the attractions of his mistress, and his good fortune in her affection. His confidence goes no farther ;-the name of his love is not to be told; and for this poetical tyranny there is no remedy. THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER. Let us go, lassie, go, To the braes of Balquhither, Where the blae-berries grow 'Mang the bonnie Highland heather; Where the deer and the rae, Lightly bounding together, Sport the lang simmer day, On the braes o' Balquhither. I will twine thee a bow'r, By the clear siller fountain, Wi' the flow'rs of the mountain ; To the bow'r o' my dearie. When the rude wintry win' Idly raves round our dwelling, On the night breeze is swelling, As the storm rattles o'er us, Wi' the light lilting chorus. Now the summer is in prime, To our dear native scenes Let us journey together, Where glad Innocence reigns 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither. This song was written by Robert Tannahill, and its liquid verse and lively images have made it a favourite. It is simple and natural without pastoral affectation, but without much pastoral knowledge. The shepherd's shieling is a bower made of materials far too frail to endure the rattle of a winter storm-it is only a summer residence. It was in a little shieling of turf and heather that I found my friend James Hogg, half way up the hill of Queensberry, with the Lay of the Last Minstrel in his hand, and all his flocks feeding before him; but I should never have looked for him there on a winter night when snows were drifting thick and deep. JENNY'S BAWBEE. I met four chaps yon birks amang, The first, a captain to his trade, Quoth he, my goddess, nymph, and queen, A Norland laird neist trotted up, Wi' bawsent naig and siller whip; Cried, Here's my horse, lad, haud the grup, Or tie him to a tree. What's gowd to me? I've wealth o' lan' Bestow on ane o' worth your han'- A lawyer neist, wi' bleth'rin gab, wab; O' ilk ane's corn he took a dab, And a' for a fee; Accounts he owed through a' the town, And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown Quite spruce, just frae the washin' tubs, He danc'd up, squintin' through a glass, She bade the laird gae kaim his wig, The lawyer not to be a prig; The fool he cried, Tee-hee! I kenn'd that I could never fail! But she prinn'd the dishclout to his tail, And cool'd him wi' a water-pail, And kept her bawbee. Then Johnie came, a lad o' sense, VOL. IV. Now Johnie was a clever chiel', That Jenny's heart grew saft as jeel, And she birl'd her bawbee. The name of this song was suggested to Sir Alexander Boswell by an old fragment, which still lives among the peasantry. He borrowed no more, and has filled up the idea which this little symbol of the maiden's wealth presented, with a procession of lovers of many professions, all alike eager for the acquirement of wealth by matrimony. The characters of the competitors for the crown matrimonial are cleverly drawn: Jenny had more prudence than what commonly pertains to maidens who flourish in lyric verse. The old verses are scarcely worth preserving: And a' that e'er my Jenny had, Was ae bawbee. There's your plack and my plack, And Jenny's bawbee: We'll put it in the pint stoup, The pint stoup, the pint stoup; And birl't a' three. |