The supreme felicity of lyric song is extremely rare even in the greatest masters of the art, and seems to come from something outside of themselves, some accident of the moment, some almost fortuitous intermingling of sound with meaning, which could have been attained by no ordinary inspiration and no deliberate skill, however accomplished and sure and strong the poetical organ which produced it. It is this supreme felicity, when it occurs, by which the lyric song of man, with only the elements of harsh and prosaic speech and common words to frame it, rivals the magic of the bird's note in joyous ecstasy or sorrow, and floods the heart, as it captivates the ear, with emotions sweeter and deeper, more ethereal and more mysterious, than life had seemed able to give. It is well known that singers, whose skill in the use of their vocal organs is the result of highly trained art, giving certainty and assurance to a great natural gift, and able at all times to command what seems the full extent of their power, sometimes have moments when they surpass themselves and exceed the limits of any art, when the voice touches a note of magic melody, which they can reach by no conscious effort even in the highest moments of inspiration, and which seems to come from some power not at their conscious command. It seems to be the same in lyric poetry, and when the power does come, then we have the touch which makes it song, as the thrill of the lark, and the ecstasy of the mocking-bird in the tropic night, are songs. The magic may not be prolonged through an entire lyric. It seldom is. It may be only in a single line or in a single verse. It may not be even the highest strain of feeling or nobility of sentiment, and may even carry with it little definite meaning upon analysis. It derives its power from the magic melody as much as from the feeling or the intelligible sense of the words, and its effect is indefinable by any law of the understanding. In its highest estate it combines the most penetrating feeling with not only perfect but magic melody, but it sometimes comes in a wild refrain, in which the meaning merely floats in the words, and the rhythm, the accent, the song itself, so to speak, is predominant. For the first instance there is the perfect example of Burns, the rapture caught once for a single strain in a song, which does not rise above the level of his accomplished skill otherwise, and which has the keenest and most penetrating feeling, joined to, and permeated by, the perfect and magic melody:—
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Never met and never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 1
For the second instance, where the melody is predominant over the meaning, and where the poet seemed only to be affected by the desire to frame words that would sing themselves and merely symbolize his thought, there are very many examples in the peasant poetry and folk-song of Scotland,—refrains that have no direct connection with the song, but, like the note of a second flute in a concerto, intensify the effect of the first strain by a kindred, yet diverse accentuation, as
The broom blooms bonnie and says it is fair;
and as the most perfect specimen that occurs, the refrain to the ballad of Lord Barnard in Jamieson's collection:—
O, wow for day!
And dear gin it were day!
Gin it were day and I were away,
For I haena long time to stay.
It is only the uneducated poets who have the courage to use language arbitrarily with a purpose
1 It is needless to say that the supreme felicity of theselines has been pointed out by other and more distinguishedcritics.
more for melody than for meaning, and when an attempt is made to reproduce its effect deliberately, as has been done by Dante Gabriel Rossetti and William Morris, the result is simply artificial and bizarre, in spite of the skill, the intensity, and the poetical power of Sister Helen, and the melody of the most perfect example of the modern imitation of the refrain in Morris's The Wind.
Wind, Wind, thou art sad, art thou kind?
Wind, Wind, unhappy; thou art blind,
Yet still thou wanderest the lily seed to find.
Perhaps the most perfect example of the lyric song, in which the melody is mingled with and sustains and elevates the feeling, and both are conjoined in an effect which melts the heart and possesses the ear, although the strain is not of so high a rapture of love or sorrow as parts of Burns's Ae Fond Kiss or Lady Anne Bothwell's Balow, and is of a peaceful sweetness and resignation rather than passion, is The Land of the Leal, by Carolina, Lady Nairne. In its original and simplest form, before she had interpolated a verse to express some of her theological ideas, it is the perfect interpretation of a sweet, solemn, and simple thought, the tenderest and purest emotion, breathed in an equally simple, but absolutely perfect melody, that is like the flowing of limpid water, crystal clear and unbroken to the end. The heart of the world has responded, and it has a place like none other in the tongue of song.
I'm wearin' awa, John,
Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,
I 'm wearin awa'
To the land o' the leal.
There's nae sorrow there, John,
There's neither cauld nor care, John,
The day is aye fair
In the land o' the leal.
Our bonnie bairn's there, John,
She was baith gude and fair, John,
And, oh, we grudged her sair
To the land o' the leal.
But sorrow's sel' wears past, John,
And joy's a-comin' fast, John,
The joy that's aye to last,
In the land o' the leal.
Oh, dry your glist'ning ee, John,
My saul langs to be free, John,
And angels beckon me
To the land o' the leal.
O, haud ye leal and true, John,
Your day it's wearin' through, John,
And I 'll welcome you
To the land o' the leal.
Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John,
The world's cares are vain, John,
We 'll meet and will be fain
In the land o' the leal.
The fame of the authoress, so far as she can be said to have any of her own individual personality, rests upon this song, and sufficiently, while the English language shall last, but it was not the solitary example of her genius, and her poetical work, although not great in hulk, contains other lyrics of a very high quality, with a wide range from high martial spirit and homely pathos to gay and frolicsome humor, and instinct with the vital and living element of song. Lady Nairne was almost morbidly anxious to retain her incognito as a writer during her life, so that her own husband and nearest relatives were not in the secret, and those who surmised or guessed it hardly dared to allude to it in her presence, and the veil has rested over her personality to a great degree in comparison with the flood of light poured over the words and actions of her great contemporaries, Scott and Burns, and many lesser figures in Scotch provincial literature like Professor Wilson and Hogg. Nevertheless, since her death at a very advanced age in 1846, her songs have been collected and published under her own name, and enough has been made known concerning her life and character to give to her poetry an individuality, and reveal a very gracious, noble and engaging figure.
Carolina Oliphant was born in "the auld house of Gask," in Perthshire, on the 16th of August, 1766, six years later than Robert Burns. She came of stanch Jacobite stock on both sides, her father, Laurence Oliphant, a name since made familiar by the singular and notable career of the accomplished writer, traveler, and scholar, who puzzled the world not less by his naïve religious aberrations than by his accomplishments, took up arms for the Stuarts in "the Forty-five," and suffered attainder and temporary banishment in company with his father, who had also been "out" in the Earl of Mar's rebellion in "the Fifteen." Young Laurence Oliphant, while in exile at Versailles, married his cousin, Margaret Robertson, daughter of Duncan Robertson of Strowan, chief of the clan Dorrochy. The Robertsons had also been ardent Jacobites, and suffered in purse and person for their loyalty. The grandfather, Duncan Robertson, was notable in character and personality as well in adventure and misfortune, and had his portrait painted in immortal colors by Scott as the Baron of Bradwardine. Carolina, baptized after the exiled prince, spent her infancy and early childhood on the Continent in France and Belgium, under the care of her grandmother, her parents being in feeble health, and then returned with them to the old home at Gask, where she spent her happy, healthy, and gay youth and young womanhood. From a feeble and delicate child she had grown into a strong, vigorous, and beautiful young woman, the beauty of the country-side, called "the Flower of Strathearn" and "the lovely Car," and her life was of a kind to strengthen her ardent patriotism and cultivate her fondness for the native music, poetry, and song of which Scotland was full, but whose transcendent merits were unknown and unappreciated by the literary world until they were illuminated by the light of the genius of Burns a few years later. The anecdotes of her life give a very charming picture of innocent gayety, family affection, and friendship. She played the Jacobite airs for her aged grandfather, as she afterward wrote Jacobite songs for his pleasure, and with a skill and feeling which won the difficult approval of the famous Neil Gow, the wandering fiddler, whose skill on his instrument was like that of Scott's "Wandering Willie," and whose presence at a laird's house would draw all the young people for miles around to dance to the winged notes of his strathspeys and hornpipes. She was foremost in all scenes of gayety, and is said to have taken a carriage at midnight and driven several miles to bring one of her young lady friends out of bed for a party where partners were scarce. In the simple social pleasures of the local aristocracy, the county balls and meetings, and the gatherings of the tenantry, "the Flower of Strathearn" was a conspicuous figure, while her keen eyes were taking in the queer figures that appeared later in all the glow of bright humor in The Laird of Cockpen, The County Meeting, and Jamie, the Laird. Her first verses, The Ploughman, were written for a harvest home dinner, and were read by her brother as a contribution by an unknown author. About this time the first poems of Burns made their appearance, and stirred the heart of Scotland not less by their original genius than by the revivification of the old airs and scraps of songs, finished and cleansed of their coarseness, and made to speak to the hearts of the people in the drawing-room as well as in the peasant's cottage and the taproom of the country alehouse. It was the first acknowledgment, if not the beginning, of that appreciation of the wealth of pathos and humor in the peasant poetry of Scotland, among the cultivated classes, and drew that attention and emulation to which all there is of value in modern Scotch poetry is due. It was the inspiration of the genius of Carolina Oliphant, and from this time she began to write the new verses to the old airs, and to replace the imperfect, unworthy, and sometimes coarse and vulgar scraps of songs with the beautiful ones of her own, equally Scotch and racy of the soil, and full of the thoughts and sentiments as well as the dialect of the people. The old grandfather, worn with disease and living in the past light of fervid days, heard his favorite airs of welcome, gathering, and victory, for the Young Chevalier sung to new and glowing words, and the young ladies laughed at the funny lilts in which were drawn the queer figures of the dullards and provincial fops, without knowing to whose keen pen they were indebted. The Land o' the Leal was written for Mrs. Archibald Campbell Colquhoun, a dear friend of Miss Oliphant, upon the death of an infant daughter, and to one other only was the secret of its authorship ever definitely disclosed, although its aurora, more or less mysteriously, finally settled around the head of Lady Nairne. Mrs. Colquhoun was born Mary Anne Erskine, and was the sister of that William Erskine afterward Lord Kinedder who was the dearest friend and associate of Walter Scott in his early Edinburgh days, and the sister, who kept the house for her brother until her marriage with Mr. Colquhoun, was the earliest and deepest love of Scott.
Somewhat late in life Carolina Oliphant married her cousin, Major William Nairne, the heir to the forfeited Barony of Nairne, Assistant Inspector General of Barracks in Scotland, and with him removed to Edinburgh, where she occupied for a time a cottage at Portobello and afterward official quarters in Holyrood place. The impulse given by Burns to the cultivation of native Scotch poetry still continued, and was being strengthened by his contributions of songs for the music of the old airs in Johnson's Museum, and a coterie of the literary ladies of Edinburgh established the Scotch Minstrel for the same purpose. To this Mrs. Nairne became a contributor, with a single friend for a confidant, under the name of "Mrs. Bogan of Bogan," with other pseudonyms, a disguised handwriting and other elaborate precautions for concealment. There was, of course, a keen curiosity to discover the author of these beautiful songs, but the secret was well guarded, and not even the husband was aware of it. "I dare not even tell William"— Mrs. Nairne wrote to her friend—"lest he blab." She and her friend at one time cherished the purpose of "cleansing and moralizing" the songs of Burns, as he had done those of his unknown predecessors, but a wiser second thought restrained them. Miss Oliphant had been "converted," as the phrase goes, when a young woman on a visit to England, and her piety and religious feeling deepened with her years, until it took on completely the rigid, depressing, and dismal forms of Scotch denominationalism, and her genius for poetry shriveled under it. During the visit of George the Fourth to Edinburgh he signalized his theatrical clemency by a restoration of the forfeited titles of the Jacobite nobility, and Major Nairne became Baron Nairne. Lord Nairne survived his restoration but a few years, and died in 1829, leaving his widow with an only son. To his education she devoted herself, residing for a time in Bath, afterward in Ireland, and traveling on the Continent for the health of the young lord, who was of feeble constitution, and who died at Brussels in 1837. It is painful to read of the narrow bigotry and theological gloom which enveloped the joyous and healthy spirit of Lady Nairne. She would not allow her son to be taught to dance, and regarded her poetry as the somewhat flagitious exercise of a worldly spirit, and spent her days in the doubt and self-affliction of a harsh creed and in the petty interests of a narrow church. She was deeply interested in the hopeless task of "converting" the Catholics of Ireland and the Jews to Scotch Presbyterianism, and was the mentor of her relatives after the fashion of Mrs. Hannah More, the patroness of bazaars, and at one time with her sister was expelled from an Italian town for distributing Protestant Bibles to the people. But her native nobleness of character shone through the theological clouds. She was regarded with affection as well as reverence by her younger relatives and her servants, and impressed all who came in contact with her by the cordial grace of her manners, and the aristocratic and highly marked contour of her features, which in the bloom of youth had made her "the Flower of Strathearn." Her benevolence was unceasing and self-sacrificing, if not always wisely directed, and at one time she had all her family plate sold and the proceeds sent to Dr. Chalmers for the support of an industrial school for the poor. She lived during her later years at the old house of Gask, the honored guest of her nephew and his wife, and died in 1845 at the advanced age of seventy-one, in peace and tranquillity, and with only the gentle decay of her mental faculties and bodily forces. The year after her death her poems were collected and published under her own name, and the world for the first time knew to whom it was indebted for the songs which had impressed themselves upon the popular heart and become a distinct and notable part of the lyric poetry of Scotland.
As has been said, The Land o' the Leal reaches the highest note in its inspiration, perfection, and completeness, within the limits of its purpose, not only of Lady Nairne's work, but of all the lyric poetry of Scotland, but it was not the solitary example of a genius which had much of the versatility, if not the fecundity and strength, of Burns, in interpreting the emotions and the thoughts, the passions and the humors, of the Scotch people. Lady Nairne's poetical genius was entirely lyric. There was no Cotter's Saturday Night, much less any scene from Poosey Nancy's alehouse, or witch's gathering at Kirk Alloway, in her interpretation of Scotch life, and her voice was only the pure lilt of Scotch song, grave or gay. Without determined literary ambition and the responsibility of a known name, the stimulus of production was not absorbing and lasting, and a good deal of her work was simply occasional, careless, and imperfect. The best, that which will live as long as Scotch song, could be comprised within the limits of a dozen pages. But its quality is of the very highest in inspiration and execution, the pure voice of the lark lilting beneath the blue cloud, the mourning of the croodlin' doo, and the gay warble of the cheery thrush.
Almost as famous in its own and very different way as The Land o' the Leal, and almost as perfect in its execution, the limitation of the true lyric to the simplest and most absolute words, and the complete interpretation of its spirit in the melody, is The Laird of Cockpen. It was written, it is said, to supply proper words to the gay old air of When She cam ben, She bobbit, which being interpreted, means that when she came into the front of the house, she curtsied, and of which the first verse of the imperfect and rather vulgar old song is—
When she cam' ben, she bobbit,
When she cam' ben, she bobbit,
When she cam' ben she kissed Cockpen
And syne denied that she did it.
But no one can doubt that it was the true picture of a character and incident which had given laughter to Carolina Oliphant and her young friends, and had been the joke of the country-side, ere it lilted itself to the rollicking jig. The commonly printed version of The Laird of Cockpen is injured by the fact that it has two additional verses, contributed by Miss Ferrier, the novelist, which destroy its absolute completeness and perfection of humor as it was written by Lady Nairne.
The laird of Cockpen, he's proud an' he's great;
His mind is taen up wi' things o' the State.
He wanted a wife his braw house to keep,
But favour wi' wooin' was fasheous to seek.
Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,
At his table-head he thought she'd look well,
M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha'-Lee,
A penniless lass wi' a long pedigree.
His wig was well pouthered, as gude as when new,
His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue;
He put on a ring, a sword and cock'd hat,
And wha could resist a laird wi' a that.
He took the grey mare and rode cannily,
An' rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha'-Lee.
"Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben—
She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen."
Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine;
"O, what brings the laird at sic' a like time."
She put off her apron and on her silk gown,
Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down.
An' when she cam' ben he bowed fu low,
An' what was his errand he soon let her know;
Amazed was the laird when the lady said "Na,"
And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'.
Dumfoundered was he, nae sigh did he gie.
He mounted his mare—he rade cannily.
An' often he thought as he gaed thro' the glen,
She's daft to refuse the laird o' Cockpen.
Only a little less humorous and perfect is Jamie, the Laird, whose doting mother may have persecuted Carolina Oliphant herself, or some of her friends, with the story of his mental and physical perfections until there was this burst of mocking vexation, to the tune of The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow:—
Send a horse to the water, ye 'll no mak' him drink
Send a fule to the college, ye 'll no mak' him think;
Send a craw to the surgin, an' still he will craw;
An' the wee laird had nae rummelgumpshion ava;
Yet he is the pride o' his fond mother's e'e;
In body or mind nae faut can she see;
"He's a fell clever lad an' a bonnie wee man,"
Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.
An' oh, she's a haverin' Lucky, I trow,
An' oh, she's a haverin' Lucky, I trow.
"He's a fell clever lad, an' a bonnie wee man," Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.
His legs they are bow'd, his e'es they do glee,
His wig, whiles its off, an' when on, its ajee.
He's braird as he's long—an' ill-faur'd is he,
A dafter like body I never did see.
An' yet for this cretur she says I am deein';
When that I deny—she's fear'd at my leein'.
Obliged to pit up wi' the sair defamation,
I'm liken to dee wi' shame and vexation.
An' oh, she's a haverin' Lucky, etc.
An' her clish-ma-clavers gang a' thro' the town,
An' the wee lairdie trows I 'll hang or I 'll drown;
Wi' his gawkie like face yestreen he did say,
"I 'll maybe tak' you, for Bess I 'll no hae,
Nor Mollie, nor Effie, nor long-legged Jeanie,
Nor Nellie, nor Katie, nor skirlin' wee Beenie."
I stoppet my ears, ran off in a fury—
I'm thinkin' to bring them before Judge and Jury.
For oh, what a randy old Lucky is she, etc.
Frien's, gie yere advice—I 'll follow yere counsel.
Maun I speak to the Provost or honest Town Council?
Or the writers, or lawyers, or doctors? now say,
For the law o' the Lucky I shall and will hae.
The hale town at me are jibbin' an' jeerin',
For a leddy like me it's really past hearin';
The Lucky now maun hae done wi' her claverin',
For I 'll no pit up wi' her an' her haverin'.
For oh, she 's a randy, I trow, I trow,
For oh, she's a randy, I trow, I trow.
"He's a fell clever lad an' a bonnie wee man,"
Is aye the beginuin' an' end o' her sang.
The finest efflorescence of Scotch lyric poetry, which is the richest and finest in the English language, if not in the world, was that of the Jacobite era, and the influence which followed it and inspired the renaissance of Scotch song is the genius of Burns, Hogg, Cunningham, Lady Nairne, and many more of less distinction, who made a galaxy of singers hardly less remarkable in their way, as marking an era in literature, than the dramatists of the Elizabethan age. The genius of folk-song and ballad poetry had always been remarkably developed in Scotland, in comparison, at least, with England, and, in spite of many characteristics among the Lowlanders, worldly thrift, bitter and barren bigotry, and a sort of dourness and hardheadedness, not calculated to encourage sentiment and emotion; and the student of racial distinctions may be inclined to attribute it to the influence of Celtic blood and tradition, creating a vein of sensitiveness, tenderness, and susceptibility to the magic of song and music in the strong and hard fabric of the Saxon character. But from whatever cause the tendency of the native genius was created, its existence was obvious, and from the very earliest time, since song began to be preserved in written words, the quality and quantity of Scotch folk-poetry and folk-music have been remarkable. The native faculty and the inherited tendency were all present when the spark of an inspiration, involving all the elements of patriotism, daring adventure, personal devotion, despair, and lamentation, gave fire to the genius of national poetry. All the incidents and events of the Rebellion of Forty-five, the landing of the young Prince Charles at Moidart with only seven followers, the blaze of fiery loyalty that swept through the Highlands at his call, the extraordinary victories won by the sheer impetus and hand-to-hand onslaughts of the Highland clans, the picturesque entry into Edinburgh and the gallant court of Holyrood, the swift march into England, which seemed at one time to promise to carry the Chevalier into St. James's Palace by its rush, the retreat and disorganization, and finally the woeful slaughter of Culloden, followed by the attainders and executions and the romantic adventures of the Prince in hiding from his hunters among the mountains and islands, all contrived to create themes for song and poetry which have never been surpassed in modern history. The enterprise was as foolish as it was daring, an episode of knight-errantry after the age when success was possible, but it had all the elements of chivalry in its impulse and conduct, and no modern war has been less selfish and sordid, not even the insurrections of Poland or the uprising of the Spanish and German people against Napoleon. The young Chevalier himself, only twenty-four years of age, tall, handsome, and martial, with his flowing yellow hair and Tartan dress, and with the fascination of his race in his manner, his courage, clemency, and misfortune, gave it the personal element so necessary to the highest poetry, and altogether the circumstances and the conditions combined to create an effervescence of popular poetry which has never been surpassed. Its quantity was as remarkable as its quality. The two large volumes of Hogg's Jacobite Relics by no means exhausted the collection of songs in the Lowland dialect, and to this day those in Gaelic are still being discovered by the labors of Professor Blackie and others, as they are yet preserved in the bothies of the Highlands and the islands. The inspiration of the later poets, Burns, Hogg, Cunningham, and
Lady Nairne, was hardly less strong, fed as it was upon the vivid traditions and by the stories and histories of the men living about them, or of their own families, full of all the elements of poetry, and their purpose to vivify and recreate the native song of Scotland must have had its most fertile impulse and material in the Jacobite songs, of which the country is full. In Lady Nairne the ancestral and personal impulse must have been especially strong. Her father and mother had been married in exile; her grandfather had been distinguished for his services as well as for his misfortunes, and upon both sides her family had been notable for more than one generation for its loyalty and its importance in the Scotch struggle for the restoration of the Stuarts. An old ballad says:—
Gask and Strowan were nae slack,
and letters of thanks and tokens of gratitude from the royal hands were heirlooms of the houses. It was a keen pleasure to the grandfather in his old age to hear the songs and the music which had illumined the unhappy cause, and it is no wonder that the earliest inspiration of the young poetess was from such themes, and her keenest reward to see the blood warming more freely the old man's worn cheeks as she sang the new and stirring words to the old airs, and found the token of her success in his appreciation. The greater portion of her Jacobite songs were composed under this inspiration, and so long as she wrote at all they were her favorite themes. They are among the finest in what may be termed the modern Jacobite songs, unsurpassed by anything of the kind by Burns, Hogg, or Cunningham, and only so by that consummate flower of all Scotch Jacobite poetry by William Glen:—
A wee bird cam' to our ha' door,
while in the pure singing quality, the lilt and the verse, there is nothing to exceed the power of—
The news from Moidart cam' yestreen.
The story of The Hundred Pipers an' A' is historically correct in that there were so many musicians of the class attached to the little army of the Prince, and that the Highland lads did dance themselves dry to the pibroch's sound after fording the Esk, but it was not on the advance to Carlisle, but on the retreat from England, and the scene had doubtless been often described by the old laird of Strowan.
Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a',
Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a';
We 'll up an' gie them a blaw, a blaw,
Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a',
Oh, it's owre the Border awa', awa';
It's owre the Border awa', awa';
We 'll on and we 'll march to Carlisle ha;
Wi' its yetts, its castle an' a', an' a',
Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', etc.
Our young sodger lads looked braw, looked braw,
With their tartans, kilts an' a', an' a',
With their bonnets and feathers and glittering gear,
An' pibrochs sounding sweet an' clear.
Will they a' return to their ain dear glen?
Will they a' return, our Hieland men?
Second-sighted Sandy looked fu wae,
An' mothers grat, when they marched away,
Wi' a hundred pipers, etc.
O, wha' is foremost o' a', o' a';
O, wha' does follow the blaw, the blaw,
Bonnie Charlie, the King o' us a', hurra!
Wi' his hundred pipers an' a', an' a';
His bonnet an' feather he's wavin' high,
His prancin' steed maist seems to fly,
The nor' wind plays wi' his curlin' hair,
While the pipers blew up an' unco flare,
Wi' a hundred pipers, etc.
The Esk was swollen sae red and sae deep,
But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep,
Two thousand swam o'er to fell English ground,
An' danced themselves dry to the pibroch's sound.
Dumfoundered the English saw—they saw,
Dumfoundered they heard the blaw, the blaw;
Dumfoundered they a' ran awa', awa',
From the hundred pipers an' a', an' a',
Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a',
Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a'.
We 'll up an gie them a blaw, a blaw,
Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a'.
Burns, Hogg, and Lady Nairne all wrote songs to the beautiful air of Charlie is my Darling, embodying in each case the first verse of the unknown poet who originated the song. They are all beautiful, but the words of Lady Nairne have conquered in the popular ear, and taken final possession of the air.
'T was on a Monday morning,
Right early in the year,
When Charlie cam' to our town,
The young Chevalier.
Oh, Charlie is my darling,
My darling, my darling,
Oh, Charlie is my darling,
The young Chevalier.
As he cam' marching up the street
The pipes played loud an' clear,
An' a' the folks cam' running out
To meet the Chevalier.
Wi' Hieland bonnets on their heads,
An' claymores bright an' clear,
They cam' to fight for Scotland's right
An' the young Chevalier.
They 'ye left their bonnie Highland hills,
Their wives and bairnies dear,
To draw the sword for Scotland's lord,
The young Chevalier.
Oh, there were mony beating hearts
An' mony a hope an' fear,
An' mony were the prayers sent up
For the young Chevalier.
Oh, Charlie is my darling,
My darling, my darling,
Oh, Charlie is my darling,
The young Chevalier.
There is one of Lady Nairne's songs not quite perfect, for one forced and faulty line in the refrain, which has a higher touch of the imagination than any of the others. The influence of the magic of nature in the interpretation of human sorrow or gladness, and the wild mystery of the birds' melody upon the heart, which is characteristic of the highest order of the folk-song, and which, in its irregularity and simplicity, not less than the melody, which is nature's own voice, rather than the rhythm of art, is beyond the reach of any deliberate skill. It would be hard to find anything more perfect at once in its picture and its interpretation of the voice of nature in human words than—
And then the burnie's like the sea,
Roarin' an' reamin';
Nae wee bit sangster's on the tree,
But wild birds screamin'.
While the sadness of human despair that follows and emphasizes the passion of the flood strikes the ear like a veritable wail in the loneliness and darkness.
Bonnie ran the burnie down,
Wandrin' an' windin'.
Sweetly sang the birds above,
Care never mindin'.
The gentle summer wind
Was their music saft an' kind,
And it rockit them an' rockit them
All in their bowers sae hie.
Bonnie ran, etc.
The mossy rock was there,
An' the water lily fair,
An' the little trout would sport about
All in the sunny beam.
Bonnie ran, etc.
Tho' summer days be lang,
An' sweet the birdies sang,
The wintry night and chilly light
Keep aye their eerie roun'.
Bonnie ran, etc.
An' then the burnie's like a sea,
Roarin' an' reamin';
Nae wee bit sangster's on the tree,
But wild birds screamin'.
Oh, that the past I might forget,
Wandrin' an' weepin';
Oh, that aneath the hillock green
Sound I were sleepin'.
In one other famous song, heard wherever Scotch music is sung, Lady Nairne interpreted the pathos, hardship, and suffering behind the strong, clear voices of the Newhaven fishwives, which may still be heard in the wynds and closes of Edinburgh as they march on their sturdy limbs with the heavy creels laden with the silvery fishes on their backs, and fill the air with their deep, melodious cry.