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By the oye, it is singular enough that the Scottish Muses were all Jacobites.-I have paid more attention to every description of Scots songs than perhaps any body living has done, and I do not recollect one single stanza, or even the title of the most trifling Scots air, which has the least panegyrical reference to the families of Nassau or Brunswick; while there are hundreds satirizing them. This may be thought no panegyric on the Scots Poets, but I mean it as such. For myself, I would always take it as a compliment to have it said, that my heart ran before my head; and surely the gallant though unfortunate house of Stuart, the kings of our fathers for so many heroic ages, is a theme much more interesting than BURNS.

My love was once a bonny lad,

He was the flower of all his kin, The absence of his bonny face

Has rent my tender heart in twain. I day nor night find no delight,

In silent tears I still complain; And exclaim 'gainst those my rival foes, That ha'e ta'en from me my darling swain.

Despair and anguish fills my breast,

Since I have lost my blooming rose;
I sigh and moan while others rest,

His absence yields me no repose.
To seek my love I'll range and rove,
Thro' every grove and distant plain;
Thus I'll ne'er cease, but spend my days,
To hear tidings from my darling swain.

There's naething strange in Nature's change,

Since parents shew such cruelty; They caus'd my love from me to range, And knows not to what destiny.

The pretty kids and tender lambs

May cease to sport upon the plain;

But I'll mourn and lament in deep discontent
For the absence of my darling swain.

Kind Neptune, let me thee entreat,
To send a fair and pleasant gale;
Ye dolphins sweet, upon me wait,
And convey me on your tail;
Heavens bless my voyage with success,
While crossing of the raging main,
And send me safe o'er to that distant shore,
To meet my lovely darling swain.

All joy and mirth at our return

Shall then abound from Tweed to Tay;
The bells shall ring and sweet birds sing,
To grace and crown our nuptial day.
Thus bless'd wi' charms in my love's arms,
My heart once more I will regain;
Then I'll range no more to a distant shore,
But in love will enjoy my darling swain.

CHARLIE, HE'S MY DARLING'

OLD VERSES.

Tune" Charlie is my darling."

'Twas on a Monday morning,

Richt early in the year,
That Charlie cam to our toun,
The young Chevalier.
And Charlie he's my darling,
My darling, my darling;
Charlie he's my darling,
The young Chevalier.

As he was walking up the street,
The city for to view,
O there he spied a bonnie lass,
The window looking through.
And Charlie, &e.

Sae licht's he jumped up the stair,
And tirled at the pin;
And wha sae ready as hersell,
To let the laddie in!
And Charlie, &c.

He set his Jenny on his knee,
All in his Highland dress;
For brawly weel he kenned the way
To please a bonnie lass.
And Charlie, &c.

It's up yon heathy mountain,
And down yon scroggy glen,
We daurna gang a-milking,
For Charlie and his men.
And Charlie, &c

THE SOUTERS OF SELKIRK.

Up with the souters of Selkirk,

And down with the Earl of Home!

And up wi' a' the brave lads,

Wha sew the single-soled shoon!

O! fye upon yellow and yellow,
And fye upon yellow and green;
And up wi' the true blue and scarlet,
And up wi' the single-soled shoon!

Up wi' the souters of Selkirk

Up wi' the lingle and last!
There's fame wi' the days that's coming,
And glory wi' them that are past.

Up wi' the souters of Selkirk

Lads that are trusty and leal;
And up with the men of the Forest,
And down wi' the Merse to the deil!

O! mitres are made for noddles,

But feet they are made for shoon;

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†The person known in Scottish song and tradition by the epithet Clerk Dishington, was a notary who re. sided about the middle of the last century in Crail,

and acted as the town-clerk of that ancient burgh. have been informed that he was a person of great local

MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE, O.

GALL..

Tune-"My only jo and dearie, O."

THY cheek is o' the rose's hue,
My only jo and dearie, O;
Thy neck is o' the siller dew,
Upon the bank sae briery, O.
Thy teeth are o' the ivory,
O sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee:
Nae joy, nae pleasure blinks on me,
My only jo and dearie, O.

When we were bairnies on yon brae,
And youth was blinkin' bonnie, O,
Aft we wad daff the lee lang day,

Our joys fu' sweet and monie, O.
Aft I wad chase thee ower the lee,
And round about the thorny tree;
Or pu' the wild flow'rs a' for thee,
My only jo and dearie, O.

I hae a wish I canna tine,

'Mang a' the cares that grieve me, 0; A wish that thou wert ever mine,

And never mair to leave me, O;
Then I wad daut thee nicht and day,
Nae ither warldly care I'd hae,
Till life's warm stream forgat to play,
My only jo and dearie, Ŏ.

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Nane o' her relations or friends could stay wi' her:

The neebours and bairns are fain to flee frae her: And I my ainsell am forced to gie way till her: O gin I were fairly shot o' her!

O gin I were fairly shot o' her! &c.

She gangs aye sae braw, she's sae muckle pride in her;

celebrity in his time, as an uncompromising humour-There's no a gudewife in the haill country-side

ist.

like her:

• Richard Gall, the son of a dealer in old furniture in St. Mary's Wynd, Edinburgh, was brought up to the business of a printer, and died at an early age, about the beginning of the present century.

Wi' dress and wi' drink, the deil wadna bide wi' When our gudewife had puddins to mak,

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FARE YE WEEL, MY AULD WIFE.

AND fare ye weel, my auld wife;
Sing bum, bee, berry, bum;

Fare ye weel, my auld wife;

Sing bum, bum, bum.

Fare ye weel, my auld wife,
The steerer up o' sturt and strife,

The maut 's abune the meal the nicht,
Wi' some, some, some.

And fare ye weel, my pike-staff;

Sing bum, bee, berry, bum: Fare ye weel, my pike-staff;

Sing bum, bum, bum.

Fare ye weel, my pike-staff,
Wi' you nae mair my wife I'll baff;
The maut's abune the meal the nicht,
Wi' some, some, some.

GET UP AND BAR THE DOOR.

Ir fell about the Martinmas time,
And a gay time it was than,

⚫ From Herd's Collection, 1776.-A slightly differ. ent version is put by Sir Walter Scott into the mouth of Davie Gellatley, in the celebrated novel of Waverley

"False love, and hast thou play'd me this,
In summer, among the flowers?
I will repay thee back again
In winter, among the showers.

"Unless again, again, my love,
Unless you turn again,

As you with other maidens rove,
I'll smile on other men "

And she boil'd them in the pan.

And the barrin' o' our door weil, weil, weil,

And the barrin' o' our door weil.

The wind blew cauld frae south to north,
It blew into the floor;

Says our gudeman to our gudewife,
Get up and bar the door.
And the barrin', &c.

My hand is in my hussyfe skep,
Gudeman, as ye may see;

An it shouldna be barr'd this hunner year,
It's no be barr'd for me.

And the barrin', &c.

They made a paction 'tween them twa,
They made it firm and sure,

The first that spak the foremost word
Should rise and bar the door.
And the barrin', &c.

Then by there came twa gentlemen,
At twelve o'clock at night;

And they could neither see house nor ha',
Nor coal nor candle-licht.

And the barrin', &c.

Now whether is this a rich man's house,
Or whether is this a puir?

But never a word wad ane o' them speak,
For the barrin' o' the door.

And the barrin', &c.

And first they ate the white puddins,

And syne they ate the black;

And muckle thocht our gudewife to hersell, But never a word she spak.

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And the barrin', &c.

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"gudeman" of this song was a person of the name of John Blunt, who lived of yore in Crawford-Muir. There are two tunes to which it is often sung. One of them is in most of the Collections of Scottish Tunes;

HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT'S

AWA.

Tune-"Here's a health to them that's awa."

HERE's a health to them that's awa,

Here's a health to them that's awa;

Here's a health to them that were here shart syne,

And canna be here the day.

It's gude to be merry and wise;

It's gude to be honest and true; It's gude to be aff wi' the auld love, Before ye be on wi' the new.

HEY, CA' THROUGH. Tune" Hey, ca' through." Ur wi' the carles o' Dysart,

And the lads o' Buckhaven,
And the kimmers o' Largo,
And the lasses o' Leven.

Hey, ca' through, ca' through,
For we hae muckle ado:
Hey, ca' through, ca' through,
For we hae muckle ado.

We hae tales to tell,
And we hae sangs to sing ;
We hae pennies so spend,
And we hae pints to bring.

Hey, ca' through, &c.

We'll live a' our days;
And them that comes behin',
Let them do the like,
And spend the gear they win.
Hey, ca' through, &c.

the other, though to appearance equally ancient, seems I LO’ED NE'ER A LADDIE BUT ANE.

to have been preserved by tradition alone, as we have never seen it in print. A third tune, to which we have heard this song sung, by only one person, an American student, we suspect to have been imported from his own country.

"Logie o' Buchan" is stated by Mr. Peter Buchan of Peterhead, in his Gleanings of Scarce Old Ballads (1827), to have been the composition of Mr. George Halket, and to have been written by him while schoolmaster of Rathen, in Aberdeenshire, about the year 1736. "The poetry of this individual," says Mi. Buchan, "was chieffy Jacobitical, and long remained familiar amongst the peasantry in that quarter of the Country: One of the best known of these, at the present, is Wherry, Whigs, awa, man! In 1746, Mr. Halket wrote a dialogue betwixt George II. and the Devil, which falling into the hands of the Duke of Cumberland while on his march to Culloden, he offered one hundred pounds reward for the person or the head of its author. Mr. Halket died in 1756.

"The Logie here mentioned, is in one of the adjoning parishes (Cramond) where Mr. Halket then sided; and the hero of the piece was a James Robrison, gardener at the place of Logie."

CLUNIE.

Tune-" My lodging is on the cold ground.”

I LO❜ED ne'er a laddie but ane;

He lo'ed ne'er a lassie but me; He's willing to mak me his ain;

And his ain I am willing to be. He has coft me a rokelay o' blue,

And a pair o' mittens o' green; The price was a kiss o' my mou'; And I paid him the debt yestreen. Let ithers brag weel o' their gear,

Their land, and their lordly degree, I carena for ought but my dear,

For he's ilka thing lordly to me: His words are sac sugar'd, sae sweet! His sense drives ilk fear far awa!

I listen-poor fool! and I greet;

Yet how sweet are the tears as they fa'! ·

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