I wish I were where Helen lies,For night and day on me she cries;And, like an angel, to the skiesStill seems to beckon me!For me she lived, for me she sigh'd,For me she wish'd to be a bride;For me in life's sweet morn she diedOn fair Kirkconnel-Lee!Where Kirtle waters gently wind,As Helen on my arm reclined,A rival with a ruthless mindTook deadly aim at me.My love, to disappoint the foe,Rush'd in between me and the blow;And now her corse is lying low,On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell,I curse the hand by which she fell—The fiend who made my heaven a hell,And tore my love from me!For if, when all the graces shine,Oh! if on earth there 's aught divine,My Helen! all these charms were thine,They centred all in thee!Ah! what avails it that, amain,I clove the assassin's head in twain?No peace of mind, my Helen slain,No resting-place for me.I see her spirit in the air—I hear the shriek of wild despair,When murder laid her bosom bare,On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!Oh! when I 'm sleeping in my grave,And o'er my head the rank weeds wave,May He who life and spirit gaveUnite my love and me!Then from this world of doubts and sighs,My soul on wings of peace shall rise,And, joining Helen in the skies,Forget Kirkconnel-Lee.
I wish I were where Helen lies,For night and day on me she cries;And, like an angel, to the skiesStill seems to beckon me!For me she lived, for me she sigh'd,For me she wish'd to be a bride;For me in life's sweet morn she diedOn fair Kirkconnel-Lee!
Where Kirtle waters gently wind,As Helen on my arm reclined,A rival with a ruthless mindTook deadly aim at me.My love, to disappoint the foe,Rush'd in between me and the blow;And now her corse is lying low,On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!
Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell,I curse the hand by which she fell—The fiend who made my heaven a hell,And tore my love from me!For if, when all the graces shine,Oh! if on earth there 's aught divine,My Helen! all these charms were thine,They centred all in thee!
Ah! what avails it that, amain,I clove the assassin's head in twain?No peace of mind, my Helen slain,No resting-place for me.I see her spirit in the air—I hear the shriek of wild despair,When murder laid her bosom bare,On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!
Oh! when I 'm sleeping in my grave,And o'er my head the rank weeds wave,May He who life and spirit gaveUnite my love and me!Then from this world of doubts and sighs,My soul on wings of peace shall rise,And, joining Helen in the skies,Forget Kirkconnel-Lee.
The winter sat lang on the spring o' the year,Our seedtime was late, and our mailing was dear;My mither tint her heart when she look'd on us a',And we thought upon those that were farest awa'.Oh, were they but here that are farest awa'!Oh, were they but here that are dear to us a'!Our cares would seem light and our sorrow but sma',If they were but here that are far frae us a'!Last week, when our hopes were o'erclouded wi' fear,And nae ane at hame the dull prospect to cheer;Our Johnnie has written, frae far awa' parts,A letter that lightens and hauds up our hearts.He says, "My dear mither, though I be awa',In love and affection I 'm still wi' ye a';While I hae a being ye 'se aye hae a ha',Wi' plenty to keep out the frost and the snaw."My mither, o'erjoy'd at this change in her state,By the bairn she doated on early and late,Gi'es thanks night and day to the Giver of a',There 's been naething unworthy o' him that 's awa'!Then here is to them that are far frae us a',The friend that ne'er fail'd us, though farest awa'!Health, peace, and prosperity wait on us a';And a blithe comin' hame to the friend that 's awa'!
The winter sat lang on the spring o' the year,Our seedtime was late, and our mailing was dear;My mither tint her heart when she look'd on us a',And we thought upon those that were farest awa'.Oh, were they but here that are farest awa'!Oh, were they but here that are dear to us a'!Our cares would seem light and our sorrow but sma',If they were but here that are far frae us a'!
Last week, when our hopes were o'erclouded wi' fear,And nae ane at hame the dull prospect to cheer;Our Johnnie has written, frae far awa' parts,A letter that lightens and hauds up our hearts.He says, "My dear mither, though I be awa',In love and affection I 'm still wi' ye a';While I hae a being ye 'se aye hae a ha',Wi' plenty to keep out the frost and the snaw."
My mither, o'erjoy'd at this change in her state,By the bairn she doated on early and late,Gi'es thanks night and day to the Giver of a',There 's been naething unworthy o' him that 's awa'!Then here is to them that are far frae us a',The friend that ne'er fail'd us, though farest awa'!Health, peace, and prosperity wait on us a';And a blithe comin' hame to the friend that 's awa'!
Air—"Johnnie's Gray Breeks."
Jenny's heart was frank and free,And wooers she had mony, yetThe sang was aye, "Of a' I see,Commend me to my Johnnie yet.For ear' and late, he has sic gateTo mak' a body cheerie, thatI wish to be, before I dee,His ain kind dearie yet."Now Jenny's face was fu' o' grace,Her shape was sma' and genty-like,And few or nane in a' the place,Had gowd or gear mair plenty, yetThough war's alarms, and Johnnie's charms,Had gart her oft look eerie, yetShe sung wi' glee, "I hope to beMy Johnnie's ain dearie yet."What though he's now gane far awa',Whare guns and cannons rattle, yetUnless my Johnnie chance to fa'In some uncanny battle, yetTill he return my breast will burnWi' love that weel may cheer me yet,For I hope to see, before I dee,His bairns to him endear me yet."
Jenny's heart was frank and free,And wooers she had mony, yetThe sang was aye, "Of a' I see,Commend me to my Johnnie yet.For ear' and late, he has sic gateTo mak' a body cheerie, thatI wish to be, before I dee,His ain kind dearie yet."
Now Jenny's face was fu' o' grace,Her shape was sma' and genty-like,And few or nane in a' the place,Had gowd or gear mair plenty, yetThough war's alarms, and Johnnie's charms,Had gart her oft look eerie, yetShe sung wi' glee, "I hope to beMy Johnnie's ain dearie yet.
"What though he's now gane far awa',Whare guns and cannons rattle, yetUnless my Johnnie chance to fa'In some uncanny battle, yetTill he return my breast will burnWi' love that weel may cheer me yet,For I hope to see, before I dee,His bairns to him endear me yet."
The troops were all embark'd on board,The ships were under weigh,And loving wives, and maids adored,Were weeping round the bay.They parted from their dearest friends,From all their heart desires;And Rosabel to Heaven commendsThe man her soul admires!For him she fled from soft repose,Renounced a parent's care;He sails to crush his country's foes,She wanders in despair!A seraph in an infant's frameReclined upon her arm;And sorrow in the lovely dameNow heighten'd every charm:She thought, if fortune had but smiled—She thought upon her dear;But when she look'd upon his child,Oh, then ran many a tear!"Ah! who will watch thee as thou sleep'st?Who 'll sing a lullaby,Or rock thy cradle when thou weep'st,If I should chance to die?"On board the ship, resign'd to fate,Yet planning joys to come,Her love in silent sorrow sateUpon a broken drum.He saw her lonely on the beach;He saw her on the strand;And far as human eye can reachHe saw her wave her hand!"O Rosabel! though forced to go,With thee my soul shall dwell,And Heaven, who pities human woe,Will comfort Rosabel!"
The troops were all embark'd on board,The ships were under weigh,And loving wives, and maids adored,Were weeping round the bay.
They parted from their dearest friends,From all their heart desires;And Rosabel to Heaven commendsThe man her soul admires!
For him she fled from soft repose,Renounced a parent's care;He sails to crush his country's foes,She wanders in despair!
A seraph in an infant's frameReclined upon her arm;And sorrow in the lovely dameNow heighten'd every charm:
She thought, if fortune had but smiled—She thought upon her dear;But when she look'd upon his child,Oh, then ran many a tear!
"Ah! who will watch thee as thou sleep'st?Who 'll sing a lullaby,Or rock thy cradle when thou weep'st,If I should chance to die?"
On board the ship, resign'd to fate,Yet planning joys to come,Her love in silent sorrow sateUpon a broken drum.
He saw her lonely on the beach;He saw her on the strand;And far as human eye can reachHe saw her wave her hand!
"O Rosabel! though forced to go,With thee my soul shall dwell,And Heaven, who pities human woe,Will comfort Rosabel!"
Of the personal history of John Hamilton only a few particulars can be ascertained. He carried on business for many years as a music-seller in North Bridge Street, Edinburgh, and likewise gave instructions in the art of instrumental music to private families. He had the good fortune to attract the favour of one of his fair pupils—a young lady of birth and fortune—whom he married, much to the displeasure of her relations. He fell into impaired health, and died on the 23d of September 1814, in the fifty-third year of his age. To the lovers of Scottish melody the name of Mr Hamilton is familiar, as a composer of several esteemed and beautiful airs. His contributions to the department of Scottish song entitle his name to an honourable place.
Ae morn, last ouk, as I gaed outTo flit a tether'd ewe and lamb,I met, as skiffin' ower the green,A jolly, rantin' Highlandman.His shape was neat, wi' feature sweet,And ilka smile my favour wan;I ne'er had seen sae braw a ladAs this young rantin' Highlandman.He said, "My dear, ye 're sune asteer;Cam' ye to hear the lav'rock's sang?Oh, wad ye gang and wed wi' me,And wed a rantin' Highlandman?In summer days, on flow'ry braes,When frisky are the ewe and lamb,I 'se row ye in my tartan plaid,And be your rantin' Highlandman."Wi' heather bells, that sweetly smell,I 'll deck your hair, sae fair and lang,If ye 'll consent to scour the bentWi' me, a rantin' Highlandman.We 'll big a cot, and buy a stock,Syne do the best that e'er we can;Then come, my dear, ye needna fearTo trust a rantin' Highlandman."His words, sae sweet, gaed to my heart,And fain I wad hae gi'en my han';Yet durstna, lest my mither shouldDislike a rantin' Highlandman.But I expect he will come back;Then, though my kin should scauld and ban,I 'll ower the hill, or whare he will,Wi' my young rantin' Highlandman.
Ae morn, last ouk, as I gaed outTo flit a tether'd ewe and lamb,I met, as skiffin' ower the green,A jolly, rantin' Highlandman.His shape was neat, wi' feature sweet,And ilka smile my favour wan;I ne'er had seen sae braw a ladAs this young rantin' Highlandman.
He said, "My dear, ye 're sune asteer;Cam' ye to hear the lav'rock's sang?Oh, wad ye gang and wed wi' me,And wed a rantin' Highlandman?In summer days, on flow'ry braes,When frisky are the ewe and lamb,I 'se row ye in my tartan plaid,And be your rantin' Highlandman.
"Wi' heather bells, that sweetly smell,I 'll deck your hair, sae fair and lang,If ye 'll consent to scour the bentWi' me, a rantin' Highlandman.We 'll big a cot, and buy a stock,Syne do the best that e'er we can;Then come, my dear, ye needna fearTo trust a rantin' Highlandman."
His words, sae sweet, gaed to my heart,And fain I wad hae gi'en my han';Yet durstna, lest my mither shouldDislike a rantin' Highlandman.But I expect he will come back;Then, though my kin should scauld and ban,I 'll ower the hill, or whare he will,Wi' my young rantin' Highlandman.
Cauld blaws the wind frae north to south;The drift is drifting sairly;The sheep are cow'rin' in the heuch;Oh, sirs, it 's winter fairly!Now, up in the mornin's no for me,Up in the mornin' early;I'd rather gae supperless to my bedThan rise in the mornin' early.Loud roars the blast amang the woods,And tirls the branches barely;On hill and house hear how it thuds!The frost is nippin' sairly.Now, up in the mornin's no for me,Up in the mornin' early;To sit a' nicht wad better agreeThan rise in the mornin' early.The sun peeps ower yon southland hills,Like ony timorous carlie;Just blinks a wee, then sinks again;And that we find severely.Now, up in the mornin's no for me,Up in the mornin' early;When snaw blaws in at the chimley cheek,Wha 'd rise in the mornin' early?Nae linties lilt on hedge or bush:Poor things! they suffer sairly;In cauldrife quarters a' the nicht,A' day they feed but sparely.Now, up in the mornin's no for me,Up in the mornin' early;A pennyless purse I wad rather dree,Than rise in the mornin' early.A cosie house and canty wifeAye keep a body cheerly;And pantries stowed wi' meat and drink,They answer unco rarely.But up in the mornin'—na, na, na!Up in the mornin' early!The gowans maun glint on bank and braeWhen I rise in the mornin' early.
Cauld blaws the wind frae north to south;The drift is drifting sairly;The sheep are cow'rin' in the heuch;Oh, sirs, it 's winter fairly!Now, up in the mornin's no for me,Up in the mornin' early;I'd rather gae supperless to my bedThan rise in the mornin' early.
Loud roars the blast amang the woods,And tirls the branches barely;On hill and house hear how it thuds!The frost is nippin' sairly.Now, up in the mornin's no for me,Up in the mornin' early;To sit a' nicht wad better agreeThan rise in the mornin' early.
The sun peeps ower yon southland hills,Like ony timorous carlie;Just blinks a wee, then sinks again;And that we find severely.Now, up in the mornin's no for me,Up in the mornin' early;When snaw blaws in at the chimley cheek,Wha 'd rise in the mornin' early?
Nae linties lilt on hedge or bush:Poor things! they suffer sairly;In cauldrife quarters a' the nicht,A' day they feed but sparely.Now, up in the mornin's no for me,Up in the mornin' early;A pennyless purse I wad rather dree,Than rise in the mornin' early.
A cosie house and canty wifeAye keep a body cheerly;And pantries stowed wi' meat and drink,They answer unco rarely.But up in the mornin'—na, na, na!Up in the mornin' early!The gowans maun glint on bank and braeWhen I rise in the mornin' early.
Go to Berwick, Johnnie;Bring her frae the Border;Yon sweet bonnie lassie,Let her gae nae farther.English loons will twine yeO' the lovely treasure;But we 'll let them kenA sword wi' them we 'll measure.Go to Berwick, Johnnie,And regain your honour;Drive them ower the Tweed,And show our Scottish banner.I am Rob, the King,And ye are Jock, my brither;But, before we lose her,We 'll a' there thegither.
Go to Berwick, Johnnie;Bring her frae the Border;Yon sweet bonnie lassie,Let her gae nae farther.English loons will twine yeO' the lovely treasure;But we 'll let them kenA sword wi' them we 'll measure.
Go to Berwick, Johnnie,And regain your honour;Drive them ower the Tweed,And show our Scottish banner.I am Rob, the King,And ye are Jock, my brither;But, before we lose her,We 'll a' there thegither.
Farewell, ye fields an' meadows green!The blest retreats of peace an' love;Aft have I, silent, stolen from hence,With my young swain a while to rove.Sweet was our walk, more sweet our talk,Among the beauties of the spring;An' aft we 'd lean us on a bank,To hear the feather'd warblers sing.The azure sky, the hills around,Gave double beauty to the scene;The lofty spires of Banff in view—On every side the waving grain.The tales of love my Jamie told,In such a saft an' moving strain,Have so engaged my tender heart,I 'm loth to leave the place again.But if the Fates will be sae kindAs favour my return once more,For to enjoy the peace of mindIn those retreats I had before:Now, farewell, Banff! the nimble steedsDo bear me hence—I must away;Yet time, perhaps, may bring me back,To part nae mair from scenes so gay.
Farewell, ye fields an' meadows green!The blest retreats of peace an' love;Aft have I, silent, stolen from hence,With my young swain a while to rove.Sweet was our walk, more sweet our talk,Among the beauties of the spring;An' aft we 'd lean us on a bank,To hear the feather'd warblers sing.
The azure sky, the hills around,Gave double beauty to the scene;The lofty spires of Banff in view—On every side the waving grain.The tales of love my Jamie told,In such a saft an' moving strain,Have so engaged my tender heart,I 'm loth to leave the place again.
But if the Fates will be sae kindAs favour my return once more,For to enjoy the peace of mindIn those retreats I had before:Now, farewell, Banff! the nimble steedsDo bear me hence—I must away;Yet time, perhaps, may bring me back,To part nae mair from scenes so gay.
Tell me, Jessie, tell me whyMy fond suit you still deny?Is your bosom cold as snow?Did you never feel for woe?Can you hear, without a sigh,Him complain who for you could die?If you ever shed a tear,Hear me, Jessie, hear, O hear!Life to me is not more dearThan the hour brings Jessie here;Death so much I do not fearAs the parting moment near.Summer smiles are not so sweetAs the bloom upon your cheek;Nor the crystal dew so clearAs your eyes to me appear.These are part of Jessie's charms,Which the bosom ever warms;But the charms by which I 'm stung,Come, O Jessie, from thy tongue!Jessie, be no longer coy;Let me taste a lover's joy;With your hand remove the dart,And heal the wound that 's in my heart.
Tell me, Jessie, tell me whyMy fond suit you still deny?Is your bosom cold as snow?Did you never feel for woe?Can you hear, without a sigh,Him complain who for you could die?If you ever shed a tear,Hear me, Jessie, hear, O hear!
Life to me is not more dearThan the hour brings Jessie here;Death so much I do not fearAs the parting moment near.Summer smiles are not so sweetAs the bloom upon your cheek;Nor the crystal dew so clearAs your eyes to me appear.
These are part of Jessie's charms,Which the bosom ever warms;But the charms by which I 'm stung,Come, O Jessie, from thy tongue!Jessie, be no longer coy;Let me taste a lover's joy;With your hand remove the dart,And heal the wound that 's in my heart.
Last midsummer's morning, as going to the fair,I met with young Jamie, wh'as taking the air;He ask'd me to stay with him, and indeed he did prevail,Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale—That blooms in the valley, that blooms in the vale,Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale.He said he had loved me both long and sincere,That none on the green was so gentle and fair;I listen'd with pleasure to Jamie's tender tale,Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale—That blooms in the valley, &c."Oh, haste," says he, "to hear the birds in the grove,How charming their song, and enticing to love!The briers that with roses perfume the passing gale,And meet the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale"—That blooms in the valley, &c.His words were so moving, and looks soft and kind,Convinced me the youth had nae guile in his mind;My heart, too, confess'd him the flower of the dale,Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale—That blooms in the valley, &c.Yet I oft bade him go, for I could no longer stay,But leave me he would not, nor let me away;Still pressing his suit, and at last did prevail,Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale—That blooms in the valley, &c.Now tell me, ye maidens, how could I refuse?His words were so sweet, and so binding his vows!We went and were married, and Jamie loves me still,And we live beside the hawthorn that blooms in the vale—That blooms in the valley, that blooms in the vale,We live beside the hawthorn that blooms in the vale.
Last midsummer's morning, as going to the fair,I met with young Jamie, wh'as taking the air;He ask'd me to stay with him, and indeed he did prevail,Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale—That blooms in the valley, that blooms in the vale,Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale.
He said he had loved me both long and sincere,That none on the green was so gentle and fair;I listen'd with pleasure to Jamie's tender tale,Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale—That blooms in the valley, &c.
"Oh, haste," says he, "to hear the birds in the grove,How charming their song, and enticing to love!The briers that with roses perfume the passing gale,And meet the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale"—That blooms in the valley, &c.
His words were so moving, and looks soft and kind,Convinced me the youth had nae guile in his mind;My heart, too, confess'd him the flower of the dale,Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale—That blooms in the valley, &c.
Yet I oft bade him go, for I could no longer stay,But leave me he would not, nor let me away;Still pressing his suit, and at last did prevail,Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale—That blooms in the valley, &c.
Now tell me, ye maidens, how could I refuse?His words were so sweet, and so binding his vows!We went and were married, and Jamie loves me still,And we live beside the hawthorn that blooms in the vale—That blooms in the valley, that blooms in the vale,We live beside the hawthorn that blooms in the vale.
Oh, blaw, ye westlin' winds, blaw saftAmang the leafy trees!Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale,Bring hame the laden bees;And bring the lassie back to me,That 's aye sae neat and clean;Ae blink of her wad banish care,Sae lovely is my Jean.What sighs and vows, amang the knowes,Hae pass'd atween us twa!How fain to meet, how wae to part,That day she gaed awa'!The Powers aboon can only ken,To whom the heart is seen,That nane can be sae dear to meAs my sweet, lovely Jean.
Oh, blaw, ye westlin' winds, blaw saftAmang the leafy trees!Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale,Bring hame the laden bees;And bring the lassie back to me,That 's aye sae neat and clean;Ae blink of her wad banish care,Sae lovely is my Jean.
What sighs and vows, amang the knowes,Hae pass'd atween us twa!How fain to meet, how wae to part,That day she gaed awa'!The Powers aboon can only ken,To whom the heart is seen,That nane can be sae dear to meAs my sweet, lovely Jean.
Joanna Baillie was born on the 11th of September 1762, in the manse of Bothwell, in Lanarkshire. Her father, Dr James Baillie, was descended from the old family of Baillie of Lamington, and was consequently entitled to claim propinquity with the distinguished Principal Robert Baillie, and the family of Baillie of Jerviswood, so celebrated for its Christian patriotism. The mother of Joanna likewise belonged to an honourable house: she was a descendant of the Hunters of Hunterston; and her two brothers attained a wide reputation in the world of science—Dr William Hunter being an eminent physician, and Mr John Hunter the greatest anatomist of his age. Joanna—a twin, the other child being still-born—was the youngest of a family of three children. Her only brother was Dr Matthew Baillie, highly distinguished in the medical world. Agnes, her sister, who was eldest of the family, remained unmarried, and continued to live with her under the same roof.
In the year 1768, Dr Baillie was transferred from the parochial charge of Bothwell to the office of collegiate minister of Hamilton,—a town situate, like his former parish, on the banks of the Clyde. He was subsequently elected Professor of Divinity in the University of Glasgow. After his death, which took place in 1778, his daughters both continued, along with their widowed mother, to live at Long Calderwood, in the vicinity of Hamilton, until 1784, when they all accepted an invitation to reside with Dr Matthew Baillie, who had entered on his medical career in London, and had become possessor of a house in Great Windmill Street, built by his now deceased uncle, Dr Hunter.
Though evincing no peculiar promptitude in the acquisition of learning, Joanna had, at the very outset of life, exhibited remarkable talent in rhyme-making. She composed verses before she could read, and, before she could have fancied a theatre, formed dialogues for dramatic representations, which she carried on with her companions. But she did not early seek distinction as an author. At the somewhat mature age of twenty-eight, after she had gone to London, she first published, and that anonymously, a volume of miscellaneous poems, which did not excite any particular attention. In 1798, she published, though anonymously at first, "A Series of Plays: in which it is attempted to delineate the stronger Passions of the Mind, each Passion being the subject of a Tragedy and a Comedy." In a lengthened preliminary dissertation, she discoursed regarding the drama in all its relations, maintaining the ascendency of simple nature over every species of adornment and decoration. "Let one simple trait of the human heart, one expression of passion, genuine and true to nature," she wrote, "be introduced, and it will stand forth alone in the boldness of reality, whilst the false and unnatural around it fades away upon every side, like the rising exhalations of the morning." The reception of these plays was sufficient to satisfy theutmost ambition of the author, and established the foundation of her fame. "Nothing to compare with them had been produced since the great days of the English drama; and the truth, vigour, variety, and dignity of the dramatic portraits, in which they abound, might well justify an enthusiasm which a reader of the present day can scarcely be expected to feel. This enthusiasm was all the greater, when it became known that these remarkable works, which had been originally published anonymously, were from the pen of a woman still young, who had passed her life in domestic seclusion."[28]Encouraged by the success of the first volume of her dramas on the "Passions," the author added a second in 1802, and a third in 1812. During the interval, she published a volume of miscellaneous dramas in 1804, and produced the "Family Legend" in 1810,—a tragedy, founded upon a Highland tradition. With a prologue by Sir Walter Scott, and an epilogue by Henry Mackenzie, the "Family Legend" was produced at the Edinburgh theatre, under the auspices of the former illustrious character; and was ably supported by Mrs Siddons, and by Terry, then at the commencement of his career. It was favourably received during ten successive performances. "You have only to imagine all that you could wish to give success to a play," wrote Sir Walter Scott to the author, "and your conceptions will still fall short of the complete and decided triumph of the 'Family Legend.' The house was crowded to a most extraordinary degree; many people had come from your native capital of the west; everything that pretended to distinction, whether from rank or literature, was in the boxes; and in the pit, such an aggregate mass of humanity as I have seldom, if ever, witnessedin the same space." Other two of her plays, "Count Basil" and "De Montfort," brought out in London, the latter being sustained by Kemble and Siddons, likewise received a large measure of general approbation; but a want of variety of incident prevented their retaining a position on the stage. In 1836, she produced three additional volumes of dramas; her career as a dramatic writer thus extending over the period of nearly forty years.
Subsequent to her leaving Scotland, in 1784, Joanna Baillie did not return to her native kingdom, unless on occasional visits. On the marriage of her brother to a sister of the Lord Chief-Justice Denman, in 1791, she passed some years at Colchester; but she subsequently fixed her permanent habitation at Hampstead. Her mother died in 1806. At Hampstead, in the companionship of her only sister, whose virtues she has celebrated in one of her poems, and amidst the society of many of the more distinguished literary characters of the metropolis, she continued to enjoy a large amount of comfort and happiness. Her pecuniary means were sufficiently abundant, and rendered her entirely independent of the profits of her writings. Among her literary friends, one of the most valued was Sir Walter Scott, who, being introduced to her personal acquaintance on his visit to London in 1806, maintained with her an affectionate and lasting intimacy. The letters addressed to her are amongst the most interesting of his correspondence in his Memoir by his son-in-law. He evinced his estimation of her genius by frequently complimenting her in his works. In his "Epistle to William Erskine," which forms the introduction to the third canto of "Marmion," he thus generously eulogises his gifted friend:—
"Or, if to touch such chord be thine,Restore the ancient tragic line,And emulate the notes that wrungFrom the wild harp, which silent hungBy silver Avon's holy shore,Till twice a hundred years roll'd o'er;When she, the bold Enchantress, came,With fearless hand and heart on flame!From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure,And swept it with a kindred measure,Till Avon's swans, while rung the groveWith Montfort's hate and Basil's love,Awakening at the inspiréd strain,Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived again."
"Or, if to touch such chord be thine,Restore the ancient tragic line,And emulate the notes that wrungFrom the wild harp, which silent hungBy silver Avon's holy shore,Till twice a hundred years roll'd o'er;When she, the bold Enchantress, came,With fearless hand and heart on flame!From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure,And swept it with a kindred measure,Till Avon's swans, while rung the groveWith Montfort's hate and Basil's love,Awakening at the inspiréd strain,Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived again."
To Joanna, Scott inscribed his fragmental drama of "Macduff's Cross," which was included in a Miscellany published by her in 1823.
Though a penury of incident, and a defectiveness of skill in sustaining an increasing interest to the close, will probably prevent any of her numerous plays from being renewed on the stage, Joanna Baillie is well entitled to the place assigned her as one of the first of modern dramatists. In all her plays there are passages and scenes surpassed by no contemporaneous dramatic writer. Her works are a magazine of eloquent thoughts and glowing descriptions. She is a mistress of the emotions, and
"Withinhermighty page,Each tyrant passion shews his woe and rage."
"Withinhermighty page,Each tyrant passion shews his woe and rage."
The tragedies of "Count Basil" and "De Montfort" are her best plays, and are well termed by Sir Walter Scott a revival of the great Bard of Avon. Forcible and energetic in style, her strain never becomes turgid or diverges into commonplace. She is masculine, but graceful; and powerful without any ostentation ofstrength. Her personal history was the counterpart of her writings. Gentle in manners and affable in conversation, she was a model of the household virtues, and would have attracted consideration as a woman by her amenities, though she had possessed no reputation in the world of letters. She was eminently religious and benevolent. Her countenance bore indication of a superior intellect and deep penetration. Though her society was much cherished by her contemporaries, including distinguished foreigners who visited the metropolis, her life was spent in general retirement. She was averse to public demonstration, and seemed scarcely conscious of her power. She died at Hampstead, on the 23d of February 1851, at the very advanced age of eighty-nine, and a few weeks after the publication of her whole Works in a collected form.
The songs of Joanna Baillie immediately obtained an honourable place in the minstrelsy of her native kingdom. They are the simple and graceful effusions of a heart passionately influenced by the melodies of the "land of the heath and the thistle," and animated by those warm affections so peculiarly nurtured in the region of "the mountain and the flood." "Fy, let us a' to the wedding," "Saw ye Johnnie comin'?" "It fell on a morning when we were thrang," and "Woo'd, and married, and a'," maintain popularity among all classes of Scotsmen throughout the world. Several of the songs were written for Thomson's "Melodies," and "The Harp of Caledonia," a collection of songs published at Glasgow in 1821, in three vols. 12mo, under the editorial care of John Struthers, author of "The Poor Man's Sabbath." The greater number are included in the present work.
I 've no sheep on the mountain, nor boat on the lake,Nor coin in my coffer to keep me awake,Nor corn in my garner, nor fruit on my tree—Yet the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.Soft tapping, at eve, to her window I came,And loud bay'd the watch-dog, loud scolded the dame;For shame, silly Lightfoot; what is it to thee,Though the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me?Rich Owen will tell you, with eyes full of scorn,Threadbare is my coat, and my hosen are torn:Scoff on, my rich Owen, for faint is thy gleeWhen the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.The farmer rides proudly to market or fair,The clerk, at the alehouse, still claims the great chair;But of all our proud fellows the proudest I 'll be,While the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.For blythe as the urchin at holiday play,And meek as the matron in mantle of gray,And trim as the lady of gentle degree,Is the maid of Llanwellyn who smiles upon me.
I 've no sheep on the mountain, nor boat on the lake,Nor coin in my coffer to keep me awake,Nor corn in my garner, nor fruit on my tree—Yet the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.
Soft tapping, at eve, to her window I came,And loud bay'd the watch-dog, loud scolded the dame;For shame, silly Lightfoot; what is it to thee,Though the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me?
Rich Owen will tell you, with eyes full of scorn,Threadbare is my coat, and my hosen are torn:Scoff on, my rich Owen, for faint is thy gleeWhen the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.
The farmer rides proudly to market or fair,The clerk, at the alehouse, still claims the great chair;But of all our proud fellows the proudest I 'll be,While the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.
For blythe as the urchin at holiday play,And meek as the matron in mantle of gray,And trim as the lady of gentle degree,Is the maid of Llanwellyn who smiles upon me.
The sun is sunk, the day is done,E'en stars are setting one by one;Nor torch nor taper longer mayEke out the pleasures of the day;And since, in social glee's despite,It needs must be, Good night, good night!The bride into her bower is sent,And ribbald rhyme and jesting spent;The lover's whisper'd words and fewHave bade the bashful maid adieu;The dancing-floor is silent quite—No foot bounds there, Good night, good night!The lady in her curtain'd bed,The herdsman in his wattled shed,The clansman in the heather'd hall,Sweet sleep be with you, one and all!We part in hope of days as brightAs this now gone—Good night, good night!Sweet sleep be with us, one and all!And if upon its stillness fallThe visions of a busy brain,We 'll have our pleasure o'er again;To warm the heart, to charm the sight,Gay dreams to all! Good night, good night!
The sun is sunk, the day is done,E'en stars are setting one by one;Nor torch nor taper longer mayEke out the pleasures of the day;And since, in social glee's despite,It needs must be, Good night, good night!
The bride into her bower is sent,And ribbald rhyme and jesting spent;The lover's whisper'd words and fewHave bade the bashful maid adieu;The dancing-floor is silent quite—No foot bounds there, Good night, good night!
The lady in her curtain'd bed,The herdsman in his wattled shed,The clansman in the heather'd hall,Sweet sleep be with you, one and all!We part in hope of days as brightAs this now gone—Good night, good night!
Sweet sleep be with us, one and all!And if upon its stillness fallThe visions of a busy brain,We 'll have our pleasure o'er again;To warm the heart, to charm the sight,Gay dreams to all! Good night, good night!
Though richer swains thy love pursue,In Sunday gear and bonnets new;And every fair before thee layTheir silken gifts, with colours gay—They love thee not, alas! so wellAs one who sighs, and dare not tell;Who haunts thy dwelling, night and noon,In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon.I grieve not for my wayward lot,My empty folds, my roofless cot;Nor hateful pity, proudly shown,Nor altered looks, nor friendship flown;Nor yet my dog, with lanken sides,Who by his master still abides;But how wilt thou prefer my boon,In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon?
Though richer swains thy love pursue,In Sunday gear and bonnets new;And every fair before thee layTheir silken gifts, with colours gay—They love thee not, alas! so wellAs one who sighs, and dare not tell;Who haunts thy dwelling, night and noon,In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon.
I grieve not for my wayward lot,My empty folds, my roofless cot;Nor hateful pity, proudly shown,Nor altered looks, nor friendship flown;Nor yet my dog, with lanken sides,Who by his master still abides;But how wilt thou prefer my boon,In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon?
Air—"Todlin' Hame."
When white was my owrelay as foam of the linn,And siller was chinking my pouches within;When my lambkins were bleating on meadow and brae,As I gaed to my love in new cleeding sae gay—Kind was she, and my friends were free;But poverty parts gude companie.How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of delight!The piper play'd cheerly, the cruisie burn'd bright;And link'd in my hand was the maiden sae dear,As she footed the floor in her holiday gear.Woe is me! and can it then be,That poverty parts sic companie?We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk;We met in the sunshine, we met in the mirk;And the sound of her voice, and the blinks of her een,The cheering and life of my bosom have been.Leaves frae the tree at Martinmas flee,And poverty parts sweet companie.At bridal and in fair I 've braced me wi' pride,ThebruseI hae won, and a kiss of the bride;And loud was the laughter, gay fellows among,When I utter'd my banter, or chorus'd my song.Dowie to dree are jesting and glee,When poverty parts gude companie.Wherever I gaed the blythe lasses smiled sweet,And mithers and aunties were mair than discreet,While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board;But now they pass by me, and never a word.So let it be; for the worldly and slieWi' poverty keep nae companie.But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart;The spaewife has tauld me to keep up my heart;For wi' my last sixpence her loof I hae cross'd,And the bliss that is fated can never be lost.Cruelly though we ilka day seeHow poverty parts dear companie.
When white was my owrelay as foam of the linn,And siller was chinking my pouches within;When my lambkins were bleating on meadow and brae,As I gaed to my love in new cleeding sae gay—Kind was she, and my friends were free;But poverty parts gude companie.
How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of delight!The piper play'd cheerly, the cruisie burn'd bright;And link'd in my hand was the maiden sae dear,As she footed the floor in her holiday gear.Woe is me! and can it then be,That poverty parts sic companie?
We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk;We met in the sunshine, we met in the mirk;And the sound of her voice, and the blinks of her een,The cheering and life of my bosom have been.Leaves frae the tree at Martinmas flee,And poverty parts sweet companie.
At bridal and in fair I 've braced me wi' pride,ThebruseI hae won, and a kiss of the bride;And loud was the laughter, gay fellows among,When I utter'd my banter, or chorus'd my song.Dowie to dree are jesting and glee,When poverty parts gude companie.
Wherever I gaed the blythe lasses smiled sweet,And mithers and aunties were mair than discreet,While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board;But now they pass by me, and never a word.So let it be; for the worldly and slieWi' poverty keep nae companie.
But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart;The spaewife has tauld me to keep up my heart;For wi' my last sixpence her loof I hae cross'd,And the bliss that is fated can never be lost.Cruelly though we ilka day seeHow poverty parts dear companie.
Fy, let us a' to the wedding,For they will be lilting there;For Jock's to be married to Maggie,The lass wi' the gowden hair.And there will be jilting and jeering,And glancing of bonnie dark een;Loud laughing and smooth-gabbit speeringO' questions, baith pawky and keen.And there will be Bessy, the beauty,Wha raises her cock-up sae hie,And giggles at preachings and duty;Gude grant that she gang nae ajee!And there will be auld Geordie Tanner,Wha coft a young wife wi' his gowd;She 'll flaunt wi' a silk gown upon her,But, wow! he looks dowie and cowed.And braw Tibby Fowler, the heiress,Will perk at the top o' the ha',Encircled wi' suitors, whase care isTo catch up the gloves when they fa'.Repeat a' her jokes as they 're cleckit,And haver and glower in her face,When tocherless Mays are negleckit—A crying and scandalous case.And Mysie, whase clavering auntyWad match her wi' Jamie, the laird;And learns the young fouk to be vaunty,But neither to spin nor to caird.And Andrew, whase granny is yearningTo see him a clerical blade,Was sent to the college for learning,And cam' back a coof, as he gaed.And there will be auld Widow Martin,That ca's hersel' thretty and twa!And thrawn-gabbit Madge, wha for certainWas jilted by Hab o' the Shaw.And Elspy, the sewster, sae genty—A pattern of havens and sense—Will straik on her mittens sae dainty,And crack wi' Mess John in the spence.And Angus, the seer o' ferlies,That sits on the stane at his door,And tells about bogles, and mair liesThan tongue ever utter'd before.And there will be Bauldy, the boaster,Sae ready wi' hands and wi' tongue;Proud Paty and silly Sam Foster,Wha quarrel wi' auld and wi' young.And Hugh, the town-writer, I 'm thinking,That trades in his lawyerly skill,Will egg on the fighting and drinking,To bring after grist to his mill.And Maggie—na, na! we 'll be civil,And let the wee bridie abee;A vilipend tongue it is evil,And ne'er was encouraged by me.Then fy, let us a' to the wedding,For they will be lilting there,Frae mony a far-distant ha'ding,The fun and the feasting to share.For they will get sheep's-head and haggis,And browst o' the barley-mow;E'en he that comes latest and lagisMay feast upon dainties enow.Veal florentines, in the o'en baken,Weel plenish'd wi' raisins and fat;Beef, mutton, and chuckies, a' takenHet reekin' frae spit and frae pat.And glasses (I trow 'tis nae said ill)To drink the young couple gude luck,Weel fill'd wi' a braw beechen ladle,Frae punch-bowl as big as Dumbuck.And then will come dancing and daffing,And reelin' and crossin' o' han's,Till even auld Lucky is laughing,As back by the aumry she stan's.Sic bobbing, and flinging, and whirling,While fiddlers are making their din;And pipers are droning and skirling,As loud as the roar o' the linn.Then fy, let us a' to the wedding,For they will be lilting there;For Jock 's to be married to Maggie,The lass wi' the gowden hair.
Fy, let us a' to the wedding,For they will be lilting there;For Jock's to be married to Maggie,The lass wi' the gowden hair.And there will be jilting and jeering,And glancing of bonnie dark een;Loud laughing and smooth-gabbit speeringO' questions, baith pawky and keen.
And there will be Bessy, the beauty,Wha raises her cock-up sae hie,And giggles at preachings and duty;Gude grant that she gang nae ajee!And there will be auld Geordie Tanner,Wha coft a young wife wi' his gowd;She 'll flaunt wi' a silk gown upon her,But, wow! he looks dowie and cowed.
And braw Tibby Fowler, the heiress,Will perk at the top o' the ha',Encircled wi' suitors, whase care isTo catch up the gloves when they fa'.Repeat a' her jokes as they 're cleckit,And haver and glower in her face,When tocherless Mays are negleckit—A crying and scandalous case.
And Mysie, whase clavering auntyWad match her wi' Jamie, the laird;And learns the young fouk to be vaunty,But neither to spin nor to caird.And Andrew, whase granny is yearningTo see him a clerical blade,Was sent to the college for learning,And cam' back a coof, as he gaed.
And there will be auld Widow Martin,That ca's hersel' thretty and twa!And thrawn-gabbit Madge, wha for certainWas jilted by Hab o' the Shaw.And Elspy, the sewster, sae genty—A pattern of havens and sense—Will straik on her mittens sae dainty,And crack wi' Mess John in the spence.
And Angus, the seer o' ferlies,That sits on the stane at his door,And tells about bogles, and mair liesThan tongue ever utter'd before.And there will be Bauldy, the boaster,Sae ready wi' hands and wi' tongue;Proud Paty and silly Sam Foster,Wha quarrel wi' auld and wi' young.
And Hugh, the town-writer, I 'm thinking,That trades in his lawyerly skill,Will egg on the fighting and drinking,To bring after grist to his mill.And Maggie—na, na! we 'll be civil,And let the wee bridie abee;A vilipend tongue it is evil,And ne'er was encouraged by me.
Then fy, let us a' to the wedding,For they will be lilting there,Frae mony a far-distant ha'ding,The fun and the feasting to share.For they will get sheep's-head and haggis,And browst o' the barley-mow;E'en he that comes latest and lagisMay feast upon dainties enow.
Veal florentines, in the o'en baken,Weel plenish'd wi' raisins and fat;Beef, mutton, and chuckies, a' takenHet reekin' frae spit and frae pat.And glasses (I trow 'tis nae said ill)To drink the young couple gude luck,Weel fill'd wi' a braw beechen ladle,Frae punch-bowl as big as Dumbuck.
And then will come dancing and daffing,And reelin' and crossin' o' han's,Till even auld Lucky is laughing,As back by the aumry she stan's.Sic bobbing, and flinging, and whirling,While fiddlers are making their din;And pipers are droning and skirling,As loud as the roar o' the linn.
Then fy, let us a' to the wedding,For they will be lilting there;For Jock 's to be married to Maggie,The lass wi' the gowden hair.