Fecket. An under waistcoat with sleeves. The following is a complete copy of the old Song : O Donaldie, Donaldie, where hae you been? A hawking and hunting,-gae make my bed clean; Let's drink and gae hame, boys, let's drink and gae hame, There's Meg wi' the mailen And Susie, whose daddy was laird o' the ha'; Maist fetters his fancy But the laddie's dear sel' he lo'es dearest of a'. [In his notes to the Museum, Burns says"This air is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it a Lament for his brother. The first half-stanza of the song is old, the rest is mine." "It must be borne in mind that the Poet was sometimes summoned hastily to fill up the gaps which time had made in ancient song, and that he supplied the publisher with the first-fruits of his fancy. Yet, even in the most careless of these effusions, there is a happiness of thought or of expression which few can reach by study."-CUNNINGHAM.] A-chasing the wild deer, and catching the roe, O bonny Portmore, ye shine where you charm, The more I think on you, the more my heart warms; When I look from you, my heart it is sore, When I mind upon Valianty, and on Portmore. There are mony words, but few o' the best, And he that speaks fewest lives langest at rest; My mind, by experience teaches me so, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go, "Donald Cameron was the author of this very beautiful and very old song. It is well known to most poetical readers, with how little success Burns endeavoured to graft upon this had the north of Scotland spirit strong within him. His language is tinged with that of the district of The Keith Marischall,' and his love of the wild woods and lonesome glens is Celtic rather than Saxon. This accounts for his love of Ossian's poems: no one can properly feel the poetry of those compositions who shares not in the blood of the Gael, and is unacquainted with Highland scenery and Highland chivalry."CUNNINGHAM.] John Anderson, my Jo. Tune-John Anderson, my Jo. I. JOHN Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent; Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. II. John Anderson, my jo, John, [Brash and Reid of Glasgow gave what they called an improved version of "John Anderson" from the pen of Burns. The following are the additional stanzas: John Anderson, my jo, John, II. John Anderson, my jo, John, When nature first began stock a twig of his own rearing. Even Mr. Cunningham, in his songs of Scotland, admits the fact, and regrets that he could give no more than the first four lines of the original. The whole is now, for the first time, given complete, from the recitation of a very old person."--BUCHAN. Notwithstanding the specialities enumerated by our friend Mr. Buchan, we are inclined to look upon this song as an importation from the north of Ireland. The province of Ulster, we believe, is still an untrodden field for the collection of ancient Scottish song and ballad lore, which would be well worth the while of any one, having sufficient leisure and a taste that way, to explore. In a colony, old songs and traditions are generally preserved in a higher state of purity Ca' the ewes to the knowes, Ca' them whare the heather grows, Ca' them whare the burnie rowes, My bonnie dearie ! ["Much of this sweet pastoral is old; Burns made several changes and emendations in the ancient words, and added the concluding lines. An old verse or so will show the nature of the Poet's alterations: 'Yon yowes an' lambs upo' the plain, Come weal, come woe, whate'er betide, My winsome dearie.' "The Poet afterwards mused upon the same subject and air, and produced a pastoral lyric more worthy of his fame than this pieced and patched composition. The scene of the new song is laid in Cluden side, nigh the ruined towers: the flowers and the hazels which flourish in the verse are to be found on the banks of the stream; and all the singer has to do is to add the figure of some one dear to him, and the picture of the Poet is complete.”—CUNNINGHAM.] Brose and Butter. I. O GIE my love brose, brose, II. The lav'rock lo'es the grass, And me and my love together. Omerry hae been teethin' a heckle. Tune-Lord Breadalbane's March. I. O MERRY hae I been teethin' a heckle, ["Flax-dressing is a dusty business, nor did the Poet love it much; for he but twice alludes to it in his poetry. In his letter to Parker, he says of taste in Nithsdale, 'Here words ne'er crost the muses' heckles, "In the song before us he goes no deeper into the mystery. It is put into the hands of a travelling tinker, whose craft extended to the repairing of pots and pans, clasping of china, making of spoons, and the teething of heckles. The flax-dresser, as he pulls the head or handful of lint across the steel prongs, is apt, if he pulls rashly, to break some of the teeth, which are made of sheer steel. To restore these is to teethe a heckle."-CUNNINGHAM.] The braes o' Ballochmyle. Tune-Braes o' Ballochmyle. I. THE Catrine woods were yellow seen, Hersel in beauty's bloom the while, And ay the wild-wood echoes rang, Fareweel the Braes o' Ballochmyle! II. Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile; Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!† ["Maria Whitefoord, eldest daughter of Sir John Whitefoord, and now Mrs. Cranston, was the heroine of this sweet song; it was written as a *Catrine, in Ayr-shire, the seat of the late Dugald Stewart, Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh. [VAR. Nae joys, alas! for me are here, Until Maria 'gain appear, Farewell the braes o' Ballochmyle.] farewell to the family residence. The scenery is varied and beautiful; the banks of the river are broken into fine dens and glades, and clothed with rich wood-part natural, part planted. The ancestor of the Whitefoords supplied, it is said, the groundwork of the character of Sir Arthur Wardour in the Antiquary: one of the family, Caleb Whitefoord, was a small Poet and critic, and lived and died in London. Ballochmyle passed into the hands of Mr. Alexander, a gentleman who had enriched himself by trade: it is now the property of his son, who resides almost constantly on the estate, and, by his attention to the condition of his peasantry, supplies worthily the place of the ancient family." CUNNINGHAM.] The song was first published in the Musical Museum, to a tune by Allan Masterton. Lament. WRITTEN AT A TIME WHEN THE POET WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE SCOTLAND Tune-The Banks of the Devon. I. O'ER the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain straying, [rave, Where the wild winds of winter incessantly What woes wring my heart while intently surveying [wave! The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the II. Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more! III. No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander, [wave; And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her, [grave. For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her IV. No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast, I haste with the storm to a far-distant shore; Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest, And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. * Originally published in the Dumfries Journal. [The story of Mary Campbell, and the history of this exquisite soug, have been related in the life of the Poet. She was from CampbellTown, in Argyll-shire, and lived at Coilsfield, in the humble situation of dairy-maid to Colonel Montgomery. She also lived, at one time, as nursery-maid in the family of Burns's friend and patron, Gavin Hamilton, Esq., of Mauchline, where Burns visited her clandestinely. She was handsome rather than lovely, and had the neat foot, and the low melodious voice which the Poet loved. Burns was delighted with her good sense, and on Sundays loved to show her his favourite walks on the banks of the Ayr, in the woods of Coilsfield, and by the stream of Faile, where a thorn is pointed out as connected † VAR.-Can.-Poet's own MS. VAR.—Heavenly.—MS. |