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and we have the authority of no mean judge for saying that the poetical mantle of Sir Gilbert has descended to his family

It is among the last and best efforts of the Muse of the sheep-pipe and crook, and possesses more nature than commonly falls to the lot of those elegant and affected songs, which awake a Sicilian rather than a Scottish echo.

The old words, which were sung to the tune of “ My apron, dearie,” could hardly suggest so sweet and so

I will try to pick out a passable verse as a specimen of the old song, which bestowed a name on this popular air :

delicate a song.

O, had I ta'en counsel of father or mother,
Or had I advised with sister or brother!
But a saft and a young thing, and easy to woo,
It makes me cry out, my apron, now.

My apron, deary, my apron now,
The strings are short of my apron, now.
A saft thing, a young thing, and easy to woo,
It makes me cry out, my apron, now.

I am not even certain that these words, old as they are, and bearing the stamp of a ruder age, are the oldest which were sung to the air. I have heard a song of still ruder rhyme, and of equal freedom; and I think I can find as much of it as may enable the reader to judge, without deeply offending against de

licacy :

Low, low down in yon meadow so green,
I met wi' my laddie at morning and e’en
Till my stays grew strait-wadna meet by a span,
Sae I went to my laddie and tauld him than.

The conversation which ensues is too confidential for quotation.


Love never more shall give me pain,

My fancy's fix'd on thee,
Nor ever maid my heart shall gain,

My Peggy, if thou die.
Thy beauty doth such pleasure give,

Thy love's so true to me,
Without thee I can never live,

My dearie if thou die.

If fate shall tear thee from my breast,

How shall I lonely stray:
In dreary dreams the night I'll waste,

In sighs, the silent day.

I ne'er can so much virtue find,

Nor such perfection see ;
Then I'll renounce all womankind,

My Peggy, after thee.

No new-blown beauty fires


With Cupid's raving rage;
But thine, which can such sweets impart,

Must all the world engage.
'Twas this, that like the morning sun,
· Gave joy and life to me;
And when its destin'd day is done,

With Peggy let me die.


that smile on virtuous love,
And in such pleasure share;
You who its faithful flames

With pity view the fair :
Restore my Peggy's wonted charms,

Those charms so dear to me!
Oh ! never rob them from these arms-

I'm lost if Peggy die.


When Crawford wrote these words, it is not certain that he knew more of the old song which gave

the to his own than the single line which has descended to the present times, “ My dearie an thou die.” Burns briefly remarks, “ Another beautiful song of Crawford's.” Cupid might have been spared from the third verse, and the flames of love from the fourth: but he was

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no regular dealer in darts and flames, like the poets of his time-his failings were more in the pastoral way, and we have few lyrics

a purer or more natural or more graceful character, than those which he composed.


For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
An unrelenting foe to love?
And when we meet a mutual heart
Come in between and bid us part?
Bid us sigh on from day to day,
And wish and wish the soul away,
Till youth and genial years are flown,
And all the life of love is gone?

But busy busy still art thou
To bind the loveless, joyless vow-
The heart from pleasure to delude,
And join the gentle to the rude.
For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,
And I absolve thy future care ;
All other blessings I resign-
Make but the dear Amanda mine.

This beautiful complaint against the caprice of fortune

was written by James Thomson ; and the name by which it is commonly known is “Logan Water," though neither by allusion nor circumstance can such locality be claimed for it. The last four lines of the first verse, and the first four lines of the second, contain all that can be urged concerning the disappointment of youthful affection ; and many a heart will respond to their pathetic complaint. This song first appeared united to the air of “ Logan Water," in the Orpheus Caledonius in 1725.


What pumbers shall the Muse repeat?

What verse be found to praise my Annie?
On her ten thousand graces wait,

Each swain admires, and owns she's bonnie.
Since first she trod the happy plain

She sets each youthful heart on fire;
Each nymph does to her swain complain

That Annie kindles new desire.

This lovely darling, dearest care,

This new delight, this charming Annie,
Like summer's dawn, she's fresh and fair,

When Flora's fragrant breezes fan ye.

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