Chapter I: Preface (1)

Scotland has probably produced a more patriotic and more extended minstrelsy than any other country in the world. Those Caledonian harp-strains, styled by Sir Walter Scott "gems of our own mountains," have frequently been gathered into caskets of national song, but have never been stored in any complete cabinet; while no attempt has been made, at least on an ample scale, to adapt, by means of suitable metrical translations, the minstrelsy of the Gaël for Lowland melody. The present work has been undertaken with the view of supplying these deficiencies, and with the further design of extending the fame of those cultivators of Scottish song--hitherto partially obscured by untoward circumstances, or on account of their own diffidence--and of affording a stimulus towards the future cultivation of national poetry.

The plan of the work is distinct from that of every previous collection of Scottish song--the more esteemed lyrical compositions of the various bards being printed along with the memoirs of the respective authors, while the names of the poets have been arranged in chronological order. Those have been considered as _modern_ whose lives extend into the past half-century; and the whole of these have consequently been included in the work. Several Highland bards who died a short period before the commencement of the century have, however, been introduced. Of all the Scottish poets, whether lyrical or otherwise, who survived the period indicated, biographical sketches will be supplied in the course of the publication, together with memoirs of the principal modern collectors, composers and vocalists. The memoirs, so far as is practicable, will be prepared from original materials, of which the Editor, after a very extensive correspondence, has obtained a supply more ample and more interesting than, he flatters himself, has ever been attained by any collector of northern minstrelsy. The work will extend to six volumes, each of the subsequent volumes being accompanied by a dissertation on a distinct department of Scottish poetry and song. Each volume will be illustrated with two elegant engravings. In the course of the work, many original compositions will be presented, recovered from the MSS. of the deceased poets, or contributed by distinguished living bards.

For the department of the "Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy," the Editor has obtained the assistance of a learned friend, intimately familiar with the language and poetry of the Highlands. To this esteemed co-adjutor the reader is indebted for the revisal of the Gaelic department of this work, as well as for the following prefatory observations on the subject:--

"Among the intelligent natives of the Highlands, it is well known
that the Gaelic language contains a quantity of poetry, which, how
difficult soever to transfuse into other tongues and idioms, never
fails to touch the heart, and excite enthusiastic feelings. The
plan of 'The Modern Scottish Minstrel' restricts us to a period
less favourable to the inspirations of the Celtic muse than remoter
times. If it is asked, What could be gained by recurring to a more
distant period? or what this unlettered people have really to shew
for their bardic pretensions? we answer, that there is extant a
large and genuine collection of Highland minstrelsy, ranging over a
long exciting period, from the days of Harlaw to the expedition of
Charles Edward. The 'Prosnachadh Catha,' or battle-song, that led
on the raid of Donald the Islander on the Garioch, is still sung;
the 'Woes of the Children of the Mist' are yet rehearsed in the
ears of their children in the most plaintive measures. Innerlochy
and Killiecrankie have their appropriate melodies; Glencoe has its
dirge; both the exiled Jameses have their pæan and their lament;
Charles Edward his welcome and his wail;--all in strains so varied,
and with imagery so copious, that their repetition is continually
called for, and their interest untiring.

"All that we have to offer belongs to recent times; but we cannot
aver that the merit of the verses is inferior. The interest of the
subjects is certainly immeasurably less; but, perhaps, not less
propitious to the lilts and the luinneags, in which, as in her
music and imitative dancing, the Highland border has found her best
Lowland acceptation.

"We are not aware that we need except any piece, out of the more
ancient class, that seems not to admit of being rivalled by some of
the compositions of Duncan Ban (Macintyre), Rob Donn, and a few
others that come into our own series, if we exclude the pathetic
'Old Bard's Wish,' 'The Song of the Owl,' and, perhaps, Ian Lom's
'Innerlochy.'

"But, while this may be so far satisfactory to our readers, we are
under the necessity of claiming their charitable forbearance for
the strangers of the mountain whom we are to introduce to their
acquaintance. The language, and, in some respects, the imagery and
versification, are as foreign to the usages of the Anglo-Saxon as
so many samples of Orientalism. The transfusion of the Greek and
Latin choral metres is a light effort to the difficulty of
imitating the rhythm, or representing the peculiar vein of these
song-enamoured mountaineers. Those who know how a favourite ode of
Horace, or a lay of Catullus, is made to look, except in mere
paraphrase, must not talk of the poorness or triteness of the
Highlander's verses, till they are enabled to do them justice by a
knowledge of the language. We disdain any attempt to make those
bards sing in the mere English taste, even if we could so translate
them as to make them speak or sing better than they do. The fear of
his sarcasms prevented Dr Johnson from hearing one literal version
during his whole sojourn in the Highlands. Sir Walter Scott wished
that somebody might have the manliness to recover Highland poetry
from the mystification of paraphrase or imposture, and to present
it genuine to the English reader. In that spirit we promise to
execute our task; and we shall rejoice if even a very moderate
degree of success should attend our endeavours to obtain for the
sister muse some share of that popularity to which we believe her
entitled."

In respect of the present volume of "The Modern Scottish Minstrel," the Editor has to congratulate himself on his being enabled to present, for the first time in a popular form, the more esteemed lays of Carolina, Baroness Nairn, author of "The Laird o' Cockpen," "The Land o' the Leal," and a greater number of popular lyrics than any other Caledonian bard, Burns alone excepted. Several pieces of this accomplished lady, not previously published, have been introduced, through the kindness of her surviving friends. The memoir of the Baroness has been prepared from original documents entrusted to the Editor. For permission to engrave "The Auld House o' Gask," Lady Nairn's birth-place, the Editor's thanks are due to Mr Paterson, music-seller in Edinburgh.

While the present volume of "The Modern Scottish Minstrel" is offered to the public with becoming diffidence, the Editor is not without a faint ray of hope that, if health and sufficient leisure are afforded him, the present publication may be found the most ample and satisfactory repository of national song which has at any period been offered to the public.

ARGYLE HOUSE, STIRLING,
_April 18, 1855._

CONTENTS.

PAGE
JOHN SKINNER, 1
Tullochgorum, 11
John o' Badenyon, 13
The ewie wi' the crookit horn, 17
O! why should old age so much wound us? 20
Still in the wrong, 22
Lizzy Liberty, 24
The stipendless parson, 28
The man of Ross, 31
A song on the times, 33

WILLIAM CAMERON, 35
As o'er the Highland hills I hied, 37

MRS JOHN HUNTER, 39
The Indian death-song, 41
My mother bids me bind my hair, 41
The flowers of the forest, 42
The season comes when first we met, 43
Oh, tuneful voice! I still deplore, 44
Dear to my heart as life's warm stream, 44
The lot of thousands, 45

ALEXANDER, DUKE OF GORDON, 46
Cauld kail in Aberdeen, 48

MRS GRANT OF CARRON, 50
Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, 52

ROBERT COUPER, M.D., 53
Kinrara, 55
The sheeling, 55
The ewe-bughts, Marion, 56

LADY ANNE BARNARD, 58
Auld Robin Gray, 64
" " Part II., 65
Why tarries my love? 68

JOHN TAIT, 70
The banks of the Dee, 72

HECTOR MACNEILL, 73
Mary of Castlecary, 82
My boy, Tammy, 83
Oh, tell me how for to woo, 85
Lassie wi' the gowden hair, 87
Come under my plaidie, 89
I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane, 90
Donald and Flora, 92
My luve's in Germany, 95
Dinna think, bonnie lassie, 96

MRS GRANT OF LAGGAN, 99
Oh, where, tell me where? 104
Oh, my love, leave me not, 106

JOHN MAYNE, 107
Logan braes, 110
Helen of Kirkconnel, 111
The winter sat lang, 113
My Johnnie, 114
The troops were embarked, 115

JOHN HAMILTON, 117
The rantin' Highlandman, 118
Up in the mornin' early, 119
Go to Berwick, Johnnie, 121
Miss Forbes' farewell to Banff, 121
Tell me, Jessie, tell me why? 122
The hawthorn, 123
Oh, blaw, ye westlin' winds! 124

JOANNA BAILLIE, 126
The maid of Llanwellyn, 132
Good night, good night! 133
Though richer swains thy love pursue, 134
Poverty parts good companie, 134
Fy, let us a' to the wedding, 136
Hooly and fairly, 139
The weary pund o' tow, 141
The wee pickle tow, 142
The gowan glitters on the sward, 143
Saw ye Johnnie comin'? 145
It fell on a morning, 146
Woo'd, and married, and a', 148

WILLIAM DUDGEON, 151
Up among yon cliffy rocks, 152

WILLIAM REID, 153
The lea rig, 154
John Anderson, my jo (a continuation), 155
Fair, modest flower, 157
Kate o' Gowrie, 157
Upon the banks o' flowing Clyde, 159

ALEXANDER CAMPBELL, 161
Now winter's wind sweeps, 165
The hawk whoops on high, 166

MRS DUGALD STEWART, 167
The tears I shed must ever fall, 168
Returning spring, with gladsome ray, 169

ALEXANDER WILSON, 172
Connel and Flora, 179
Matilda, 179
Auchtertool, 182

CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRN, 184
The ploughman, 194
Caller herrin', 195
The land o' the leal, 196
The Laird o' Cockpen, 198
Her home she is leaving, 200
The bonniest lass in a' the warld, 201
My ain kind dearie, O! 202
He 's lifeless amang the rude billows, 202
Joy of my earliest days, 203
Oh, weel's me on my ain man, 204
Kind Robin lo'es me 205
Kitty Reid's house, 205
The robin's nest, 206
Saw ye nae my Peggy? 208
Gude nicht, and joy be wi' ye a'! 209
Cauld kail in Aberdeen, 210
He 's ower the hills that I lo'e weel, 211
The lass o' Gowrie, 213
There grows a bonnie brier bush, 215
John Tod, 216
Will ye no come back again? 218
Jamie the laird, 219
Songs of my native land, 220
Castell Gloom, 221
Bonnie Gascon Ha', 223
The auld house, 224
The hundred pipers, 226
The women are a' gane wud, 227
Jeanie Deans, 228
The heiress, 230
The mitherless lammie, 231
The attainted Scottish nobles, 232
True love is watered aye wi' tears, 233
Ah, little did my mother think, 234
Would you be young again? 235
Rest is not here, 236
Here's to them that are gane, 237
Farewell, O farewell! 238
The dead who have died in the Lord, 239

JAMES NICOL, 240
Blaw saftly, ye breezes, 242
By yon hoarse murmurin' stream, 242
Haluckit Meg, 244
My dear little lassie, 246

JAMES MONTGOMERY, 247
"Friendship, love, and truth," 253
The Swiss cowherd's song in a foreign land, 254
German war-song, 254
Via Crucis, via Lucis, 255
Verses to a robin-redbreast, 257
Slavery that was, 258

ANDREW SCOTT, 260
Rural content, or the muirland farmer, 263
Symon and Janet, 265
Coquet water, 268
The young maid's wish for peace, 269
The fiddler's widow, 271
Lament for the death of an Irish chief, 272
The departure of summer, 273

SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART., 275
It was an English ladye bright, 289
Lochinvar, 290
Where shall the lover rest, 292
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, 294
Hail to the chief who in triumph advances, 295
The heath this night must be my bed, 297
The imprisoned huntsman, 298
He is gone on the mountain, 299
A weary lot is thine, fair maid, 300
Allen-a-Dale, 300
The cypress wreath, 302
The cavalier, 303
Hunting song, 304
Oh, say not, my love, with that mortified air, 315

* * * * *

METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.

ROBERT MACKAY (ROB DONN), 309
The song of winter, 311
Dirge for Ian Macechan, 315
The song of the forsaken drover, 315
Isabel Mackay--the maid alone, 318
Evan's Elegy, 321

DOUGAL BUCHANAN, 322
A clagionn--the skull, 326
Am bruadar--the dream, 330

DUNCAN MACINTYRE, 334
Mairi bhān ōg (Mary, the young, the fair-haired), 335
Bendourain, the Otter Mount, 336
The bard to his musket, 347

JOHN MACODRUM, 351
Oran na h-aois (the song of age), 352

NORMAN MACLEOD (TORMAID BAN), 355
Caberfae, 357

* * * * *

GLOSSARY, 363

THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL

JOHN SKINNER.

Among those modern Scottish poets whose lives, by extending to a considerably distant period, render them connecting links between the old and recent minstrelsy of Caledonia, the first place is due to the Rev. John Skinner. This ingenious and learned person was born on the 3d of October 1721, at Balfour, in the parish of Birse, and county of Aberdeen. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was parochial schoolmaster; but two years after his son's birth, he was presented to the more lucrative situation of schoolmaster of Echt, a parish about twelve miles distant from Aberdeen. He discharged the duties of this latter appointment during the long incumbency of fifty years. He was twice married. By his first union with Mrs Jean Gillanders, the relict of Donald Farquharson of Balfour, was born an only child, the subject of this memoir. The mother dying when the child was only two years old, the charge of his early training depended solely on his father, who for several years remained a widower. The paternal duties were adequately performed: the son, while a mere youth, was initiated in classical learning, and in his thirteenth year he became a successful competitor for a bursary or exhibition in Marischal College, Aberdeen. At the University, during the usual philosophical course of four years, he pursued his studies with diligence and success; and he afterwards became an usher in the parish schools of Kemnay and Monymusk.

From early youth, young Skinner had courted the Muse of his country, and composed verses in the Scottish dialect. When a mere stripling, he could repeat, which he did with enthusiasm, the long poem by James I. of "Christ-kirk on the Green;" he afterwards translated it into Latin verse; and an imitation of the same poem, entitled "The Monymusk Christmas Ba'ing," descriptive of the diversions attendant on the annual Christmas gatherings for playing the game of foot-ball at Monymusk, which he composed in his sixteenth year, attracting the notice of the lady of Sir Archibald Grant, Bart. of Monymusk, brought him the favour of that influential family. Though the humble usher of a parish school, he was honoured with the patronage of the worthy baronet and his lady, became an inmate of their mansion, and had the uncontrolled use of its library. The residence of the poet in Monymusk House indirectly conduced towards his forming those ecclesiastical sentiments which exercised such an important influence on his subsequent career. The Episcopal clergyman of the district was frequently a guest at the table of Sir Archibald; and by the arguments and persuasive conversation of this person, Mr Skinner was induced to enlist his sympathies in the cause of the Episcopal or non-juring clergy of Scotland. They bore the latter appellation from their refusal, during the existence of the exiled family of Stewart, to take the oath of allegiance to the House of Hanover. In 1740, on the invitation of Mr Robert Forbes, Episcopal minister at Leith, afterwards a bishop, Mr Skinner, in the capacity of private tutor to the only son of Mr Sinclair of Scolloway, proceeded to Zetland, where he acquired the intimate friendship of the Rev. Mr Hunter, the only non-juring clergyman in that remote district. There he remained only one year, owing to the death of the elder Mr Sinclair, and the removal of his pupil to pursue his studies in a less retired locality. He lamented the father's death in Latin, as well as in English verse. He left Scolloway with the best wishes of the family; and as a substantial proof of the goodwill of his friend Mr Hunter, he received in marriage the hand of his eldest daughter.

Returning to Aberdeenshire, he was ordained a presbyter of the Episcopal Church, by Bishop Dunbar of Peterhead; and in November 1742, on the unanimous invitation of the people, he was appointed to the pastoral charge of the congregation at Longside. Uninfluenced by the soarings of ambition, he seems to have fixed here, at the outset, a permanent habitation: he rented a cottage at Linshart in the vicinity, which, though consisting only of a single apartment, besides the kitchen, sufficed for the expenditure of his limited emoluments. In every respect he realised Goldsmith's description of the village pastor:--

"A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a-year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place."

Secluded, however, as were Mr Skinner's habits, and though he never had interfered in the political movements of the period, he did not escape his share in those ruthless severities which were visited upon the non-juring clergy subsequent to the last Rebellion. His chapel was destroyed by the soldiers of the barbarous Duke of Cumberland; and, on the plea of his having transgressed the law by preaching to more than four persons without subscribing the oath of allegiance, he was, during six months, detained a prisoner in the jail of Aberdeen.

Entering on the sacred duties of the pastoral office, Mr Skinner appears to have checked the indulgence of his rhyming propensities. His subsequent poetical productions, which include the whole of his popular songs, were written to please his friends, or gratify the members of his family, and without the most distant view to publication. In 1787, he writes to Burns, on the subject of Scottish song:--"While I was young, I dabbled a good deal in these things; but on getting the black gown, I gave it pretty much over, till my daughters grew up, who, being all tolerably good singers, plagued me for words to some of their favourite tunes, and so extorted those effusions which have made a public appearance, beyond my expectations, and contrary to my intentions; at the same time, I hope there is nothing to be found in them uncharacteristic or unbecoming the cloth, which I would always wish to see respected." Some of Mr Skinner's best songs were composed at a sitting, while they seldom underwent any revision after being committed to paper. To the following incident, his most popular song, "Tullochgorum," owed its origin. In the course of a visit he was making to a friend in Ellon (not Cullen, as has been stated on the authority of Burns), a dispute arose among the guests on the subject of Whig and Tory politics, which, becoming somewhat too exciting for the comfort of the lady of the house, in order to bring it promptly to a close, she requested Mr Skinner to suggest appropriate words for the favourite air, "The Reel of Tullochgorum." Mr Skinner readily complied, and, before leaving the house, produced what Burns, in a letter to the author, characterised as "the best Scotch song ever Scotland saw." The name of the lady who made the request to the poet was Mrs Montgomery, and hence the allusion in the first stanza of the ballad:--

"Come gie 's a sang, Montgomery cried,
And lay your disputes all aside;
What signifies 't for folks to chide
For what was done before them?
Let Whig and Tory all agree," &c.

Though claiming no distinction as a writer of verses, Mr Skinner did not conceal his ambition to excel in another department of literature. In 1746, in his twenty-fifth year, he published a pamphlet, in defence of the non-juring character of his Church, entitled "A Preservative against Presbytery." A performance of greater effort, published in 1757, excited some attention, and the unqualified commendation of the learned Bishop Sherlock. In this production, entitled "A Dissertation on Jacob's Prophecy," which was intended as a supplement to a treatise on the same subject by Dr Sherlock, the author has established, by a critical examination of the original language, that the words in Jacob's prophecy (Gen. xlix. 10), rendered "sceptre" and "lawgiver" in the authorised version, ought to be translated "tribeship" and "typifier," a difference of interpretation which obviates some difficulties respecting the exact fulfilment of this remarkable prediction. In a pamphlet printed in 1767, Mr Skinner again vindicated the claims and authority of his Church; and on this occasion, against the alleged misrepresentations of Mr Norman Sievewright, English clergyman at Brechin, who had published a work unfavourable to the cause of Scottish Episcopacy. His most important work, "An Ecclesiastical History of Scotland, from the first appearance of Christianity in that kingdom," was published in the year 1788, in two octavo volumes. This publication, which is arranged in the form of letters to a friend, and dedicated, in elegant Latin verse, "Ad Filium et Episcopum," (to his son, and bishop), by partaking too rigidly of a sectarian character, did not attain any measure of success. Mr Skinner's other prose works were published after his death, together with a Memoir of the author, under the editorial care of his son, Bishop Skinner of Aberdeen. These consist of theological essays, in the form of "Letters addressed to Candidates for Holy Orders," "A Dissertation on the Sheckinah, or Divine Presence with the Church or People of God," and "An Essay towards a literal or true radical exposition of the Song of Songs," the whole being included in two octavo volumes, which appeared in 1809. A third volume was added, containing a collection of the author's compositions in Latin verse, and his fugitive songs and ballads in the Scottish dialect--the latter portion of this volume being at the same time published in a more compendious form, with the title, "Amusements of Leisure Hours; or, Poetical Pieces, chiefly in the Scottish dialect."

Though living in constant retirement at Linshart, the reputation of the Longside pastor, both as a poet and a man of classical taste, became widely extended, and persons distinguished in the world of letters sought his correspondence and friendship. With Dr Gleig, afterwards titular Bishop of Brechin, Dr Doig of Stirling, and John Ramsay of Ochtertyre, he maintained an epistolary intercourse for several years. Dr Gleig, who edited the _Encyclopædia Britannica_, consulted Mr Skinner respecting various important articles contributed to that valuable publication. His correspondence with Doig and Ramsay was chiefly on their favourite topic of philology. These two learned friends visited Mr Skinner in the summer of 1795, and entertained him for a week at Peterhead. This brief period of intellectual intercourse was regarded by the poet as the most entirely pleasurable of his existence; and the impression of it on the vivid imagination of Mr Ramsay is recorded in a Latin eulogy on his northern correspondent, which he subsequently transmitted to him. A poetical epistle addressed by Mr Skinner to Robert Burns, in commendation of his talents, was characterized by the Ayrshire Bard as "the best poetical compliment he had ever received." It led to a regular correspondence, which was carried on with much satisfaction to both parties. The letters, which chiefly relate to the preparation of Johnson's _Musical Museum_, then in the course of publication, have been included in his published correspondence. Burns never saw Mr Skinner; he had not informed himself as to his locality during the prosecution of his northern tour, and had thus the mortification of ascertaining that he had been in his neighbourhood, without having formed his personal acquaintance. To Mr Skinner's son, whom he accidentally met in Aberdeen on his return, he expressed a deep regret for the blunder, as "he would have gone twenty miles out of his way to visit the author of 'Tullochgorum.'"

As a man of ingenuity, various acquirements, and agreeable manners, Mr Skinner was held in much estimation among his contemporaries. Whatever he read, with the assistance of a commonplace-book, he accurately remembered, and could readily turn to account; and, though his library was contained in a closet of five feet square, he was abundantly well informed on every ordinary topic of conversation. He was fond of controversial discussion, and wielded both argument and wit with a power alarming to every antagonist. Though keen in debate, he was however possessed of a most imperturbable suavity of temper. His conversation was of a playful cast, interspersed with anecdote, and free from every affectation of learning. As a clergyman, Mr Skinner enjoyed the esteem and veneration of his flock. Besides efficiently discharging his ministerial duties, he practised gratuitously as a physician, having qualified himself, by acquiring a competent acquaintance with the healing art at the medical classes in Marischal College. His pulpit duties were widely acceptable; but his discourses, though edifying and instructive, were more the result of the promptitude of the preacher than the effects of a painstaking preparation. He abandoned the aid of the manuscript in the pulpit, on account of the untoward occurrence of his notes being scattered by a startled fowl, in the early part of his ministry, while he was addressing his people from the door of his house, after the wanton destruction of his chapel.

In a scene less calculated to invite poetic inspiration no votary of the muse had ever resided. On every side of his lonely dwelling extended a wild uncultivated plain; nor for miles around did any other human habitation relieve the monotony of this cheerless solitude. In her gayest moods, Nature never wore a pleasing aspect in _Long-gate_, nor did the distant prospect compensate for the dreary gloominess of the surrounding landscape. For his poetic suggestions Mr Skinner was wholly dependent on the singular activity of his fancy; as he derived his chief happiness in his communings with an attached flock, and in the endearing intercourse of his family. Of his children, who were somewhat numerous he contrived to afford the whole, both sons and daughters, a superior education; and he had the satisfaction, for a long period of years, to address one of his sons as the bishop of his diocese.

The death of Mr Skinner's wife, in the year 1799, fifty-eight years after their marriage, was the most severe trial which he seems to have experienced. In a Latin elegy, he gave expression to the deep sense which he entertained of his bereavement. In 1807, his son, Bishop Skinner, having sustained a similar bereavement, invited his aged father to share the comforts of his house; and after ministering at Longside for the remarkably lengthened incumbency of sixty-five years, Mr Skinner removed to Aberdeen. But a greater change was at hand; on the 16th of June 1807, in less than a week after his arrival, he was suddenly seized with illness, and almost immediately expired. His remains were interred in the churchyard of Longside; and the flock to which he had so long ministered placed over the grave a handsome monument, bearing, on a marble tablet, an elegant tribute to the remembrance of his virtues and learning. At the residence of Bishop Skinner, he had seen his descendants in the fourth generation.

Of Mr Skinner's songs, printed in this collection, the most popular are "Tullochgorum," "John o' Badenyon," and "The Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn." The whole are pervaded by sprightliness and good-humoured pleasantry. Though possessing the fault of being somewhat too lengthy, no song-compositions of any modern writer in Scottish verse have, with the exception of those of Burns, maintained a stronger hold of the Scottish heart, or been more commonly sung in the social circle.

TULLOCHGORUM.

I.

Come gie 's a sang, Montgomery cried,
And lay your disputes all aside,
What signifies 't for folks to chide
For what was done before them:
Let Whig and Tory all agree,
Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,
Whig and Tory all agree,
To drop their Whig-mig-morum;
Let Whig and Tory all agree
To spend the night wi' mirth and glee,
And cheerful sing alang wi' me
The Reel o' Tullochgorum.

II.

O Tullochgorum 's my delight,
It gars us a' in ane unite,
And ony sumph that keeps a spite,
In conscience I abhor him:
For blythe and cheerie we'll be a',
Blythe and cheerie, blythe and cheerie,
Blythe and cheerie we'll be a',
And make a happy quorum;
For blythe and cheerie we'll be a'
As lang as we hae breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',
The Reel o' Tullochgorum.

III.

What needs there be sae great a fraise
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays?
I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys
For half a hunder score o' them;
They're dowf and dowie at the best,
Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie,
Dowf and dowie at the best,
Wi' a' their variorum;
They're dowf and dowie at the best,
Their _allegros_ and a' the rest,
They canna' please a Scottish taste,
Compared wi' Tullochgorum.

IV.

Let warldly worms their minds oppress
Wi' fears o' want and double cess,
And sullen sots themsells distress
Wi' keeping up decorum:
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Sour and sulky shall we sit,
Like old philosophorum?
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,
Nor ever try to shake a fit
To th' Reel o' Tullochgorum?

V.

May choicest blessings aye attend
Each honest, open-hearted friend,
And calm and quiet be his end,
And a' that's good watch o'er him;
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,
Peace and plenty be his lot,
And dainties a great store o' them:
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Unstain'd by any vicious spot,
And may he never want a groat,
That 's fond o' Tullochgorum!

VI.

But for the sullen, frumpish fool,
That loves to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,
And discontent devour him;
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
Dool and sorrow be his chance,
And nane say, Wae 's me for him!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Wi' a' the ills that come frae France,
Wha e'er he be that winna dance
The Reel o' Tullochgorum.

JOHN O' BADENYON

I.

When first I cam to be a man
Of twenty years or so,
I thought myself a handsome youth,
And fain the world would know;
In best attire I stept abroad,
With spirits brisk and gay,
And here and there and everywhere
Was like a morn in May;
No care I had, nor fear of want,
But rambled up and down,
And for a beau I might have past
In country or in town;
I still was pleased where'er I went,
And when I was alone,
I tuned my pipe and pleased myself
Wi' John o' Badenyon.

II.

Now in the days of youthful prime
A mistress I must find,
For _love_, I heard, gave one an air
And e'en improved the mind:
On Phillis fair above the rest
Kind fortune fix'd my eyes,
Her piercing beauty struck my heart,
And she became my choice;
To Cupid now, with hearty prayer,
I offer'd many a vow;
And danced and sung, and sigh'd and swore,
As other lovers do;
But, when at last I breathed my flame,
I found her cold as stone;
I left the girl, and tuned my pipe
To John o' Badenyon.

III.

When _love_ had thus my heart beguiled
With foolish hopes and vain;
To _friendship's_ port I steer'd my course,
And laugh'd at lovers' pain;
A friend I got by lucky chance,
'Twas something like divine,
An honest friend 's a precious gift,
And such a gift was mine;
And now whatever might betide
A happy man was I,
In any strait I knew to whom
I freely might apply.
A strait soon came: my friend I try'd;
He heard, and spurn'd my moan;
I hied me home, and tuned my pipe
To John o' Badenyon.

IV.

Methought I should be wiser next,
And would a _patriot_ turn,
Began to doat on Johnny Wilkes
And cry up Parson Horne.[1]
Their manly spirit I admired,
And praised their noble zeal,
Who had with flaming tongue and pen
Maintain'd the public weal;
But e'er a month or two had pass'd,
I found myself betray'd,
'Twas _self_ and _party_, after all,
For a' the stir they made;
At last I saw the factious knaves
Insult the very throne,
I cursed them a', and tuned my pipe
To John o' Badenyon.

V.

What next to do I mused awhile,
Still hoping to succeed;
I pitch'd on _books_ for company,
And gravely tried to read:
I bought and borrow'd everywhere,
And studied night and day,
Nor miss'd what dean or doctor wrote
That happen'd in my way:
Philosophy I now esteem'd
The ornament of youth,
And carefully through many a page
I hunted after truth.
A thousand various schemes I tried,
And yet was pleased with none;
I threw them by, and tuned my pipe
To John o' Badenyon.

VI.

And now, ye youngsters everywhere,
That wish to make a show,
Take heed in time, nor fondly hope
For happiness below;
What you may fancy pleasure here,
Is but an empty name,
And _girls_, and _friends_, and _books_, and so,
You 'll find them all the same.
Then be advised, and warning take
From such a man as me;
I 'm neither Pope nor Cardinal,
Nor one of high degree;
You 'll meet displeasure everywhere;
Then do as I have done,
E'en tune your pipe and please yourselves
With John o' Badenyon.

[1] This song was composed when Wilkes, Horne, and others, were exciting a commotion about liberty.

THE EWIE WI' THE CROOKIT HORN.

I.

Were I but able to rehearse
My Ewie's praise in proper verse,
I 'd sound it forth as loud and fierce
As ever piper's drone could blaw;
The Ewie wi' the crookit horn,
Wha had kent her might hae sworn
Sic a Ewe was never born,
Hereabout nor far awa';
Sic a Ewe was never born,
Hereabout nor far awa'.

II.

I never needed tar nor keil
To mark her upo' hip or heel,
Her crookit horn did as weel
To ken her by amo' them a';
She never threaten'd scab nor rot,
But keepit aye her ain jog-trot,
Baith to the fauld and to the cot,
Was never sweir to lead nor caw;
Baith to the fauld and to the cot, &c.

III.

Cauld nor hunger never dang her,
Wind nor wet could never wrang her,
Anes she lay an ouk and langer
Furth aneath a wreath o' snaw:
Whan ither ewies lap the dyke,
And eat the kail, for a' the tyke,
My Ewie never play'd the like,
But tyc'd about the barn wa';
My Ewie never play'd the like, &c.

IV.

A better or a thriftier beast
Nae honest man could weel hae wist,
For, silly thing, she never mist
To hae ilk year a lamb or twa':
The first she had I gae to Jock,
To be to him a kind o' stock,
And now the laddie has a flock
O' mair nor thirty head ava';
And now the laddie has a flock, &c.

V.

I lookit aye at even' for her,
Lest mishanter should come o'er her,
Or the fowmart might devour her,
Gin the beastie bade awa;
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn,
Well deserved baith girse and corn,
Sic a Ewe was never born,
Hereabout nor far awa';
Sic a Ewe was never born, &c.

VI.

Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping,
(Wha can speak it without _greeting_?)
A villain cam' when I was sleeping,
Sta' my Ewie, horn, and a':
I sought her sair upo' the morn,
And down aneath a buss o' thorn
I got my Ewie's crookit horn,
But my Ewie was awa';
I got my Ewie's crookit horn, &c.

VII.

O! gin I had the loon that did it,
Sworn I have as well as said it,
Though a' the warld should forbid it,
I wad gie his neck a thra':
I never met wi' sic a turn
As this sin' ever I was born,
My Ewie, wi' the crookit horn,
Silly Ewie, stown awa';
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c.

VIII.

O! had she died o' crook or cauld,
As Ewies do when they grow auld,
It wad na been, by mony fauld,
Sae sair a heart to nane o's a':
For a' the claith that we hae worn,
Frae her and her's sae aften shorn,
The loss o' her we could hae born,
Had fair strae-death ta'en her awa';
The loss o' her we could hae born, &c.

IX.

But thus, poor thing, to lose her life,
Aneath a bleedy villain's knife,
I 'm really fleyt that our guidwife
Will never win aboon 't ava:
O! a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn,
Call your muses up and mourn,
Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn
Stown frae 's, and fell'd and a'!
Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c.

O! WHY SHOULD OLD AGE SO MUCH WOUND US?

TUNE--_"Dumbarton Drums."_

I.

O! why should old age so much wound us?[2]
There is nothing in it all to confound us:
For how happy now am I,
With my old wife sitting by,
And our bairns and our oys all around us;
For how happy now am I, &c.

II.

We began in the warld wi' naething,
And we 've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ae thing;
We made use of what we had,
And our thankful hearts were glad,
When we got the bit meat and the claithing;
We made use of what we had, &c.

III.

We have lived all our lifetime contented,
Since the day we became first acquainted:
It 's true we 've been but poor,
And we are so to this hour,
But we never yet repined or lamented;
It 's true we 've been but poor, &c.

IV.

When we had any stock, we ne'er vauntit,
Nor did we hing our heads when we wantit;
But we always gave a share
Of the little we could spare,
When it pleased a kind Heaven to grant it;
But we always gave a share, &c.

V.

We never laid a scheme to be wealthy,
By means that were cunning or stealthy;
But we always had the bliss--
And what further could we wiss?--
To be pleased with ourselves, and be healthy;
But we always had the bliss, &c.

VI.

What though we cannot boast of our guineas?
We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies;
And these, I 'm certain, are
More desirable by far
Than a bag full of poor yellow steinies;
And these, I am certain, are, &c.

VII.

We have seen many wonder and ferly,
Of changes that almost are yearly,
Among rich folks up and down,
Both in country and in town,
Who now live but scrimply and barely;
Among rich folks up and down, &c.

VIII.

Then why should people brag of prosperity?
A straiten'd life we see is no rarity;
Indeed, we 've been in want,
And our living 's been but scant,
Yet we never were reduced to need charity;
Indeed, we 've been in want, &c.

IX.

In this house we first came together,
Where we 've long been a father and mither;
And though not of stone and lime,
It will last us all our time;
And I hope we shall ne'er need anither;
And though not of stone and lime, &c.

X.

And when we leave this poor habitation,
We 'll depart with a good commendation;
We 'll go hand in hand, I wiss,
To a better house than this,
To make room for the next generation;
We 'll go hand in hand, I wiss, &c.

Then why should old age so much wound us? &c.

[2] This tune requires O to be added at the end of each of the long lines, but in reading the song the O is better omitted.

STILL IN THE WRONG.

I.

It has long been my fate to be thought in the _wrong_,
And my fate it continues to be;
The wise and the wealthy still make it their song,
And the clerk and the cottar agree.
There is nothing I do, and there 's nothing I say,
But some one or other thinks wrong;
And to please them I find there is no other way,
But do nothing, and still hold my tongue.

II.

Says the free-thinking Sophist, "The times are refined
In sense to a wondrous degree;
Your old-fashion'd faith does but fetter the mind,
And it 's _wrong_ not to seek to be free."
Says the sage Politician, "Your natural share
Of talents would raise you much higher,
Than thus to crawl on in your present low sphere,
And it 's _wrong_ in you not to aspire."

III.

Says the Man of the World, "Your dull stoic life
Is surely deserving of blame?
You have children to care for, as well as a wife,
And it 's _wrong_ not to lay up for them."
Says the fat Gormandiser, "To eat and to drink
Is the true _summum bonum_ of man:
Life is nothing without it, whate'er you may think,
And it 's _wrong_ not to live while you can."

IV.

Says the new-made Divine, "Your old modes we reject,
Nor give ourselves trouble about them:
It is manners and dress that procure us respect,
And it 's _wrong_ to look for it without them."
Says the grave peevish Saint, in a fit of the spleen,
"Ah! me, but your manners are vile:
A parson that 's blythe is a shame to be seen,
And it 's _wrong_ in you even to smile."

V.

Says the Clown, when I tell him to do what he ought,
"Sir, whatever your character be,
To obey you in this I will never be brought,
And it 's _wrong_ to be meddling with me."
Says my Wife, when she wants this or that for the house,
"Our matters to ruin must go:
Your reading and writing is not worth a souse,
And it 's _wrong_ to neglect the house so."

VI.

Thus all judge of me by their taste or their wit,
And I 'm censured by old and by young,
Who in one point agree, though in others they split,
That in something I 'm still in the _wrong_.
But let them say on to the end of the song,
It shall make no impression on me:
If to differ from such be to be in the _wrong_,
In the _wrong_ I hope always to be.

LIZZY LIBERTY.

TUNE--_"Tibbie Fowler i' the Glen."_

I.

There lives a lassie i' the braes,
And Lizzy Liberty they ca' her,
When she has on her Sunday's claes,
Ye never saw a lady brawer;
So a' the lads are wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her!

II.

Her mither ware a tabbit mutch,
Her father was an honest dyker,
She 's a black-eyed wanton witch,
Ye winna shaw me mony like her:
So a' the lads are wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her!

III.

A kindly lass she is, I 'm seer,
Has fowth o' sense and smeddum in her,
And nae a swankie far nor near,
But tries wi' a' his might to win her:
They 're wooing at her, fain would hae her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her!

IV.

For kindly though she be, nae doubt,
She manna thole the marriage tether,
But likes to rove and rink about,
Like Highland cowt amo' the heather:
Yet a' the lads are wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.

V.

It 's seven year, and some guid mair,
Syn Dutch Mynheer made courtship till her,
A merchant bluff and fu' o' care,
Wi' chuffy cheeks, and bags o' siller;
So Dutch Mynheer was wooing at her,
Courting her, but cudna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.

VI.

Neist to him came Baltic John,
Stept up the brae, and leukit at her,
Syne wear his wa', wi' heavy moan,
And in a month or twa forgat her:
Baltic John was wooing at her,
Courting her, but cudna get her;
Filthy elf, she 's nae herself, wi' sae mony wooing at her.

VII.

Syne after him cam' Yankie Doodle,
Frae hyne ayont the muckle water;
Though Yankie 's nae yet worth a boddle,
Wi' might and main he would be at her:
Yankie Doodle 's wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.

VIII.

Now Monkey French is in a roar,
And swears that nane but he sall hae her,
Though he sud wade through bluid and gore,
It 's nae the king sall keep him frae her:
So Monkey French is wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.

IX.

For France, nor yet her Flanders' frien',
Need na think that she 'll come to them;
They 've casten aff wi' a' their kin,
And grace and guid have flown frae them;
They 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.

X.

A stately chiel they ca' John Bull
Is unco thrang and glaikit wi' her;
And gin he cud get a' his wull,
There 's nane can say what he wad gi'e her:
Johnny Bull is wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Filthy Ted, she 'll never wed, as lang 's sae mony 's wooing at her.

XI.

Even Irish Teague, ayont Belfast,
Wadna care to speir about her;
And swears, till he sall breathe his last,
He 'll never happy be without her:
Irish Teague is wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.

XII.

But Donald Scot 's the happy lad,
Though a' the lave sud try to rate him;
Whan he steps up the brae sae glad,
She disna ken maist whare to set him:
Donald Scot is wooing at her,
Courting her, will maybe get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.

XIII.

Now, Donald, tak' a frien's advice--
I ken fu' weel ye fain wad hae her;
As ye are happy, sae be wise,
And ha'd ye wi' a smackie frae her:
Ye 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her,
Courting her, will maybe get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her.

XIV.

Ye 're weel, and wat'sna, lad, they 're sayin',
Wi' getting leave to dwall aside her;
And gin ye had her a' your ain,
Ye might na find it mows to guide her:
Ye 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her,
Courting her, will maybe get her;
Cunning quean, she 's ne'er be mine, as lang 's sae mony 's wooing at her.

THE STIPENDLESS PARSON.

TUNE--_"A Cobbler there was,"_ &c.

I.

How happy a life does the Parson possess,
Who would be no greater, nor fears to be less;
Who depends on his book and his gown for support,
And derives no preferment from conclave or court!
Derry down, &c.

II.

Without glebe or manse settled on him by law,
No stipend to sue for, nor vic'rage to draw;
In discharge of his office he holds him content,
With a croft and a garden, for which he pays rent.
Derry down, &c.

III.

With a neat little cottage and furniture plain,
And a spare room to welcome a friend now and then;
With a good-humour'd wife in his fortune to share,
And ease him at all times of family care.
Derry down, &c.

IV.

With a few of the Fathers, the oldest and best,
And some modern extracts pick'd out from the rest;
With a Bible in Latin, and Hebrew, and Greek,
To afford him instruction each day of the week.
Derry down, &c.

V.

What children he has, if any are given,
He thankfully trusts to the kindness of Heaven;
To religion and virtue he trains them while young,
And with such a provision he does them no wrong.
Derry down, &c.

VI.

With labour below, and with help from above,
He cares for his flock, and is bless'd with their love:
Though his living, perhaps, in the main may be scant,
He is sure, while they have, that he 'll ne'er be in want.
Derry down, &c.

VII.

With no worldly projects nor hurries perplex'd,
He sits in his closet and studies his text;
And while he converses with Moses or Paul,
He envies not bishop, nor dean in his stall.
Derry down, &c.

VIII.

Not proud to the poor, nor a slave to the great,
Neither factious in church, nor pragmatic in state,
He keeps himself quiet within his own sphere,
And finds work sufficient in preaching and prayer.
Derry down, &c.

IX.

In what little dealings he 's forced to transact,
He determines with plainness and candour to act;
And the great point on which his ambition is set,
Is to leave at the last neither riches nor debt.
Derry down, &c.

X.

Thus calmly he steps through the valley of life,
Unencumber'd with wealth, and a stranger to strife;
On the bustlings around him unmoved he can look,
And at home always pleased with his wife and his book.
Derry down, &c.

XI.

And when, in old age, he drops into the grave,
This humble remembrance he wishes to have:
"By good men respected, by the evil oft tried,
Contented he lived, and lamented he died!"
Derry down, &c.

THE MAN OF ROSS.

TUNE--_"Miss Ross's Reel."_

I.

When fops and fools together prate,
O'er punch or tea, of this or that,
What silly poor unmeaning chat
Does all their talk engross!
A nobler theme employs my lays,
And thus my honest voice I raise
In well-deserved strains to praise
The worthy Man of Ross.

II.

His lofty soul (would it were mine!)
Scorns every selfish, low design,
And ne'er was known to repine,
At any earthly loss:
But still contented, frank, and free,
In every state, whate'er it be,
Serene and staid we always see
The worthy Man of Ross.

III.

Let misers hug their worldly store,
And gripe and pinch to make it more;
Their gold and silver's shining ore
He counts it all but dross:
'Tis better treasure he desires;
A surer stock his passion fires,
And mild benevolence inspires
The worthy Man of Ross.

IV.

When want assails the widow's cot,
Or sickness strikes the poor man's hut,
When blasting winds or foggy rot
Augment the farmer's loss:
The sufferer straight knows where to go,
With all his wants and all his woe;
For glad experience leads him to
The worthy Man of Ross.

V.

This Man of Ross I 'll daily sing,
With vocal note and lyric string,
And duly, when I 've drank the king,
He 'll be my second toss.
May Heaven its choicest blessings send
On such a man, and such a friend;
And still may all that 's good attend
The worthy Man of Ross.

VI.

Now, if you ask about his name,
And where he lives with such a fame,
Indeed, I 'll say you are to blame,
For truly, _inter nos_,
'Tis what belongs to you and me,
And all of high or low degree,
In every sphere to try to be
The worthy Man of Ross.

A SONG ON THE TIMES.

TUNE--_"Broom of the Cowdenknows."_

I.

When I began the world first,
It was not as 'tis now;
For all was plain and simple then,
And friends were kind and true:
Oh, the times, the weary, weary times!
The times that I now see;
I think the world 's all gone wrong,
From what it used to be.

II.

There were not then high capering heads,
Prick'd up from ear to ear;
And cloaks and caps were rarities,
For gentle folks to wear:
Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.

III.

There 's not an upstart mushroom now,
But what sets up for taste;
And not a lass in all the land,
But must be lady-dress'd:
Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.

IV.

Our young men married then for love,
So did our lasses too;
And children loved their parents dear,
As children ought to do:
Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.

V.

For oh, the times are sadly changed--
A heavy change indeed!
For truth and friendship are no more,
And honesty is fled:
Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.

VI.

There 's nothing now prevails but pride,
Among both high and low;
And strife, and greed, and vanity,
Is all that 's minded now:
Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.

VII.