This air, and the common "Highland Laddie," seem only to be different sets. Another "Highland Laddie," also in the "Museum," vol. v., is the tune of several Jacobite fragments. One of these old songs to it only exists, as far as I know, in these four lines: "WHARE hae ye been a' day, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie? Down the back o' Bell's brae, Courtin' Maggie, courtin' Maggie." Another of this name is Dr. Arne's beautiful air, called the new Highland Laddie.” 66 It is too barefaced to take Dr. Percy's charming song, and, by means of transposing a few [The following morceau was found in a me- English words into Scots, to offer to pass it for morandum-book belonging to Burns: THE HIGHLANDER'S PRAYER, AT SHERRIFF-MUIR. "O Lord, be thou with us; but, if thou be not with us, be not against us; but leave it between the red coats and us!"] The Gentle Swain. To sing such a beautiful air to such execrable verses is downright prostitution of common sense! The Scots verses indeed are tolerable. [Burns is here too fastidious. We cannot, for the life of us, see any thing licentious in this sweet song, and we have accordingly given the whole of it.] a Scots song. I was not acquainted with the Editor until the first volume was nearly finished, else, had I known in time, I would have prevented such an impudent absurdity. 11. O Nancy, when thou'rt far away, Wilt thou not cast a wish behind? Say, canst thou face the parching ray, Nor shrink before the wintry wind? O can that soft and gentle mien Extremes of hardship learn to bear; Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? III. O Nancy! canst thou love so true, Through perils keen with me to go, Or when thy swain mishap shall rue, To share with him the pang of woe? Say, should disease or pain befal, Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, Nor wistful those gay scenes recal Where thou wert fairest of the fair? IV. And when at last thy love shall die, Wilt thou receive his parting breath? Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, And cheer with smiles the bed of death? And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear, Nor then regret those scenes so gay Where thou wert fairest of the fair? This very lovely song is the composition of Bishop Percy, the well-known Editor of the Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, a man who has done more for English Literature than any other half-dozen antiquaries, and one who had the finest taste and the truest feeling for poetry. "This," writes Burns, "is perhaps the most beautiful ballad in the English language."] The Blaithrie o't.* THE following is a set of this song, which was the earliest song I remember to have got by heart. When a child, an old woman sung it to me, and I picked it up, every word, at first hearing. "O WILLY, Weel I mind, I lent you my hand To sing you a song which you did me command; But my memory 's so bad, I had almost forgot That you call'd it the gear and the blaithrie o't. *["Shame fall the gear and the blaithry o't," is the tune of an old Scottish song, spoken when a young handsome girl marries an old man, upon the account of his wealth.-Kelly's Scots Proverbs, p. 296.] † [Menzie.-Retinue-Followers.] I'll not sing about confusion, delusion, nor pride, I'll sing about a laddie was for a virtuous bride; For virtue is an ornament that time will never rot, And preferable to gear and the blaithrie o't.— Tho' my lassie hae nae scarlets nor silks to put on, We envy not the greatest that sits upon the throne; Ismock, I wad rather hae my lassie, tho' she cam in her Than a princess wi' the gear and the blaithrie o't. Tho' we hae nae horses nor menzie† at command, [band: We will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi' our And when wearied without rest, we'll find it sweet in any spot, And we'll value not the gear & the blaithrie o't. If we hae ony babies, we'll count them as lent; Hae we less, hae we mair, we will aye be content; [but a groat For they say they hae mair pleasure that wins Than the miser wi' his gear and the blaithrie o't. I'll not meddle wi' th' affairs o' the kirk or the queen; [let them swim; They're nae matters for a sang, let them sink, On your kirk I'll ne'er encroach, but I'll hold it still remote, Sae tak this for the gear and the blaithrie o't." May Eve, or Kate of Aberdeen. "KATE of Aberdeen" is, I believe, the work of poor Cunningham the player; of whom the following anecdote, though told before, deserves a recital. A fat dignitary of the church coming past Cunningham one Sunday, as the poor poet was busy plying a fishing-rod in some stream near Durham, his native country, his reverence reprimanded Cunningham very se verely for such an occupation on such a day. of manners which was his peculiar characterpoor poet, with that inoffensive gentleness istic, replied, that he hoped God and his reve rence would forgive his seeming profanity of that sacred day, "as he had no dinner to eat. but what lay at the bottom of that pool!" This, Mr. Woods, the player, who knew Canningham well, and esteemed him much, assured The me was true. ["Cunningham was a native of Dublin; an indifferent actor, a very pretty poet, and a very worthy man. He was unaffected in his manners, and quite a simpleton, as the following anecdote will shew. His volume of poems was KATE OF ABERDEEN, ETC. dedicated to Garrick, whom in his admiration of theatrical talent he naturally esteemed the first man that ever existed. He trudged up to the metropolis to present his volume to this celebrated character. He saw him; and, according to his own phrase, he was treated by him in the most humiliating and scurvy manner imaginable. Garrick assumed a cold and stately air; insulted Cunningham by behaving to him as to a common beggar, and gave him a couple of guineas, accompanied with this speech:- Players, Sir, as well as Poets, are always poor.' "The blow was too severe for the poet. He was so confused at the time that he had not the use of his faculties, and indeed never recollected that he ought to have spurned the offer with contempt, till his best friend, Mrs. Slack, of Newcastle, reminded him of it by giving him a sound box on the ear."-ALLAN CUN NINGHAM. His fine song of "Kate of Aberdeen" is as follows: "THE silver moon's enamour'd beam Steals softly through the night, To wanton with the winding stream, And kiss reflected light. To beds of state go balmy sleep, Where you've so seldom been, Whilst I May's wakeful vigils keep With Kate of Aberdeen! The nymphs and swains, expectant, wait, And gives the promis'd May. I'll tune my pipe to playful notes, Till new-wak'd birds distend their throats, At her approach, the lark mistakes, And quits the new-dress'd green: Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks; Tis Kate of Aberdeen! [If the reader refers to the note to the Flower of Yarrow, he will there find that Sir Walter Scott states this song to have been written in honour of another lady, a Miss Mary Lilias Scott. In a copy of Cromek's Reliques of Burns there is the following note on this passage in Sir Walter Scott's hand-writing: "Miss Mary Lilias Scott was the eldest daughter of John Scott, of Harden, and well known, in the fashionable world, by the nick-name of Cadie Scott, I believe, because she went to a masqued ball in such a disguise. I remember her, an old lady, distinguished for elegant manners and high spirit, though struggling under the disadvantages of a narrow income, as her father's estate, being entailed on heirs male, went to another branch of the Harden family, then called the High Chester family. I have heard an hundred times, from those who lived at the period, that Tweedside, and the song called Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow, Now blithesome o'er the dewy mead, Tweed Side. 531 IN Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, he tells us that about thirty of the songs in that publication were the works of some young gentlemen of his acquaintance; which songs are marked with the letters D. C. &c.—Old Mr. Tytler, of Woodhouselee, the worthy and able defender of the beauteous Queen of Scots, told me that the songs marked C, in the Tea-table, were the composition of a Mr. Crawford, of the house of Achnames, who was afterwards unfortunately drowned coming from France.-As Tytler was most intimately acquainted with Allan Ramsay, I think the anecdote may be depended on. Of consequence, the beautiful Song of Tweed Side is Mr. Crawford's, and indeed does great honour to his poetical talents. He was a Robert Crawford; the Mary he celebrates was a Mary Stewart, of the Castle-Milk family, afterwards married to a Mr. John Ritchie. I have seen a song, calling itself the original Tweed Side, and said to have been composed by a Lord Yester. It consisted of two stanzas, of which I still recollect the first "WHEN Maggy and I was acquaint, I woo'd, but I cam nae great speed; And lay my banes far frae the Tweed. † [Crawford's song is still popular, as well it deserves to be : were both written upon this much admired lady, and could add much proof on the subject, did space permit."-WALTER SCOTT.] [The following is the other stanza :— To Maggy my love I did tell, Saut tears did my passion express ; And the women lo'e sic a man less. And lay my banes far frae the Tweed. John, Lord Yester, second Marquis of Tweeddale, died in 1713. He possessed considerable poetic abilities ] 2 M 2 O 1 I. WHAT beauties doth Flora disclose! How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed! Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those, Both nature and fancy exceed. Nor daisy, nor sweet blushing rose, Nor all the gay flowers of the field, Nor Tweed gliding gently through those, Such beauty and pleasure do yield. II. The warblers are heard in the grove, The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, The blackbird, and sweet cooing dove, With music enchant every bush. Come, let us go forth to the mead, Let us see how the primroses spring, We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, And love while the feather'd folks sing. III. How does my love pass the long day? Does Mary not 'tend a few sheep? Do they never carelessly stray, While happily she lies asleep? Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest, Kind nature indulging my bliss, To ease the soft pains of my breast, I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. IV. "Tis she does the virgin excel, No beauty with her may compare; Love's graces around her do dwell, She's fairest, where thousands are fair. Say, charmer, where do thy flock stray? Oh! tell me at noon where they feed; Is it on the sweet wending Tay, Or pleasanter banks of the Tweed?] * [We have already stated that Oswald was not the composer of Roslin Castle.] [May.-Maid-Young Woman.] [Lowe was born at Kenmore in Galloway, in the year 1750. He was the eldest of a numerous family, and, after receiving the education common to the Scottish peasantry, was appointed to the occupation of a weaver. He however found means afterwards to obtain a regular education, in the course of prosecuting which he was employed as tutor in the family of Mr. M'Ghie of Airds. A young gentleman of the name of Miller, who had been engaged to Mary, one of Mr. M'Ghie's daughters, was at this period unfortunately lost at sea, which called forth Mr. Lowe's powers in that beautiful song, Mary, weep no more for me,' which alone makes his history an object of interest to the public. "His views were directed to the church; but seeing no prospect of a living, he determined to try his fortune in America, and for that country he embarked, in the year 1773, being invited as tutor to the family of a brother of General Washington. From this circumstance, he seems to have cherished hopes which were never realized. He kept for some time an academy for young gentlemen, in Fredericksburg, Virginia, and at length took orders in the Episcopal Church, obtained a living, and became eminently respectable for his talents, his learning, and his sociable and pleasant manners. event, however, soon took place, which clouded the meridian of his life, and blasted his happiness for ever. An "While in the family of Airds he had become engaged to a The Posie. It appears evident to me that Oswald composed his Roslin Castle on the modulation of this air. In the second part of Oswald's, in the three first bars, he has either hit on a wonderful similarity to, or else he has entirely borrowed, the three first bars of the old air; and the close of both tunes is almost exactly the same. The old verses to which it was sung, when I took down the notes from a country girl's voice, had no great merit.—The following is a specimen : THERE was a pretty May, † and a milkin' she went; [hair; Wi' her red rosy cheeks, and her coal black And she has met a young man a comin o'er the bent, With a double and adieu to thee, fair May. O where are ye goin', my ain pretty May, Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal black hair? Unto the yowes a milkin', kind sir, she says, With a double and adieu to thee, fair May. What if I gang alang wi' thee, my ain pretty May, Lair: Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal black Wad I be aught the warse o' that, kind sir, she says, With a double and adieu to thee, fair May. Mary's Dream. THE Mary here alluded to is generally sup posed to be Miss Mary Macghie, daughter to the Laird of Airds, in Galloway. The Poet was a Mr. John Lowe, who likewise wrote ano sister of Mary, whom he has immortalized by his song, and after he had been two years in America, he wrote to her in the most impassioned strains. He soon afterwards, however, became enamoured of a beautiful Virginian lady, and forget his first love on the banks of the Ken. The lady, however. was deaf to all his addresses, and he had the mortification to see her bestowed on a more fortunate and deserving lover. At the same time, a sister of this lady became passionate! fond of him; and, in a moment of silly chagrin, he allowed himself to be united to her, merely, he said, from a principle of gratitude. Every propitious planet hid its head at the bot that made them one. She proved every thing that was bad: and Lowe soon saw in his wife an abandoned woman, tetaŢ regardless of his happiness, and unfaithful even to his bed. Overwhelmed with disappointment and shame, he had recourse to the miserable expedient of dissipating, or attempt ing to di sipate, at the bottle, the cares and chagrin that preyed upon his heart. Habits of intemperance were thus formed, which, with their usual attendants, poverty and dis case, brought him to an untimely grave, in the 48th year of his age. "The circumstances attending his death, as described br one of his friends, were truly distressing. "Perceiving his end drawing near, and wishing to die in peace, away from (3 own wretched walls, he mounted a sorry palfrey, and al some distance to the house of a friend. So much was be debilitated that scarcely could he alight in the court and walk into the house. Afterwards he revived a little, and en ther beautiful song, called Pompey's Ghost.I have seen a poetic epistle from him in North America, where he now is, or lately was, to a lady in Scotland.-By the strain of the verses, it appeared that they allude to some love affair. [Lowe's exquisite song of Mary's dream will do for his name what neither the Epistle, nor Pompey's Ghost, would of themselves accomplish. The following is a faithful transcript: "THE moon had climb'd the highest hill, Her silver light on tow'r and tree. Her head, to ask who there might be; Three stormy nights and stormy days So, Mary, weep no more for me! O maiden dear, thyself prepare, We soon shall meet upon that shore The Maid that tends the Goats. BY MR. DUDGEON. THIS Dudgeon is a respectable farmer's son in Berwick-shire. joyed some hours of that vivacity which was peculiar to him. But this was but the last faint gleam of a setting sun: on the third day after his arrival at the house of his friend he breathed his last. He now lies buried near Fredericksburg, Virginia, under the shade of two palm trees, but not a stone is there on which to write 'Mary, weep no more for me.'"' The abandoned woman, to whom he had so foolishly linked his fortune, made no inquiry after him for more than a month, when she sent for his horse, which had been previously sold to defray the expenses of his funeral. Lowe was in his person very handsome. His figure was [The song has an original air about it, which is very pleasing : I. Up amang yon cliffy rocks, Drive away, ye drone time, II. Sandy herds a flock o' sheep, But wi' plaid, and bare houghs, III. Brawly he can dance and sing, Seem short, tho' 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. [The old song commenced with these characteristic words: "I WISH my love were in a mire, The verses in the Museum are in a different active, well proportioned, and rather above the middle size. His hair was auburn, his eyes blue, and penetrating, his nose aquiline, and the whole expression of his countenance open and benevolent. These qualities, united to a lively and insinuating manner, made him a favourite with the fair sex. He was, however, in love, more susceptible than constant; and one act of infidelity will, by some. be supposed to have been sufficiently punished by the subsequent misfortunes of his life.' N.B. His first love on the banks of the Ken was, after his death, married to a respectable country gentleman, and was alive in 1810."] |