"Life of Dr. Johnson" has conferred a peculiar immortality upon his name. He was unfortunately killed in 1822, by Mr. James Stuart of Dunearn, in a duel arising out of a literary squabble in the "Sentinel," a Glasgow newspaper, to which Sir Alexander had contributed a "Whig song, supposed to be written by one of the Jameses, certainly not by King James the First or King James the Fifth, but probably by one of the house of Stuart." The song was very scurrilous, and reflected on the honour of Mr. Stuart. In after-life Mr. Stuart became editor of the London 'Courier," and an Inspector of Mills and Factories. JENNY'S BAWBIE. Oldest version, upon which the preceding was founded by SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL. AN' a' that e'er my Jenny had, There's your plack and my plack, We'll put it a' in the pint-stoup, JENNY DANG THE WEAVER. SIR A. BOSWELL, Bart. Ar Willie's wedding an the green, And braw white Sunday mutches : And Jenny dang, Jenny dang, At ilka country-dance or reel Jenny dang the weaver; But soon the fool his folly kent, Quo' he, My lass, to speak my mind You've bonnie een; and if you're kind, He humm'd and haw'd; the lass cried, Peugh! And Jenny dang, Jenny dang, For Jenny dang the weaver. ANONYMOUS. Air-" There's cauld kail in Aberdeen." THERE'S cauld kail in Aberdeen, And custocks in Stra'bogie, Johnny Smith has got a wife For I maun hae my cogie, sirs, Twa three todlin' weans they hae, Crying, “Wae betide the three-gir'd cog! Oh, wae betide the cogie ! It does mair skaith than a' the ills She fand him ance at Willie Sharpe's; Crying, "Wae betide the three-gir'd cog! It does mair skaith than a' the ills Yet here's to ilka honest soul This song was popular in Aberdeenshire in the middle of the eighteenth century. There are at least half-a-dozen Scottish songs parodies upon, or emendations of, this. One, by Alexander fourth Duke of Gordon, appears among the Miscellaneous Songs in this volume; and a second was printed in Herd's Collection. Now the sun's gane out o' sight, On my bonny grey mare, And I see her yet, and I see her yet. The wind's drifting hail and sna' O'er frozen hags like a foot-ba'; Nae starns keek through the azure slit, 'Tis cauld and mirk as ony pit. The man i' the moon Is carousing aboon; D'ye see, d'ye see, d'ye see him yet? |