My father cou'dna work, and my mither cou'dna spin ; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it proved a wreck; Auld Robin argued sair; though my mither didna speak, I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When sitting sae mournfully ae day at the door, upon it; and a literary controversy sprung up to decide the authorship. Many cmjectured that it was as old as the days of David Rizzio, if not composed by tiat unfortunate minstrel himself, while others considered it of a much later date. The real author was, however, suspected; and ultimately, when her ladyship was ar old woman, Sir Walter Scott received a letter from Lady Anne herself openly avowing that she had written it. She stated that she had been long suspected by her more intimate friends, and often questioned with respect to the mysterious ballad, but that she had always managed to keep her secret to herself without a direct and alsolute denial. She was induced to write the song by a desire to see an old plaintive Scottish air ("The bridegroom grat when the sun gaed down"), which was a favourie with her, fitted with words more suitable to its character than the ribald verse which had always hitherto, for want of better, been sung to it. She had previou ly been endeavouring to beguile the tedium occasioned by her sister's marriage and departure for London by the composition of verses; but of all she had writte, either before or since, none have reached the merit of this admirable little poem. It struck her that some tale of virtuous distress in humble life would be most suitajle to the plaintive character of her favourite air; and she accordingly set about such an attempt, taking the name of" Auld Robin Gray" from an ancient herd at Balcarras. When she had written two or three of the verses, she called to her juiior sister (afterwards Lady Hardwicke), who was the only person near her, and thus addressed her: "I have been writing a ballad, my dear; I am oppressing my hroine with many misfortunes; I have already sent her Jamie to sea, and broken her father's arm, and made her mother fall sick, and given her Auld Robin Gray fo her lover; but I wish to load her with a fifth sorrow within the four lines-poor thing! Help me to one." "Steal the cow, Sister Anne," said the little Elizabeth. The cow, adds Lady Anne in her letter, "was immediately lifted by me, and tle song completed." Lady Anne Barnard died in a vigorous old age about two years after her confession to Sir Walter Scott. The air to which the song is now usualy sung is the composition of an English amateur, the Rev. William Leeves, recta of Wrington, who died in 1828, at the age of 80. Oh, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say, And why do I live to say, Oh, waes me! I gang like a ghaist, I carena to spin, I darena think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me. THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE. WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. From Herd's Collection, 1776. BUT are ye sure the news is true? And are ye sure he's weel? Is this a time to think o' wark? Ye jauds, fling bye your wheel! For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a'; There's nae luck about the house, Is this a time to think o' wark, Rax down my cloak-I'll to the quay, Rise up and make a clean fireside, Put on the muckle pat; Gie little Kate her cotton gown, Mak their shoon as black as slaes, There are twa hens into the crib Hae fed this month or mair; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, My Turkey slippers I'll put on, Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue, And will I see his face again, There's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a'; There's nae luck about the house, When our gudeman's awa'. "This," says Burns, "is positively the finest love-ballad in the Scotch, or perhaps in any other language;""-a verdict in which every lover of poetry and every feeling heart will agree. TO MARY IN HEAVEN.* ROBERT BURNS, born 25th January, 1759, died July 21st, 1796. THOU lingering star, with less'ning ray That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid, Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? "The song of Highland Mary' was written," says Burns, "on one of the most interesting passages of my youthful days." The object of this passion died early in life, and the impression left on the mind of Burns seems to have been deep and lasting. Several years afterwards, when he was removed to Nithsdale, he gave vent to the sensibility of his recollections in these impassioned lines ("To Mary in Heaven").-DR. CURRIE. Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace Ah, little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, The flowers sprang wanton to be press'd, Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, My Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy blissful place of rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid, Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY? BURNS. WILL ye go to the Indies, my Mary, Oh, sweet grow the lime and the orange, But a' the charms o' the Indies I hae sworn by the heavens to my Mary, Oh, plight me your faith, my Mary, We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, And curst be the hour that shall part us, The hour and the moment o' time! "In my very early years, when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, I took the following farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, and has nothing of the merit of Ewe-Bughts;' but it will fill up this page. You must know that my earlier love-songs were the breathing of ardent passion; and though it might have been easy in after-times to have given them a polish, yet that polish to me, whose they were, and who perhaps alone cared for them, would have defaced the legend of my heart, which was so faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as they say of wines, their race."-BURNS to Thomson. Mr. Thomson did not think sufficiently well of this song to insert it in his collection. |