Oh, neighbours! what had I to do for to marry?My wife she drinks posset and wine o' Canary;And ca's me a niggardly, thrawn-gabbit cairly.O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!She sups, wi' her kimmers, on dainties enow,Aye bowing, and smirking, and wiping her mou';While I sit aside, and am helpit but sparely.O gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;O gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!To fairs, and to bridals, and preachings an' a',She gangs sae light-headed, and buskit sae braw,In ribbons and mantuas, that gar me gae barely.O gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly!Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;O gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly!I' the kirk sic commotion last Sabbath she made,Wi' babs o' red roses, and breast-knots o'erlaid;The dominie stickit the psalm very nearly.O gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;O gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!She 's warring and flyting frae mornin' till e'en,And if ye gainsay her, her een glower sae keen;Then tongue, neive, and cudgel, she 'll lay on me sairly.O gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;O gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!When tired wi' her cantrips, she lies in her bed—The wark a' negleckit, the chalmer unred—While a' our gude neighbours are stirring sae early.O gin my wife wad wark timely and fairly!Timely and fairly, timely and fairly;O gin my wife wad wark timely and fairly!A word o' gude counsel or grace she 'll hear none;She bandies the elders, and mocks at Mess John;While back in his teeth his own text she flings sairly.O gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly!Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;O gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly!I wish I were single, I wish I were freed;I wish I were doited, I wish I were dead;Or she in the mouls, to dement me nae mairly.What does it 'vail to cry, Hooly and fairly!Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;Wasting my health to cry, Hooly and fairly.
Oh, neighbours! what had I to do for to marry?My wife she drinks posset and wine o' Canary;And ca's me a niggardly, thrawn-gabbit cairly.O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!
She sups, wi' her kimmers, on dainties enow,Aye bowing, and smirking, and wiping her mou';While I sit aside, and am helpit but sparely.O gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;O gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!
To fairs, and to bridals, and preachings an' a',She gangs sae light-headed, and buskit sae braw,In ribbons and mantuas, that gar me gae barely.O gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly!Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;O gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly!
I' the kirk sic commotion last Sabbath she made,Wi' babs o' red roses, and breast-knots o'erlaid;The dominie stickit the psalm very nearly.O gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;O gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!
She 's warring and flyting frae mornin' till e'en,And if ye gainsay her, her een glower sae keen;Then tongue, neive, and cudgel, she 'll lay on me sairly.O gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;O gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!
When tired wi' her cantrips, she lies in her bed—The wark a' negleckit, the chalmer unred—While a' our gude neighbours are stirring sae early.O gin my wife wad wark timely and fairly!Timely and fairly, timely and fairly;O gin my wife wad wark timely and fairly!
A word o' gude counsel or grace she 'll hear none;She bandies the elders, and mocks at Mess John;While back in his teeth his own text she flings sairly.O gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly!Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;O gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly!
I wish I were single, I wish I were freed;I wish I were doited, I wish I were dead;Or she in the mouls, to dement me nae mairly.What does it 'vail to cry, Hooly and fairly!Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;Wasting my health to cry, Hooly and fairly.
A young gudewife is in my house,And thrifty means to be,But aye she 's runnin' to the townSome ferlie there to see.The weary pund, the weary pund, the weary pund o' tow,I soothly think, ere it be spun, I 'll wear a lyart pow.And when she sets her to her wheel,To draw her threads wi' care,In comes the chapman wi' his gear,And she can spin nae mair.The weary pund, &c.And then like ony merry May,At fairs maun still be seen,At kirkyard preachings near the tent,At dances on the green.The weary pund, &c.Her dainty ear a fiddle charms,A bagpipe 's her delight,But for the crooning o' her wheelShe disna care a mite.The weary pund, &c."You spake, my Kate, of snaw-white websMade o' your hinkum twine,But, ah! I fear our bonnie burnWill ne'er lave web o' thine.The weary pund, &c."Nay, smile again, my winsome mate,Sic jeering means nae ill;Should I gae sarkless to my grave,I'll loe and bless thee still."The weary pund, &c.
A young gudewife is in my house,And thrifty means to be,But aye she 's runnin' to the townSome ferlie there to see.The weary pund, the weary pund, the weary pund o' tow,I soothly think, ere it be spun, I 'll wear a lyart pow.
And when she sets her to her wheel,To draw her threads wi' care,In comes the chapman wi' his gear,And she can spin nae mair.The weary pund, &c.
And then like ony merry May,At fairs maun still be seen,At kirkyard preachings near the tent,At dances on the green.The weary pund, &c.
Her dainty ear a fiddle charms,A bagpipe 's her delight,But for the crooning o' her wheelShe disna care a mite.The weary pund, &c.
"You spake, my Kate, of snaw-white websMade o' your hinkum twine,But, ah! I fear our bonnie burnWill ne'er lave web o' thine.The weary pund, &c.
"Nay, smile again, my winsome mate,Sic jeering means nae ill;Should I gae sarkless to my grave,I'll loe and bless thee still."The weary pund, &c.
A lively young lass had a wee pickle tow,And she thought to try the spinnin' o't;She sat by the fire, and her rock took alow,And that was an ill beginnin' o't.Loud and shrill was the cry that she utter'd, I ween;The sudden mischanter brought tears to her een;Her face it was fair, but her temper was keen;O dole for the ill beginnin' o't!She stamp'd on the floor, and her twa hands she wrung,Her bonny sweet mou' she crookit, O!And fell was the outbreak o' words frae her tongue;Like ane sair demented she lookit, O!"Foul fa' the inventor o' rock and o' reel!I hope, gude forgi'e me! he 's now wi' the d—l,He brought us mair trouble than help, wot I weel;O dole for the ill beginnin' o't!"And now, when they 're spinnin' and kempin' awa',They 'll talk o' my rock and the burnin' o't,While Tibbie, and Mysie, and Maggie, and a',Into some silly joke will be turnin' it:They 'll say I was doited, they 'll say I was fu';They 'll say I was dowie, and Robin untrue;They 'll say in the fire some luve-powther I threw,And that made the ill beginning o't."O curst be the day, and unchancy the hour,When I sat me adown to the spinnin' o't!Then some evil spirit or warlock had power,And made sic an ill beginnin' o't.May Spunkie my feet to the boggie betray,The lunzie folk steal my new kirtle away,And Robin forsake me for douce Effie Gray,The next time I try the spinnin' o't."
A lively young lass had a wee pickle tow,And she thought to try the spinnin' o't;She sat by the fire, and her rock took alow,And that was an ill beginnin' o't.Loud and shrill was the cry that she utter'd, I ween;The sudden mischanter brought tears to her een;Her face it was fair, but her temper was keen;O dole for the ill beginnin' o't!
She stamp'd on the floor, and her twa hands she wrung,Her bonny sweet mou' she crookit, O!And fell was the outbreak o' words frae her tongue;Like ane sair demented she lookit, O!"Foul fa' the inventor o' rock and o' reel!I hope, gude forgi'e me! he 's now wi' the d—l,He brought us mair trouble than help, wot I weel;O dole for the ill beginnin' o't!
"And now, when they 're spinnin' and kempin' awa',They 'll talk o' my rock and the burnin' o't,While Tibbie, and Mysie, and Maggie, and a',Into some silly joke will be turnin' it:They 'll say I was doited, they 'll say I was fu';They 'll say I was dowie, and Robin untrue;They 'll say in the fire some luve-powther I threw,And that made the ill beginning o't.
"O curst be the day, and unchancy the hour,When I sat me adown to the spinnin' o't!Then some evil spirit or warlock had power,And made sic an ill beginnin' o't.May Spunkie my feet to the boggie betray,The lunzie folk steal my new kirtle away,And Robin forsake me for douce Effie Gray,The next time I try the spinnin' o't."
The gowan glitters on the sward,The lav'rock's in the sky,And collie on my plaid keeps ward,And time is passing by.Oh, no! sad and slow,And lengthen'd on the ground;The shadow of our trysting bushIt wears so slowly round.My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west,My lambs are bleating near;But still the sound that I lo'e best,Alack! I canna hear.Oh, no! sad and slow,The shadow lingers still;And like a lanely ghaist I stand,And croon upon the hill.I hear below the water roar,The mill wi' clacking din,And lucky scolding frae the door,To ca' the bairnies in.Oh, no! sad and slow,These are nae sounds for me;The shadow of our trysting bushIt creeps sae drearily!I coft yestreen, frae chapman Tam,A snood o' bonnie blue,And promised, when our trysting cam',To tie it round her brow.Oh, no! sad and slow,The mark it winna pass;The shadow o' that dreary bushIs tether'd on the grass.O now I see her on the way!She 's past the witch's knowe;She 's climbing up the brownie's brae—My heart is in a lowe.Oh, no! 'tis not so,'Tis glamrie I hae seen;The shadow o' that hawthorn bushWill move nae mair till e'en.My book o' grace I 'll try to read,Though conn'd wi' little skill;When collie barks I 'll raise my head,And find her on the hill.Oh, no! sad and slow,The time will ne'er be gane;The shadow o' our trysting bushIs fix'd like ony stane.
The gowan glitters on the sward,The lav'rock's in the sky,And collie on my plaid keeps ward,And time is passing by.Oh, no! sad and slow,And lengthen'd on the ground;The shadow of our trysting bushIt wears so slowly round.
My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west,My lambs are bleating near;But still the sound that I lo'e best,Alack! I canna hear.Oh, no! sad and slow,The shadow lingers still;And like a lanely ghaist I stand,And croon upon the hill.
I hear below the water roar,The mill wi' clacking din,And lucky scolding frae the door,To ca' the bairnies in.Oh, no! sad and slow,These are nae sounds for me;The shadow of our trysting bushIt creeps sae drearily!
I coft yestreen, frae chapman Tam,A snood o' bonnie blue,And promised, when our trysting cam',To tie it round her brow.Oh, no! sad and slow,The mark it winna pass;The shadow o' that dreary bushIs tether'd on the grass.
O now I see her on the way!She 's past the witch's knowe;She 's climbing up the brownie's brae—My heart is in a lowe.Oh, no! 'tis not so,'Tis glamrie I hae seen;The shadow o' that hawthorn bushWill move nae mair till e'en.
My book o' grace I 'll try to read,Though conn'd wi' little skill;When collie barks I 'll raise my head,And find her on the hill.Oh, no! sad and slow,The time will ne'er be gane;The shadow o' our trysting bushIs fix'd like ony stane.
"Saw ye Johnnie comin'?" quo' she;"Saw ye Johnnie comin'?Wi' his blue bonnet on his head,And his doggie rinnin'.Yestreen, about the gloamin' time,I chanced to see him comin',Whistling merrily the tuneThat I am a' day hummin'," quo' she;"I am a' day hummin'."Fee him, faither, fee him," quo' she;"Fee him, faither, fee him;A' the wark about the houseGaes wi' me when I see him:A' the wark about the houseI gang sae lightly through it;And though ye pay some merks o' gear,Hoot! ye winna rue it," quo' she;"No; ye winna rue it.""What wad I do wi' him, hizzy?What wad I do wi' him?He 's ne'er a sark upon his back,And I hae nane to gi'e him.""I hae twa sarks into my kist,And ane o' them I 'll gi'e him;And for a merk o' mair fee,Oh, dinna stand wi' him," quo' she;"Dinna stand wi' him."Weel do I lo'e him," quo' she;"Weel do I lo'e him;The brawest lads about the placeAre a' but hav'rels to him.Oh, fee him, father; lang, I trow,We 've dull and dowie been:He 'll haud the plough, thrash i' the barn,And crack wi' me at e'en," quo' she;"Crack wi' me at e'en."
"Saw ye Johnnie comin'?" quo' she;"Saw ye Johnnie comin'?Wi' his blue bonnet on his head,And his doggie rinnin'.Yestreen, about the gloamin' time,I chanced to see him comin',Whistling merrily the tuneThat I am a' day hummin'," quo' she;"I am a' day hummin'.
"Fee him, faither, fee him," quo' she;"Fee him, faither, fee him;A' the wark about the houseGaes wi' me when I see him:A' the wark about the houseI gang sae lightly through it;And though ye pay some merks o' gear,Hoot! ye winna rue it," quo' she;"No; ye winna rue it."
"What wad I do wi' him, hizzy?What wad I do wi' him?He 's ne'er a sark upon his back,And I hae nane to gi'e him.""I hae twa sarks into my kist,And ane o' them I 'll gi'e him;And for a merk o' mair fee,Oh, dinna stand wi' him," quo' she;"Dinna stand wi' him.
"Weel do I lo'e him," quo' she;"Weel do I lo'e him;The brawest lads about the placeAre a' but hav'rels to him.Oh, fee him, father; lang, I trow,We 've dull and dowie been:He 'll haud the plough, thrash i' the barn,And crack wi' me at e'en," quo' she;"Crack wi' me at e'en."
It fell on a morning when we were thrang—Our kirn was gaun, our cheese was making,And bannocks on the girdle baking—That ane at the door chapp'd loud and lang;But the auld gudewife, and her Mays sae tight,Of this stirring and din took sma' notice, I ween;For a chap at the door in braid daylightIs no like a chap when heard at e'en.Then the clocksie auld laird of the warlock glen,Wha stood without, half cow'd, half cheerie.And yearn'd for a sight of his winsome dearie,Raised up the latch and came crousely ben.His coat was new, and his owrelay was white,And his hose and his mittens were coozy and bein;But a wooer that comes in braid daylightIs no like a wooer that comes at e'en.He greeted the carlin' and lasses sae braw,And his bare lyart pow he smoothly straikit,And looked about, like a body half glaikit,On bonny sweet Nanny, the youngest of a':"Ha, ha!" quo' the carlin', "and look ye that way?Hoot! let nae sic fancies bewilder ye clean—An elderlin' man, i' the noon o' the day,Should be wiser than youngsters that come at e'en.""Na, na," quo' the pawky auld wife; "I trowYou 'll fash na your head wi' a youthfu' gilly,As wild and as skeigh as a muirland filly;Black Madge is far better and fitter for you."He hem'd and he haw'd, and he screw'd in his mouth,And he squeezed his blue bonnet his twa hands between;For wooers that come when the sun 's in the southAre mair awkward than wooers that come at e'en."Black Madge she is prudent." "What 's that to me?""She is eident and sober, has sense in her noddle—Is douce and respeckit." "I carena a boddle;I 'll baulk na my luve, and my fancy 's free."Madge toss'd back her head wi' a saucy slight,And Nanny run laughing out to the green;For wooers that come when the sun shines brightAre no like the wooers that come at e'en.Awa' flung the laird, and loud mutter'd he,"All the daughters of Eve, between Orkney and Tweed, O:Black and fair, young and old, dame, damsel, and widow,May gang, wi' their pride, to the wuddy for me."But the auld gudewife, and her Mays sae tight,For a' his loud banning cared little, I ween;For a wooer that comes in braid daylightIs no like a wooer that comes at e'en.
It fell on a morning when we were thrang—Our kirn was gaun, our cheese was making,And bannocks on the girdle baking—That ane at the door chapp'd loud and lang;But the auld gudewife, and her Mays sae tight,Of this stirring and din took sma' notice, I ween;For a chap at the door in braid daylightIs no like a chap when heard at e'en.
Then the clocksie auld laird of the warlock glen,Wha stood without, half cow'd, half cheerie.And yearn'd for a sight of his winsome dearie,Raised up the latch and came crousely ben.His coat was new, and his owrelay was white,And his hose and his mittens were coozy and bein;But a wooer that comes in braid daylightIs no like a wooer that comes at e'en.
He greeted the carlin' and lasses sae braw,And his bare lyart pow he smoothly straikit,And looked about, like a body half glaikit,On bonny sweet Nanny, the youngest of a':"Ha, ha!" quo' the carlin', "and look ye that way?Hoot! let nae sic fancies bewilder ye clean—An elderlin' man, i' the noon o' the day,Should be wiser than youngsters that come at e'en."
"Na, na," quo' the pawky auld wife; "I trowYou 'll fash na your head wi' a youthfu' gilly,As wild and as skeigh as a muirland filly;Black Madge is far better and fitter for you."He hem'd and he haw'd, and he screw'd in his mouth,And he squeezed his blue bonnet his twa hands between;For wooers that come when the sun 's in the southAre mair awkward than wooers that come at e'en.
"Black Madge she is prudent." "What 's that to me?""She is eident and sober, has sense in her noddle—Is douce and respeckit." "I carena a boddle;I 'll baulk na my luve, and my fancy 's free."Madge toss'd back her head wi' a saucy slight,And Nanny run laughing out to the green;For wooers that come when the sun shines brightAre no like the wooers that come at e'en.
Awa' flung the laird, and loud mutter'd he,"All the daughters of Eve, between Orkney and Tweed, O:Black and fair, young and old, dame, damsel, and widow,May gang, wi' their pride, to the wuddy for me."But the auld gudewife, and her Mays sae tight,For a' his loud banning cared little, I ween;For a wooer that comes in braid daylightIs no like a wooer that comes at e'en.
The bride she is winsome and bonnie,Her hair it is snooded sae sleek;And faithful and kind is her Johnnie,Yet fast fa' the tears on her cheek.New pearlings are cause o' her sorrow—New pearlings and plenishing too;The bride that has a' to borrowHas e'en right muckle ado.Woo'd, and married, and a';Woo'd, and married, and a';And is na she very weel aff,To be woo'd, and married, and a'?Her mither then hastily spak—"The lassie is glaikit wi' pride;In my pouches I hadna a plackThe day that I was a bride.E'en tak to your wheel and be clever,And draw out your thread in the sun;The gear that is gifted, it neverWill last like the gear that is won.Woo'd, and married, an' a',Tocher and havings sae sma';I think ye are very weel affTo be woo'd, and married, and a'.""Toot, toot!" quo' the gray-headed faither;"She 's less of a bride than a bairn;She 's ta'en like a cowt frae the heather,Wi' sense and discretion to learn.Half husband, I trow, and half daddy,As humour inconstantly leans;A chiel maun be constant and steady,That yokes wi' a mate in her teens.Kerchief to cover so neat,Locks the winds used to blaw;I 'm baith like to laugh and to greet,When I think o' her married at a'."Then out spak the wily bridegroom,Weel waled were his wordies, I ween,—"I 'm rich, though my coffer be toom,Wi' the blinks o' your bonnie blue een;I 'm prouder o' thee by my side,Though thy ruffles or ribbons be few,Than if Kate o' the Craft were my bride,Wi' purples and pearlings enew.Dear and dearest of ony,I 've woo'd, and bookit, and a';And do you think scorn o' your Johnnie,And grieve to be married at a'?"She turn'd, and she blush'd, and she smiled,And she lookit sae bashfully down;The pride o' her heart was beguiled,And she play'd wi' the sleeve o' her gown;She twirl'd the tag o' her lace,And she nippit her boddice sae blue;Syne blinkit sae sweet in his face,And aff like a maukin she flew.Woo'd, and married, and a',Married and carried awa';She thinks hersel' very weel aff,To be woo'd, and married, and a'.
The bride she is winsome and bonnie,Her hair it is snooded sae sleek;And faithful and kind is her Johnnie,Yet fast fa' the tears on her cheek.New pearlings are cause o' her sorrow—New pearlings and plenishing too;The bride that has a' to borrowHas e'en right muckle ado.Woo'd, and married, and a';Woo'd, and married, and a';And is na she very weel aff,To be woo'd, and married, and a'?
Her mither then hastily spak—"The lassie is glaikit wi' pride;In my pouches I hadna a plackThe day that I was a bride.E'en tak to your wheel and be clever,And draw out your thread in the sun;The gear that is gifted, it neverWill last like the gear that is won.Woo'd, and married, an' a',Tocher and havings sae sma';I think ye are very weel affTo be woo'd, and married, and a'."
"Toot, toot!" quo' the gray-headed faither;"She 's less of a bride than a bairn;She 's ta'en like a cowt frae the heather,Wi' sense and discretion to learn.Half husband, I trow, and half daddy,As humour inconstantly leans;A chiel maun be constant and steady,That yokes wi' a mate in her teens.Kerchief to cover so neat,Locks the winds used to blaw;I 'm baith like to laugh and to greet,When I think o' her married at a'."
Then out spak the wily bridegroom,Weel waled were his wordies, I ween,—"I 'm rich, though my coffer be toom,Wi' the blinks o' your bonnie blue een;I 'm prouder o' thee by my side,Though thy ruffles or ribbons be few,Than if Kate o' the Craft were my bride,Wi' purples and pearlings enew.Dear and dearest of ony,I 've woo'd, and bookit, and a';And do you think scorn o' your Johnnie,And grieve to be married at a'?"
She turn'd, and she blush'd, and she smiled,And she lookit sae bashfully down;The pride o' her heart was beguiled,And she play'd wi' the sleeve o' her gown;She twirl'd the tag o' her lace,And she nippit her boddice sae blue;Syne blinkit sae sweet in his face,And aff like a maukin she flew.Woo'd, and married, and a',Married and carried awa';She thinks hersel' very weel aff,To be woo'd, and married, and a'.
Though the author of a single popular song, William Dudgeon is entitled to a place among the modern contributors to the Caledonian minstrelsy. Of his personal history, only a very few facts have been recovered. He was the son of a farmer in East-Lothian, and himself rented an extensive farm at Preston, in Berwickshire. During his border tour in May 1787, the poet Burns met him at Berrywell, the residence of the father of his friend Mr Robert Ainslie, who acted as land-steward on the estate of Lord Douglas in the Merse. In his journal, Burns has thus recorded his impression of the meeting:—"A Mr Dudgeon, a poet at times, a worthy, remarkable character, natural penetration, a great deal of information, some genius, and extreme modesty." Dudgeon died in October 1813, about his sixtieth year.
Up among yon cliffy rocksSweetly rings the rising echo,To the maid that tends the goatsLilting o'er her native notes.Hark, she sings, "Young Sandy 's kind,An' he 's promised aye to lo'e me;Here 's a brooch I ne'er shall tine,Till he 's fairly married to me.Drive away, ye drone, Time,And bring about our bridal day."Sandy herds a flock o' sheep;Aften does he blaw the whistleIn a strain sae saftly sweet,Lammies list'ning daurna bleat.He 's as fleet 's the mountain roe,Hardy as the Highland heather,Wading through the winter snow,Keeping aye his flock together;But a plaid, wi' bare houghs,He braves the bleakest norlan' blast."Brawly can he dance and sing,Canty glee or Highland cronach;Nane can ever match his fling,At a reel or round a ring,In a brawl he 's aye the bangster:A' his praise can ne'er be sungBy the langest-winded sangster;Sangs that sing o' Sandy,Seem short, though they were e'er sae lang."
Up among yon cliffy rocksSweetly rings the rising echo,To the maid that tends the goatsLilting o'er her native notes.Hark, she sings, "Young Sandy 's kind,An' he 's promised aye to lo'e me;Here 's a brooch I ne'er shall tine,Till he 's fairly married to me.Drive away, ye drone, Time,And bring about our bridal day.
"Sandy herds a flock o' sheep;Aften does he blaw the whistleIn a strain sae saftly sweet,Lammies list'ning daurna bleat.He 's as fleet 's the mountain roe,Hardy as the Highland heather,Wading through the winter snow,Keeping aye his flock together;But a plaid, wi' bare houghs,He braves the bleakest norlan' blast.
"Brawly can he dance and sing,Canty glee or Highland cronach;Nane can ever match his fling,At a reel or round a ring,In a brawl he 's aye the bangster:A' his praise can ne'er be sungBy the langest-winded sangster;Sangs that sing o' Sandy,Seem short, though they were e'er sae lang."
William Reid was born at Glasgow on the 10th of April 1764. His father, a baker by trade, was enabled to give him a good education at the school of his native city. At an early age he was apprenticed to Messrs Dunlop and Wilson, booksellers; and in the year 1790, along with another enterprising individual, he commenced a bookselling establishment, under the firm of "Brash and Reid." In this business, both partners became eminently successful, their shop being frequented by theliteratiof the West. The poet Burns cultivated the society of Mr Reid, who proved a warm friend, as he was an ardent admirer, of the Ayrshire bard. He was an enthusiastic patron of literature, was fond of social humour, and a zealous promoter of the interests of Scottish song. Between 1795 and 1798, the firm published in numbers, at one penny each, "Poetry, Original and Selected," which extended to four volumes. To this publication, both Mr Reid, and his partner, Mr Brash, made some original contributions. The work is now very scarce, and is accounted valuable by collectors. Mr Reid died at Glasgow, on the 29th of November 1831, leaving a widow and a family.
Will ye gang o'er the lea rig,My ain kind dearie, O!And cuddle there fu' kindlyWi' me, my kind dearie, O!At thorny bush, or birken tree,We 'll daff and never weary, O!They 'll scug ill een frae you and me,My ain kind dearie, O!Nae herds wi' kent or colly there,Shall ever come to fear ye, O!But lav'rocks, whistling in the air,Shall woo, like me, their dearie, O!While ithers herd their lambs and ewes,And toil for warld's gear, my jo,Upon the lea my pleasure grows,Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O!At gloamin', if my lane I be,Oh, but I'm wondrous eerie, O!And mony a heavy sigh I gie,When absent frae my dearie, O!But seated 'neath the milk-white thorn,In ev'ning fair and clearie, O!Enraptured, a' my cares I scorn,When wi' my kind dearie, O!Whare through the birks the burnie rows,Aft hae I sat fu' cheerie, O!Upon the bonny greensward howes,Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O!I've courted till I've heard the crawOf honest chanticleerie, O!Yet never miss'd my sleep ava,Whan wi' my kind dearie, O!For though the night were ne'er sae dark,And I were ne'er sae weary, O!I'd meet thee on the lea rig,My ain kind dearie, O!While in this weary world of wae,This wilderness sae dreary, O!What makes me blythe, and keeps me sae?'Tis thee, my kind dearie, O!
Will ye gang o'er the lea rig,My ain kind dearie, O!And cuddle there fu' kindlyWi' me, my kind dearie, O!At thorny bush, or birken tree,We 'll daff and never weary, O!They 'll scug ill een frae you and me,My ain kind dearie, O!
Nae herds wi' kent or colly there,Shall ever come to fear ye, O!But lav'rocks, whistling in the air,Shall woo, like me, their dearie, O!While ithers herd their lambs and ewes,And toil for warld's gear, my jo,Upon the lea my pleasure grows,Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O!
At gloamin', if my lane I be,Oh, but I'm wondrous eerie, O!And mony a heavy sigh I gie,When absent frae my dearie, O!But seated 'neath the milk-white thorn,In ev'ning fair and clearie, O!Enraptured, a' my cares I scorn,When wi' my kind dearie, O!
Whare through the birks the burnie rows,Aft hae I sat fu' cheerie, O!Upon the bonny greensward howes,Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O!I've courted till I've heard the crawOf honest chanticleerie, O!Yet never miss'd my sleep ava,Whan wi' my kind dearie, O!
For though the night were ne'er sae dark,And I were ne'er sae weary, O!I'd meet thee on the lea rig,My ain kind dearie, O!While in this weary world of wae,This wilderness sae dreary, O!What makes me blythe, and keeps me sae?'Tis thee, my kind dearie, O!
John Anderson, my jo, John,I wonder what ye mean,To rise sae early in the morn,And sit sae late at e'en;Ye 'll blear out a' your een, John,And why should you do so?Gang sooner to your bed at e'en,John Anderson, my jo.John Anderson, my jo, John,When Nature first beganTo try her canny hand, John,Her masterpiece was man;And you amang them a', John,Sae trig frae tap to toe—She proved to be nae journeyman,John Anderson, my jo.John Anderson, my jo, John,Ye were my first conceit;And ye needna think it strange, John,That I ca' ye trim and neat;Though some folks say ye 're auld, John,I never think ye so;But I think ye 're aye the same to me,John Anderson, my jo.John Anderson, my jo, John,We 've seen our bairns' bairns;And yet, my dear John Anderson,I 'm happy in your arms;And sae are ye in mine, John,I 'm sure ye 'll ne'er say, No;Though the days are gane that we have seen,John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,I wonder what ye mean,To rise sae early in the morn,And sit sae late at e'en;Ye 'll blear out a' your een, John,And why should you do so?Gang sooner to your bed at e'en,John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,When Nature first beganTo try her canny hand, John,Her masterpiece was man;And you amang them a', John,Sae trig frae tap to toe—She proved to be nae journeyman,John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,Ye were my first conceit;And ye needna think it strange, John,That I ca' ye trim and neat;Though some folks say ye 're auld, John,I never think ye so;But I think ye 're aye the same to me,John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,We 've seen our bairns' bairns;And yet, my dear John Anderson,I 'm happy in your arms;And sae are ye in mine, John,I 'm sure ye 'll ne'er say, No;Though the days are gane that we have seen,John Anderson, my jo.
Tune—"Ye Banks and Braes o' bonnie Doon."
Fair, modest flower, of matchless worth!Thou sweet, enticing, bonny gem;Blest is the soil that gave thee birth,And bless'd thine honour'd parent stem.But doubly bless'd shall be the youthTo whom thy heaving bosom warms;Possess'd of beauty, love, and truth,He 'll clasp an angel in his arms.Though storms of life were blowing snell,And on his brow sat brooding care,Thy seraph smile would quick dispelThe darkest gloom of black despair.Sure Heaven hath granted thee to us,And chose thee from the dwellers there;And sent thee from celestial bliss,To shew what all the virtues are.
Fair, modest flower, of matchless worth!Thou sweet, enticing, bonny gem;Blest is the soil that gave thee birth,And bless'd thine honour'd parent stem.But doubly bless'd shall be the youthTo whom thy heaving bosom warms;Possess'd of beauty, love, and truth,He 'll clasp an angel in his arms.
Though storms of life were blowing snell,And on his brow sat brooding care,Thy seraph smile would quick dispelThe darkest gloom of black despair.Sure Heaven hath granted thee to us,And chose thee from the dwellers there;And sent thee from celestial bliss,To shew what all the virtues are.
Tune—"Locherroch Side."
When Katie was scarce out nineteen,Oh, but she had twa coal-black een!A bonnier lass ye wadna seenIn a' the Carse o' Gowrie.Quite tired o' livin' a' his lane,Pate did to her his love explain,And swore he 'd be, were she his ain,The happiest lad in Gowrie.Quo' she, "I winna marry thee,For a' the gear that ye can gi'e;Nor will I gang a step ajee,For a' the gowd in Gowrie.My father will gi'e me twa kye;My mother 's gaun some yarn to dye;I 'll get a gown just like the sky,Gif I 'll no gang to Gowrie.""Oh, my dear Katie, say nae sae!Ye little ken a heart that 's wae;Hae! there 's my hand; hear me, I pray,Sin' thou 'lt no gang to Gowrie:Since first I met thee at the shiel,My saul to thee 's been true and leal;The darkest night I fear nae deil,Warlock, or witch in Gowrie."I fear nae want o' claes nor nocht,Sic silly things my mind ne'er taught;I dream a' nicht, and start about,And wish for thee in Gowrie.I lo'e thee better, Kate, my dear,Than a' my rigs and out-gaun gear;Sit down by me till ance I swear,Thou 'rt worth the Carse o' Gowrie."Syne on her mou' sweet kisses laid,Till blushes a' her cheeks o'erspread;She sigh'd, and in soft whispers said,"Oh, Pate, tak me to Gowrie!"Quo' he, "Let 's to the auld folk gang;Say what they like, I 'll bide their bang,And bide a' nicht, though beds be thrang;But I 'll hae thee to Gowrie."The auld folk syne baith gi'ed consent;The priest was ca'd: a' were content;And Katie never did repentThat she gaed hame to Gowrie.For routh o' bonnie bairns had she;Mair strappin' lads ye wadna see;And her braw lasses bore the greeFrae a' the rest o' Gowrie.
When Katie was scarce out nineteen,Oh, but she had twa coal-black een!A bonnier lass ye wadna seenIn a' the Carse o' Gowrie.Quite tired o' livin' a' his lane,Pate did to her his love explain,And swore he 'd be, were she his ain,The happiest lad in Gowrie.
Quo' she, "I winna marry thee,For a' the gear that ye can gi'e;Nor will I gang a step ajee,For a' the gowd in Gowrie.My father will gi'e me twa kye;My mother 's gaun some yarn to dye;I 'll get a gown just like the sky,Gif I 'll no gang to Gowrie."
"Oh, my dear Katie, say nae sae!Ye little ken a heart that 's wae;Hae! there 's my hand; hear me, I pray,Sin' thou 'lt no gang to Gowrie:Since first I met thee at the shiel,My saul to thee 's been true and leal;The darkest night I fear nae deil,Warlock, or witch in Gowrie.
"I fear nae want o' claes nor nocht,Sic silly things my mind ne'er taught;I dream a' nicht, and start about,And wish for thee in Gowrie.I lo'e thee better, Kate, my dear,Than a' my rigs and out-gaun gear;Sit down by me till ance I swear,Thou 'rt worth the Carse o' Gowrie."
Syne on her mou' sweet kisses laid,Till blushes a' her cheeks o'erspread;She sigh'd, and in soft whispers said,"Oh, Pate, tak me to Gowrie!"Quo' he, "Let 's to the auld folk gang;Say what they like, I 'll bide their bang,And bide a' nicht, though beds be thrang;But I 'll hae thee to Gowrie."
The auld folk syne baith gi'ed consent;The priest was ca'd: a' were content;And Katie never did repentThat she gaed hame to Gowrie.For routh o' bonnie bairns had she;Mair strappin' lads ye wadna see;And her braw lasses bore the greeFrae a' the rest o' Gowrie.
Upon the banks o' flowing ClydeThe lasses busk them braw;But when their best they hae put on,My Jeanie dings them a';In hamely weeds she far exceedsThe fairest o' the toun;Baith sage and gay confess it sae,Though drest in russit goun.The gamesome lamb that sucks its dam,Mair harmless canna be;She has nae faut, if sic ye ca't,Except her love for me;The sparkling dew, o' clearest hue,Is like her shining een;In shape and air wha can compare,Wi' my sweet lovely Jean.
Upon the banks o' flowing ClydeThe lasses busk them braw;But when their best they hae put on,My Jeanie dings them a';In hamely weeds she far exceedsThe fairest o' the toun;Baith sage and gay confess it sae,Though drest in russit goun.
The gamesome lamb that sucks its dam,Mair harmless canna be;She has nae faut, if sic ye ca't,Except her love for me;The sparkling dew, o' clearest hue,Is like her shining een;In shape and air wha can compare,Wi' my sweet lovely Jean.
A miscellaneous writer, a poet, and a musical composer, Alexander Campbell first saw the light at Tombea, on the banks of Loch Lubnaig, in Perthshire. He was born in 1764, and received such education as his parents could afford him, which was not very ample, at the parish school of Callander. An early taste for music induced him to proceed to Edinburgh, there to cultivate a systematic acquaintance with the art. Acquiring a knowledge of the science under the celebrated Tenducci and others, he became himself a teacher of the harpsichord and of vocal music, in the metropolis. As an upholder of Jacobitism, when it was scarcely to be dreaded as a political offence, he officiated as organist in a non-juring chapel in the vicinity of Nicolson Street; and while so employed had the good fortune to form the acquaintance of Burns, who was pleased to discover in an individual entertaining similar state sentiments with himself, an enthusiastic devotion to national melody and song.
Mr Campbell was twice married; his second wife was the widow of a Highland gentleman, and he was induced to hope that his condition might thus be permanently improved. He therefore relinquished his originalvocation, and commenced the study of physic, with the view of obtaining an appointment as surgeon in the public service; but his sanguine hopes proved abortive, and, to complete his mortification, his wife left him in Edinburgh, and sought a retreat in the Highlands. He again procured some employment as a teacher of music; and about the year 1810, one of his expedients was to give lessons in drawing. He was a man of a fervent spirit, and possessed of talents, which, if they had been adequately cultivated, and more concentrated, might have enabled him to attain considerable distinction; but, apparently aiming at the reputation of universal genius, he alternately cultivated the study of music, poetry, painting, and physic. At a more recent period, Sir Walter Scott found him occasional employment in transcribing manuscripts; and during the unhappy remainder of his life he had to struggle with many difficulties.
One of his publications bears the title of "Odes and Miscellaneous Poems, by a Student of Medicine in the University of Edinburgh," Edinburgh, 1790, 4to. These lucubrations, which attracted no share of public attention, were followed by "The Guinea Note, a Poem, by Timothy Twig, Esquire," Edinburgh, 1797, 4to. His next work is entitled, "An Introduction to the History of Poetry in Scotland, with Illustrations by David Allan," Edinburgh, 1798, 4to. This work, though written in a rambling style, contains a small proportion of useful materials very unskilfully digested. "A Dialogue on Scottish Music," prefixed, had the merit of conveying to Continental musicians for the first time a correct acquaintance with the Scottish scale, the author receiving the commendations of the greatest Italian and German composers. The work likewise contains "Songs of theLowlands," a selection of some of the more interesting specimens of the older minstrelsy. In 1802 he published "A Tour from Edinburgh through various parts of North Britain," in two volumes quarto, illustrated with engravings from sketches executed by himself. This work met with a favourable reception, and has been regarded as the most successful of his literary efforts. In 1804 he sought distinction as a poet by giving to the world "The Grampians Desolate," a long poem, in one volume octavo. In this production he essays "to call the attention of good men, wherever dispersed throughout our island, to the manifold and great evils arising from the introduction of that system which has within these last forty years spread among the Grampians and Western Isles, and is the leading cause of a depopulation that threatens to extirpate the ancient race of the inhabitants of those districts." That system to which Mr Campbell refers, he afterwards explains to be the monopoly of sheep-stores, a subject scarcely poetical, but which he has contrived to clothe with considerable smoothness of versification. The last work which issued from Mr Campbell's pen was "Albyn's Anthology, a Select Collection of the Melodies and Vocal Poetry Peculiar to Scotland and the Isles, hitherto Unpublished." The publication appeared in 1816, in two parts, of elegant folio. It was adorned by the contributions of Sir Walter Scott, James Hogg, and other poets of reputation. The preface contains "An Epitome of the History of Scottish Poetry and Music from the Earliest Times." His musical talents have a stronger claim to remembrance than either his powers as a poet or his skill as a writer. Yet his industry was unremitted, and his researches have proved serviceable to other writers who have followed him on the same themes. Only a fewlyrical pieces proceeded from his pen; these were first published in "Albyn's Anthology." From this work we have extracted two specimens.
Mr Campbell died of apoplexy on the 15th of May 1824, after a life much chequered by misfortune. He left various MSS. on subjects connected with his favourite studies, which have fortunately found their way into the possession of Mr Laing, to whom the history of Scottish poetry is perhaps more indebted than to any other living writer. The poems in this collection, though bearing marks of sufficient elaboration, could not be recommended for publication. Mr Campbell was understood to be a contributor toThe Ghost, a forgotten periodical, which ran a short career in the year 1790. It was published in Edinburgh twice a week, and reached the forty-sixth number; the first having appeared on the 25th of April, the last on the 16th of November. He published an edition of a book, curious in its way—Donald Mackintosh's "Collection of Gaelic Proverbs, and Familiar Phrases; Englished anew!" Edinburgh, 1819, 12mo. The preface contains a characteristic account of the compiler, who described himself as "a priest of the old Scots Episcopal Church, and last of the non-jurant clergy in Scotland."
Now winter's wind sweeps o'er the mountains,Deeply clad in drifting snow;Soundly sleep the frozen fountains;Ice-bound streams forget to flow:The piercing blast howls loud and long,The leafless forest oaks among.Down the glen, lo! comes a stranger,Wayworn, drooping, all alone;—Haply, 'tis the deer-haunt Ranger!But alas! his strength is gone!He stoops, he totters on with pain,The hill he 'll never climb again.Age is being's winter season,Fitful, gloomy, piercing cold;Passion weaken'd, yields to reason,Man feelsthenhimself grown old;His senses one by one have fled,His very soul seems almost dead.
Now winter's wind sweeps o'er the mountains,Deeply clad in drifting snow;Soundly sleep the frozen fountains;Ice-bound streams forget to flow:The piercing blast howls loud and long,The leafless forest oaks among.
Down the glen, lo! comes a stranger,Wayworn, drooping, all alone;—Haply, 'tis the deer-haunt Ranger!But alas! his strength is gone!He stoops, he totters on with pain,The hill he 'll never climb again.
Age is being's winter season,Fitful, gloomy, piercing cold;Passion weaken'd, yields to reason,Man feelsthenhimself grown old;His senses one by one have fled,His very soul seems almost dead.
The hawk whoops on high, and keen, keen from yon' cliff,Lo! the eagle on watch eyes the stag cold and stiff;The deer-hound, majestic, looks lofty around,While he lists with delight to the harp's distant sound;Is it swept by the gale, as it slow wafts alongThe heart-soothing tones of an olden times' song?Or is it some Druid who touches, unseen,"The Harp of the North," newly strung now I ween?'Tis Albyn's own minstrel! and, proud of his name,He proclaims him chief bard, and immortal his fame!—He gives tongue to those wild lilts that ravish'd of old,And soul to the tales that so oft have been told;HenceWalter the Minstrelshall flourish for aye,Will breathe in sweet airs, and live long as his "Lay;"To ages unnumber'd thus yielding delight,Which will last till the gloaming of Time's endless night.
The hawk whoops on high, and keen, keen from yon' cliff,Lo! the eagle on watch eyes the stag cold and stiff;The deer-hound, majestic, looks lofty around,While he lists with delight to the harp's distant sound;Is it swept by the gale, as it slow wafts alongThe heart-soothing tones of an olden times' song?Or is it some Druid who touches, unseen,"The Harp of the North," newly strung now I ween?
'Tis Albyn's own minstrel! and, proud of his name,He proclaims him chief bard, and immortal his fame!—He gives tongue to those wild lilts that ravish'd of old,And soul to the tales that so oft have been told;HenceWalter the Minstrelshall flourish for aye,Will breathe in sweet airs, and live long as his "Lay;"To ages unnumber'd thus yielding delight,Which will last till the gloaming of Time's endless night.
Helen D'Arcy Cranstoun, the second wife of the celebrated Professor Stewart, is entitled to a more ample notice in a work on Modern Scottish Song than the limited materials at our command enable us to supply. She was the third daughter of the Hon. George Cranstoun, youngest son of William, fifth Lord Cranstoun. She was born in the year 1765, and became the wife of Professor Dugald Stewart on the 26th July 1790. Having survived her husband ten years, she died at Warriston House, in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, on the 28th of July 1838. She was the sister of the Countess Purgstall (the subject of Captain Basil Hall's "Schloss Hainfeld"), and of George Cranstoun, a senator of the College of Justice, by the title of Lord Corehouse.
The following pieces from the pen of the accomplished author are replete with simple beauty and exquisite tenderness.
Tune—"Ianthe the Lovely."