Page images
PDF
EPUB

I leant my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trustie trie; But first it bow'd, and syne it brake, And sae my true love did lyghtlie me.

O waly waly gin love be bonny
A little time while it is new;
But when its auld it waxeth cauld,
And fades awa' like morning-dew.
O wherfore shu'd I busk my head?
Or wherfore shu'd I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,

And

says he'll never loe me mair.

Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed,

The sheits shall neir be fyl'd by me: Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,

Since my true love has forsaken me. Marti'mas wind, whan wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves aff the trie? O gentle death, whan wilt thou cum? For of my life I am wearie.

"Tis not the frost that freezes fell,

Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie ;

'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,

But my love's heart grown cauld to me.

Whan we came in by Glasgowe town,
We were a comely sight to see;
My love was clad i' th' black velvet,
And I mysell in cramasie.

But had I wist before I kisst,

That love had been sae ill to win,
I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd,
And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin.

Oh, oh! if my young babe were borne,
And set upon the nurse's knee,
And I mysell were dead and gone,
For a maid again Ile never be !*

DUNCAN GRAY.

DR. Blacklock informed me that he had often heard the tradition that this air was composed by a carman in Glasgow.

Duncan Gray cam here to woo,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

On blythe yule night when we were fou,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

*This song is quoted in a musical medley published in 1600.

Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh;
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray'd:
Ha, ha, &c.

Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig*

Ha, ha, &c.

Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,

Grat his e'en baith bleert and blin,

Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ;
Ha, ha, &c.

Time and chance are but a tide,

Ha, ha, &c.

Slighted love is sair to bide,

Ha, ha, &c.

Shall I, like a fool, quo' he,

For a haughty hizzie die;

She may gae to-France for me!

Ha, ha, &c.

How it comes let doctors tell,

Ha, ha, &c.

A well-known rock in the frith of Clyde.

Meg grew sick-as he grew heal,
Ha, ha, &c.

Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;

And O, her e'en, they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, &c.

Duncan was a lad o' grace,
Ha, ha, &c.

Maggie's was a piteous case,

Ha, ha, &c.

Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;

Now they're crouse and canty baith,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

DUMBARTON DRUMS.

THIS is the last of the West Highland airs; and from it, over the whole tract of country to the confines of Tweed-side, there is hardly a tune or song that one can say has taken its origin from any place or transaction in that part of Scotland.-The oldest Ayrshire reel, is Stewarton Lasses, which was made

by the father of the present Sir Walter Montgomery Cunningham, alias Lord Lyle; since which period there has indeed been local music in that country in great plenty.-Johnie Faa is the only old song which I could ever trace as belonging to the extensive county of Ayr.

TODLEN HAME.

THIS is, perhaps, the first bottle song that ever was composed.

When I've a saxpence under my thumb,

Then I'll get credit in ilka town:

But ay when I'm poor they bid me gae by;

O! poverty parts good company.

Todlen hame, todlen hame,

Coudna my loove come todlen hame?

Fair-fa' the goodwife, and send her good sale,
She gi'es us white bannocks to drink her ale,
Syne if her tippony chance to be sma',
We'll tak a good scour o't, and ca't awa'.
Todlen hame, todlen hame,

As round as a neep* come todlen hame,
* A neep-a turnip.

« PreviousContinue »