Blythe young Bess to Jean did say,Will ye gang to yon sunny brae,Where flocks do feed, and herds do stray,And sport a while wi' Jamie?Ah, na, lass, I 'll no gang there,Nor about Jamie tak' a care,Nor about Jamie tak' a care,For he 's ta'en up wi' Maggie.For hark, and I will tell you, lass,Did I not see young Jamie pass,Wi' mickle blytheness in his face,Out ower the muir to Maggie.I wat he gae her mony a kiss,And Maggie took them nae amiss;'Tween ilka smack pleased her wi' this,That Bess was but a gawkie.For when a civil kiss I seek,She turns her head, and thraws her cheek,And for an hour she 'll hardly speak;Wha 'd no ca' her a gawkie?But sure my Maggie has mair sense,She 'll gie a score without offence;Now gie me ane into the mense,And ye shall be my dawtie.O Jamie, ye hae monie ta'en,But I will never stand for aneOr twa when we do meet again;So ne'er think me a gawkie.Ah, na, lass, that canna be;Sic thoughts as thae are far frae me,Or ony thy sweet face that see,E'er to think thee a gawkie.But, whisht, nae mair o' this we 'll speak,For yonder Jamie does us meet;Instead o' Meg he kiss'd sae sweet,I trow he likes the gawkie.O, dear Bess! I hardly knew,When I cam' by, your gown sae new;I think you 've got it wet wi' dew!Quoth she, That 's like a gawkie!It 's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain,And I 'll get gowns when it is gane;Sae ye may gang the gate ye came,And tell it to your dawtie.The guilt appear'd in Jamie's cheek;He cried, O cruel maid, but sweet,If I should gang anither gate,I ne'er could meet my dawtie.The lasses fast frae him they flew,And left poor Jamie sair to rueThat ever Maggie's face he knew,Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie.As they gaed ower the muir, they sang,The hills and dales wi' echoes rang,The hills and dales wi' echoes rang,Gang o'er the muir to Maggie.
Blythe young Bess to Jean did say,Will ye gang to yon sunny brae,Where flocks do feed, and herds do stray,And sport a while wi' Jamie?Ah, na, lass, I 'll no gang there,Nor about Jamie tak' a care,Nor about Jamie tak' a care,For he 's ta'en up wi' Maggie.
For hark, and I will tell you, lass,Did I not see young Jamie pass,Wi' mickle blytheness in his face,Out ower the muir to Maggie.I wat he gae her mony a kiss,And Maggie took them nae amiss;'Tween ilka smack pleased her wi' this,That Bess was but a gawkie.
For when a civil kiss I seek,She turns her head, and thraws her cheek,And for an hour she 'll hardly speak;Wha 'd no ca' her a gawkie?But sure my Maggie has mair sense,She 'll gie a score without offence;Now gie me ane into the mense,And ye shall be my dawtie.
O Jamie, ye hae monie ta'en,But I will never stand for aneOr twa when we do meet again;So ne'er think me a gawkie.Ah, na, lass, that canna be;Sic thoughts as thae are far frae me,Or ony thy sweet face that see,E'er to think thee a gawkie.
But, whisht, nae mair o' this we 'll speak,For yonder Jamie does us meet;Instead o' Meg he kiss'd sae sweet,I trow he likes the gawkie.O, dear Bess! I hardly knew,When I cam' by, your gown sae new;I think you 've got it wet wi' dew!Quoth she, That 's like a gawkie!
It 's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain,And I 'll get gowns when it is gane;Sae ye may gang the gate ye came,And tell it to your dawtie.The guilt appear'd in Jamie's cheek;He cried, O cruel maid, but sweet,If I should gang anither gate,I ne'er could meet my dawtie.
The lasses fast frae him they flew,And left poor Jamie sair to rueThat ever Maggie's face he knew,Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie.As they gaed ower the muir, they sang,The hills and dales wi' echoes rang,The hills and dales wi' echoes rang,Gang o'er the muir to Maggie.
A female contemporary of the Baroness Nairn, of kindred tastes, and of equal indifference to a poetical reputation, was Mrs Agnes Lyon of Glammis. She was the eldest daughter of John Ramsay L'Amy, of Dunkenny, in Forfarshire, and was born at Dundee about the commencement of the year 1762. She was reputed for her beauty, and had numerous suitors for her hand; but she gave the preference to the Rev. Dr James Lyon, minister of Glammis, to whom she was married on the 25th of January 1786. Of a highly cultivated mind and most lively fancy, she had early improved a taste for versifying, and acquired the habit of readily clothing her thoughts in the language of poetry. She became the mother of ten children; and she relieved the toils of their upbringing, as well as administered to the improvement of their youthful minds, by her occasional exercises in verse. Her four volumes of MS. poetry contain lyrics dated as having been written from the early period of her marriage to nearly the time of her decease. The topics are generally domestic, and her strain is lively and humorous; in pathetic pieces she is tender and singularly touching. Possessed of a correct musical ear, she readily parodied the more popular songs, or adapted words to their airs, with the view of interesting her friends, or producing good humour and happiness in the family circle. She had formed the acquaintance of Neil Gow, the celebrated violinist, and composed, at his particular request, the words to his popular tune "Farewell to Whisky,"—the only lyric from her pen which has hitherto been published. In all the collections of Scottish song, it appears as anonymous. In the present work, it is printed from a copy in one of her MS. volumes.
Mrs Lyon died on the 14th September 1840, havingsurvived her husband about two years, and seen the greater number of her children carried to the grave. Entirely free of literary ambition, she bequeathed her MSS. to the widow of one of her sons, to whom she was devotedly attached, accompanied by a request, inscribed in rhyme at the beginning of the first volume, that the compositions might not be printed, unless in the event of a deficiency in the family funds. Their origin is thus described:—
"Written off-hand, as one may say,Perhaps upon a rainy day,Perhaps while at the cradle rocking.Instead of knitting at a stocking,She 'd catch a paper, pen, and ink,And easily the verses clink.Perhaps a headache at a timeWould make her on her bed recline,And rather than be merely idle,She 'd give her fancy rein and bridle.She neither wanted lamp nor oil,Nor found composing any toil;As for correction's iron wand,She never took it in her hand;And can, with conscience clear, declare,She ne'er neglected house affair,Nor put her little babes aside,To take on Pegasus a ride.Rather let pens and paper flame,Than any mother have the shame(Except at anyorra time)To spend her hours in making rhyme."
"Written off-hand, as one may say,Perhaps upon a rainy day,Perhaps while at the cradle rocking.Instead of knitting at a stocking,She 'd catch a paper, pen, and ink,And easily the verses clink.Perhaps a headache at a timeWould make her on her bed recline,And rather than be merely idle,She 'd give her fancy rein and bridle.She neither wanted lamp nor oil,Nor found composing any toil;As for correction's iron wand,She never took it in her hand;And can, with conscience clear, declare,She ne'er neglected house affair,Nor put her little babes aside,To take on Pegasus a ride.Rather let pens and paper flame,Than any mother have the shame(Except at anyorra time)To spend her hours in making rhyme."
In person, Mrs Lyon was of the middle height, and of a slender form. She had a fair complexion, her eyes were of light blue, and her countenance wore the expression of intelligence. She excelled in conversation; and a retentive memory enabled her to render available the fruits of extensive reading. In old age, she retained much of the buoyant vivacity of youth, and her whole life was adorned by the most exemplary piety.
Tune—"Farewell to Whisky."
You 've surely heard of famous Neil,The man who play'd the fiddle weel;He was a heartsome merry chiel',And weel he lo'ed the whisky, O!For e'er since he wore the tartan hoseHe dearly liketAthole brose![63]And grieved he was, you may suppose,To bid "farewell to whisky," O!Alas! says Neil, I'm frail and auld,And whiles my hame is unco cauld;I think it makes me blythe and bauld,A wee drap Highland whisky, O!But a' the doctors do agreeThat whisky 's no the drink for me;I 'm fley'd they'll gar me tyne my glee,By parting me and whisky, O!But I should mind on "auld lang syne,"How Paradise our friends did tyne,Because something ran in their mind—Forbid—like Highland whisky, O!Whilst I can get good wine and ale,And find my heart, and fingers hale,I 'll be content, though legs should fail,And though forbidden whisky, O!I 'll tak' my fiddle in my hand,And screw its strings whilst they can stand,And mak' a lamentation grandFor guid auld Highland whisky, O!Oh! all ye powers of music, come,For deed I think I 'm mighty glum,My fiddle-strings will hardly bum,To say, "farewell to whisky," O!
You 've surely heard of famous Neil,The man who play'd the fiddle weel;He was a heartsome merry chiel',And weel he lo'ed the whisky, O!For e'er since he wore the tartan hoseHe dearly liketAthole brose![63]And grieved he was, you may suppose,To bid "farewell to whisky," O!
Alas! says Neil, I'm frail and auld,And whiles my hame is unco cauld;I think it makes me blythe and bauld,A wee drap Highland whisky, O!But a' the doctors do agreeThat whisky 's no the drink for me;I 'm fley'd they'll gar me tyne my glee,By parting me and whisky, O!
But I should mind on "auld lang syne,"How Paradise our friends did tyne,Because something ran in their mind—Forbid—like Highland whisky, O!Whilst I can get good wine and ale,And find my heart, and fingers hale,I 'll be content, though legs should fail,And though forbidden whisky, O!
I 'll tak' my fiddle in my hand,And screw its strings whilst they can stand,And mak' a lamentation grandFor guid auld Highland whisky, O!Oh! all ye powers of music, come,For deed I think I 'm mighty glum,My fiddle-strings will hardly bum,To say, "farewell to whisky," O!
See the winter clouds around;See the leaves lie on the ground;Pretty little Robin comes,Seeking for his daily crumbs!In the window near the tree,Little Robin you may see;There his slender board is fix'd,There his crumbs are bruised and mix'd.View his taper limbs, how neat!And his eyes like beads of jet;See his pretty feathers shine!Little Robin haste and dine.When sweet Robin leaves the space,Other birds will fill his place;See the Tit-mouse, pretty thing!See the Sparrow's sombre wing!Great and grand disputes arise,For the crumbs of largest size,Which the bravest and the bestBear triumphant to their nest.What a pleasure thus to feedHungry mouths in time of need!For whether it be men or birds,Crumbs are better far than words.
See the winter clouds around;See the leaves lie on the ground;Pretty little Robin comes,Seeking for his daily crumbs!
In the window near the tree,Little Robin you may see;There his slender board is fix'd,There his crumbs are bruised and mix'd.
View his taper limbs, how neat!And his eyes like beads of jet;See his pretty feathers shine!Little Robin haste and dine.
When sweet Robin leaves the space,Other birds will fill his place;See the Tit-mouse, pretty thing!See the Sparrow's sombre wing!
Great and grand disputes arise,For the crumbs of largest size,Which the bravest and the bestBear triumphant to their nest.
What a pleasure thus to feedHungry mouths in time of need!For whether it be men or birds,Crumbs are better far than words.
Tune—"Merry in the Hall."
Within the towers of ancient GlammisSome merry men did dine,And their host took care they should richly fareIn friendship, wit, and wine.But they sat too late, and mistook the gate,(For wine mounts to the brain);O, 'twas merry in the hall, when the beards wagg'd all;O, we hope they 'll be back again;We hope they 'll be back again!Sir Walter tapp'd at the parson's door,To find the proper way,But he dropt his switch, though there was no ditch,And on the steps it lay.So his wife took care of this nice affair,And she wiped it free from stain;For the knight was gone, nor the owner known,So he ne'er got the switch again;So he ne'er got the switch again.This wondrous little whip[66]remainsWithin the lady's sight,(She crambo makes, with some mistakes,But hopes for further light).So she ne'er will part with this switch so smart,These thirty years her ain;Till the knight appear, it must just lie here,He will ne'er get his switch again;He will ne'er get his switch again!
Within the towers of ancient GlammisSome merry men did dine,And their host took care they should richly fareIn friendship, wit, and wine.But they sat too late, and mistook the gate,(For wine mounts to the brain);O, 'twas merry in the hall, when the beards wagg'd all;O, we hope they 'll be back again;We hope they 'll be back again!
Sir Walter tapp'd at the parson's door,To find the proper way,But he dropt his switch, though there was no ditch,And on the steps it lay.So his wife took care of this nice affair,And she wiped it free from stain;For the knight was gone, nor the owner known,So he ne'er got the switch again;So he ne'er got the switch again.
This wondrous little whip[66]remainsWithin the lady's sight,(She crambo makes, with some mistakes,But hopes for further light).So she ne'er will part with this switch so smart,These thirty years her ain;Till the knight appear, it must just lie here,He will ne'er get his switch again;He will ne'er get his switch again!
Tune—"Peggy Brown."
The parting kiss, the soft embrace,I feel them at my heart!'Twere joy to clasp you in those arms,But agony to part.But let us tranquillise our minds,And hope the time may be,When I shall see that face again,So loved, so dear to me!Five tedious years have roll'd along,And griefs have had their sway,Though many comforts fill'd my cup,Yet thou wert far away.On pleasant days, when friends are met,Our sports are scarce begun,When I shall sigh, because I missMy George, my eldest son!I owe my grateful thanks to Heaven,I 've seen thee well and gay,I 've heard the music of thy voice,I 've heard thee sweetly play.O try and cheer us with your strainsEre many twelvemonths be,And let us hear that voice again,So loved, so dear to me!
The parting kiss, the soft embrace,I feel them at my heart!'Twere joy to clasp you in those arms,But agony to part.But let us tranquillise our minds,And hope the time may be,When I shall see that face again,So loved, so dear to me!
Five tedious years have roll'd along,And griefs have had their sway,Though many comforts fill'd my cup,Yet thou wert far away.On pleasant days, when friends are met,Our sports are scarce begun,When I shall sigh, because I missMy George, my eldest son!
I owe my grateful thanks to Heaven,I 've seen thee well and gay,I 've heard the music of thy voice,I 've heard thee sweetly play.O try and cheer us with your strainsEre many twelvemonths be,And let us hear that voice again,So loved, so dear to me!
Robert Lochore was descended from a branch of a Norman family of that name, long established in the neighbourhood of Biggar, and of which the representative was the House of Lochore de Lochore in Fifeshire. He was born at Strathaven, in the county of Lanark, on the 7th of July 1762, and, in his thirteenth year, was apprenticed to a shoemaker in Glasgow. He early commenced business in the city on his own account. In carrying on public improvements he ever evinced a deep interest, and he frequently held public offices of trust. He was founder of the "Annuity Society,"—an institution attended with numerous benefits to the citizens of Glasgow.
Mr Lochore devoted much of his time to private study. He was particularly fond of poetical composition, and wrote verses with facility, many of his letters to his intimate friends being composed in rhyme. His poetry was of the descriptive order; his lyrical effusions were comparatively rare. Several poetical tales and songs of his youth, contributed to different periodicals, he arranged, about the beginning of the century, in a small volume. The greater number of his compositions remain in MS. in the possession of his family. He died in Glasgow, on the 27th April 1852, in his ninetieth year. Of a buoyant and humorous disposition, he composed verses nearly to the close of his long life; and, latterly, found pleasure in recording, for the amusement of his family, his recollections of the past. He was universally beloved as a faithful friend, and was deeply imbued with a sense of religion.
Tune—"Garryowen."
Now, Jenny lass, my bonnie bird,My daddy 's dead, an' a' that;He 's snugly laid aneath the yird,And I 'm his heir, an' a' that;I 'm now a laird, an' a' that;I 'm now a laird, an' a' that;His gear an' land 's at my command,And muckle mair than a' that.He left me wi' his deein' breath,A dwallin' house, an' a' that;A burn, a byre, an' wabs o' claith—A big peat-stack, an' a' that.A mare, a foal, an' a' that;A mare, a foal, an' a' that;Sax guid fat kye, a cauf forby,An' twa pet ewes, an' a' that.A yard, a meadow, lang braid leas,An' stacks o' corn, an' a' that—Enclosed weel wi' thorns an' trees,An' carts, an' cars, an' a' that;A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that;A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that;Guid harrows twa, cock, hens, an' a'—A grecie, too, an' a' that.I 've heaps o' claes for ilka days,For Sundays, too, an' a' that;I 've bills an' bonds on lairds an' lands,And siller, gowd, an' a' that.What think ye, lass, o' a' that?What think ye, lass, o' a' that?What want I noo, my dainty doo,But just a wife to a' that.Now, Jenny dear, my errand hereIs to seek ye to a' that;My heart 's a' loupin', while I speerGin ye 'll tak me, wi' a' that.Mysel', my gear, an' a' that;Mysel', my gear, an' a' that;Come, gie 's your loof to be a proof,Ye 'll be a wife to a' that.Syne Jenny laid her neive in his—Said, she 'd tak him wi' a' that;An' he gied her a hearty kiss,An' dauted her, an' a' that.They set a day, an' a' that;They set a day, an' a' that;Whan she 'd gang hame to be his dame,An' haud a rant, an' a' that.
Now, Jenny lass, my bonnie bird,My daddy 's dead, an' a' that;He 's snugly laid aneath the yird,And I 'm his heir, an' a' that;I 'm now a laird, an' a' that;I 'm now a laird, an' a' that;His gear an' land 's at my command,And muckle mair than a' that.
He left me wi' his deein' breath,A dwallin' house, an' a' that;A burn, a byre, an' wabs o' claith—A big peat-stack, an' a' that.A mare, a foal, an' a' that;A mare, a foal, an' a' that;Sax guid fat kye, a cauf forby,An' twa pet ewes, an' a' that.
A yard, a meadow, lang braid leas,An' stacks o' corn, an' a' that—Enclosed weel wi' thorns an' trees,An' carts, an' cars, an' a' that;A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that;A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that;Guid harrows twa, cock, hens, an' a'—A grecie, too, an' a' that.
I 've heaps o' claes for ilka days,For Sundays, too, an' a' that;I 've bills an' bonds on lairds an' lands,And siller, gowd, an' a' that.What think ye, lass, o' a' that?What think ye, lass, o' a' that?What want I noo, my dainty doo,But just a wife to a' that.
Now, Jenny dear, my errand hereIs to seek ye to a' that;My heart 's a' loupin', while I speerGin ye 'll tak me, wi' a' that.Mysel', my gear, an' a' that;Mysel', my gear, an' a' that;Come, gie 's your loof to be a proof,Ye 'll be a wife to a' that.
Syne Jenny laid her neive in his—Said, she 'd tak him wi' a' that;An' he gied her a hearty kiss,An' dauted her, an' a' that.They set a day, an' a' that;They set a day, an' a' that;Whan she 'd gang hame to be his dame,An' haud a rant, an' a' that.
Tune—"Whistle o'er the lave o't."
Quoth Rab to Kate, My sonsy dear,I 've woo'd ye mair than half a-year,An' if ye 'd wed me, ne'er cou'd speerWi' blateness, an' the care o't.Now to the point: sincere I 'm we 't;Will ye be my half-marrow sweet?Shake han's, and say a bargain be 't,An' ne'er think on the care o't.Na, na, quo' Kate, I winna wed,O' sic a snare I 'll aye be rede;How mony, thochtless, are misledBy marriage, an' the care o't!A single life 's a life o' glee,A wife ne'er think to mak' o' me,Frae toil an' sorrow I 'll keep free,An' a' the dool an' care o't.Weel, weel, said Robin, in reply,Ye ne'er again shall me deny,Ye may a toothless maiden die,For me, I 'll tak' nae care o't.Fareweel, for ever!—aff I hie;—Sae took his leave without a sigh:Oh! stop, quo' Kate, I 'm yours, I 'll tryThe married life, an' care o't.Rab wheel't about, to Kate cam' back,An' gae her mou' a hearty smack,Syne lengthen'd out a lovin' crack'Bout marriage, an' the care o't.Though as she thocht she didna speak,An' lookit unco mim an' meek,Yet blythe was she wi' Rab to cleekIn marriage, wi' the care o't.
Quoth Rab to Kate, My sonsy dear,I 've woo'd ye mair than half a-year,An' if ye 'd wed me, ne'er cou'd speerWi' blateness, an' the care o't.Now to the point: sincere I 'm we 't;Will ye be my half-marrow sweet?Shake han's, and say a bargain be 't,An' ne'er think on the care o't.
Na, na, quo' Kate, I winna wed,O' sic a snare I 'll aye be rede;How mony, thochtless, are misledBy marriage, an' the care o't!A single life 's a life o' glee,A wife ne'er think to mak' o' me,Frae toil an' sorrow I 'll keep free,An' a' the dool an' care o't.
Weel, weel, said Robin, in reply,Ye ne'er again shall me deny,Ye may a toothless maiden die,For me, I 'll tak' nae care o't.Fareweel, for ever!—aff I hie;—Sae took his leave without a sigh:Oh! stop, quo' Kate, I 'm yours, I 'll tryThe married life, an' care o't.
Rab wheel't about, to Kate cam' back,An' gae her mou' a hearty smack,Syne lengthen'd out a lovin' crack'Bout marriage, an' the care o't.Though as she thocht she didna speak,An' lookit unco mim an' meek,Yet blythe was she wi' Rab to cleekIn marriage, wi' the care o't.
Tune—"Bessie Bell and Mary Gray."
Dear Aunty, I 've been lang your care,Your counsels guid ha'e blest me;Now in a kittle case ance mairWi' your advice assist me:Twa lovers frequent on me wait,An' baith I frankly speak wi';Sae I 'm put in a puzzlin' straitWhilk o' the twa to cleek wi'.There 's sonsy James, wha wears a wig,A widower fresh and canty,Though turn'd o' sixty, gaes fu' trig,He 's rich, and rowes in plenty.Tam 's twenty-five, hauds James's pleugh,A lad deserves regardin';He 's clever, decent, sober too,But he 's no worth ae fardin'.Auld James, 'tis true, I downa see,But 's cash will answer a' things;To be a lady pleases me,And buskit be wi' braw things.Tam I esteem, like him there 's few,His gait and looks entice me;But, aunty, I 'll now trust in you,And fix as ye advise me.Then aunt, wha spun, laid down her roke,An' thus repliet to Mary:Unequal matches in a yokeDraw thrawart and camstrarie.Since gentle James ye dinna like,Wi 's gear ha'e nae connexion;Tam 's like yoursel', the bargain strike,Grup to him wi' affection.
Dear Aunty, I 've been lang your care,Your counsels guid ha'e blest me;Now in a kittle case ance mairWi' your advice assist me:Twa lovers frequent on me wait,An' baith I frankly speak wi';Sae I 'm put in a puzzlin' straitWhilk o' the twa to cleek wi'.
There 's sonsy James, wha wears a wig,A widower fresh and canty,Though turn'd o' sixty, gaes fu' trig,He 's rich, and rowes in plenty.Tam 's twenty-five, hauds James's pleugh,A lad deserves regardin';He 's clever, decent, sober too,But he 's no worth ae fardin'.
Auld James, 'tis true, I downa see,But 's cash will answer a' things;To be a lady pleases me,And buskit be wi' braw things.Tam I esteem, like him there 's few,His gait and looks entice me;But, aunty, I 'll now trust in you,And fix as ye advise me.
Then aunt, wha spun, laid down her roke,An' thus repliet to Mary:Unequal matches in a yokeDraw thrawart and camstrarie.Since gentle James ye dinna like,Wi 's gear ha'e nae connexion;Tam 's like yoursel', the bargain strike,Grup to him wi' affection.
Tune—"Banks of the Dee."
Ye swains wha are touch'd wi' saft sympathy's feelin',For victims wha 're doom'd sair affliction to dree,If a heart-broken lover, despairin' an' wailin',Claim pity, your pity let fa' upon me.Like you I was blest with content, an' was cheerie,—My pipe wont to play to the cantiest glee,When smilin' an' kind was my Mary, sweet Mary,While Mary was guileless, an' faithfu' to me.She promised, she vow'd, she wad be my half-marrow,The day too was set, when our bridal should be;How happy was I, but I tell you wi' sorrow,She 's perjured hersel', ah! an' ruined me.For Ned o' Shawneuk, wi' the charms o' his riches,An' sly winnin' tales, tauld sae pawky an' slee,Her han' has obtain'd, an' clad her like a duchess,Sae baith skaith an' scorn ha'e come down upon me.Ye braes ance enchantin', o' you I 'm now wearie,An' thou, ance dear haunt, 'neath the aul' thornie tree,Where in rapture I sat an' dawtit fause Mary,Fareweel! ye 'll never be seen mair by me.Awa' as a pilgrim, far distant I 'll wander,'Mang faces unkent, till the day that I dee.Ye shepherds, adieu! but tell Mary to ponder,To think on her vows, an' to think upon me.
Ye swains wha are touch'd wi' saft sympathy's feelin',For victims wha 're doom'd sair affliction to dree,If a heart-broken lover, despairin' an' wailin',Claim pity, your pity let fa' upon me.Like you I was blest with content, an' was cheerie,—My pipe wont to play to the cantiest glee,When smilin' an' kind was my Mary, sweet Mary,While Mary was guileless, an' faithfu' to me.
She promised, she vow'd, she wad be my half-marrow,The day too was set, when our bridal should be;How happy was I, but I tell you wi' sorrow,She 's perjured hersel', ah! an' ruined me.For Ned o' Shawneuk, wi' the charms o' his riches,An' sly winnin' tales, tauld sae pawky an' slee,Her han' has obtain'd, an' clad her like a duchess,Sae baith skaith an' scorn ha'e come down upon me.
Ye braes ance enchantin', o' you I 'm now wearie,An' thou, ance dear haunt, 'neath the aul' thornie tree,Where in rapture I sat an' dawtit fause Mary,Fareweel! ye 'll never be seen mair by me.Awa' as a pilgrim, far distant I 'll wander,'Mang faces unkent, till the day that I dee.Ye shepherds, adieu! but tell Mary to ponder,To think on her vows, an' to think upon me.
John Robertson, author of "The Toom Meal Pock," a humorous song which has long been popular in the west of Scotland, was the son of an extensive grocer in Paisley, where he was born about the year 1770. He received the most ample education which his native town could afford, and early cultivated a taste for the elegant arts of music and drawing. Destined for one of the liberal professions, the unfortunate bankruptcy of his father put an effectual check on his original aspirations. For a period he was engaged as a salesman, till habits of insobriety rendered his services unavailable to his employer. As a last resort, he enlisted in the regiment of local militia; and his qualifications becoming known to the officers, he was employed as a regimental clerk and schoolmaster. He had written spirited verses in his youth; and though his muse had become mournful, she continued to sing. His end was melancholy: the unfortunate circumstances of his life preyed upon his mind, and in a paroxysm of phrensy he committed suicide. He died in the vicinity of Portsmouth, in the beginning of April 1810, about six weeks before the similar death of his friend, Robert Tannahill. A person of much ingenuity and scholarship, Robertson, with ordinary steadiness, would have attained a good position in life.
Preserve us a'! what shall we do,Thir dark, unhallow'd times;We 're surely dreeing penance now,For some most awfu' crimes.Sedition daurna now appear,In reality or joke;For ilka chiel maun mourn wi' me,O' a hinging, toom meal pock,And sing, Oh waes me!When lasses braw gaed out at e'en,For sport and pastime free;I seem'd like ane in paradise,The moments quick did flee.Like Venuses they all appear'd,Weel pouther'd were their locks;'Twas easy dune, when at their hame,Wi' the shaking o' their pocks.And sing, Oh waes me!How happy pass'd my former days,Wi' merry heartsome glee;When smiling Fortune held the cup,And Peace sat on my knee.Nae wants had I but were supplied;My heart wi' joy did knock,When in the neuk I smiling sawA gaucie, weel-fill'd pock.And sing, Oh waes me!Speak no ae word about reform,Nor petition Parliament;A wiser scheme I 'll now propose,I 'm sure ye 'll gi'e consent:Send up a chiel or twa like me,As a sample o' the flock,Whose hollow cheeks will be sure proofO' a hinging, toom meal pock.And sing, Oh waes me!And should a sicht sae ghastly-like,Wi' rags, and banes, and skin,Hae nae impression on yon folks,But tell ye 'll stand ahin';O what a contrast will ye shaw,To the glowrin' Lunnun folk,When in St James' ye tak' your stand,Wi' a hinging, toom meal pock.And sing, Oh waes me!Then rear your head, and glowr, and stare,Before yon hills o' beef;Tell them ye are frae Scotland come,For Scotia's relief.Tell them ye are the vera best,Waled frae the fattest flock;Then raise your arms, and oh! displayA hinging, toom meal pock.And sing, Oh waes me!
Preserve us a'! what shall we do,Thir dark, unhallow'd times;We 're surely dreeing penance now,For some most awfu' crimes.Sedition daurna now appear,In reality or joke;For ilka chiel maun mourn wi' me,O' a hinging, toom meal pock,And sing, Oh waes me!
When lasses braw gaed out at e'en,For sport and pastime free;I seem'd like ane in paradise,The moments quick did flee.Like Venuses they all appear'd,Weel pouther'd were their locks;'Twas easy dune, when at their hame,Wi' the shaking o' their pocks.And sing, Oh waes me!
How happy pass'd my former days,Wi' merry heartsome glee;When smiling Fortune held the cup,And Peace sat on my knee.Nae wants had I but were supplied;My heart wi' joy did knock,When in the neuk I smiling sawA gaucie, weel-fill'd pock.And sing, Oh waes me!
Speak no ae word about reform,Nor petition Parliament;A wiser scheme I 'll now propose,I 'm sure ye 'll gi'e consent:Send up a chiel or twa like me,As a sample o' the flock,Whose hollow cheeks will be sure proofO' a hinging, toom meal pock.And sing, Oh waes me!
And should a sicht sae ghastly-like,Wi' rags, and banes, and skin,Hae nae impression on yon folks,But tell ye 'll stand ahin';O what a contrast will ye shaw,To the glowrin' Lunnun folk,When in St James' ye tak' your stand,Wi' a hinging, toom meal pock.And sing, Oh waes me!
Then rear your head, and glowr, and stare,Before yon hills o' beef;Tell them ye are frae Scotland come,For Scotia's relief.Tell them ye are the vera best,Waled frae the fattest flock;Then raise your arms, and oh! displayA hinging, toom meal pock.And sing, Oh waes me!
Alexander Balfour, a poet, novelist and miscellaneous writer, was born on the 1st March 1767, at Guildie, a small hamlet in the parish of Monikie, Forfarshire. His parents were in humble circumstances; and being a twin, he was supported in early life by a friend of the family, from whom he received such a religious training as exercised a highly beneficial influence on his future character. He was educated at the parish school, and evidenced precocity by essaying composition in his twelfth year. Apprenticed to a weaver, he soon became disgusted with the loom, and returned home to teach a school in his native parish. During the intervals of leisure, he wrote articles for the provincial miscellanies, theBritish Chroniclenewspaper, andThe Bee, published by Dr Anderson. In his 26th year, he became clerk to a sail-cloth manufacturer in Arbroath; and, on the death of his employer, soon afterwards, he entered into partnership with his widow. On her death, in 1800, he assumed another partner. As government-contractors for supplying the navy with canvas, the firm rapidly attained prosperity; and Balfour found abundant leisure for prosecuting his literary studies, and maintaining a correspondence with several men of letters in the capital. He had married in 1794; and deeming a country residence more advantageous for his rising family, he removed, in 1814, to Trottick, within two miles of Dundee, where he assumed the management of the branch of a London house, which for many years had been connected with his own firm. This step was lamentably unfortunate; the house, in which he had embarked his fortune, shared in the general commercial disasters of 1815, and was involved in complete bankruptcy. Reduced to a condition of dependance, Balfour accepted the situation of manager of a manufacturing establishment at Balgonie, in Fife. In 1818, he resigned this appointment; and proceeding to Edinburgh, was employed as a clerk in the establishment of Mr Blackwood, the eminent publisher. The close confinement of the counting-house, and the revolution of his fortunes, which pressed heavily upon his mind, were too powerful for his constitution. Symptoms of paralysis began to appear, shortly after his removal to the capital; and in October 1819, he was so entirely prostrated, as to require the use of a wheeled chair. His future career was that of a man of letters. During the interval which elapsed between his commercial reverses and the period of his physical debility, he prepared a novel, which he had early projected, depicting the trials and sufferings of an unbeneficed preacher. This work appeared in 1819, under the title of "Campbell, or the Scottish Probationer," in three volumes; and though published anonymously, soon led to the discovery and reputation of the author. Towards the close of the same year, he edited the poetical works of his late friend, Richard Gall, to which he supplied an elegant biographical preface. His next separate publication was "The Farmer's Three Daughters," a novel in three volumes. In 1820, he published "Contemplation," with other poems, in one volume octavo; which, favourably received by the press, also added considerably to his fame. A third novel from his pen, entitled, "The Smuggler's Cave; or, The Foundling of Glenthorn," appeared in 1823 from the unpropitious Minerva press; it consequently failed to excite much attention. To theScots Magazinehe had long been a contributor; and, on the establishment ofConstable's Edinburgh Magazinein its stead, his assistance was secured by Mr Thomas Pringle, the original editor. His articles, contributed tothis periodical during the nine years of its existence, contain matter sufficient to fill three octavo volumes: they are on every variety of theme, but especially the manners of Scottish rural life, which he has depicted with singular power. Of his numerous contributions in verse, a series entitled, "Characters omitted in Crabbe's Parish Register," was published separately in 1825; and this production has been acknowledged as the most successful effort of his muse. It is scarcely inferior to the more celebrated composition of the English poet.
In 1827, on the application of Mr Hume, M.P., a treasury donation of one hundred pounds was conferred on Mr Balfour by the premier, Mr Canning, in consideration of his genius. His last novel, "Highland Mary," in four volumes, was published shortly before his death. To the last, he contributed to the periodical publications. He died, after an illness of about two weeks' duration, on the 12th September 1829, in the sixty-third year of his age.
Though confined to his wheel-chair for a period of ten years, and otherwise debarred many of the comforts to which, in more prosperous circumstances, he had been accustomed, Alexander Balfour retained to the close of life his native placidity and gentleness. His countenance wore a perpetual smile. He joined in the amusements of the young, and took delight in the recital of the merry tale and humorous anecdote. His speech, somewhat affected by his complaint, became pleasant from the heartiness of his observations. He was an affectionate husband, and a devoted parent; his habits were strictly temperate, and he was influenced by a devout reverence for religion. A posthumous volume of his writings, under the title of "Weeds and Wild-flowers," was published under the editorial care of Mr D. M. Moir, who has prefixed an interesting memoir. As a lyrical poet, he is not entitled to a first place; his songs are, however, to be remarked for deep and genuine pathos.
Though siller Tweed rin o'er the lea,An' dark the Dee 'mang Highland heather,Yet siller Tweed an' drumly DeeAre not sae dear as Leven Water:When Nature form'd our favourite isle,An' a' her sweets began to scatter,She look'd with fond approving smile,Alang the banks o' Leven Water.On flowery braes, at gloamin' gray,'Tis sweet to scent the primrose springin';Or through the woodlands green to stray,In ilka buss the mavis singin':But sweeter than the woodlands green,Or primrose painted fair by Nature,Is she wha smiles, a rural queen,The bonny lass o' Leven Water!The sunbeam in the siller dew,That hangs upon the hawthorn's blossom,Shines faint beside her e'en sae blue;An' purer is her spotless bosom.Her smile wad thaw a hermit's breast;There 's love an' truth in ilka feature;For her I 'm past baith wark an' rest,The bonny lass o' Leven Water!But I 'm a lad o' laigh degree,Her purse-proud daddy 's dour an' saucy;An' sair the carle wad scowl on me,For speakin' to his dawtit lassie:But were I laird o' Leven's glen,An' she a humble shepherd's daughter,I 'd kneel, an' court her for my ain,The bonny lass o' Leven Water!
Though siller Tweed rin o'er the lea,An' dark the Dee 'mang Highland heather,Yet siller Tweed an' drumly DeeAre not sae dear as Leven Water:When Nature form'd our favourite isle,An' a' her sweets began to scatter,She look'd with fond approving smile,Alang the banks o' Leven Water.
On flowery braes, at gloamin' gray,'Tis sweet to scent the primrose springin';Or through the woodlands green to stray,In ilka buss the mavis singin':But sweeter than the woodlands green,Or primrose painted fair by Nature,Is she wha smiles, a rural queen,The bonny lass o' Leven Water!
The sunbeam in the siller dew,That hangs upon the hawthorn's blossom,Shines faint beside her e'en sae blue;An' purer is her spotless bosom.Her smile wad thaw a hermit's breast;There 's love an' truth in ilka feature;For her I 'm past baith wark an' rest,The bonny lass o' Leven Water!
But I 'm a lad o' laigh degree,Her purse-proud daddy 's dour an' saucy;An' sair the carle wad scowl on me,For speakin' to his dawtit lassie:But were I laird o' Leven's glen,An' she a humble shepherd's daughter,I 'd kneel, an' court her for my ain,The bonny lass o' Leven Water!
The rosebud blushing to the morn,The sna'-white flower that scents the thorn,When on thy gentle bosom worn,Were ne'er sae fair as thee, Mary!How blest was I, a little while,To deem that bosom free frae guile;When, fondly sighing, thou wouldst smile;Yes, sweetly smile on me, Mary!Though gear was scant, an' friends were few,My heart was leal, my love was true;I blest your e'en of heavenly blue,That glanced sae saft on me, Mary!But wealth has won your heart frae me;Yet I maun ever think of thee;May a' the bliss that gowd can gie,For ever wait on thee, Mary!For me, nae mair on earth I crave,But that yon drooping willow waveIts branches o'er my early grave,Forgot by love, an' thee, Mary!An' when that hallow'd spot you tread,Where wild-flowers bloom above my head,O look not on my grassy bed,Lest thou shouldst sigh for me, Mary!
The rosebud blushing to the morn,The sna'-white flower that scents the thorn,When on thy gentle bosom worn,Were ne'er sae fair as thee, Mary!How blest was I, a little while,To deem that bosom free frae guile;When, fondly sighing, thou wouldst smile;Yes, sweetly smile on me, Mary!
Though gear was scant, an' friends were few,My heart was leal, my love was true;I blest your e'en of heavenly blue,That glanced sae saft on me, Mary!But wealth has won your heart frae me;Yet I maun ever think of thee;May a' the bliss that gowd can gie,For ever wait on thee, Mary!
For me, nae mair on earth I crave,But that yon drooping willow waveIts branches o'er my early grave,Forgot by love, an' thee, Mary!An' when that hallow'd spot you tread,Where wild-flowers bloom above my head,O look not on my grassy bed,Lest thou shouldst sigh for me, Mary!
George Macindoe, chiefly known as the author of "A Million o' Potatoes," a humorous ballad, in the Scottish language, was born at Partick, near Glasgow, in 1771. He originally followed the occupation of a silk-weaver, in Paisley, which he early relinquished for the less irksome duties of a hotel-keeper in Glasgow. His hotel was a corner tenement, at the head of King Street, near St Giles' Church, Trongate; and here a club of young men, with which the poet Campbell was connected, were in the habit of holding weekly meetings. Campbell made a practice of retiring from the noisy society of the club to spend the remainder of the evenings in conversation with the intelligent host. After conducting the business of hotel-keeper in Glasgow, during a period of twenty-one years, Macindoe became insolvent, and was necessitated to abandon the concern. He returned to Paisley and resumed the loom, at the same time adding to his finances by keeping a small change-house, and taking part as an instrumental musician at the local concerts. He excelled in the use of the violin. Ingenious as a mechanic, and skilled in his original employment, he invented a machine for figuring on muslin, for which he received premiums from the City Corporation of Glasgow and the Board of Trustees.
Macindoe was possessed of a lively temperament, and his conversation sparkled with wit and anecdote. His person was handsome, and his open manly countenancewas adorned with bushy locks, which in old age, becoming snowy white, imparted to him a singularly venerable aspect. He claimed no merit as a poet, and only professed to be the writer of "incidental rhymes." In 1805, he published, in a thin duodecimo volume, "Poems and Songs, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," which he states, in the preface, he had laid before the public to gratify "the solicitations of friends." Of the compositions contained in this volume, the ballad entitled "A Million o' Potatoes," and the two songs which we have selected for this work, are alone worthy of preservation. In 1813, he published a second volume of poems and songs, entitled "The Wandering Muse;" and he occasionally contributed lyrics to the local periodicals. He died at Glasgow, on the 19th April 1848, in his seventy-seventh year, leaving a numerous family. His remains were interred at Anderston, Glasgow. The following remarks, regarding Macindoe's songs, have been kindly supplied by Mr Robert Chambers:—