Will pe go to the Ewe-Bughts,*
Marion?

I AM not sure if this old and charming air be of the South, as is commonly said, or of the North of Scotland. There is a song apparently as ancient as "Ewe-bughts, Marion," which sings to the same time, and is evidently of the North-it begins thus:

THE Lord o' Gordon had three dochters,
Mary, Marget, and Jean,

They wad na stay at bonnie Castle Gordon,
But awa to Aberdeen.

[The lover begins his courtship in a way very simple and effective.

Will ye go to the ewe-bughts, Marion,
And wear in the sheep wi' me?
The sun shines sweet, my Marion,
But nae half sae sweet as thee.

O Marion's a bonnie lass,

And the blyth blinks in her e'e; And fain wad I marry Marion, Gin Marion wad marry me.]

Lewis Gordon.

THIS air is a proof how one of our Seats tunes comes to be composed out of another. I have one of the earliest copies of the song, and it has prefixed,—

"Tune of Tarry Woo-"

of which tune a different set has insensibly varied into a different air.-To a Scots critic, the pathos of the line,

"Tho' his back be at the wa',"

Must be very striking. It needs not a Jacobite prejudice to be affected with this song.

The supposed author of "Lewis Gordon" was a Mr. Geddes, priest, at Shenval, in the Ainzie.

OH! send Lewie Gordon hame,
And the lad I maunna name;
Tho' his back be at the wa',
Here's to him that's far awa'!
Oh hon my Highland man!
Oh, my bonny Highland man;
Weel would I my true-love ken,
Amang ten thousand Highland men.

[Sheep-folds.]

The princely youth, that I do mean,
Is fitted for to be king,

On his breast he wears a star;
You'd take him for the god of war.
Oh hon ! &c.

O! to see this princely one,
Seated on a royal throne!
Disasters a' would disappear,
Then begins the Jub'lee year!
Oh hon ! &c.

Lord Lewis Gordon, younger brother to the Duke of Gordon, commanded a detachment for the Young Chevalier, in the affair of 1745-6, and acquitted himself with great gallantry and judgment. He died in 1754.]

The Wauking o' the Fauld. THERE are two stanzas still sung to this tune, which I take to be the original song whence Ramsay composed his beautiful song of that name in the Gentle Shepherd. It begins

"O will ye speak at our town,

As ye come frae the fauld, &c."

I regret that, as in many of our old songs, the delicacy of this old fragment is not equal to its wit and humour.*

[The version of Allan Ramsay is as follows:

My Peggie is a young thing,

Just enter'd in her teens;
Fair as the day, and sweet as May,
Fair as the day, and always gay.
My Peggie is a young thing,

And I'm not very auld;
Yet well I like to meet her at
The wauking o' the fauld.

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
Whene'er we meet alane;

I wish nae mair to lay my care,
I wish nae mair of a' that's rare.

[There is a far older set of this song than this which Burns speaks of; it is perfectly modest, though not very poetical. The first stanza runs thus:

COME all ye jolly shepherds

That lo'e the tarry woo,

Wha lo'e to wait upon the sheep:
An' tak delight the lambs to keep,
I'll tell ye how I met my love,
Upon an e'ening cauld,

When it was late, an' growing dark,
As I drew nigh the fauld.]

My Peggie speaks sae sweetly,

To a' the lave I'm cauld;
But she gars a' my spirits glow,
At wauking o' the fauld.
My Peggie smiles sae kindly,
Whene'er I whisper love,

That I look down on a' the town,
That I look down upon a crown.
My Peggie smiles sae kindly,

It makes me blythe and bauld; And naething gies me sic delight As wauking o' the fauld. My Peggie sings sae saftly, When on my pipe I play By a' the rest it is confess'd, By a' the rest, that she sings best: My Peggy sings sae saftly,

And in her sangs are tauld, With innocence, the wale o' sense, At wauking o' the fauld.]

[OH! was not I a weary wight!
Maid, wife, and widow, in one night!
O! when most I thought him free from harms.
When in my soft and yielding arms,
Even at the dead time of the night,
They broke my bower, and slew my knight.
With ae lock of his jet black hair,
I'll tye my heart for evermair;
Nae sly-tongu'd youth, nor flatt'ring swain,
Shall e'er untie this knot again;

Thine still, dear youth, that heart shall be,
Nor pant for aught, save heaven and thee.]

F'll never leave thee.

THIS is another of Crawford's songs, but I do not think in his happiest manner. What an absurdity to join such names as Adonis and Mary together!

† [A vitiated pronunciation of "Ochoin och rie," a Gaelic exclamation, generally expressive of deep sorrow and affliction, similar to that of Oh! my heart!]

[For a particular account of this atrocious butchery, see Smollett, and other historians. It happened in 1691. Thirtyeight innocent and unsuspecting persons, including the chief of the clan, were inhumanly massacred in their beds, by a military party under Campbell of Glenlyon. Neither age, youth, nor sex, were spared in the dreadful carnage, and many, who escaped instant death, afterwards perished in the mountains, from the inclemency of the weather, from hunger, and fatigue.]

[One day I heard Mary say How shall I leave thee, Stay, dearest Adonis, stay, Why wilt thou grieve me?]

Corn-Rigs are bonnie.

ALL the old words that ever I could meet to this air were the following, which seem to have been an old chorus:

O corn-rigs and rye-rigs,

O corn-rigs are bonnie;

And where'er you meet a bonnie lass, Preen up her cockernony.

[The following copy of a more modern song to this air possesses great humour; it was written by the late Rev. T. Nicol, Minister of Inverleithing, Peebles-shire :

MEG, muckin' at Geordie's byre,
Wrought as gin her judgment was wrang ;
Ilk daud o' the scartle strack fire,
While, loud as a lavrock she sang!
Her Geordie had promis'd to marrie,

An' Meg, a sworn fae to despair,
Not dreamin' the job could miscarrie,
Already seem'd mistress an' mair!

My neebours, she sang, aften jeer me,
And ca' me daft, halucket Meg,
An' say, they expect soon to hear me
I' the kirk, for my fun, get a fleg!

herd.

My Patie is a lover gay,

His mind is never muddy:
His breath is sweeter than new hay,
His face is fair and ruddy.
His shape is handsome, middle size;
He's stately in his walking;
The shining o' his e'en surprise;
'Tis heaven to hear him talking.

Last night I met him on the bawk,

Where yellow corn was growing;
There mony a kindly word he spak,
That set my heart a-glowing.
He kiss'd, and vow'd he wad be mine,
And lo'ed me best of ony;
That gars me like to sing sinsyne
"O corn-rigs are bonnie!"

Let maidens of a silly mind

Refuse what maist they're wanting.
Since we for yielding are design'd,
We chastely should be granting:
Then I'll comply, and marry Pate,
And syne my cockernony,
He's free to touzle, air or late,
Where corn-rigs are bonnie.

Scraps of curious old song are scattered over all Scotland here is a fragment concerning Corn-Rigs :

"There was a piper had a cow,

An' he had nought to gie her;
He took his pipes and play'd a tune,
And bade the cow consider.
The cow consider'd very well,
And the piper a penny
gae
To play the same tune owre again,
Corn-rigs are bonnie."]

The Mucking o' Geordie's Byre.

An' Geordie, poor fallow! they ca' An auld doitit hav'rel!-Nae matter, He'll keep me aye brankin an' braw!

I grant ye, his face is kenspeckle,

That the white o' his e'e is turn'd out, That his black beard is rough as a heckle, That his mou' to his lug's rax'd about; But they needna let on that he's crazie, His pike-staff wull ne'er let him fa'; Nor that his hair's white as a daisie, For, fient a hair has he ava!

But a weel-plenish'd mailin' has Geordie, An' routh o' gude goud in his kist; An' if siller comes at my wordie,

His beautie, I never wull miss't! Daft gouks, wha catch fire like tinder, Think love-raptures ever wull burn! But, wi' poortith, hearts het as a cinder Wull cauld as an iceshogle turn!

There'll just be ae bar to my pleasure,
A bar that's aft fill'd me wi' fear.
He's sic a hard, near-be-gawn miser,
He likes his saul less than his gear!
But tho' I now flatter his failin',

An' swear nought wi' goud can compare, Gude sooth! it sall soon get a scailin'! His bags sall be mouldy nae mair!

I dreamt that I rade in a chariot,
A flunkie ahint me in green;
While Geordie cry'd out, he was harriet,
An' the saut tear was blindin' his een;
But tho' 'gainst my spendin' he swear aye,
I'll hae frae him what ser's my turn;
Let him slip awa whan he grows wearie,
Shame fa' me gin lang I wad mourn!.

But Geordie, while Meg was haranguin',
Was cloutin' his breeks i' the bauks,

the work of Balloon Tytler.

His strang hazle pike-staff he taks,—

Designin' to rex her a lounder,

He chanc'd on the ladder to shift,
An' down frae the bauks, flat's a flounder,
Flew, like a shot-starn frae the lift!

But Meg wi' the sight was quite haster'd,
An', nae doubt, was bannin' ill luck;
While the face o' poor Geordie was plaster'd,
An' his mou' was fill'd fu' wi' the muck!
Confound ye, cryd Geordie, an' spat out
The glaur that adown his beard ran ;-
Preserve us! quo' Meg, as she gat out
The door,-an' thus lost a gudeman !]

Bide ye yet.

Stout gates of brass, and well-built walls,
Are proof 'gainst swords and cannon-balls;
But nought is found, by sea or land.
That can a wayward wife withstand.
Sae bide ye yet, &c.

The authoress was a maiden lady; she lived to a good old age, and died of an asthma, the pain of which she alleviated in composing humourous Scottish songs. She was a fine dancer in her youth; a young nobleman was so much charmed with her graceful movements, and the music of her feet, that he enquired in what school she was taught. "In my mother's washing-tub," was the answer.-CUNNING

HAM.

"Alas, my son, you little know-,"

[The song which Burns commended is as follows:

"ALAS! my son, you little know

The sorrows that from wedlock flow;
Farewell to every day of ease,
When you have got a wife to please.

Sae bide ye yet, and bide ye yet,
Ye little ken what's to betide ye yet;
The half of that will gane ye yet,
Gif a wayward wife obtain ye yet.
Your hopes are high, your wisdom small,
Woe has not had you in its thrall;
The black cow on your foot ne'er trod,
Which gars you sing along the road.

Sae bide ye yet, &c.

Sometimes the rock, sometimes the reel, Or some piece of the spinning-wheel, She'll drive at you, my bonny chiel, And send you headlang to the de'il.

Sae bide ye yet, &c.

When I, like you, was young and free,
I valu'd not the proudest she;
Like you, my boast was bold and vain,
That men alone were born to reign.
Sae bide ye yet, &c.

Great Hercules, and Sampson, too,
Were stronger far than I or you;
Yet they were baffled by their dears,
And felt the distaff and the shears.

Sae bide ye yet, &c.

A bonny wee wifie to praise and admire,
A bonny wee yardie aside a wee burn,
Fareweel to the bodies that yammer and mourn!

Sae bide ye yet, and bide yet,

Ye little ken what may betide ye yet,
Some bonny wee body may be my lot,
And I'll aye be canty wi' thinking o't.

When I gang afield, and come hame at e'en, I'll get my wee wifie fu' neat and fu' clean, And a bonnie wee bairnie up on her knee, That will cry papa, or daddy, to me.

Sae bide ye yet, &c.

And if there should happen ever to be
A diff'rence atween my wee wifie and me,
In hearty good humour, altho' she be teaz'd,
I'll kiss her and clap her until she be pleas'd.
Sae bide ye yet, &c.]

HERE the remarks on the first volume of the Musical Museum conclude: the second volume has the following preface from the pen of Burns:

"In the first volume of this work, two or three airs, not of Scots composition, have been inadvertently inserted; which, whatever excellence they may have, was improper, as the collection is solely to be the music of our own country. The songs contained in this volume, both music and poetry, are all of them the work of Scotsmen. Wherever the old words could be recovered, they have been preferred: both as suiting better the genius of the tunes, and to preserve the productions of those earlier sons of the Scottish muses, some of whose names deserved a better fate than has befallen them,

'Buried 'midst the wreck of things which were.' Of our more modern songs, the Editor has inserted the author's names as far as he can ascertain them; and, as that was neglected in the first volume, it is annexed here. If he have made any mistakes in this affair, which he possibly may, he will be very grateful at being set right.

"Ignorance and prejudice may perhaps affect to sneer at the simplicity of the poetry or music of some of these poems; but their having been for ages the favourites of nature's judges --the common people,-was to the Editor a sufficient test of their merit. Edinburgh, March 1, 1788."]

Tranent-Muir.

"TRANENT-MUIR"

was composed by a Mr. Skirving, a very worthy, respectable farmer near Haddington. I have heard the anecdote often, that Lieut. Smith, whom he mentions in the ninth stanza, came to Haddington after the publication of the song, and sent a challenge to Skirving to meet him at Haddington, and answer for the unworthy manner in which he had noticed him in his song. Gang away back," said the honest farmer, "and tell Mr. Smith that I hae nae leisure to come to Haddington; but tell him to come here, and I'll tak a look o' him, and if he think I'm fit to fecht him, I'll fecht him; and if no, I'll do as he did--I'll rin awa."

66

[Stanza ninth, as well as tenth, to which the anecdote refers, shews that the anger of the Lieutenant was any thing but unreasonable. "And Major Bowle, that worthy soul,

Was brought down to the ground, man; His horse being shot, it was his lot, For to get mony a wound, man: Lieutenant Smith, of Irish birth,

Frae whom he call'd for aid, man, Being full of dread, lap o'er his head,

And wadna be gainsaid, man!

He made sic haste, sae spurr'd his baist,
'Twas little there he saw, man:
To Berwick rade, and falsely said,
The Scots were rebels a', man;
But let that end, for well 'tis kenn'd,
His use and wont to lie, man;
The teague is naught, he never faught,
When he had room to flee, man.'

The song and the story of the challenge went long hand in hand: the latter usually ushered in the former.]

[Mr. Skirving was tenant of East Garleton, about a mile and a half to the north of Haddington.]

Polwart on the Green.

THE author of "Polwart on the Green" is

Capt. John Drummond M'Gregor, of the family of Bochaldie.

[This is one of the songs of which Sir Walter Scott says the authorship ascribed by Burns might be questioned. In the traditions of the muse, Scott will generally be found correct: his decisions were the result of many enquiries, and, as he had a memory which never deceived him, and a sagacity that rarely erred, he may be safely followed in all matters connected with song. Chalmers says, "Polwart on the Green" was written by Allan Ramsay: and in this he is followed by all authorities of any value, with the single exception of Burns. The internal evidence of the song is in favour of Ramsay.

"AT Polwart on the green,

If you'll meet me the morn,
Where lasses do conveen

To dance about the thorn,
A kindly welcome ye shall meet
Frae her wha likes to view
A lover and a lad complete-

The lad and lover you.

Let dorty dames say na,

As lang as e'er they please,
Seem caulder than the snaw,

While inwardly they bleeze.
But I will frankly shaw my mind,
And yield my heart to thee;
Be ever to the captive kind
That langs na to be free.
At Polwart on the green,
Amang the new-mown hay,
With sangs and dancing keen,
We'll pass the heartsome day.
At night if beds be o'er thrang laid
And thou be twin'd of thine,
Thou shalt be welcome, my dear lad,
To take a part of mine."

Polwart is a pleasant village, situate near Dunse, in Berwick-shire. In the middle of the village stand two venerable thorns, round which the Polwart maidens, when they became brides, danced with their partners on the day of the bridal.—CUNNINGHAM.]

Strephon and Lydia.

THE following account of this song I had from Dr. Blacklock :

The Strephon and Lydia mentioned in the