Wi' sword and wi' dagger
They rushed on him rude;
The twa gallant Gordons

Lie bathed in their blude.
Frae the springs o' the Dee
To the mouth o' the Tay,
The Gordons mourn for him,
And curse Inveraye.

"O were ye at Brackley?
An' what saw ye there?
Was his young widow weeping,
An' tearing her hair?"

"I looked in at Brackley,

I looked in, and oh !

There was mirth, there was feasting,

But naething o' woe.

"As a rose bloomed the lady,
An' blithe as a bride,

As a bridegroom bold Inveraye
Smiled by her side.

Oh! she feasted him there

As she ne'er feasted lord, While the blood of her husband Was moist on his sword.

"In her chamber she kept him
Till morning grew gray,
Thro' the dark woods of Brackley
She shewed him the way.
'Yon wild hill,' she said,

'Where the sun's shining on,

Is the hill of Glentanner

One kiss, and begone!""

There's grief in the cottage,
There's grief in the ha',
For the gude, gallant Gordon
That's dead an' awa'.
To the bush comes the bud,
An' the flower to the plain,
But the gude and the brave
They come never again.

ANNAN WATER.

First published in Scott's "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," and there said to be the original words of the tune of Allan Water, mentioned in "The Tea-Table Miscellany." "It is said," adds Sir Walter Scott, that a bridge over the Annan was built in consequence of the melancholy catastrophe which it narrates." It is difficult

to avoid a suspicion that either Scott or the Ettrick Shepherd had some hand in the composition of the ballad, which is alleged to have been taken from "tradition." Scott mentions another version of the ballad, but does not print it.

O! Annan water's wide an' deep,

An' my love Annie's wondrous bonnie;

Shall I be loth to weet my feet

For her whom I love best of ony?

Gar saddle me my bonnie black,

Gar saddle soon an' mak him ready, For I will down the Gatehope Slack, And a' to see my bonnie lady.

He's loupen on his bonnie black,

He's stirred him wi' the spur fu' sairly,
An' e'er he won the Gatehope Slack,
I wot the steed was wae and weary.

He's loupen on his bonnie gray,
He rode the right gate an' the ready;
O nought could make him stint or stay,
For thinkin' o' his bonnie lady!

He's ridden over field and fell,

Thro' moss and stream, an' moor and mire, His spurs of steel were sair to bide,

An' frae her fore feet flew the fire.
"Now, bonnie gray! now play your part!
An' gin ye bear me to my dearie,
On corn an' hay ye'se feed for aye,
An' never spur shall make ye weary!"

She was a mare, a right good mare,

But when she wan to Annan water,
She couldna hae ridden a furlong mair,
Had a thousand merks been wadded at her!
"O boatman, haste! Put off your boat,
Put off your boat for gouden money;

I cross the drumlie stream to-night,
Or never more I meet my honey!"

"O! I was sworn late, late yestreen,
An' not by ae oath but by many;
For a' the gowd in broad Scotland
I maunna tak ye through to Annie."
The side was steep, the bottom deep,

Frae bank to bank the water pouring,
An' the bonnie gray did shake for fear,
She heard the water-kelpie roaring.

O! he's pu'd aff his dapper coat,

Wi' silver buttons glancin' bonnie; The waistcoat bursted aff his breast, His heart leaped sae wi' melancholy.

He's ta'en the ford at the stream tail,

I wat he swam baith stout and steady; The stream was broad-his strength did failHe never saw his bonnie lady.

O wae betide the fresh saugh wand,
An' wae betide the bush o' brier,
They broke into my true love's hand,
When strength did fail, and limbs did tire.
An' wae betide thee, Annan stream!
Thou art a deep and deadly river;
But over thee I'll build a bridge,
That ye nae mair true love may sever!

THE WEE, WEE MAN.

The principal object in giving the present traditionary version of this well-known and singular ballad, is to restore to the mysterious little master whom it commemorates that marvellous breadth of shoulders which truly belongs to him, and of which, it will be seen, by comparison with the common printed copies, that he has been most unceremoniously and injudiciously deprived. The vast latitude of his chest, and formidable bigness of his head, contrasted with the tiny measurement of his limbs, add wondrously to the grotesqueness of his figure, and form too important a feature in the curious picture to be heedlessly omitted. There is an old poem in the Cotton MSS., which Ritson supposes to be of the time of Edward I. or II., which begins

"Als Y Yod on ay Mounday,"

and of which the present ballad appears to be a portion. This poem is printed in Mr Finlay's Collection, accompanied with some sensible remarks.-MOTHERWELL.

As I was walking mine alane,
Betwixt the water and the wa';
There I espied a wee, wee man,

He was the least ane that e'er I saw.

His leg was scarce a shaftmont* lang,
Both thick and nimble was his knee; †
Between his een there was a span,

Betwixt his shoulders there were ells three.

This wee, wee man pulled up a stane,
He flang't as far as I could see;
Though I had been as Wallace strang,
I wadna gotten it to my knee.

I said, "Wee man, oh! but you're strang, Where is your dwelling, an' where may't be?" "My dwelling's at yon bonnie green,

Fair lady, will ye go and see?"

On we lap and awa' we rade,
Until we cam to yonder green;
We lighted down to rest our steed,
And there came out a lady sheen,

Wi' four and twenty at her back,

And they were a' weel clad in green; Although he had been the king of Scotland, The warst o' them might hae been his queen.

*

"Shaftmont:" This word, of which the derivation has long been a puzzle, is supposed to mean, "As long as the fist with the thumb turned out," or about six inches. + Variation

"His legs they were na a gude inch lang,

And thick and nimble was his thie.'