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Ah no! her form's too heav'nly fair, Her love the gods above must share; While mortals with despair explore her, And at 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 the banks of Yarrow.

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

THE HIGHLAND QUEEN.

THE Highland Queen, music and poetry, was composed by a Mr. M'Vicar, purser of the Solbay man of war.-This I had from Dr. Blacklock.-BURNS.

Tune-"The Highland Queen.",

No more my song shall be, ye swains,
Of purling streams or flowrie plains:
More pleasing beauties now inspire,
And Phoebus deigns the warbling lyre.
Divinely aided, thus I mean

To celebrate, to celebrate,
To celebrate my Highland Queen.

In her sweet innocence you'll find
With freedom, truth and virtue join'd:
Strict honour fills her spotless soul,
And gives a lustre to the whole.

A matchless shape and lovely mein
All centre in, all centre in,
All centre in my Highland Queen.

No sordid wish or trifling joy
Her settled calm of mind destroy:
From pride and affectation free,
Alike she smiles on you and me.

The brightest nymph that trips the green
I do pronounce, I do pronounce,
I do pronounce my Highland Queen.

How blest the youth, whose gentle fate
Has destined to so fair a mate,
With all those wondrous gifts in store,
To which each coming day brings more.
No man more happy can be seen
Possessing thee, possessing thee,
Possessing thee, my Highland Queen.

THE MUCKIN' O' GEORDIE'S BYRE.

THE chorus of this song is old.The rest is the work of Balloon Tytler.—BURNS.

Tune-"The Muckin' o' Geordie's Byre."
THE muckin' o' Geordie's byre,
And the shool an' the graip sae clean,
Has gar'd me weet my cheeks,
And greet wi' baith my een.

It was ne'er my father's will,
Nor yet my mither's desire,
That e'er I should fyle my fingers
Wi' muckin' o' Geordie's byre.

The mouse is a merry beast,
The moudiwort wants the een,
But the warld shall ne'er get wit,
Sae merry as we hae been.

It was ne'er my father's will,

Nor yet my mither's desire, That e'er I should fyle my fingers Wi' muckin' o' Geordie's byre.

MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL,

ALSO KNOWN AS

MACPHERSON'S RANT.

He was a daring robber in the beginning of this (eighteenth) century-was condemned to be hanged at Inverness. He is said, when under sentence of death, to have composed this tune, which he called his own Lainent, or Farewell.

Gow has published a variation of this fine tune, as his own composition, which he calls "The Princess Augusta."-BURNS.

I've spent my time in rioting,

Debauch'd my health and strength:
I've pillaged, plundered, murdered,
But now, alas! at length
I'm brought to punishment direct⚫
Pale death draws near to me;
This end I never did project

To hang upon a tree.

To hang upon a tree, a tree,

That cursed unhappy death; Like to a wolf to worried be,

And choaked in the breath: My very heart would surely break When this I think upon, Did not my courage singular

Bid pensive thoughts begone.

A singularly learned but unhappy person. He lived at too early a stage of the world: before there was toleration in Britain, which he was obliged to quit (1793) because of his democratical writings: when he took refuge at Salem as a newspaper editor. He also lived before there were Temperance Societies any where.

No man on earth, tnat draweth breath,
More courage had than I:
I dared my foes unto their face,
And would not from them fly.
This grandeur stout, I did keep out,
Like Hector, manfully:
Then wonder one like me so stout
Should hang upon a tree.

The Egyptian band I did command,
With courage more by far,
Than ever did a general

His soldiers in the war.

Being feared by all, both great and small,

I liv'd most joyfullie:

Oh, curse upon this fate o' mine,
To hang upon a tree.

As for my life I do not care,

If justice would take place,
And bring my fellow-plunderers
Unto the same disgrace:

But Peter Brown, that notour loon,
Escaped and was made free:
Oh, curse upon this fate o' mine,
To hang upon a tree.

Both law and justice buried are,
And fraud and guile succeed;

The guilty pass unpunished,
If money intercede.

The Laird o' Graunt, that Highland Saunt,

His mighty majestie,

He pleads the cause of Peter Brown,
And lets Macpherson die.

The destiny of my life contrived,
By those whom I obliged,
Rewarded me much ill for good,
And left me no refuge :
But Braco Duff, in rage enough,
He first laid hands on me;
And if that death would not prevent,
Avenged would I be.

As for my life, it is but short,
When I shall be no more;
To part with life, I am content,
As any heretofore.

Therefore, good people all, take heed,
This warning take by me-
According to the lives you lead,
Rewarded you shall be.

Up in the morning's no for me,

Up in the morning early;
When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw,
I'm sure it's winter fairly.

Cold blaws the wind frae east to west,
The drift is driving sairly;

Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast,
I'm sure it's winter fairly.

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UP IN THE MORNING EARLY
BY JOHN HAMILTON.

CAULD blaws the wind frae north to south,
The drift is driving sairly,

The sheep are courin' in the heuch:
O, sirs, its 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 nipping 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.

GALA WATER.

How happy am I,

When my soldier is by,

I HAVE heard a concluding verse sung to While he kisses and blesses his Annie, O! these words-it is,

AN' ay she came at e'enin fa',

Amang the yellow broom, sae eerie, To seek the snood o' silk she tint ;

She fan na it, but gat her dearie.-BURNS. The original song of Gala-water was thus recited by a resident in that very pastoral district. BONNIE lass of Gala-water;

Braw, braw lass of Gala-water!

I would wade the stream sae deep,
For yon braw lass of Gala-water.

Braw, braw lads of Gala-water;
O, braw lads of Gala-water!
I'll kilt my coat aboon my knee,
And follow my love thro' the water.

Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow,

Sae bonnie blue her een, my dearie; Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou', I often kiss her till I'm wearie.

O'er yon bank, and o'er yon brae,

O'er yon moss amang the heather; I'll kilt my coat ahoon my knee,

And follow my love thro' the water.

Down amang the broom, the broom,

Down amang the broom, my dearie;

The lassie lost her silken snood,
That gart her greet till she was wearie.

'Tis a soldier alone can delight me, O,
For his graceful looks do invite me, 0:
While guarded in his arms,

I'll fear no war's alarms,
Neither danger nor death shall e'er fright me, O

My love is a handsome laddie, O,
Genteel, but ne'er foppish nor gaudy, 0 :
Tho' commissions are dear,

Yet I'll buy him one this year;
For he shall serve no longer a cadie, O.
A soldier has honour and bravery, O,
Unacquainted with rogues and their knavery, Ot
He minds no other thing

But the ladies or the king;

For ev'ry other care is but slavery, O.

Then I'll be the captain's lady, O;
Farewell all my friends and my daddy, O:
I'll wait no more at home,

But I'll follow with the drum,
And whene'er that beats, I'll be ready, O.
Dumbarton's drums sound bonny, O,
They are sprightly like my dear Johnie, O:
How happy shall I be,

When on my soldier's knee,

And he kisses and blesses his Annie, O'

FOR LACK OF GOLD.

THE Country girls in Ayrshire, instead of the

line

DUMBARTON DRUMS.

say,

She me forsook for a great duke,

For Athole's duke she me forsook;

which I take to be the original reading.

THIS is the last of the West Highland airs; and from it, over the whole tract of country to the confines of Tweedside, there is hardly a These words were composed by the late Dr. tune or song that one can say has taken its origin from any place or transaction in that part of Austin, physician at Edinburgh. He had Scotland. The oldest Ayrshire reel, is Stew-courted a lady, to whom he was shortly to arton Lasses, which was made by the father of have been married: but the Duke of Athole the present Sir Walter Montgomery Cunning- having seen her, became so much in love with ham, alias Lord Lyle; since which period there her, that he made proposals of marriage, which has indeed been local music in that country in were accepted of, and she jilted the Doctor.-great plenty. Johnie Faa is the only old song which I could ever trace as belonging to the extensive county of Ayr.-BURNS.

The poet has fallen under a mistake here :— the drums here celebrated were not those of the town, or garrison of Dumbarton; but of the regiment commanded by Lord Dumbarton-a cavalier of the house of Douglas-who signalized himself on the Jacobite side in 1695.—The old song was as follows:

DUMBARTON's drums beat bonny, O,
When they mind me of my dear Johnie, O.

BURNS.

DR. AUSTIN.

Tune-" For Lack of Gold."

FOR lack of gold she has left me, O;
And of all that's dear she's bereft me, O;
She me forsook for Athole's duke,
And to endless wo she has left me, O.
A star and garter have more art
Than youth, a true and faithful heart;

Jean, daughter of John Drummond, of Megginch, Esq.

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WALY, WALY.

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

O WHEREFORE need I busk my head,
Or wherefore need I kame my hair,
Sin my fause luve has me forsook,
And says he'll never luve me mair.—
BURNS.

O WALY waly up the bank,

And waly waly down the brae, And waly waly by yon burn-side,

Where I and my love were wont to gae.

I leant my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trustie trie;

But first it bow'd, and syne it brake, And sae my true love did lyghtlie me.

O waly waly gin love be bonnie

A little time while it is new ;
But when its auld it waxeth cauld,

And fades awa' like morning-dew.
O wherefore shu'd I busk my head?
Or wherefore shu'd I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,

And says he'll never loe me mair.
Now Arthur-seat shall be my bed,

The sheits shall neir be fyl'd by me : Saint Anton's well sall be my drink, Since my true love has forsaken me. Marti'mas wind, whan wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves aff the trie?

Mair fond of her charms, with my son in her O gentle death, whan wilt thou cum?

arms,

A ferlying speer'd how she fell-O ;

For of my life I am wearie.

Wi' the tear in her eye, quoth she, let me die, 'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, Sweet Sir, gin I can tell-O.

The remaining two stanzas, though pretty enough, partake rather too much of the rude simplicity of the Olden time" to be admitted here.-Ed.

Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie ; 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,

But my love's heart grown cauld to me. Whan we came in by Glasgowe town, We were a comely sight to see;

My love was clad i' th' black velvet, And I mysell in cramasie.

But had I wist before I kisst,

That love had been sae ill to win,

I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd,
And pinn d it wi' a siller pin.
Oh, oh if my young babe were borne,
And set upon the nurse's knee,

And I mysell were dead and gone,
For a maid again Ile never be!

TODLEN HAME.

There's Johnie Smith has got a wife
That scrimps him o' his cogie,
If she were mine, upon my life
I'd douk her in a bogie.

My cogie, Sirs, &c.—BURNS.

CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN.

THERE'S cauld kail in Aberdeen,
And castocks in Stra'bogie;
Gin I but hae a bonny lass,
Ye're welcome to your cogie:
And ye may sit up a' the night,
And drink till it be braid day-light;

THIS is, perhaps, the first bottle song that Gie me a lass baith clean and tight, ever was composed -BURNS.

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To dance the Reel of Bogie.

129

In cotillons the French excel;
John Bull loves countra-dances;
The Spaniards dance fandangos well;
Mynheer an allemande prances:
In foursome reels the Scotch delight,
The threesome maist dance wond'rous ligat;
But twasome's ding a' out o' sight,
Danc'd to the Reel of Bogie.

Come, lads, and view your partners well,
Wale each a blythsome rogie;
I'll tak this lassie to mysel,
She seems sae keen and vogie!
Now piper lad bang up the spring;
The countra fashion is the thing,
To prie their mou's e'er we begin
To dance the Reel of Bogie.

Now ilka lad has got a lass,
Save yon auld doited fogie;
And ta'en a fling upo' the grass,
As they do in Stra'bogie:
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 of Bogie.

Now a' the lads hae done their best,
Like true men of Stra'bogie;
We'll stop awhile and tak a rest,
And tipple out a cogie:

Come now, my lads, and tak your glass,
And try ilk other to surpass,

In wishing health to every lass

THIS song is by the Duke of Gordon.-The To dance the Reel of Bogie.

verses are,

THERE'S cauid kail in Aberdeen,

And castocks in Strabogie; When ilka lad maun hae his lass,

Then fye, gie me my cogie. My cogie, Sirs, my cogie, Sirs, I cannot want my cogie: I wadna gie my three-girr'd stoup For a' the quenes on Bogie.

WE RAN AND THEY RAN.

THE author of We ran and they ran, and they ran and we ran, &c. was the late Rev Murdoch M Lennan, minister at Crathie, De side.-BURNS.

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