Page images

Bonnie Jocky, blythe and free,

Won her heart right merrily : At church she no more frowning cried, “No, no, it will not do ; I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot buckle to.”

Modernised from song of Tom D'Urfey. The air to which the song is now usually sung is of more recent origin than the words, having been the composition of Mr. Hook, father of the late Theodore Hook the novelist. Mr. Hook, besides composing many beautiful English melodies, wrote several in imitation of the Scottish



ANONYMOUS. From “ Johnson's Museum," 1787. To the tune of “Haud awa'




Thou art gane awa', thou art gane awa’

Thou art gane awa' frae me, Mary ;
Nor friends nor I could make thee stay-

Thou hast cheated them and me, Mary.
Until this hour I never thought

That aught could alter thee, Mary;
Thou art still the mistress of my heart,

Think what you will of me, Mary.

Whate'er he said or might pretend

That stole the heart of thine, Mary,
True love, I'm sure, was ne'er his end,

Or nae sic love as mine, Mary.
I spoke sincere, nor flatter'd much,

Had no unworthy thoughts, Mary;
Ambition, wealth, nor naething such,

No, I loved only thee, Mary.

Though you've been false, yet while I live

I'll lo'e nae maid but thee, Mary ;
Let friends forget, as I forgive

Thy wrongs to them and me, Mary.
So then, farewell ! of this be sure,

Since you've been false to me, Mary,
For all the world I'd not endure

Half what I've done for thee, Mary.


MRS. DUGALD STEWART, wife of the philosopher. From “ Johnson's

Museum,” 1792.

THE tears I shed must ever fall,

I mourn not for an absent swain;
For thoughts may past delights recall,

And parted lovers meet again.
I weep not for the silent dead,-

Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er;
And those they loved their steps shall tread,

And death shall join to part no more.

Though boundless oceans roll'd between,

If certain that his death is near,
A conscious transport glads each scene,

Soft is the sigh and sweet the tear.
E’en when by death's cold hand removed,

We mourn the tenant of the tomb :
To think that e'en in death he loved,

Can gild the horrors of the gloom.

But bitter, bitter are the tears

Of her who slighted love bewails;
No hope her dreary prospect cheers,

No pleasing melancholy hails.
Hers are the pangs of wounded pride,

Of blasted hope, of wither'd joy;
The flattering veil is rent aside,

The flame of love burns to destroy.

In vain does memory renew

The hours once tinged in transport’s dye;
The sad reverse soon starts to view,

And turns the past to agony.
E'en time itself despairs to cure

Those pangs to every feeling due:
Ungenerous youth, thy boast how poor,

To win a heart and break it too!

No cold approach, no alter'd mien,

Just what would make suspicion start; No pause

the dire extremes between,-
He made me blest and broke my heart,
From hope, the wretched's anchor, torn ;

Neglected and neglecting all,
Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn,

The tears I shed must ever fall.

[graphic][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows indeed,
And happy be the lot o'a'

Wha wishes her to speed.

Oh, weel may the boatie row,

That fills a heavy creel,
And cleeds us a' frae tap to tae,

And buys our parritch meal.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows indeed,
And happy be the lot o'a'

That wish the boatie speed.

When Jamie vow'd he wad be mine,

And wan frae me my heart,
Oh, muckle lighter grew my creel-

He swore we'd never part.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows fu' weel;
And muckle lighter is the load

When love bears up the creel.

My kurtch I put upo' my head,

And dress’d mysel' fu' braw;
I trow my heart was dough and wae,

When Jamie gade awa'.
But weel may the boatie row,

And lucky be her part,
And lightsome be the lassie's care

That yields an honest heart.

Burns, in his correspondence, states that this song was written by a Mr. Ewen of Aberdeen. Mr. Peter Buchan has recovered from tradition the old ballad upon which it appears to have been founded. The second stanza in Mr. Buchan's version is the same as that given above; but the other stanzas bear no resemblance to the modern song. Its merits or demerits do not entitle it to publication. The chorus is often sung as follows:

The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows fu' weel;
And muckle luck attend the boat,

The merlin, and the creel.


From “ Johnson's Museum,” 1787.

Air-" The Ewe-Bughts."

“Will ye gang wi' me, Lizzy Lindsay ?

Will ye gang to the Highlands wi' me?
Will ye gang wi' me, Lizzy Lindsay,

My bride and my darling to be ?”

“ To

to the Highlands wi' you, sir,
I dinna ken how that may be ;
For I ken nae the land that ye live in,

Nor ken I the lad I'm gaun wi’.”

[ocr errors]

O Lizzy lass, ye maun ken little,

If sae that ye dinna ken me;
For my name is Lord Roland MacDonald,

A chieftain o’ high degree.”
She has kilted her coats o' green satin,

She has kilted them up to the knee,
And she's aff wi’ Lord Roland MacDonald,

His bride and his darling to be.




Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and he sought me for his bride,
But saving a crown he had naething else beside ;
To mak that crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea,
And tae crown and the pound were baith for me.
He had na been awa a week but only twa,


mither she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa, My fatłer brak his arm, and my Jamie at the sea, And auld Robin Gray cam'a-courting to me.

* This beautiful ballad, of which the authorship was long a mystery, was written by Lady Anne Lindsay, daughter of the Earl of Balcarras, and afterwards Lady Barnard. It appears to have been composed at the commencement of the year 1772, when the autho: was yet a young girl. It was published anonymously, and acquired great popularity. No one, however, came forward to lay claim to the laurels lavished

« PreviousContinue »