“This is no mine ain house,My ain house, my ain house;This is no mine ain house,I ken by the biggin o’t.Bread and cheese are my door-cheeks,My door-cheeks, my door-cheeks;Bread and cheese are my door-cheeks,And pancakes the riggin o’t.This is no my ain wean;My ain wean, my ain wean;This is no my ain wean,I ken by the greetie o’t.I’ll tak the curchie aff my head,Aff my head, aff my head;I’ll tak the curchie aff my head,And row’t about the feetie o’t.”
“This is no mine ain house,My ain house, my ain house;This is no mine ain house,I ken by the biggin o’t.
Bread and cheese are my door-cheeks,My door-cheeks, my door-cheeks;Bread and cheese are my door-cheeks,And pancakes the riggin o’t.
This is no my ain wean;My ain wean, my ain wean;This is no my ain wean,I ken by the greetie o’t.
I’ll tak the curchie aff my head,Aff my head, aff my head;I’ll tak the curchie aff my head,And row’t about the feetie o’t.”
The tune is an old Highland air, called “Shuan truish willighan.”
This song is by Blacklock.
This air is the “Gardener’s March.” The title of the song only is old; the rest is mine.
Tune.—“Seventh of November.”
I composed this song out of compliment to one of the happiest and worthiest married couples in the world, Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, and his lady. At their fire-side I have enjoyed more pleasant evenings than at all the houses of fashionable people in this country put together; and to their kindness and hospitality I am indebted for many of the happiest hours of my life.
The “Gaberlunzie Man” is supposed to commemorate an intrigue of James the Fifth. Mr. Callander, of Craigforth, published some years ago an edition of “Christ’s Kirk on the Green,” and the “Gaberlunzie Man,” with notes critical and historical. James the Fifth is said to have been fond of Gosford, in Aberlady parish, and that it was suspected by his contemporaries, that in his frequent excursions to that part of the country, he had other purposes in view besides golfing and archery. Three favourite ladies, Sandilands, Weir, and Oliphant (one of them resided at Gosford, and the others in the neighbourhood), were occasionally visited by their royal and gallant admirer, which gave rise to the following advice to his majesty, from Sir David Lindsay, of the Mount, Lord Lyon.
“Sow not your seed on Sandylands,spend not your strength in Weir,And ride not on an Elephant,For gawing o’ your gear.”
“Sow not your seed on Sandylands,spend not your strength in Weir,And ride not on an Elephant,For gawing o’ your gear.”
This air is Oswald’s; the first half stanza of the song is old, the rest mine.
This song is by Dr. Fordyce, whose merits as a prose writer are well known.
This air is Oswald’s; the song mine.
This song is mine.
This satirical song was composed to commemorate General Cope’s defeat at Preston Pans, in 1745, when he marched against the Clans.
The air was the tune of an old song, of which I have heard some verses, but now only remember the title, which was,
“Will ye go the coals in the morning.”
“Will ye go the coals in the morning.”
This air is by Marshall; the song I composed out of compliment to Mrs. Burns.
N.B. It was during the honeymoon.
The song is by Dr. Blacklock; I believe, but am not quite certain, that the air is his too.
This air was formerly called, “The bridegroom greets when the sun gangs down.” The words are by Lady Ann Lindsay, of the Balcarras family.
This is one of those fine Gaelic tunes, preserved from time immemorial in the Hebrides; they seem to be the ground-work of many of our finest Scots pastoral tunes. The words of this song were written to commemorate the unfortunate expedition of General Burgoyne in America, in 1777.
This air is Oswald’s; the song I made out of compliment to Mrs. Burns.
This air is called “Robie donna Gorach.”
This air is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it his lament for his brother. The first half-stanza of the song is old; the rest mine.
The first half-stanza of this song is old; the rest is mine.
This beautiful song is in true old Scotch taste, yet I do not know that either air or words were in print before.
This song is the work of a Mr. Alexander Ross, late schoolmaster at Lochlee; and author of a beautiful Scots poem, called “The Fortunate Shepherdess.”
“They say that Jockey ‘ll speed weel o’t,They say that Jockey ‘ll speed weel o’t,For he grows brawer ilka day,I hope we’ll hae a bridal o’t:For yesternight nae farder gane,The backhouse at the side wa’ o’t,He there wi’ Meg was mirden seen,I hope we’ll hae a bridal o’t.An’ we had but a bridal o’t,An’ we had but a bridal o’t,We’d leave the rest unto gude luck,Altho’ there should betide ill o’t:For bridal days are merry times,And young folks like the coming o’t,And scribblers they bang up their rhymes,And pipers they the bumming o’t.The lasses like a bridal o’t,The lasses like a bridal o’t,Their braws maun be in rank and file,Altho’ that they should guide ill o’t:The boddom o’ the kist is thenTurn’d up into the inmost o’t,The end that held the kecks sae clean,Is now become the teemest o’t.The bangster at the threshing o’t.The bangster at the threshing o’t,Afore it comes is fidgin-fain,And ilka day’s a clashing o’t:He’ll sell his jerkin for a groat,His linder for anither o’t,And e’er he want to clear his shot,His sark’ll pay the tither o’tThe pipers and the fiddlers o’t,The pipers and the fiddlers o’t,Can smell a bridal unco’ far,And like to be the middlers o’t;Fan[293]thick and threefold they convene,Ilk ane envies the tither o’t,And wishes nane but him alaneMay ever see anither o’t.Fan they hae done wi’ eating o’t,Fan they hae done wi’ eating o’t,For dancing they gae to the green,And aiblins to the beating o’t:He dances best that dances fast,And loups at ilka reesing o’t,And claps his hands frae hough to hough,And furls about the feezings o’t.”
“They say that Jockey ‘ll speed weel o’t,They say that Jockey ‘ll speed weel o’t,For he grows brawer ilka day,I hope we’ll hae a bridal o’t:For yesternight nae farder gane,The backhouse at the side wa’ o’t,He there wi’ Meg was mirden seen,I hope we’ll hae a bridal o’t.
An’ we had but a bridal o’t,An’ we had but a bridal o’t,We’d leave the rest unto gude luck,Altho’ there should betide ill o’t:For bridal days are merry times,And young folks like the coming o’t,And scribblers they bang up their rhymes,And pipers they the bumming o’t.
The lasses like a bridal o’t,The lasses like a bridal o’t,Their braws maun be in rank and file,Altho’ that they should guide ill o’t:The boddom o’ the kist is thenTurn’d up into the inmost o’t,The end that held the kecks sae clean,Is now become the teemest o’t.
The bangster at the threshing o’t.The bangster at the threshing o’t,Afore it comes is fidgin-fain,And ilka day’s a clashing o’t:He’ll sell his jerkin for a groat,His linder for anither o’t,And e’er he want to clear his shot,His sark’ll pay the tither o’t
The pipers and the fiddlers o’t,The pipers and the fiddlers o’t,Can smell a bridal unco’ far,And like to be the middlers o’t;Fan[293]thick and threefold they convene,Ilk ane envies the tither o’t,And wishes nane but him alaneMay ever see anither o’t.
Fan they hae done wi’ eating o’t,Fan they hae done wi’ eating o’t,For dancing they gae to the green,And aiblins to the beating o’t:He dances best that dances fast,And loups at ilka reesing o’t,And claps his hands frae hough to hough,And furls about the feezings o’t.”
This is perhaps the first bottle song that ever was composed.
This air is the composition of my friend Allan Masterton, in Edinburgh. I composed the verses on the amiable and excellent family of Whitefoords leaving Ballochmyle, when Sir John’s misfortunes had obliged him to sell the estate.
I composed this song pretty early in life, and sent it to a young girl, a very particular acquaintance of mine, who was at that time under a cloud.
This song is Dr. Blacklock’s.—I don’t know how it came by the name, but the oldest appellation of the air was, “Whistle and I’ll come to you, my lad.”
It has little affinity to the tune commonly known by that name.
I composed this song as I conveyed my chest so far on the road to Greenock, where I was to embark in a few days for Jamaica.
I meant it as my farewell dirge to my native land.
This excellent song is the composition of my worthy friend, old Skinner, at Linshart.
“When first I cam to be a manOf twenty years or so,I thought myself a handsome youth,And fain the world would know;In best attire I stept abroad,With spirits brisk and gay,And here and there and everywhere,Was like a morn in May;No care had I nor fear of want,But rambled up and down,And for a beau I might have pass’dIn country or in town;I still was pleas’d where’er I went,And when I was alone,I tun’d my pipe and pleas’d myselfWi’ John o’ Badenyon.Now in the days of youthful primeA mistress I must find,Forlove, I heard, gave one an airAnd ev’n improved the mind:On Phillis fair above the restKind fortune fixt my eyes,Her piercing beauty struck my heart,And she became my choice;To Cupid now with hearty prayerI offer’d many a vow;And danc’d, and sung, and sigh’d, and swore,As other lovers do;But, when at last I breath’d my flame,I found her cold as stone;I left the jilt, and tun’d my pipeTo John o’ Badenyon.Whenlovehad thus my heart beguil’dWith foolish hopes and vain,Tofriendship’sport I steer’d my course,And laugh’d at lover’s painA 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 whomI freely might apply;A strait soon came: my friend I try’d;He heard, and spurn’d my moan;I hy’d me home, and tun’d my pipeTo John o’ Badenyon.Methought I should be wiser next,And would apatriotturn,Began to doat on Johnny Wilks,And cry up Parson Horne.Their manly spirit I admir’d,And prais’d their noble zeal,Who had with flaming tongue and penMaintain’d the public weal;But e’er a month or two had past,I found myself betray’d,’Twasselfandpartyafter all,For a’ the stir they made;At last I saw the factious knavesInsult the very throne,I curs’d them a’, and tun’d my pipeTo John o’ Badenyon.”
“When first I cam to be a manOf twenty years or so,I thought myself a handsome youth,And fain the world would know;In best attire I stept abroad,With spirits brisk and gay,And here and there and everywhere,Was like a morn in May;No care had I nor fear of want,But rambled up and down,And for a beau I might have pass’dIn country or in town;I still was pleas’d where’er I went,And when I was alone,I tun’d my pipe and pleas’d myselfWi’ John o’ Badenyon.
Now in the days of youthful primeA mistress I must find,Forlove, I heard, gave one an airAnd ev’n improved the mind:On Phillis fair above the restKind fortune fixt my eyes,Her piercing beauty struck my heart,And she became my choice;To Cupid now with hearty prayerI offer’d many a vow;And danc’d, and sung, and sigh’d, and swore,As other lovers do;But, when at last I breath’d my flame,I found her cold as stone;I left the jilt, and tun’d my pipeTo John o’ Badenyon.
Whenlovehad thus my heart beguil’dWith foolish hopes and vain,Tofriendship’sport I steer’d my course,And laugh’d at lover’s painA 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 whomI freely might apply;A strait soon came: my friend I try’d;He heard, and spurn’d my moan;I hy’d me home, and tun’d my pipeTo John o’ Badenyon.
Methought I should be wiser next,And would apatriotturn,Began to doat on Johnny Wilks,And cry up Parson Horne.Their manly spirit I admir’d,And prais’d their noble zeal,Who had with flaming tongue and penMaintain’d the public weal;But e’er a month or two had past,I found myself betray’d,’Twasselfandpartyafter all,For a’ the stir they made;At last I saw the factious knavesInsult the very throne,I curs’d them a’, and tun’d my pipeTo John o’ Badenyon.”
I picked up this old song and tune from a country girl in Nithsdale.—I never met with it elsewhere in Scotland.
“Whare are you gaun, my bonie lass,Whare are you gaun, my hinnie,She answer’d me right saucilie,An errand for my minnie.O whare live ye, my bonnie lass,O whare live ye, my hinnie,By yon burn-side, gin ye maun ken,In a wee house wi’ my minnie.But I foor up the glen at e’en,To see my bonie lassie;And lang before the gray morn cam,She was na hauf sa sacie.O weary fa’ the waukrife cock,And the foumart lay his crawin!He wauken’d the auld wife frae her sleep,A wee blink or the dawin.An angry wife I wat she raise,And o’er the bed she brought her;And wi’ a mickle hazle rungShe made her a weel pay’d dochter.O fare thee weel, my bonie lass!O fare thee weel, my hinnie!Thou art a gay and a bonie lass,But thou hast a waukrife minnie.”
“Whare are you gaun, my bonie lass,Whare are you gaun, my hinnie,She answer’d me right saucilie,An errand for my minnie.
O whare live ye, my bonnie lass,O whare live ye, my hinnie,By yon burn-side, gin ye maun ken,In a wee house wi’ my minnie.
But I foor up the glen at e’en,To see my bonie lassie;And lang before the gray morn cam,She was na hauf sa sacie.
O weary fa’ the waukrife cock,And the foumart lay his crawin!He wauken’d the auld wife frae her sleep,A wee blink or the dawin.
An angry wife I wat she raise,And o’er the bed she brought her;And wi’ a mickle hazle rungShe made her a weel pay’d dochter.
O fare thee weel, my bonie lass!O fare thee weel, my hinnie!Thou art a gay and a bonie lass,But thou hast a waukrife minnie.”
This first of songs, is the master-piece of my old friend Skinner. He was passing the day,at the town of Cullen, I think it was, in a friend’s house whose name was Montgomery. Mrs. Montgomery observing,en passant, that the beautiful reel of Tullochgorum wanted words, she begged them of Mr. Skinner, who gratified her wishes, and the wishes of every Scottish song, in this most excellent ballad.
These particulars I had from the author’s son, Bishop Skinner, at Aberdeen.
This song is mine, all except the chorus.
Ramsay here, as usual with him, has taken the idea of the song, and the first line, from the old fragment which may be seen in the “Museum,” vol. v.
This air is Masterton’s; the song mine.—The occasion of it was this:—Mr. W. Nicol, of the High-School, Edinburgh, during the autumn vacation being at Moffat, honest Allan, who was at that time on a visit to Dalswinton, and I, went to pay Nicol a visit.—We had such a joyous meeting that Mr. Masterton and I agreed, each in our own way, that we should celebrate the business.
The battle of Killiecrankie was the last stand made by the clans for James, after his abdication. Here the gallant Lord Dundee fell in the moment of victory, and with him fell the hopes of the party. General Mackay, when he found the Highlanders did not pursue his flying army, said, “Dundee must be killed, or he never would have overlooked this advantage.” A great stone marks the spot where Dundee fell.
Another excellent song of old Skinner’s.
It is remarkable of this air that it is the confine of that country where the greatest part of our Lowland music (so far as from the title, words, &c., we can localize it) has been composed. From Craigie-burn, near Moffat, until one reaches the West Highlands, we have scarcely one slow air of any antiquity.
The song was composed on a passion which a Mr. Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, had for a Miss Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelpdale. This young lady was born at Craigie-burn Wood.—The chorus is part of an old foolish ballad.
I added the four last lines, by way of giving a turn to the theme of the poem, such as it is.
There are several editions of this ballad.—This, here inserted, is from oral tradition in Ayrshire, where, when I was a boy, it was a popular song.—It originally had a simple old tune, which I have forgotten.
“Our lords are to the mountains gane,A hunting o’ the fallow deer,And they have gripet Hughie Graham,For stealing o’ the bishop’s mare.And they have tied him hand and foot,And led him up, thro’ Stirling town;The lads and lasses met him there,Cried, Hughie Graham, thou art a loun.O lowse my right hand free, he says,And put my braid sword in the same;He’s no in Stirling town this day,Dare tell the tale to Hughie Graham.Up then bespake the brave Whitefoord,As he sat by the bishop’s knee,Five hundred white stots I’ll gie you,If ye’ll let Hughie Graham gae free.O haud your tongue, the bishop says,And wi’ your pleading let me be;For tho’ ten Grahams were in his coat,Hughie Graham this day shall die.Up then bespake the fair Whitefoord,As she sat by the bishop’s knee;Five hundred white pence I’ll gie you,If ye’ll gie Hughie Graham to me.O haud your tongue now, lady fair,And wi’ your pleading let it be;Altho’ ten Grahams were in his coat,It’s for my honour he maun die.They’ve ta’en him to the gallows knowe,He looked to the gallows tree,Yet never colour left his cheek,Nor ever did he blink his e’eAt length he looked around about,To see whatever he could spy:And there he saw his auld father,And he was weeping bitterly.O haud your tongue, my father dear,And wi’ your weeping let it be;Thy weeping’s sairer on my heart,Than a’ that they can do to me.And ye may gie my brother JohnMy sword that’s bent in the middle clear;And let him come at twelve o’clock,And see me pay the bishop’s mare.And ye may gie my brother JamesMy sword that’s bent in the middle brown;And bid him come at four o’clock,And see his brother Hugh cut down.Remember me to Maggy my wife,The neist time ye gang o’er the moor,Tell her she staw the bishop’s mare,Tell her she was the bishop’s whore.And ye may tell my kith and kin,I never did disgrace their blood;And when they meet the bishop’s cloak,To mak it shorter by the hood.”
“Our lords are to the mountains gane,A hunting o’ the fallow deer,And they have gripet Hughie Graham,For stealing o’ the bishop’s mare.
And they have tied him hand and foot,And led him up, thro’ Stirling town;The lads and lasses met him there,Cried, Hughie Graham, thou art a loun.
O lowse my right hand free, he says,And put my braid sword in the same;He’s no in Stirling town this day,Dare tell the tale to Hughie Graham.
Up then bespake the brave Whitefoord,As he sat by the bishop’s knee,Five hundred white stots I’ll gie you,If ye’ll let Hughie Graham gae free.
O haud your tongue, the bishop says,And wi’ your pleading let me be;For tho’ ten Grahams were in his coat,Hughie Graham this day shall die.
Up then bespake the fair Whitefoord,As she sat by the bishop’s knee;Five hundred white pence I’ll gie you,If ye’ll gie Hughie Graham to me.
O haud your tongue now, lady fair,And wi’ your pleading let it be;Altho’ ten Grahams were in his coat,It’s for my honour he maun die.
They’ve ta’en him to the gallows knowe,He looked to the gallows tree,Yet never colour left his cheek,Nor ever did he blink his e’e
At length he looked around about,To see whatever he could spy:And there he saw his auld father,And he was weeping bitterly.
O haud your tongue, my father dear,And wi’ your weeping let it be;Thy weeping’s sairer on my heart,Than a’ that they can do to me.
And ye may gie my brother JohnMy sword that’s bent in the middle clear;And let him come at twelve o’clock,And see me pay the bishop’s mare.
And ye may gie my brother JamesMy sword that’s bent in the middle brown;And bid him come at four o’clock,And see his brother Hugh cut down.
Remember me to Maggy my wife,The neist time ye gang o’er the moor,Tell her she staw the bishop’s mare,Tell her she was the bishop’s whore.
And ye may tell my kith and kin,I never did disgrace their blood;And when they meet the bishop’s cloak,To mak it shorter by the hood.”
This is a popular Ayrshire song, though the notes were never taken down before. It, as well as many of the ballad tunes in this collection, was written from Mrs. Burns’s voice.
This tune is claimed by Nathaniel Gow.—It is notoriously taken from “The muckin o’ Gordie’s byre.”—It is also to be found long prior to Nathaniel Gow’s era, in Aird’s Selection of Airs and Marches, the first edition under the name of “The Highway to Edinburgh.”
The chorus of this is part of an old song, no stanza of which I recollect.
This tune is sometimes called “There’s few gude fellows when Willie’s awa.”—But I never have been able to meet with anything else of the song than the title.
This song is altered from a poem by Sir Robert Ayton, private secretary to Mary and Ann, Queens of Scotland.—The poem is to be found in James Watson’s Collection of Scots Poems, the earliest collection printed in Scotland. I think that I have improved the simplicity of the sentiments, by giving them a Scots dress.
The first verse of this is old; the rest is by Ramsay. The tune seems to be the same with a slow air, called “Jackey Hume’s Lament”—or, “The Hollin Buss”—or “Ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten?”
The old name of this tune is,—
“Whare’ll our gudeman lie.”
A silly old stanza of it runs thus—
“O whare’ll our gudeman lie,Gudeman lie, gudeman lie,O whare’ll our gudeman lie,Till he shute o’er the simmer?Up amang the hen-bawks,The hen-bawks, the hen-bawks,Up amang the hen-bawks,Amang the rotten timmer.”
“O whare’ll our gudeman lie,Gudeman lie, gudeman lie,O whare’ll our gudeman lie,Till he shute o’er the simmer?
Up amang the hen-bawks,The hen-bawks, the hen-bawks,Up amang the hen-bawks,Amang the rotten timmer.”
I have seen an interlude (acted at a wedding) to this tune, called “The Wooing of the Maiden.” These entertainments are now much worn out in this part of Scotland. Two are still retained in Nithsdale, viz. “Silly Pure Auld Glenae,” and this one, “The Wooing of the Maiden.”
This is a very popular Ayrshire song.
This air, a very favourite one in Ayrshire, is evidently the original of Lochaber. In this manner most of our finest more modern airs have had their origin. Some early minstrel, or musical shepherd, composed the simple, artless original air; which being picked up by themore learned musician, took the improved form it bears.
This song is the composition of a Jean Glover, a girl who was not only a whore, but also a thief; and in one or other character has visited most of the Correction Houses in the West. She was born I believe in Kilmarnock,—I took the song down from her singing, as she was strolling through the country, with a sleight-of-hand blackguard.
This song is the composition of a —— Johnson, a joiner in the neighbourhood of Belfast. The tune is by Oswald, altered, evidently, from “Jockie’s Gray Breeks.”
This tune is by Oswald. The song alludes to a part of my private history, which it is of no consequence to the world to know.
These were originally English verses:—I gave them the Scots dress.
The old song with this title has more wit than decency.
This tune is also known by the name of “Lass an I come near thee.” The words are mine.
This time is the same with “Haud awa frae me, Donald.”
This song of genius was composed by a Miss Cranston. It wanted four lines, to make all the stanzas suit the music, which I added, and are the four first of the last stanza.
“No cold approach, no alter’d mien,Just what would make suspicion start;No pause the dire extremes between,He made me blest—and broke my heart!”
“No cold approach, no alter’d mien,Just what would make suspicion start;No pause the dire extremes between,He made me blest—and broke my heart!”
Composed on my little idol “the charming, lovely Davies.”
This tune is originally from the Highlands. I have heard a Gaelic song to it, which I was told was very clever, but not by any means a lady’s song.
This most beautiful tune is, I think, the happiest composition of that bard-born genius, John Riddel, of the family of Glencarnock, at Ayr. The words were composed to commemorate the much-lamented and premature death of James Ferguson, Esq., jun. of Craigdarroch.
This song, tradition says, and the composition itself confirms it, was composed on the Rev. David Williamson’s begetting the daughter of Lady Cherrytrees with child, while a party of dragoons were searching her house to apprehend him for being an adherent to the solemn league and covenant. The pious woman had put a lady’s night-cap on him, and had laid him a-bed with her own daughter, and passed him to the soldiery as a lady, her daughter’s bed-fellow. A mutilated stanza or two are to be found in Herd’s collection, but the original song consists of five or six stanzas, and were theirdelicacyequal to theirwitandhumour, they would merit a place in any collection. The first stanza is
“Being pursued by the dragoons,Within my bed he was laid down;And weel I wat he was worth his room,For he was my Daintie Davie.”
“Being pursued by the dragoons,Within my bed he was laid down;And weel I wat he was worth his room,For he was my Daintie Davie.”
Ramsay’s song, “Luckie Nansy,” though he calls it an old song with additions, seems to be all his own except the chorus:
“I was a telling you,Luckie Nansy, Luckie NansyAuld springs wad ding the new,But ye wad never trow me.”
“I was a telling you,Luckie Nansy, Luckie NansyAuld springs wad ding the new,But ye wad never trow me.”
Which I should conjecture to be part of a song prior to the affair of Williamson.
Ramsay, as usual, has modernized this song. The original, which I learned on the spot, from my old hostess in the principal inn there, is—
“Lassie, lend me your braw hemp heckle,And I’ll lend you my thripplin-kame;My heckle is broken, it canna be gotten,And we’ll gae dance the bob o’ Dumblane.Twa gaed to the wood, to the wood, to the wood.Twa gaed to the wood—three came hame;An’ it be na weel bobbit, weel bobbit, weel bobbitAn’ it be na weel bobbit, we’ll bob it again.”
“Lassie, lend me your braw hemp heckle,And I’ll lend you my thripplin-kame;My heckle is broken, it canna be gotten,And we’ll gae dance the bob o’ Dumblane.
Twa gaed to the wood, to the wood, to the wood.Twa gaed to the wood—three came hame;An’ it be na weel bobbit, weel bobbit, weel bobbitAn’ it be na weel bobbit, we’ll bob it again.”
I insert this song to introduce the following anecdote, which I have heard well authenticated. In the evening of the day of the battle of Dumblane, (Sheriff Muir,) when the action was over, a Scots officer in Argyll’s army, observed to His Grace, that he was afraid the rebels would give out to the world thattheyhad gotten the victory.—“Weel, weel,” returned his Grace, alluding to the foregoing ballad, “if they think it be nae weel bobbit, we’ll bob it again.”
FOOTNOTES:[293]Fan, when—the dialect of Angus.
[293]Fan, when—the dialect of Angus.
[293]Fan, when—the dialect of Angus.
Left Edinburgh (May 6, 1787)—Lammermuir-hills miserably dreary, but at times very picturesque. Lanton-edge, a glorious view of the Merse—Reach Berrywell—old Mr. Ainslie an uncommon character;—his hobbies, agriculture, natural philosophy, and politics.—In the first he is unexceptionably the clearest-headed, best-informed man I ever met with; in the other two, very intelligent:—As a man of business he has uncommon merit, and by fairly deserving it has made a very decent independence. Mrs. Ainslie, an excellent, sensible, cheerful, amiable old woman—Miss Ainslie—her person a littleembonpoint, but handsome; her face, particularly her eyes, full of sweetness and good humour—she unites three qualities rarely to be found together; keen, solid penetration; sly, witty observation and remark; and the gentlest, most unaffected female modesty—Douglas, a clever, fine, promising young fellow.—The family-meeting with their brother; mycompagnon de voyage, very charming; particularly the sister. The whole family remarkably attached to their menials—Mrs. A. full of stories of the sagacity and sense of the little girl in the kitchen.—Mr. A. high in the praises of an African, his house-servant—all his people old in his service—Douglas’s old nurse came to Berrywell yesterday to remind them of its being his birthday.
A Mr. Dudgeon, a poet at times,[294]a worthy remarkable character—natural penetration, a great deal of information, some genius, and extreme modesty.
Sunday.—Went to church at Dunse[295]—Dr. Howmaker a man of strong lungs and pretty judicious remark; but ill skilled in propriety, and altogether unconscious of his want of it.
Monday.—Coldstream—went over to England—Cornhill—glorious river Tweed—clear and majestic—fine bridge. Dine at Coldstream withMr. Ainslie and Mr. Foreman—beat Mr. F—— in a dispute about Voltaire. Tea at Lenel House with Mr. Brydone—Mr. Brydone a most excellent heart, kind, joyous, and benevolent; but a good deal of the French indiscriminate complaisance—from his situation past and present, an admirer of everything that bears a splendid title, or that possesses a large estate—Mrs. Brydone a most elegant woman in her person and manners; the tones of her voice remarkably sweet—my reception extremely flattering—sleep at Coldstream.
Tuesday.—Breakfast at Kelso—charming situation of Kelso—fine bridge over the Tweed—enchanting views and prospects on both sides of the river, particularly the Scotch side; introduced to Mr. Scott of the Royal Bank—an excellent, modest fellow—fine situation of it—ruins of Roxburgh Castle—a holly-bush, growing where James II. of Scotland was accidentally killed by the bursting of a cannon. A small old religious ruin, and a fine old garden planted by the religious, rooted out and destroyed by an English hottentot, amaitre d’hotelof the duke’s, a Mr. Cole—climate and soil of Berwickshire, and even Roxburghshire, superior to Ayrshire—bad roads. Turnip and sheep husbandry, their great improvements—Mr. M’Dowal, at Caverton Mill, a friend of Mr. Ainslie’s, with whom I dined to-day, sold his sheep, ewe and lamb together, at two guineas a piece—wash their sheep before shearing—seven or eight pounds of washen wool in a fleece—low markets, consequently low rents—fine lands not above sixteen shillings a Scotch acre—magnificence of farmers and farm-houses—come up Teviot and up Jed to Jedburgh to lie, and so wish myself a good night.
Wednesday.—Breakfast with Mr. —— in Jedburgh—a squabble between Mrs. ——, a crazed, talkative slattern, and a sister of hers, an old maid, respecting a relief minister—Miss gives Madam the lie; and Madam, by way of revenge, upbraids her that she laid snares to entangle the said minister, then a widower, in the net of matrimony—go about two miles out of Jedburgh to a roup of parks—meet a polite, soldier-like gentleman, a Captain Rutherford, who had been many years through the wilds of America, a prisoner among the Indians—charming, romantic situation of Jedburgh, with gardens, orchards, &c., intermingled among the houses—fine old ruins—a once magnificent cathedral, and strong castle. All the towns here have the appearance of old, rude grandeur, but the people extremely idle—Jed a fine romantic little river.
Dine with Capt. Rutherford—the Captain a polite fellow, fond of money in his farming way; showed a particular respect to my bardship—his lady exactly a proper matrimonial second part for him. Miss Rutherford a beautiful girl, but too far gone woman to expose so much of a fine swelling bosom—her face very fine.
Return to Jedburgh—walk up Jed with some ladies to be shown Love-lane and Blackburn, two fairy scenes. Introduced to Mr. Potts, writer, a very clever fellow; and Mr. Somerville, the clergyman of the place, a man and a gentleman, but sadly addicted to punning.—The walking party of ladies, Mrs. —— and Miss —— her sister, before mentioned.—N.B. These two appear still more comfortably ugly and stupid, and bore me most shockingly. Two Miss ——, tolerably agreeable. Miss Hope, a tolerably pretty girl, fond of laughing and fun. Miss Lindsay, a good-humoured, amiable girl; rather shortet embonpoint, but handsome, and extremely graceful—beautiful hazel eyes, full of spirit, and sparkling with delicious moisture—an engaging face—un tout ensemblethat speaks her of the first order of female minds—her sister, a bonnie, strappan, rosy, sonsie lass. Shake myself loose, after several unsuccessful efforts, of Mrs. —— and Miss ——, and somehow or other, get hold of Miss Lindsay’s arm. My heart is thawed into melting pleasure after being so long frozen up in the Greenland bay of indifference, amid the noise and nonsense of Edinburgh. Miss seems very well pleased with my bardship’s distinguishing her, and after some slight qualms, which I could easily mark, she sets the titter round at defiance, and kindly allows me to keep my hold; and when parted by the ceremony of my introduction to Mr. Somerville, she met me half, to resume my situation.—Nota Bene—The poet within a point and a half of being d—mnably in love—I am afraid my bosom is still nearly as much tinder as ever.
The old cross-grained, whiggish, ugly, slanderous Miss ——, with all the poisonous spleen of a disappointed, ancient maid, stops me very unseasonably to ease her bursting breast, byfalling abusively foul on the Miss Lindsays, particularly on my Dulcinea;—I hardly refrain from cursing her to her face for daring to mouth her calumnious slander on one of the finest pieces of the workmanship of Almighty Excellence! Sup at Mr. ——’s; vexed that the Miss Lindsays are not of the supper-party, as they only are wanting. Mrs. —— and Miss ——still improve infernally on my hands.
Set out next morning for Wauchope, the seat of my correspondent, Mrs. Scott—breakfast by the way with Dr. Elliot, an agreeable, good-hearted, climate-beaten old veteran, in the medical line; now retired to a romantic, but rather moorish place, on the banks of the Roole—he accompanies us almost to Wauchope—we traverse the country to the top of Bochester, the scene of an old encampment, and Woolee Hill.
Wauchope—Mr. Scott exactly the figure and face commonly given to Sancho Panca—very shrewd in his farming matters, and not unfrequently stumbles on what may be called a strong thing rather than a good thing. Mrs. Scott all the sense, taste, intrepidity of face, and bold, critical decision, which usually distinguish female authors.—Sup with Mr. Potts—agreeable party.—Breakfast next morning with Mr. Somerville—thebruitof Miss Lindsay and my bardship, by means of the invention and malice of Miss ——. Mr. Somerville sends to Dr. Lindsay, begging him and family to breakfast if convenient, but at all events to send Miss Lindsay; accordingly Miss Lindsay only comes.—I find Miss Lindsay would soon play the devil with me—I met with some little flattering attentions from her. Mrs. Somerville an excellent, motherly, agreeable woman, and a fine family.—Mr. Ainslie, and Mrs. S——, junrs., with Mr. ——, Miss Lindsay, and myself, go to seeEsther, a very remarkable woman for reciting poetry of all kinds, and sometimes making Scotch doggerel herself—she can repeat by heart almost everything she has ever read, particularly Pope’s Homer from end to end—has studied Euclid by herself, and in short, is a woman of very extraordinary abilities.—On conversing with her I find her fully equal to the character given of her.[296]—She is very much flattered that I send for her, and that she sees a poet who hasput out a book, as she says.—She is, among other things, a great florist—and is rather past the meridian of once celebrated beauty.
I walk inEsther’sgarden with Miss Lindsay, and after some little chit-chat of the tender kind, I presented her with a proof print of my Nob, which she accepted with something more tinder than gratitude. She told me many little stories which Miss —— had retailed concerning her and me, with prolonging pleasure—God bless her! Was waited on by the magistrates, and presented with the freedom of the burgh.
Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some melancholy, disagreeable sensations.—Jed, pure be thy crystal streams, and hallowed thy sylvan banks! Sweet Isabella Lindsay, may peace dwell in thy bosom, uninterrupted, except by the tumultuous throbbings of rapturous love! That love-kindling eye must beam on another, not on me; that graceful form must bless another’s arms; not mine!
Kelso. Dine with the farmers’ club—all gentlemen, talking of high matters—each of them keeps a hunter from thirty to fifty pounds value, and attends the fox-huntings in the country—go out with Mr. Ker, one of the club, and a friend of Mr. Ainslie’s, to lie—Mr. Ker a most gentlemanly, clever, handsome fellow, a widower with some fine children—his mind and manner astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert Muir, in Kilmarnock—everything in Mr. Ker’s most elegant—he offers to accompany me in my English tour. Dine with Sir Alexander Don—a pretty clever fellow, but far from being a match for his divine lady.—A very wet day * * *—Sleep at Stodrig again; and set out for Melrose—visit Dryburgh, a fine old ruined abbey—still bad weather—cross Leader, and come up Tweed to Melrose—dine there, and visit that far-famed, glorious ruin—come to Selkirk, up Ettrick; the whole country hereabout, both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stony.
Monday.—Come to Inverleithing, a famous shaw, and in the vicinity of the palace of Traquair, where having dined, and drank some Galloway-whey, I hero remain till to-morrow—saw Elibanks and Elibraes, on the other side of the Tweed.
Tuesday.—Drank tea yesternight at Pirn, with Mr. Horseburgh.—Breakfasted to-day with Mr. Ballantyne of Hollowlee—Proposal for a four-horse team to consist of Mr. Scott of Wauchope, Fittieland: Logan of Logan, Fittiefurr: Ballantyne of Hollowlee, Forewynd: Horsburgh of Horsburgh.—Dine at a country inn, kept by a miller, in Earlston, the birth-place and residence of the celebrated Thomas a Rhymer—saw the ruins of his castle—come to Berrywell.
Wednesday.—Dine at Dunse with the farmers’ club-company—impossible to do them justice—Rev. Mr. Smith a famous punster, and Mr. Meikle a celebrated mechanic, and inventor of the threshing-mills.
Thursday, breakfast at Berrywell, and walk into Dunse to see a famous knife made by a cutler there, and to be presented to an Italian prince.—A pleasant ride with my friend Mr. Robert Ainslie, and his sister, to Mr. Thomson’s, a man who has newly commenced farmer, and has married a Miss Patty Grieve, formerly a flame of Mr. Robert Ainslie’s.—Company—Miss Jacky Grieve, an amiable sister of Mrs. Thomson’s, and Mr. Hood, an honest, worthy, facetious farmer, in the neighbourhood.
Friday.—Ride to Berwick—An idle town, rudely picturesque.—Meet Lord Errol in walking round the walls.—His lordship’s flattering notice of me.—Dine with Mr. Clunzie, merchant—nothing particular in company or conversation—Come up a bold shore, and over a wild country to Eyemouth—sup and sleep at Mr. Grieve’s.
Saturday.—Spend the day at Mr. Grieve’s—made a royal arch mason of St. Abb’s Lodge,[297]—Mr. William Grieve, the oldest brother, a joyous, warm-hearted, jolly, clever fellow—takes a hearty glass, and sings a good song.—Mr. Robert, his brother, and partner in trade, a good fellow, but says little. Take a sail after dinner. Fishing of all kinds pays tithes at Eyemouth.
Sunday.—A Mr. Robinson, brewer at Ednam, sets out with us to Dunbar.
The Miss Grieves very good girls.—My bardship’s heart got a brush from Miss Betsey.
Mr. William Grieve’s attachment to the family-circle, so fond, that when he is out, which by the bye is often the case, he cannot go to bed till he see if all his sisters are sleeping well —— Pass the famous Abbey of Coldingham, and Pease-bridge.—Call at Mr. Sheriff’s where Mr. A. and I dine.—Mr. S. talkative and conceited. I talk of love to Nancy the whole evening, while her brother escorts home some companions like himself.—Sir James Hall of Dunglass, having heard of my being in the neighbourhood, comes to Mr. Sheriff’s to breakfast—takes me to see his fine scenery on the stream of Dunglass—Dunglass the most romantic, sweet place I over saw—Sir James and his lady a pleasant happy couple.—He points out a walk for which he has an uncommon respect, as it was made by an aunt of his, to whom he owes much.
Miss —— will accompany me to Dunbar, by way of making a parade of me as a sweetheart of hers, among her relations. She mounts an old cart-horse, as huge and as lean as a house; a rusty old side-saddle without girth, or stirrup, but fastened on with an old pillion-girth—herself as fine as hands could make her, in cream-coloured riding clothes, hat and feather, &c.—I, ashamed of my situation, ride like the devil, and almost shake her to pieces on old Jolly—get rid of her by refusing to call at her uncle’s with her.
Past through the most glorious corn-country I ever saw, till I reach Dunbar, a neat little town.—Dine with Provost Fall, an eminent merchant, and most respectable character, but undescribable, as he exhibits no marked traits. Mrs. Fall, a genius in painting; fully more clever in the fine arts and sciences than my friend Lady Wauchope, without her consummateassurance of her own abilities.—Call with Mr. Robinson (who, by the bye, I find to be a worthy, much respected man, very modest; warm, social heart, which with less good sense than his would be perhaps with the children of prim precision and pride, rather inimical to that respect which is man’s due from man) with him I call on Miss Clarke, a maiden in the Scotch phrase, “Guid enough, but no brent new:” a clever woman, with tolerable pretensions to remark and wit; while time had blown the blushing bud of bashful modesty into the flower of easy confidence. She wanted to see what sort ofraree showan author was; and to let him know, that though Dunbar was but a little town, yet it was not destitute of people of parts.
Breakfast next morning at Skateraw, at Mr. Lee’s, a farmer of great note.—Mr. Lee, an excellent, hospitable, social fellow, rather oldish; warm-hearted and chatty—a most judicious, sensible farmer. Mr. Lee detains me till next morning.—Company at dinner.—My Rev. acquaintance Dr. Bowmaker, a reverend, rattling old fellow.—Two sea lieutenants; a cousin of the landlord’s, a fellow whose looks are of that kind which deceived me in a gentleman at Kelso, and has often deceived me: a goodly handsome figure and face, which incline one to give them credit for parts which they have not. Mr. Clarke, a much cleverer fellow, but whose looks a little cloudy, and his appearance rather ungainly, with an every-day observer may prejudice the opinion against him.—Dr. Brown, a medical young gentleman from Dunbar, a fellow whose face and manners are open and engaging.—Leave Skateraw for Dunse next day, along with collector ——, a lad of slender abilities and bashfully diffident to an extreme.
Found Miss Ainslie, the amiable, the sensible, the good-humoured, the sweet Miss Ainslie, all alone at Berrywell.—Heavenly powers, who know the weakness of human hearts, support mine! What happiness must I see only to remind me that I cannot enjoy it!
Lammer-muir Hills, from East Lothian to Dunse, very wild.—Dine with the farmer’s club at Kelso. Sir John Hume and Mr. Lumsden there, but nothing worth remembrance when the following circumstance is considered—I walk into Dunse before dinner, and out to Berrywell in the evening with Miss Ainslie—how well-bred, how frank, how good she is! Charming Rachael! may thy bosom never be wrung by the evils of this life of sorrows, or by the villany of this world’s sons!
Thursday.—Mr. Ker and I set out to dine at Mr. Hood’s on our way to England.
I am taken extremely ill with strong feverish symptoms, and take a servant of Mr. Hood’s to watch me all night—embittering remorse scares my fancy at the gloomy forebodings of death.—I am determined to live for the future in such a manner as not to be scared at the approach of death—I am sure I could meet him with indifference, but for “The something beyond the grave.”—Mr. Hood agrees to accompany us to England if we will wait till Sunday.
Friday.—I go with Mr. Hood to see a roup of an unfortunate farmer’s stock—rigid economy, and decent industry, do you preserve me from being the principaldramatis personain such a scene of horror.
Meet my good old friend Mr. Ainslie, who calls on Mr. Hood in the evening to take farewell of my bardship. This day I feel myself warm with sentiments of gratitude to the Great Preserver of men, who has kindly restored me to health and strength once more.
A pleasant walk with my young friend Douglas Ainslie, a sweet, modest, clever young fellow.
Sunday, 27th May.—Cross Tweed, and traverse the moors through a wild country till I reach Alnwick—Alnwick Castle a seat of the Duke of Northumberland, furnished in a most princely manner.—A Mr. Wilkin, agent of His Grace’s, shows us the house and policies. Mr. Wilkin, a discreet, sensible, ingenious man.
Monday.—Come, still through by-ways, to Warkworth, where we dine.—Hermitage and old castle. Warkworth situated very picturesque, with Coquet Island, a small rocky spot, the seat of an old monastery, facing it a little in the sea; and the small but romantic river Coquet, running through it.—Sleep at Morpeth, a pleasant enough little town, and on next day to Newcastle.—Meet with a very agreeable, sensible fellow, a Mr. Chattox, who shows us a great many civilities, and who dines and sups with us.
Wednesday.—Left Newcastle early in the morning, and rode over a fine country to Hexham to breakfast—from Hexham to Wardrue, the celebrated Spa, where we slept.
Thursday—ReachLongtown to dine, and part there with my good friends Messrs. Hood and Ker—A hiring day in Longtown—I am uncommonly happy to see so many young folks enjoying life.—I come to Carlisle.—(Meet a strange enough romantic adventure by the way, in falling in with a girl and her married sister—the girl, after some overtures of gallantry on my side, sees me a little cut with the bottle, and offers to take me in for a Gretna-Green affair.—I, not being such a gull, as she imagines, make an appointment with her, by way ofvive la bagatelle, to hold a conference on it when we reach town.—I meet her in town and give her a brush of caressing, and a bottle of cider; but finding herselfun peu trompéin her man she sheers off.) Next day I meet my good friend, Mr. Mitchell, and walk with him round the town and its environs, and through his printing-works, &c.—four or five hundred people employed, many of them women and children.—Dine with Mr. Mitchell, and leave Carlisle.—Come by the coast to Annan.—Overtaken on the way by a curious old fish of a shoemaker, and miner, from Cumberland mines.
[Here the manuscript abruptly terminates.]