THE MAID THAT TENDS THE GOATS.

BY MR. DUDGEON.

THIS Dudgeon is a respectable farmer's son in Berwickshire.

Up amang yon cliffy rocks
Sweetly rings the rising echo,
To the maid that tends the goats,
Lilting' o'er her native notes.

Hark! she sings, Young Sandie's kind,

And he's promised to lo'e me,

aye

Here's a brooch I ne'er shall tine2
Till he's fairly married to me.
Drive away, ye drone, Time,
And bring about our bridal day.

Sandy herds a flock o' sheep;
Aften does he blaw the whistle,
In a strain sae vastly sweet,
Lam'ies listening dare na bleat;
He's as fleet 's the mountain roe,
Hardy as the Highland heather,
Wading through the winter snow,
Keeping aye his flock together.
But, wi' plaid and bare houghs,3
He braves the bleakest northern blast.

Brawly he can dance and sing,
Canty glee or Highland cronach :a
Nane can ever match his fling,
At a reel, or round a ring;
Wightly can he wield a rung,
In a brawl he's aye the baughter;7
A' his praise can ne'er be sung
By the langest-winded sangster!
Sangs that sing o' Sandy

Seem short, though they were e'er sae lang.

I WISH MY LOVE WERE IN A MIRE.

I NEVER heard more of the words of this old song than the

title.

3

1 Singing. 5 Stoutly.

2 Lose.
• Cudgel.

Legs.
7 Winner.

4 Lament.

ALLAN WATER.'1

THIS Allan Water, which the composer of the music has honoured with the name of the air, I have been told is Allan Water in Strathallan.

What numbers 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 strode the happy plain,
She set 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.
All day the am'rous youths convene,
Joyous they sport and play before her;
All night, when she no more is seen,
In joyful dreams they still adore her.

Among the crowd Amyntor came,
He looked, he loved, he bowed to Annie;
His rising sighs express his flame,

His words were few, his wishes many.
With smiles the lovely maid replied,

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Kind shepherd, why should I deceive ye?

Alas! your love must be denied,

This destined breast can ne'er relieve ye."

Young Damon came, with Cupid's art,
His wiles, his smiles, his charms beguiling;
He stole away my virgin heart:

Cease, poor Amyntor! cease bewailing.
Some brighter beauty you may find;
On yonder plain the nymphs are many;
Then choose some heart that's unconfined,
And leave to Damon his own Annie.

1 By Robert Crawford, of Auchnames.

THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE.1

THIS is one of the most beautiful songs in the Scots or any other language. The two lines,

And will I see his face again!

And will I hear him speak!

as well as the two preceding ones, are unequalled almost by anything I ever heard or read; and the lines,

The present moment is our ain,

The niest we never saw

L

are worthy of the first poet. It is long posterior to Ramsay's days. About the year 1771, or '72, it came first on the streets as a ballad; and I suppose the composition of the song was not much anterior to that period.

There's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a';

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our guidman's awa'.
And are you sure the news is true?
And do you say he's weel?
Is this a time to speak of wark ?
Ye jades, lay by your wheel!
Is this a time to spin a thread,
When Colin's at the door?
Reach me my

cloak-I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

And gi'e to me my bigonet,
My bishop's satin gown,
For I maun tell the baillie's wife
That Colin's in the town.
My turken slippers maun gae on,
My stockings pearly blue;
"Tis a' to pleasure my guidman,
For he 's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass! and mak' a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;

Gi'e little Kate her button gown,

And Jock his Sunday coat;

And mak' their shoon as black as slacs,

Their hose as white as snaw;

"Tis a' to pleasure my guidman,

For he's been lang awa'.

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop,

Been fed this month and mair;

Written by William Julius Mickle, of Langholm.

Mak' haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;

And mak' the table neat and trim;
Let every thing be braw;

For who kens how my Colin fared
When he was far awa'?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,1
His breath like caller air,

His

very foot hath music in 't
As he comes up the stair.
And shall I see his face again!
And shall I hear him speak!
I'm downright giddy wi' the thought,-
In truth I'm like to greet.

If Colin's weel, and weel content,
I ha'e nae mair to crave;

And gin I live to mak' him sae,

I'm blest aboon the lave.

And shall I see his face again, &c.

TARRY WOO'.

THIS is a very pretty song; but I fancy that the first halfstanza, as well as the tune itself, are much older than the rest of the words.

O, Tarry woo' is ill to spin;
Card it weel ere ye begin;
Card it weel and draw it sma',
Tarry woo's the best of a'.

GRAMACHREE.

THE Song of "Gramachree" was composed by Mr. Poe, a counsellor-at-law in Dublin. This anecdote I had from a gentleman who knew the lady, the " Molly," who is the subject of the song, and to whom Mr. Poe sent the first manuscript of his most beautiful verses. I do not remember any single line that has more true pathos than-

How can she break the honest heart

That wears her in its core !

But as the song is Irish, it has nothing to do with this collection.2

This verse was written by Dr. Beattie.

2 We give the words of this song.

GRAMACHREE.

As down on Banna's banks I strayed,
One evening in May,

The little birds, in blithest notes,
Made vocal every spray:

They sang their little notes of love;
They sang them o'er and o'er,-
Ah! gramachree, mo challie nouge,
Mo Molly astore!

The daisy pied, and all the sweets
The dawn of nature yields;
The primrose pale, the violet blue,
Lay scattered o'er the fields.
Such fragrance in the bosom lies
Of her whom I adore,-
Ah! gramachree, mo challie nouge,
Mo Molly astore!

I laid me down upon a bank,
Bewailing my sad fate,

That doomed me thus the slave of love,

And cruel Molly's hate.

How can she break the honest heart

That wears her in its core!

Ah! gramachree, mo challie nouge,

Mo Molly astore!

You said you loved me, Molly dear;
Ah, why did I believe!

Yes, who could think such tender words
Were meant but to deceive?

That love was all I asked on earth,
Nay, Heaven could give no more;
Ah! gramachree, mo challie nouge,
Mo Molly astore!

O! had I all the flocks that graze
On yonder yellow hill;

Or lowed for me the numerous herds
That yon green pastures fill:

With her I love I'd gladly share

My kine and fleecy store,

Ah! gramachree, mo challie nouge,
Mo Molly astore!

Two turtle-doves above my head"
Sat courting on a bough;
I envied them their happiness,
To see them bill and coo.

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