Tullochgorum.

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.

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 mak' 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.

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.

REV. JOHN SKINNER.

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.

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 danties 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!

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.

281

ROBERT TANNAHILL.

1774-1810.

BY GEORGE NEWNES, M.P.

EDITOR "TIT-BITS," THE "STRAND MAGAZINE," ETC.

ROBERT TANNAHILL was born in Paisley, June 3, 1774. After leaving school he was apprenticed to the weaving trade, and some of his best songs were composed while sitting at the loom. About 1800 he came to England, where he worked for two years as a weaver at Bolton. He afterwards returned to Paisley, where he lived for the remainder of his life. In 1807 the first edition of his poems and songs was published. In a fit of despondency he destroyed all his unpublished songs, and the improved versions of those he had already published. In the end he seems to have become a little deranged in his mind, and on the 17th May, 1810, he put an end to his own life by throwing himself into a pool in which he was drowned. Dr. Rogers says of Tannahill: “The "victim of disappointments which his sensitive temperament could not endure, Tannahill was naturally of an easy and cheerful disposition. As a child, his exemplary behaviour was so conspicuous, that mothers were satisfied of their children's safety if they learned that they were in company with 66 Bob Tannahill." Inoffensive in his own disposition, he entertained every respect for the feelings of others. He enjoyed the intercourse of particular friends, but avoided general society; in company, he seldom talked, and only with a neighbour; he shunned the acquaintance of persons of rank, because he disliked patronage, and dreaded superciliousness. His conversation was simple; he possessed, but seldom used, considerable powers of satire; but he applied his keenest shafts of sarcasm against the votaries of cruelty. In performing acts of kindness he took delight, but he was scrupulous of accepting

ROBERT TANNAHILI.

283

favours; he was strong in the love of independence, and had saved twenty pounds at the period of his death. His general appearance did not indicate intellectual superiority; his countenance was calm and meditative, his eyes were grey, and his hair a light-brown. In person, he was under the middle size. Not ambitious of general learning, he confined his reading chiefly to poetry. His poems are inferior to his songs: of the latter will be found admirers while the Scottish language is sung or understood. Abounding in genuine sweetness and graceful simplicity, they are pervaded by the gentlest pathos.

The Midges Dance Aboon the Burn

THE midges dance aboon the burn,

The dews begin to fa',

The patricks down the rushy holm

Set up their e'ening ca'.

Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang
Rings through the briery shaw,

While flitting gay, the swallows play
Around the castle wa'.

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky
The mavis mends her lay;

The redbreast pours his sweetest strains
To charm the ling'ring day.
While weary yeldrens seem to wail
Their little nestlings torn,

The merry wren frae den to den
Gaes jinking through the thorn.

The roses fauld their silken leaves,
The foxgloue shuts its bell,
The honeysuckle and the birk

Spread fragrance through the dell.
Let others crowd the giddy court
Of mirth and revelry ;

The simple joys that nature yields
Are dearer far to me.

Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane.

THE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,
And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene,
While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin'

To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom,
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green;
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,
Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

She's modest as ony, and blythe as she's bonny ;
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain;

And far be the villain, divested of feeling,

Wha'd blight, in its bloom, the sweet flower o' Dumblane.
Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening,
Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen;

Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie,
The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain;

I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,
Till charm'd with sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,
Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain;

And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour,
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.