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But long-bearded maidens

Saw I never nane.

The concluding lines of this excellent old song lead us to imagine that it was popular before the final abolition of beards; but it has many other tokens of antiquity about it. I know not where David Herd found it, but we owe its preservation to his industry: it appeared in his collection in 1776. The latter efforts of the Muse are less free, dramatic, and original; there is a rustic life and a ready-witted grace about our old songs which modern verse-makers cannot reach. Domestic infelicity was a favourite theme with our ancestors, and much mirth was infused into song by the witty wickedness of young wives.

THERE WENT A FAIR MAID FORTH TO WALK.

There went a fair maid forth to walk
In the sweet twilight of July,
Bonnie she was and frank and young;

But she met wi' a lad unruly.

The flowers smelled rich aneath their feet,
The birds o'erhead sang hoolie,

Till the bright moon came glancing down
Through the balmy air of July.

There were oft pausings in their walk—
Words breathed out meek and lowly,
And smother'd sighs, and oft vowed vows,
And looks so warm and holy!

He took her by the lily white hand,
And swore he loved her truly—

The lad forgot, but the maid thought on;
It was in the month of July.

These verses seem a fragment of some ancient lyric ; and if I might be indulged in conjecture, I should think taey had been retouched by some judicious hand, and the broad simplicity of the early Muse abated. Like almost all other Scottish songs, a version existed of a much more dubious character in point of delicacy than this. Parodies or interpolated verses often changed a song and rendered it unfit for a scrupulous audience. It is as well to let such variations be consigned to oblivion by the purer taste of society. I suspect the song is of English extraction. I never saw more than eight lines of it in any collection ;-they are the first four and last four in the present version.

THE REEL OF STUMPIE-O.

Hap and rowe, hap and rowe,
Hap and rowe the feetie o't;
I thought mysel' a maiden leal
Till ance I heard the greetie o't.
My father was a fiddler fine,

My minnie she made mankie-o;
And I'm myself a thumpin quean
Wha danced the reel of Stumpie-o.

Dance and sing, dance and sing,
Hey the merry dancing-o;

And a' their love locks waving round,

And a' their bright eyes glancing-o.

The pipes come with their gladsome note-
And then wi' dool and dumpie-o;

But the lightest tune to a maiden's foot
Is the gallant tune of Stumpie-o.

The gossip cup, the gossip cup,

The kimmer clash and caudle-o

The glowin moon, the wanton loon,

The cuttie stool and cradle-o.

Douce dames maun hae their bairntime borne, Sae dinna glower sae glumpie-o;

Birds love the morn, and craws love corn,

And maids the reel of Stumpie-o.

All that antiquity can claim of this song amounts only, I fear, to a fragment. An imperfect copy of the first verse was printed in the Musical Museum. The air is well known among Scottish musicians. I have heard a verse which gives the local claim of this song to Fife; but I cannot strengthen this by quotation. The verses, as they now stand, have been created from such rubbish as Time has left of the old song. It has been sung for generations-and "Hap and rowe, hap and rowe," was always the popular commencement. The air is a favourite and lively reel tune.

TIBBIE FOWLER.

Tibbie Fowler o' the glen,

There's o'er mony wooing at her;

Tibbie Fowler o' the glen,

There's o'er mony wooing at her.

Wooing at her, puin at her,

Courtin her, and canna get her;

Filthy elf, it's for her pelf

That a' the lads are wooing at her.

Ten cam east, and ten cam west,

Ten cam rowin o'er the water;
Twa cam down the lang dyke-side:
There's twa-and-thirty wooing at her.

There's seven but and seven ben,

Seven in the pantry wi' her,
Twenty head about the door:
There's ane-and-forty wooing at her.

She's got pendles in her lugs,

Cockle-shells wad set her better !
High-heel'd shoon and siller tags,
And a' the lads are wooing at her.

Be a lassie e'er sae black,

Gin she hae the name o' siller,

Set her

upon Tintock tap,

The wind will blaw a man till her.

Be a lassie e'er sae fair,

An' she want the penny siller,

A flie may fell her in the air

Before a man be even'd till her.

This is a lucky effusion of the rustic Muse. The conception is original, and the execution natural and lively. Female malice alone seems equal to the task of lessening the manifold attractions of a maiden with one and forty wooers. The witty catalogue of lovers, the bitter personality and the biting moral which concludes this song, render it a general favourite. It came out as a fragment first, and about the year 1780 appeared in its present form. It is said to be the production of the

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