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534

BURNS'S REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG.

strain they are a translation from Sappho, by Ambrose Phillips :

"BLEST as the immortal gods is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee;
And hears and sees thee all the while,
So softly speak, and sweetly smile.

'Twas this bereav'd my soul of rest,
And rais'd such tumults in my breast,
For while I gaz'd, in transport toss'd,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost.
My bosom glow'd, the subtle flame
Ran quick thro' all my vital frame;
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung,
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd;
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd;
My feeble pulse forgot to play:
I fainted-sunk-and died away."]

Allan Water.

THIS Allan Water, which the composer of the music has honoured with the name of the air, I have been told is Allan Water, in Strathallan.

[To Robert Crawford, of Auchnames, we are indebted for this beautiful song:

I.

"WHAT numbers shall the muse repeat, What verse be found to praise my Annie; On her ten thousand graces wait,

Each swain admires and owns she's bonnie. Since first she strode the happy plain,

She set each youthful heart on fire; Each nymph does to her swain complain, That Annie kindles new desire.

II.

This lovely, darling, dearest care,
This new delight, this charming Annie,
Like summer's dawn she's fresh and fair,
When Flora's fragrant breezes fan ye.
All day the am'rous youths convene,
Joyous they sport and play before her;
All night, when she no more is seen,

In joyful dreams they still adore her.

III.

Among the crowd Amyntor came,
He look'd, he lov'd, he bow'd to Annie;
His rising sighs express his flame,

His words were few, his wishes many.
With smiles the lovely maid reply'd,

Kind shepherd, why should I deceive ye? Alas! your love must be deny'd,

This destin'd breast can ne'er relieve ye.

IV.

Young Damon came with Cupid's art,
His wiles, his smiles, his charms beguiling;
He stole away my virgin heart;

Cease, poor Amyntor! cease bewailing. Some brighter beauty you may find;

On yonder plain the nymphs are many; Then choose some heart that's unconfin'd, And leave to Damon his own Annie.]

There's nae Luck about the House. THIS is one of the most beautiful songs in the Scots, or any other, language.—The two lines,

"And will I see his face again!
And will I hear him speak!"

as well as the two preceding ones, are unequalled almost by anything I ever heard or read; and the lines,

"The present moment is our ain,

The neist we never saw."

are worthy of the first poet. It is long posterior to Ramsay's days. About the year 1771, or 72, it came first on the streets as a ballad; and I suppose the composition of the song was not much anterior to that period.

[The author of this inimitable ballad was William Julius Mickle, Esq., a native of Langholm, and well known as the elegant trans lator of the "Luciad, and other Poems." He was born in 1734, and died in 1788. As the firs sketch of so beautiful a song is both curious and interesting, we subjoin a copy taken fro the original MS. in the author's own handwriting:·

THERE'S nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a';
There's little pleasure in the house,
When our guidman's awa.

And are you sure the news is true;
And do you say he's weel?
Is this a time to speak of wark?

Ye jades, lay by your wheel!
Is this a time to spin a thread,

When Colin's at the door?
Reach me my cloak, I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's satin gown,
For I maun tell the baillie's wife

That Colin's in the town.
My turken slippers maun gae on,
My stockings pearly blue;
"Tis a' to pleasure my guidman,
For he's baith leal and true.

2

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fire-side,

Put on the muckle pot;
Gie little Kate her button gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat;

And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
'Tis a' to pleasure my guidinan,

For he's been lang awa'.

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop,

Been fed this month and mair;
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;
And mak the table neat and trim;
Let every thing be braw;

For who kens how my Colin far'd
When he was far awa'.

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,

His breath like caller air,

His very foot hath music in't,

As he comes up the stair.
And shall I see his face again,
And shall I hear him speak?
I'm downright giddy wi' the thought,
In truth I'm like to greet.

If Colin's weel, and weel content,
I hae nae mair to crave;

And gin I live to mak him sae,

I'm blest aboon the lave.

And shall I see his face again, &c.]

[The song is indeed a fine one; but one of

the best verses was the work of Dr. Beattie.

Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air,

His very foot has music in't

When he comes up the stair;
And will I see his face again!
And will I hear him speak!

I'm downright dizzy with the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.]

Tarry Woo.

THIS is a very pretty song; but I fancy that the first half-stanza, as well as the tune itself, are much older than the rest of the words.

[The first half stanza of the old version of Tarry Woo is as follows:

O TARRY WOO is ill to spin,
Card it weel e'er ye begin;
Card it weel and draw it sma',
Tarry woo's the best of a'.

Cromek remarks that the thought contained in these two lines;

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UP, ye shepherds, dance and skip,
O'er the hills and valleys trip,
Sing up the praise of tarry woo',
Sing the flocks that bear it too.
Harmless creatures without blame,
That cleed the back, and cram the wame,
Keep us warm and hearty fou;
Leese me on the tarry woo.

How happy is the shepherd's life,
Far frae courts, and free of strife,
While the gimmers bleat and bae,
And the lambkins answer "Mae:"
No such music to his ear;

Of thief or fox he has no fear:
Sturdy Kent, and colly true,
We'll defend the tarry woo.]

Gramachree.

THE song of Gramachree was composed by Mr. Poe, a counsellor at law in Dublin. This anecdote I had from a gentleman who knew the lady, the "Molly," who is the subject of the song, and to whom Mr. Poe sent the first manuscript of his most beautiful verses. I do not remember any single line that has more true pathos than

"How can she break the honest heart that wears her in its core !"'

But as the song is Irish, it had nothing to do in this collection.

[The following are the words of this exquisite song, so eulogized by the Poet :

As down on Banna's banks I stray'd,
One evening in May,
The little birds in blithest notes

Made vocal every spray :
They sang their little notes of love;
They sang them o'er and o'er,
Ah! gramachree, mo challie nouge,
Mo Molly Astore.

The daisy pied, and all the sweets
The dawn of nature yields;
The primrose pale, the vi'let blue,
Lay scatter'd o'er the fields;
Such fragrance in the bosom lies
Of her whom I adore,

Ah! gramachree, mo challie nouge,
Mo Molly Astore.

I laid me down upon a bank,
Bewailing my sad fate,

That doom'd me thus the slave of love,

And cruel Molly's hate.

How can she break the honest heart

That wears her in its core !
Ah! gramachree, mo challie nouge,
Mo Molly Astore.

You said you lov'd me, Molly dear;
Ah! why did I believe?

Yes, who could think such tender words
Were meant but to deceive?
That love was all I ask'd on earth,

Nay Heav'n could give no more,
Ah! gramachree, mo challie nouge,
Mo Molly Astore.

Oh! had I all the flocks that graze,
On yonder yellow hill;
Or low'd for me the num'rous herds,
That yon green pastures fill;
With her I love I'd gladly share
My kine and fleecy store,
Ah! gramachree, mo challie nouge,
Mo Molly Astore.

Two turtle doves above my head,
Sat courting on a bough;

I envy'd them their happiness,

To see them bill and coo;

Such fondness once for me she shew'd,
But now, alas! 'tis o'er;
Ah! gramachree, mo challie nouge,
Mo Molly Astore.

Then fare thee well, my Molly dear,
Thy loss I still shall moan;
Whilst life remains in Strephon's heart,
"Twill beat for thee alone.

Tho' thou art false, may Heav'n on thee
Its choicest blessings pour!
Ah! gramachree, mo challie nouge,
Mo Molly Astore.]

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A laird he was that sought her,

Rich baith in land and money. The tutors watch'd the motion Of this young honest lover, But love is like the ocean; Wha can its deeps discover?

II.

He had the heart to please ye
And was by a' respected,
His airs sat round him easy,
Genteel, but unaffected.
The Collier's bonnie lassie,
Fair as the new blown lillie,
Aye sweet and never saucy,

Secur'd the heart of Willie.

III.

He lov'd, beyond expression,
The charms that were about her,
And panted for possession,

His life was dull without her.
After mature resolving,

Close to his breast he held her In saftest flames dissolving, He tenderly thus tell'd her

IV.

My bonnie Collier's daughter Let naething discompose ye, "Tis no your scanty tocher

Shall ever gar me lose ye: For I have gear in plenty,

And love says 'tis my duty To ware what heaven has lent me, Upon your wit and beauty.""]

My ain kind Dearie, O.

THE old words of this song are omitted here. though much more beautiful than these inserted; which were mostly composed by poor Fergusson, in one of his merry humours. The old words began thus:

"I'LL rowe thee o'er the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie, O,
I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O,
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wat,
And I were ne'er sae weary, O;
I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie, O.-"

[The verses of Fergusson are as follow:"NAE herds wi' kent, and collie there,

Shall ever come to fear ye, 0,
But lav'rocks whistling in the air,
Shall woo, like me, their dearie, 0!

While others herd their lambs and ewes,
And toil for world's gear, my jo,

Upon the lee my pleasure grows,
Wi' you, my kind dearie O!

Will ye gang o'er the lea rig,
My ain kind dearie, O!
And cuddle there sae kindly wi' me,
My kind dearie, O!

At thorny dike, and birkin tree,
We'll daff, and ne'er be weary, O!
They'll sing ill e'en frae you and me,
Mine ain kind dearie, O !

Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow.

MR. Robertson, in his statistical account of the parish of Selkirk, says, that Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow, was descended from the Dryhope, and married into the Harden, family. Her daughter was married to a predecessor of the present Sir Francis Elliot, of Stobbs, and

of the late Lord Heathfield.

There is a circumstance in their contract of marriage that merits attention, and it strongly marks the predatory spirit of the times. The father-in-law agrees to keep his daughter for some time after the marriage; for which the son-in-law binds himself to give him the profits of the first Michaelmas moon.†

Allan Ramsay's version is as follows:

I.

HAPPY'S the love which meets return,
When in soft flame souls equal burn;
But words are wanting to discover
The torments of a hapless lover.
Ye registers of heaven, relate,
If looking o'er the rolls of fate,

Did you there see me mark'd to marrow,
Mary Scott, the flow'r of Yarrow?

II.

Ah, no! her form's too heav'nly fair,
Her love the gods alone must share;
While mortals with despair explore her,
And at a distance due adore her.
O, lovely maid! my doubts beguile,
Revive and bless me with a smile:
Alas, if not, you'll soon debar a'
Sighing swain on the banks of Yarrow.

III.

Be hush, ye fears, I'll not despair, My Mary's tender as she's fair;

MARY SCOTT.

Traditionary Set.

MARY's red and Mary's white,
And Mary she's the king's delight,

The king's delight and the prince's marrow,
Mary Scott, the flower of Yarrow.

When I look east my heart grows sair,
But when I look west it's mair and mair,

Then I'll go tell her all mine anguish,
She is too good to let me languish ;
With success crown'd, I'll not envy
The folks who dwell above the sky;
When Mary Scott's become my marrow,
We'll make a paradise of Yarrow.

["Near the lower extremity of St. Mary's Lake (a beautiful sheet of water, forming the reservoir from which the Yarrow takes its source), are the ruins of Dryhope tower, the birth-place of Mary Scott, daughter of Philip Scott of Dryhope, and famous by the traditional name of the Flower of Yarrow. She was married to Walter Scott, of Harden, no less renowned for his depredations, than his bride for her beauty. Her romantic appellation was, in latter days, with equal justice, conferred on Miss Mary Lilias Scott, the last of the elder branch of the Harden family. I well remember the talent and spirit of the latter Flower of Yarrow, though age had then injured the charms which procured her the name: and that the words usually sung to the air of Tweed-Side,' beginning,

"What beauties doth Flora disclose,'

were composed in her honour."-SIR WALTER SCOTT-Notes to Marmion-Second Canto.

In the copy of 'Cromek's Reliques,' previously referred to, is the following note by Sir Walter Scott:-"I may add, for the satisfaction of the ingenious and pains-taking illustrator, that the facts could not but be well-known to me as living in the closest intimacy with the Harden family, and being descended from their eldest cadet, Scott of Raeburn."]

Down the Burn, Dabic.

I HAVE been informed that the tune of "Down the Burn, Davie," was the composition of David Maigh, keeper of the blood slough hounds, belonging to the Laird of Riddel, in Tweeddale.

[Honest David has made us his debtor for a very pretty air: the words are by William Crawford. Burns tried, but very unsuccessfully, to diminish the warmth of this tender song.

And when I look to the banks o' Yarrow,

I mind me o' my winsome marrow.

Now she's gone to Edinbro' town

To buy braw ribbons to tie her gown,

She's bought them braid and laid them narrow,

Mary Scott's the flower o' Yarrow.

+ [The time when the moss-troopers and cattle-drivers on the borders began of yore their nightly depredations.]

"WHEN trees did bud, and fields were green,

And broom bloom'd fair to see;

When Mary was complete fifteen,

And love laugh'd in her e'e;

Blythe Davie's blinks her heart did move,
To speak her mind thus free,
'Gang down the burn, Davie, love,
And I shall follow thee.'

Now Davie did each lad surpass
That dwalt on yon burn side,
And Mary was the bonniest lass,

Just meet to be a bride;

Her cheeks were rosy, red and white,
Her een were bonnie blue;
Her looks were like Aurora bright,
Her lips like dropping dew.

As down the burn they took their way,
What tender tales they said!
His cheek to hers he aft did lay,
And with her bosom play'd;
Till baith at length impatient grown,
To be mair fully blest,

In yonder vale they lean'd them down-
Love only saw the rest.

What pass'd, I guess, was harmless play,
And naething sure unmeet;
For ganging hame, I heard them say,
They lik'd a walk sae sweet;
And that they aften should return
Sic pleasure to renew.

Quoth Mary, 'Love, I like the burn,
And aye shall follow you.'"]

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It's a' for the sake o' sweet Betty,
That ever I tint my way;
Sweet, let me lie beyond thee
Until it be break o' day.-

O, Betty will bake my bread,
And Betty will brew my ale,
And Betty will be my love,

When I come over the dale; Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, Blink over the burn to me, And while I hac life, dear lassie, My ain sweet Betty thou's be."

The blithesome Bridal.

I FIND the "Blithesome Bridal" in James Watson's collection of Scots Poems printed a Edinburgh, in 1706. This collection, the pub lisher says, is the first of its nature which has been published in our own native Scots dialect -it is now extremely scarce.t

[The inimitable "Blithesome Bridal" is rather too long for quotation; and who would venture to describe it? There is singular ease of expression and great force of graphic delinea tion. The witty catalogue of guests, and the humorous list of dinner dishes, are only equalled by Smollett's entertainment in the manner of the ancients. There is a maritime savour about the feast, which inclines one to think that it was spread somewhere on the sea-coast. For the guests take the following verses:—

COME, fye, let us a' to the wedding,
For there will be lilting there,
For Jock will be married to Maggie,
The lass wi' the gowden hair.

And there will be lang kail and castocks,
And bannocks o' barley-meal;

"Come o'er the bourn, Betty, to me;
Her boat hath a leak,

And she must not speak,

Why she dares not come over to thee."
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
Blink over the burn to me;
I would gie a' I had in the warld,
But to be a widow for thee.

This must also have been an English song.-See Lear Act 3, Scene vi.]

+["There is a tradition in our country that Sir Wa Scott, of Thirlstane, was the author of this inimitably dro song, and that he once sung it at an assembly in London. The English nobility were so tickled by it that they requested to hear it again; but Scott, feeling that it would not beat explanations, respectfully declined complying. They sent & deputation of young ladies to him, who kneeled and begged to have the song over again; but he was obliged to remain obstinate. I asked Lord Napier if he knew this song to be his predecessor's? He doubted it, and thought that a copy of it having been found inserted among some of that knight's own compositions had given rise to the tradition."-Tas

ETTRICK SHEPHERD.

"The author was Francis Sempill of Beltrees.”—MOTHWELL.]

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