THE STIPENDLESS PARSON.

For kindly though she be, nae doubt,She manna thole the marriage tether,But likes to rove and rink about,Like Highland cowt amo' the heather:Yet a' the lads are wooing at her,Courting her, but canna get her;Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.

It 's seven year, and some guid mair,Syn Dutch Mynheer made courtship till her,A merchant bluff and fu' o' care,Wi' chuffy cheeks, and bags o' siller;So Dutch Mynheer was wooing at her,Courting her, but cudna get her;Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.

Neist to him came Baltic John,Stept up the brae, and leukit at her,Syne wear his wa', wi' heavy moan,And in a month or twa forgat her:Baltic John was wooing at her,Courting her, but cudna get her;Filthy elf, she 's nae herself, wi' sae mony wooing at her.

Syne after him cam' Yankie Doodle,Frae hyne ayont the muckle water;Though Yankie 's nae yet worth a boddle,Wi' might and main he would be at her:Yankie Doodle 's wooing at her,Courting her, but canna get her;Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.

Now Monkey French is in a roar,And swears that nane but he sall hae her,Though he sud wade through bluid and gore,It 's nae the king sall keep him frae her:So Monkey French is wooing at her,Courting her, but canna get her;Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.

For France, nor yet her Flanders' frien',Need na think that she 'll come to them;They 've casten aff wi' a' their kin,And grace and guid have flown frae them;They 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her,Courting her, but canna get her;Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.

A stately chiel they ca' John BullIs unco thrang and glaikit wi' her;And gin he cud get a' his wull,There 's nane can say what he wad gi'e her:Johnny Bull is wooing at her,Courting her, but canna get her;Filthy Ted, she 'll never wed, as lang 's sae mony 's wooing at her.

Even Irish Teague, ayont Belfast,Wadna care to speir about her;And swears, till he sall breathe his last,He 'll never happy be without her:Irish Teague is wooing at her,Courting her, but canna get her;Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.

But Donald Scot 's the happy lad,Though a' the lave sud try to rate him;Whan he steps up the brae sae glad,She disna ken maist whare to set him:Donald Scot is wooing at her,Courting her, will maybe get her;Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.

Now, Donald, tak' a frien's advice—I ken fu' weel ye fain wad hae her;As ye are happy, sae be wise,And ha'd ye wi' a smackie frae her:Ye 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her,Courting her, will maybe get her;Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her.

Ye 're weel, and wat'sna, lad, they 're sayin',Wi' getting leave to dwall aside her;And gin ye had her a' your ain,Ye might na find it mows to guide her:Ye 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her,Courting her, will maybe get her;Cunning quean, she 's ne'er be mine, as lang 's sae mony 's wooing at her.

Tune—"A Cobbler there was,"&c.

How happy a life does the Parson possess,Who would be no greater, nor fears to be less;Who depends on his book and his gown for support,And derives no preferment from conclave or court!Derry down, &c.

Without glebe or manse settled on him by law,No stipend to sue for, nor vic'rage to draw;In discharge of his office he holds him content,With a croft and a garden, for which he pays rent.Derry down, &c.

With a neat little cottage and furniture plain,And a spare room to welcome a friend now and then;With a good-humour'd wife in his fortune to share,And ease him at all times of family care.Derry down, &c.

With a few of the Fathers, the oldest and best,And some modern extracts pick'd out from the rest;With a Bible in Latin, and Hebrew, and Greek,To afford him instruction each day of the week.Derry down, &c.

What children he has, if any are given,He thankfully trusts to the kindness of Heaven;To religion and virtue he trains them while young,And with such a provision he does them no wrong.Derry down, &c.

With labour below, and with help from above,He cares for his flock, and is bless'd with their love:Though his living, perhaps, in the main may be scant,He is sure, while they have, that he 'll ne'er be in want.Derry down, &c.

With no worldly projects nor hurries perplex'd,He sits in his closet and studies his text;And while he converses with Moses or Paul,He envies not bishop, nor dean in his stall.Derry down, &c.

Not proud to the poor, nor a slave to the great,Neither factious in church, nor pragmatic in state,He keeps himself quiet within his own sphere,And finds work sufficient in preaching and prayer.Derry down, &c.

In what little dealings he 's forced to transact,He determines with plainness and candour to act;And the great point on which his ambition is set,Is to leave at the last neither riches nor debt.Derry down, &c.

Thus calmly he steps through the valley of life,Unencumber'd with wealth, and a stranger to strife;On the bustlings around him unmoved he can look,And at home always pleased with his wife and his book.Derry down, &c.

And when, in old age, he drops into the grave,This humble remembrance he wishes to have:"By good men respected, by the evil oft tried,Contented he lived, and lamented he died!"Derry down, &c.

Tune—"Miss Ross's Reel."

When fops and fools together prate,O'er punch or tea, of this or that,What silly poor unmeaning chatDoes all their talk engross!A nobler theme employs my lays,And thus my honest voice I raiseIn well-deserved strains to praiseThe worthy Man of Ross.

His lofty soul (would it were mine!)Scorns every selfish, low design,And ne'er was known to repine,At any earthly loss:But still contented, frank, and free,In every state, whate'er it be,Serene and staid we always seeThe worthy Man of Ross.

Let misers hug their worldly store,And gripe and pinch to make it more;Their gold and silver's shining oreHe counts it all but dross:'Tis better treasure he desires;A surer stock his passion fires,And mild benevolence inspiresThe worthy Man of Ross.IV.When want assails the widow's cot,Or sickness strikes the poor man's hut,When blasting winds or foggy rotAugment the farmer's loss:The sufferer straight knows where to go,With all his wants and all his woe;For glad experience leads him toThe worthy Man of Ross.V.This Man of Ross I 'll daily sing,With vocal note and lyric string,And duly, when I 've drank the king,He 'll be my second toss.May Heaven its choicest blessings sendOn such a man, and such a friend;And still may all that 's good attendThe worthy Man of Ross.VI.Now, if you ask about his name,And where he lives with such a fame,Indeed, I 'll say you are to blame,For truly,inter nos,'Tis what belongs to you and me,And all of high or low degree,In every sphere to try to beThe worthy Man of Ross.

When want assails the widow's cot,Or sickness strikes the poor man's hut,When blasting winds or foggy rotAugment the farmer's loss:The sufferer straight knows where to go,With all his wants and all his woe;For glad experience leads him toThe worthy Man of Ross.

This Man of Ross I 'll daily sing,With vocal note and lyric string,And duly, when I 've drank the king,He 'll be my second toss.May Heaven its choicest blessings sendOn such a man, and such a friend;And still may all that 's good attendThe worthy Man of Ross.

Now, if you ask about his name,And where he lives with such a fame,Indeed, I 'll say you are to blame,For truly,inter nos,'Tis what belongs to you and me,And all of high or low degree,In every sphere to try to beThe worthy Man of Ross.

Tune—"Broom of the Cowdenknows."

When I began the world first,It was not as 'tis now;For all was plain and simple then,And friends were kind and true:Oh, the times, the weary, weary times!The times that I now see;I think the world 's all gone wrong,From what it used to be.

There were not then high capering heads,Prick'd up from ear to ear;And cloaks and caps were rarities,For gentle folks to wear:Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.

There 's not an upstart mushroom now,But what sets up for taste;And not a lass in all the land,But must be lady-dress'd:Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.

Our young men married then for love,So did our lasses too;And children loved their parents dear,As children ought to do:Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.

For oh, the times are sadly changed—A heavy change indeed!For truth and friendship are no more,And honesty is fled:Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.

There 's nothing now prevails but pride,Among both high and low;And strife, and greed, and vanity,Is all that 's minded now:Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.

When I look through the world wide,How times and fashions go,It draws the tears from both my eyes,And fills my heart with woe:Oh, the times, the weary, weary times!The times that I now see;I wish the world were at an end,For it will not mend for me!

William Cameron, minister of Kirknewton, in the county of Edinburgh, was educated in Marischal College, Aberdeen, where he was a pupil of Dr Beattie, "who ever after entertained for him much esteem." A letter, addressed to him by this eminent professor, in 1774, has been published by Sir William Forbes;[3]and his name is introduced at the beginning of Dr Beattie's "Letter to the Rev. Hugh Blair, D.D., on the Improvement of Psalmody in Scotland. 1778, 8vo:"—"The message you lately sent me, by my friend Mr Cameron, has determined me to give you my thoughts at some length upon the subject of it."

He died in his manse, on the 17th of November 1811, in the 60th year of his age, and the 26th year of his ministry. He was a considerable writer of verses, and his compositions are generally of a respectable order. He was the author of a "Collection of Poems," printed at Edinburgh in 1790, in a duodecimo volume; and in 1781, along with the celebrated John Logan and Dr Morrison, minister of Canisbay, he contributed towards the formation of a collection of Paraphrases from Scripture, which, being approved of by the General Assembly, are still used in public worship in the Church of Scotland. A posthumous volume of verses by Mr Cameron, entitled "Poems on Several Occasions," was published by subscription in 1813—8vo, pp. 132. The following song, which was composed by Mr Cameron, on the restoration of the forfeited estates by Act of Parliament, in 1784, is copied from Johnson's "Musical Museum." It affords a very favourable specimen of the author's poetical talents.

Tune—"As I came in by Auchindoun."

As o'er the Highland hills I hied,The Camerons in array I spied;Lochiel's proud standard waving wide,In all its ancient glory.The martial pipe loud pierced the sky,The bard arose, resounding highTheir valour, faith, and loyalty,That shine in Scottish story.No more the trumpet calls to arms,Awaking battle's fierce alarms,But every hero's bosom warmsWith songs of exultation.While brave Lochiel at length regains,Through toils of war, his native plains,And, won by glorious wounds, attainsHis high paternal station.Let now the voice of joy prevail,And echo wide from hill to vale;Ye warlike clans, arise and hailYour laurell'd chiefs returning.O'er every mountain, every isle,Let peace in all her lustre smile,And discord ne'er her day defileWith sullen shades of mourning.M'Leod, M'Donald, join the strain,M'Pherson, Fraser, and M'Lean;Through all your bounds let gladness reign,Both prince and patriot praising;Whose generous bounty richly poursThe streams of plenty round your shores;To Scotia's hills their pride restores,Her faded honours raising.Let all the joyous banquet share,Nor e'er let Gothic grandeur dare,With scowling brow, to overbear,A vassal's right invading.Let Freedom's conscious sons disdainTo crowd his fawning, timid train,Nor even own his haughty reign,Their dignity degrading.Ye northern chiefs, whose rage unbrokeHas still repell'd the tyrant's shock;Who ne'er have bow'd beneath his yoke,With servile base prostration;—Let each now train his trusty band,'Gainst foreign foes alone to stand,With undivided heart and hand,For Freedom, King, and Nation.

No more the trumpet calls to arms,Awaking battle's fierce alarms,But every hero's bosom warmsWith songs of exultation.While brave Lochiel at length regains,Through toils of war, his native plains,And, won by glorious wounds, attainsHis high paternal station.

Let now the voice of joy prevail,And echo wide from hill to vale;Ye warlike clans, arise and hailYour laurell'd chiefs returning.O'er every mountain, every isle,Let peace in all her lustre smile,And discord ne'er her day defileWith sullen shades of mourning.

M'Leod, M'Donald, join the strain,M'Pherson, Fraser, and M'Lean;Through all your bounds let gladness reign,Both prince and patriot praising;Whose generous bounty richly poursThe streams of plenty round your shores;To Scotia's hills their pride restores,Her faded honours raising.

Let all the joyous banquet share,Nor e'er let Gothic grandeur dare,With scowling brow, to overbear,A vassal's right invading.Let Freedom's conscious sons disdainTo crowd his fawning, timid train,Nor even own his haughty reign,Their dignity degrading.

Ye northern chiefs, whose rage unbrokeHas still repell'd the tyrant's shock;Who ne'er have bow'd beneath his yoke,With servile base prostration;—Let each now train his trusty band,'Gainst foreign foes alone to stand,With undivided heart and hand,For Freedom, King, and Nation.

Anne Homewas born in the year 1742. She was the eldest daughter of Robert Home, of Greenlaw, in Berwickshire, surgeon of Burgoyne's Regiment of Light Horse, and afterwards physician in Savoy. By contracting an early marriage, in which affection overcame more prudential considerations, both her parents gave offence to their relations, who refused to render them pecuniary assistance. Her father, though connected with many families of rank, and himself the son of a landowner, was consequently obliged to depend, in the early part of his career, on his professional exertions for the support of his family. His circumstances appear subsequently to have been more favourable. In July 1771, Miss Home became the wife of John Hunter, the distinguished anatomist, to whom she bore two children. She afforded evidence of her early poetical talent, by composing, before she had completed her twenty-third year, the song beginning, "Adieu! ye streams that smoothly glide." This appeared in theLark, an Edinburgh periodical, in the year 1765. In 1802, she published a collection of her poems, in an octavo volume, which she inscribed to her son, John Banks Hunter.

During the lifetime of her distinguished husband,Mrs Hunter was in the habit of receiving at her table, and sharing in the conversation of, the chief literary persons of her time. Her eveningconversazioniwere frequented by many of the more learned, as well as fashionable persons in the metropolis. On the death of her husband, which took place in 1793, she sought greater privacy, though she still continued to reside in London. By those who were admitted to her intimacy, she was not more respected for her superior talents and intelligence, than held in esteem for her unaffected simplicity of manners. She was the life of her social parties, sustaining the happiness of the hour by her elegant conversation, and encouraging the diffident by her approbation. Amiable in disposition, she was possessed of a beautiful countenance and a handsome person. She wrote verses with facility, but she sought no distinction as a poet, preferring to be regarded as a good housewife and an agreeable member of society. In her latter years, she obtained amusement in resuming the song-writing habits of her youth, and in corresponding with her more intimate friends. She likewise derived pleasure in the cultivation of music: she played with skill, and sung with singular grace.

Mrs Hunter died at London, on the 7th January 1821, after a lingering illness. Several of her lyrics had for some years appeared in the collections of national poetry. Those selected for the present work have long maintained a wide popularity. The songs evince a delicacy of thought, combined with a force and sweetness of expression.

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day,But glory remains when their lights fade away.Begin, ye tormentors, your threats are in vain,For the son of Alknomook will never complain.Remember the arrows he shot from his bow;Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low.Why so slow? Do you wait till I shrink from the pain?No! the son of Alknomook shall never complain.Remember the wood where in ambush we lay,And the scalps which we bore from your nation away:Now the flame rises fast; ye exult in my pain;But the son of Alknomook can never complain.I go to the land where my father is gone;His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son.Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from pain,And thy son, O Alknomook! has scorn'd to complain.

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day,But glory remains when their lights fade away.Begin, ye tormentors, your threats are in vain,For the son of Alknomook will never complain.

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow;Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low.Why so slow? Do you wait till I shrink from the pain?No! the son of Alknomook shall never complain.

Remember the wood where in ambush we lay,And the scalps which we bore from your nation away:Now the flame rises fast; ye exult in my pain;But the son of Alknomook can never complain.

I go to the land where my father is gone;His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son.Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from pain,And thy son, O Alknomook! has scorn'd to complain.

My mother bids me bind my hairWith bands of rosy hue,Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare,And lace my boddice blue."For why," she cries, "sit still and weep,While others dance and play?"Alas! I scarce can go or creep,While Lubin is away.'Tis sad to think the days are gone,When those we love were near;I sit upon this mossy stone,And sigh when none can hear.And while I spin my flaxen thread,And sing my simple lay,The village seems asleep or dead,Now Lubin is away.

My mother bids me bind my hairWith bands of rosy hue,Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare,And lace my boddice blue.

"For why," she cries, "sit still and weep,While others dance and play?"Alas! I scarce can go or creep,While Lubin is away.

'Tis sad to think the days are gone,When those we love were near;I sit upon this mossy stone,And sigh when none can hear.

And while I spin my flaxen thread,And sing my simple lay,The village seems asleep or dead,Now Lubin is away.

Adieu! ye streams that smoothly glide,Through mazy windings o'er the plain;I 'll in some lonely cave reside,And ever mourn my faithful swain.Flower of the forest was my love,Soft as the sighing summer's gale,Gentle and constant as the dove,Blooming as roses in the vale.Alas! by Tweed my love did stray,For me he search'd the banks around;But, ah! the sad and fatal day,My love, the pride of swains, was drown'd.Now droops the willow o'er the stream;Pale stalks his ghost in yonder grove;Dire fancy paints him in my dream;Awake, I mourn my hopeless love.

Adieu! ye streams that smoothly glide,Through mazy windings o'er the plain;I 'll in some lonely cave reside,And ever mourn my faithful swain.

Flower of the forest was my love,Soft as the sighing summer's gale,Gentle and constant as the dove,Blooming as roses in the vale.

Alas! by Tweed my love did stray,For me he search'd the banks around;But, ah! the sad and fatal day,My love, the pride of swains, was drown'd.

Now droops the willow o'er the stream;Pale stalks his ghost in yonder grove;Dire fancy paints him in my dream;Awake, I mourn my hopeless love.

The season comes when first we met,But you return no more;Why cannot I the days forget,Which time can ne'er restore?O! days too sweet, too bright to last,Are you, indeed, for ever past?The fleeting shadows of delight,In memory I trace;In fancy stop their rapid flight,And all the past replace;But, ah! I wake to endless woes,And tears the fading visions close!

The season comes when first we met,But you return no more;Why cannot I the days forget,Which time can ne'er restore?O! days too sweet, too bright to last,Are you, indeed, for ever past?

The fleeting shadows of delight,In memory I trace;In fancy stop their rapid flight,And all the past replace;But, ah! I wake to endless woes,And tears the fading visions close!

Oh, tuneful voice! I still deploreThose accents which, though heard no more,Still vibrate in my heart;In echo's cave I long to dwell,And still would hear the sad farewell,When we were doom'd to part.Bright eyes! O that the task were mine,To guard the liquid fires that shine,And round your orbits play—To watch them with a vestal's care,And feed with smiles a light so fair,That it may ne'er decay!

Oh, tuneful voice! I still deploreThose accents which, though heard no more,Still vibrate in my heart;In echo's cave I long to dwell,And still would hear the sad farewell,When we were doom'd to part.

Bright eyes! O that the task were mine,To guard the liquid fires that shine,And round your orbits play—To watch them with a vestal's care,And feed with smiles a light so fair,That it may ne'er decay!

Dear to my heart as life's warm stream,Which animates this mortal clay;For thee I court the waking dream,And deck with smiles the future day;And thus beguile the present pain,With hopes that we shall meet again!Yet will it be as when the pastTwined every joy, and care, and thought,And o'er our minds one mantle cast,Of kind affections finely wrought.Ah, no! the groundless hope were vain,For so we ne'er can meet again!May he who claims thy tender heart,Deserve its love as I have done!For, kind and gentle as thou art,If so beloved, thou 'rt fairly won.Bright may the sacred torch remain,And cheer thee till we meet again!

Yet will it be as when the pastTwined every joy, and care, and thought,And o'er our minds one mantle cast,Of kind affections finely wrought.Ah, no! the groundless hope were vain,For so we ne'er can meet again!

May he who claims thy tender heart,Deserve its love as I have done!For, kind and gentle as thou art,If so beloved, thou 'rt fairly won.Bright may the sacred torch remain,And cheer thee till we meet again!

When hope lies dead within the heart,By secret sorrow close conceal'd,We shrink lest looks or words impartWhat must not be reveal'd.'Tis hard to smile when one would weep,To speak when one would silent be;To wake when one should wish to sleep,And wake to agony.Yet such the lot by thousands cast,Who wander in this world of care,And bend beneath the bitter blast,To save them from despair.But Nature waits her guests to greet,Where disappointments cannot come,And Time guides, with unerring feet,The weary wanderers home.

When hope lies dead within the heart,By secret sorrow close conceal'd,We shrink lest looks or words impartWhat must not be reveal'd.

'Tis hard to smile when one would weep,To speak when one would silent be;To wake when one should wish to sleep,And wake to agony.

Yet such the lot by thousands cast,Who wander in this world of care,And bend beneath the bitter blast,To save them from despair.

But Nature waits her guests to greet,Where disappointments cannot come,And Time guides, with unerring feet,The weary wanderers home.

Alexander, the fourth Duke of Gordon, was born in the year 1743, and died on the 17th of January 1827, in the eighty-fourth year of his age. Chiefly remembered as a kind patron of the poet Burns, his name is likewise entitled to a place in the national minstrelsy as the author of an excellent version of the often-parodied song, "Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." Of this song, the first words, written to an older tune, appeared in the second volume of Herd's "Collection," in 1776. These begin—

"Cauld kail in Aberdeen,And castocks in Strabogie;But yet I fear they 'll cook o'er soon,And never warm the cogie."

The song is anonymous, as is the version, first published in Dale's "Scottish Songs," beginning—

"There 's cauld kail in Aberdeen,And castocks in Strabogie,Where ilka lad maun hae his lass,But I maun hae my cogie."

A third version, distinct from that inserted in the text, was composed by William Reid, a bookseller in Glasgow, who died in 1831. His song is scarcely known.The Duke's song, with which Burns expressed himself as being "charmed," was first published in the second volume of Johnson's "Musical Museum." It is not only gay and animating, but has the merit of being free of blemishes in want of refinement, which affect the others. The "Bogie" celebrated in the song, it may be remarked, is a river in Aberdeenshire, which, rising in the parish of Auchindoir, discharges its waters into the Deveron, a little distance below the town of Huntly. It gives its name to the extensive and rich valley of Strathbogie, through which it proceeds.

There 's cauld kail in Aberdeen,And castocks in Strabogie;Gin I hae but a bonnie lass,Ye 're welcome to your cogie.And ye may sit up a' the night,And drink till it be braid daylight;Gi'e me a lass baith clean and tight,To dance the reel o' Bogie.In cotillions the French excel,John Bull loves country dances;The Spaniards dance fandangoes well;Mynheer an all'mande prances;In foursome reels the Scots delight,At threesomes they dance wondrous light,But twasomes ding a' out o' sight,Danced to the reel o' Bogie.Come, lads, and view your partners weel,Wale each a blythesome rogie;I'll tak this lassie to mysel',She looks sae keen and vogie.Now, piper lads, bang up the spring,The country fashion is the thing,To pree their mou's ere we beginTo dance the reel o' Bogie.Now ilka lad has got a lass,Save yon auld doited fogie,And ta'en a fling upon the grass,As they do in Strabogie.But a' the lasses look sae fain,We canna think oursel's to hain,For they maun hae their come again,To dance the reel o' Bogie.Now a' the lads hae done their best,Like true men o' Strabogie,We 'll stop a while and tak' a rest,And tipple out a cogie.Come now, my lads, and tak your glass,And try ilk ither to surpass,In wishing health to every lass,To dance the reel o' Bogie.

In cotillions the French excel,John Bull loves country dances;The Spaniards dance fandangoes well;Mynheer an all'mande prances;In foursome reels the Scots delight,At threesomes they dance wondrous light,But twasomes ding a' out o' sight,Danced to the reel o' Bogie.

Come, lads, and view your partners weel,Wale each a blythesome rogie;I'll tak this lassie to mysel',She looks sae keen and vogie.Now, piper lads, bang up the spring,The country fashion is the thing,To pree their mou's ere we beginTo dance the reel o' Bogie.

Now ilka lad has got a lass,Save yon auld doited fogie,And ta'en a fling upon the grass,As they do in Strabogie.But a' the lasses look sae fain,We canna think oursel's to hain,For they maun hae their come again,To dance the reel o' Bogie.

Now a' the lads hae done their best,Like true men o' Strabogie,We 'll stop a while and tak' a rest,And tipple out a cogie.Come now, my lads, and tak your glass,And try ilk ither to surpass,In wishing health to every lass,To dance the reel o' Bogie.

Mrs Grantof Carron, the reputed author of one song, which has long maintained a favoured place, was a native of Aberlour, on the banks of the Spey, in the county of Banff. She was born about the year 1745, and was twice married—first, to her cousin, Mr Grant of Carron, near Elchies, on the river Spey, about the year 1763; and, secondly, to Dr Murray, a physician in Bath. She died at Bath about the year 1814.

In his correspondence with George Thomson, Burns, alluding to the song of Mrs Grant, "Roy's Wife," remarks that he had in his possession "the original words of a song for the air in the handwriting of the lady who composed it," which, he adds, "are superior to any edition of the song which the public has seen." He subsequently composed an additional version himself, beginning, "Canst thou leave me thus, my Katie?" but this, like others of the bard's conversions of Scottish songs into an English dress, did not become popular. The verses by his female friend, in which the lady is made to be the sufferer by misplaced affection, and commencing, "Stay, my Willie, yet believe me," though published, remain likewise in obscurity. "Roy's Wife" was originally written to an old tune called the "Ruffian's Rant," but this melody is now known by the name of its favourite words. The sentiment of the song is peculiarly pleasing. The rejected lover begins by loudly complaining of his wrongs, and the broken assurances of his former sweetheart: then he suddenly recalls what were her good qualities; and the recollection of these causes him to forgive her marrying another, and even still to extend towards her his warmest sympathies.

Roy's wife of Aldivalloch,Roy's wife of Aldivalloch,Wat ye how she cheated meAs I cam' o'er the braes of Balloch!She vow'd, she swore she wad be mine,She said she lo'ed me best o' onie;But, ah! the fickle, faithless quean,She 's ta'en the carl, and left her Johnnie!Roy's wife, &c.Oh, she was a canty quean,An' weel could dance the Hieland walloch!How happy I, had she been mine,Or I been Roy of Aldivalloch!Roy's wife, &c.Her hair sae fair, her e'en sae clear,Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bonnie!To me she ever will be dear,Though she's for ever left her Johnnie!Roy's wife, &c.

Roy's wife of Aldivalloch,Roy's wife of Aldivalloch,Wat ye how she cheated meAs I cam' o'er the braes of Balloch!

She vow'd, she swore she wad be mine,She said she lo'ed me best o' onie;But, ah! the fickle, faithless quean,She 's ta'en the carl, and left her Johnnie!Roy's wife, &c.

Oh, she was a canty quean,An' weel could dance the Hieland walloch!How happy I, had she been mine,Or I been Roy of Aldivalloch!Roy's wife, &c.

Her hair sae fair, her e'en sae clear,Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bonnie!To me she ever will be dear,Though she's for ever left her Johnnie!Roy's wife, &c.

Dr Couperwas born in the parish of Sorbie, in Wigtonshire, on the 22d of September 1750. His father rented the farm of Balsier in that parish. With a view towards the ministry in the Scottish Church, he proceeded to the University of Glasgow in 1769; but being deprived of both his parents by death before the completion of the ordinary period of academical study, and his pecuniary means being limited, he quitted the country for America, where he became tutor to a family in Virginia. He now contemplated taking orders in the Episcopal Church, but on the outbreak of the War of Independence in 1776 he returned to Britain without fulfilling this intention. He resumed his studies at Glasgow preparatory to his seeking a surgeon's diploma; and he afterwards established himself as a medical practitioner in Newton-Stewart, a considerable village in his native county. From this place he removed to Fochabers, about the year 1788, on being recommended, by his friend Dr Hamilton, Professor of Anatomy at Glasgow, as physician to the Duke of Gordon. Before entering on this new sphere of practice, he took the degree of M.D. At Fochabers he remained till the year 1806, when he again returned to the south. He died atWigton on the 18th January 1818. From a MS. Life of Dr Couper, in the possession of a gentleman in Wigton, and communicated to Dr Murray, author of "The Literary History of Galloway," these leading events of Dr Couper's life were first published by Mr Laing, in his "Additional Illustrations to the Scots Musical Museum," vol. iv. p. 513.

Dr Couper published "Poetry, chiefly in the Scottish Language" (Inverness, 1804), 2 vols. 12mo. Among some rubbish, and much tawdry versification, there is occasional power, which, however, is insufficient to compensate for the general inferiority. There are only a few songs, but these are superior to the poems; and those following are not unworthy of a place among the modern national minstrelsy.

Tune—"Neil Gow."

Back to Index Next