
For wi' my last sixpence her loof I hae cross'd,
And the bliss that is fated can never be lost.
Cruelly though we ilka day see
How poverty parts dear companie.
[29] This song was written for Thomson's "Melodies." "Todlin' Hame," the
air to which it is adapted, appears in Ramsay's "Tea-Table Miscellany"
as an old song. The words begin--"When I hae a saxpence under my thum."
Burns remarks that "it is perhaps one of the first bottle-songs that
ever was composed."
FY, LET US A' TO THE WEDDING.[30]
Fy, let us a' to the wedding,
For they will be lilting there;
For Jock's to be married to Maggie,
The lass wi' the gowden hair.
And there will be jilting and jeering,
And glancing of bonnie dark een;
Loud laughing and smooth-gabbit speering
O' questions, baith pawky and keen.
And there will be Bessy, the beauty,
Wha raises her cock-up sae hie,
And giggles at preachings and duty;
Gude grant that she gang nae ajee!
And there will be auld Geordie Tanner,
Wha coft a young wife wi' his gowd;
She 'll flaunt wi' a silk gown upon her,
But, wow! he looks dowie and cowed.
And braw Tibby Fowler, the heiress,
Will perk at the top o' the ha',
Encircled wi' suitors, whase care is
To catch up the gloves when they fa'.
Repeat a' her jokes as they 're cleckit,
And haver and glower in her face,
When tocherless Mays are negleckit--
A crying and scandalous case.
And Mysie, whase clavering aunty
Wad match her wi' Jamie, the laird;
And learns the young fouk to be vaunty,
But neither to spin nor to caird.
And Andrew, whase granny is yearning
To see him a clerical blade,
Was sent to the college for learning,
And cam' back a coof, as he gaed.
And there will be auld Widow Martin,
That ca's hersel' thretty and twa!
And thrawn-gabbit Madge, wha for certain
Was jilted by Hab o' the Shaw.
And Elspy, the sewster, sae genty--
A pattern of havens and sense--
Will straik on her mittens sae dainty,
And crack wi' Mess John in the spence.
And Angus, the seer o' ferlies,
That sits on the stane at his door,
And tells about bogles, and mair lies
Than tongue ever utter'd before.
And there will be Bauldy, the boaster,
Sae ready wi' hands and wi' tongue;
Proud Paty and silly Sam Foster,
Wha quarrel wi' auld and wi' young.
And Hugh, the town-writer, I 'm thinking,
That trades in his lawyerly skill,
Will egg on the fighting and drinking,
To bring after grist to his mill.
And Maggie--na, na! we 'll be civil,
And let the wee bridie abee;
A vilipend tongue it is evil,
And ne'er was encouraged by me.
Then fy, let us a' to the wedding,
For they will be lilting there,
Frae mony a far-distant ha'ding,
The fun and the feasting to share.
For they will get sheep's-head and haggis,
And browst o' the barley-mow;
E'en he that comes latest and lagis
May feast upon dainties enow.
Veal florentines, in the o'en baken,
Weel plenish'd wi' raisins and fat;
Beef, mutton, and chuckies, a' taken
Het reekin' frae spit and frae pat.
And glasses (I trow 'tis nae said ill)
To drink the young couple gude luck,
Weel fill'd wi' a braw beechen ladle,
Frae punch-bowl as big as Dumbuck.
And then will come dancing and daffing,
And reelin' and crossin' o' han's,
Till even auld Lucky is laughing,
As back by the aumry she stan's.
Sic bobbing, and flinging, and whirling,
While fiddlers are making their din;
And pipers are droning and skirling,
As loud as the roar o' the linn.
Then fy, let us a' to the wedding,
For they will be lilting there;
For Jock 's to be married to Maggie,
The lass wi' the gowden hair.
[30] This song is a new version of "The Blythesome Bridal," beginning,
"Fy, let us a' to the bridal," which first appeared in Watson's
Collection, in 1706, and of which the authorship was generally assigned
to Francis Semple of Beltrees, in Renfrewshire, who lived in the middle
of the seventeenth century, though more recently it has been attributed
to Sir William Scott of Thirlestane, in Selkirkshire, who flourished in
the beginning of last century. The words of the original song are
coarse, but humorous.
HOOLY AND FAIRLY.[31]
Oh, neighbours! what had I to do for to marry?
My wife she drinks posset and wine o' Canary;
And ca's me a niggardly, thrawn-gabbit cairly.
O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!
She sups, wi' her kimmers, on dainties enow,
Aye bowing, and smirking, and wiping her mou';
While I sit aside, and am helpit but sparely.
O gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
O gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!
To fairs, and to bridals, and preachings an' a',
She gangs sae light-headed, and buskit sae braw,
In ribbons and mantuas, that gar me gae barely.
O gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
O gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly!
I' the kirk sic commotion last Sabbath she made,
Wi' babs o' red roses, and breast-knots o'erlaid;
The dominie stickit the psalm very nearly.
O gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
O gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!
She 's warring and flyting frae mornin' till e'en,
And if ye gainsay her, her een glower sae keen;
Then tongue, neive, and cudgel, she 'll lay on me sairly.
O gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
O gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!
When tired wi' her cantrips, she lies in her bed--
The wark a' negleckit, the chalmer unred--
While a' our gude neighbours are stirring sae early.
O gin my wife wad wark timely and fairly!
Timely and fairly, timely and fairly;
O gin my wife wad wark timely and fairly!
A word o' gude counsel or grace she 'll hear none;
She bandies the elders, and mocks at Mess John;
While back in his teeth his own text she flings sairly.
O gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
O gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly!
I wish I were single, I wish I were freed;
I wish I were doited, I wish I were dead;
Or she in the mouls, to dement me nae mairly.
What does it 'vail to cry, Hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
Wasting my health to cry, Hooly and fairly.
[31] The style of this song and the chorus are borrowed from "The
Drucken Wife o' Gallowa'," a song which first appeared in the "Charmer,"
a collection of songs, published at Edinburgh in 1751, but the
authorship of which is unknown.
THE WEARY PUND O' TOW.
A young gudewife is in my house,
And thrifty means to be,
But aye she 's runnin' to the town
Some ferlie there to see.
The weary pund, the weary pund, the weary pund o' tow,
I soothly think, ere it be spun, I 'll wear a lyart pow.
And when she sets her to her wheel,
To draw her threads wi' care,
In comes the chapman wi' his gear,
And she can spin nae mair.
The weary pund, &c.
And then like ony merry May,
At fairs maun still be seen,
At kirkyard preachings near the tent,
At dances on the green.
The weary pund, &c.
Her dainty ear a fiddle charms,
A bagpipe 's her delight,
But for the crooning o' her wheel
She disna care a mite.
The weary pund, &c.
"You spake, my Kate, of snaw-white webs
Made o' your hinkum twine,
But, ah! I fear our bonnie burn
Will ne'er lave web o' thine.
The weary pund, &c.
"Nay, smile again, my winsome mate,
Sic jeering means nae ill;
Should I gae sarkless to my grave,
I'll loe and bless thee still."
The weary pund, &c.
THE WEE PICKLE TOW.[32]
A lively young lass had a wee pickle tow,
And she thought to try the spinnin' o't;
She sat by the fire, and her rock took alow,
And that was an ill beginnin' o't.
Loud and shrill was the cry that she utter'd, I ween;
The sudden mischanter brought tears to her een;
Her face it was fair, but her temper was keen;
O dole for the ill beginnin' o't!
She stamp'd on the floor, and her twa hands she wrung,
Her bonny sweet mou' she crookit, O!
And fell was the outbreak o' words frae her tongue;
Like ane sair demented she lookit, O!
"Foul fa' the inventor o' rock and o' reel!
I hope, gude forgi'e me! he 's now wi' the d--l,
He brought us mair trouble than help, wot I weel;
O dole for the ill beginnin' o't!
"And now, when they 're spinnin' and kempin' awa',
They 'll talk o' my rock and the burnin' o't,
While Tibbie, and Mysie, and Maggie, and a',
Into some silly joke will be turnin' it:
They 'll say I was doited, they 'll say I was fu';
They 'll say I was dowie, and Robin untrue;
They 'll say in the fire some luve-powther I threw,
And that made the ill beginning o't.
"O curst be the day, and unchancy the hour,
When I sat me adown to the spinnin' o't!
Then some evil spirit or warlock had power,
And made sic an ill beginnin' o't.
May Spunkie my feet to the boggie betray,
The lunzie folk steal my new kirtle away,
And Robin forsake me for douce Effie Gray,
The next time I try the spinnin' o't."
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