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· YESTREEN I HAD A PINT OF WINE.
I THINK this is the best love-song I ever com
Tune-BANKS OF Banna.
A place where body saw na;
The gowden locks of Anna.
Rejoicing o'er his manna,
Upon the lips of Anna.
Frae Indus to Savannah!
The melting form of Auna.
An empress or sultana,
I give and take with Anna !
Awa thou pale Diana!
When I'm to meet my Anna...
Come, in thy raven plumage, Night,
(Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a';) And bring an angel pen to write,
My transports wi' my Anna.
MARY SCOTT, THE FLOWER OF YARROW.*
Mr. Robertson in his statistical account of the parish of Selkirk, says, that Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow, was descended from the Dryhope, and married into the Harden family. Her daughter was married to a predecessor of the present Sir
* "Near the lower extremity of St. Mary's Lake, (a beautiful sheet of water, forming the reservoir from which the Yarrow takes its source,) are the ruins of Dryhope tower, the birthplace of Mary Scott, daughter of Philip Scott of Dryhope, and famous by the traditional name of the Flower of Yarrow. She was married to Walter Scott of Harden, no less renowned for his depredations, than his bride for her beauty. Her romantic appellation was, in latter days, with equal justice, conferred on Miss Mary Lilias Scott, the last of the elder branch of the Hardeu family. Mr. Scott, in a note to Marmion, proceeds to relate that, he well remembers the talent and spirit of the latter Flower of Yarrow, though age had then injored the charms which procured her the name; and that the words usually sung to the air of Tweed-side, beginning, “What beauties does Flora disclose,' were composed in her honour.'
Francis Elliot, of Stobbs, and of the late Lord Heathfield.
There is a circumstance in their contract of marriage that merits attention, as it strongly marks the predatory spirit of the times.—The father-in-law agrees to keep his daughter, for some time after the marriage; for which the son-in-law binds himself to give him the profits of the first Michaelmas-moon ?*
* The time when the moss-troopers and cattle-drivers on the borders began their nightly depredations. Cattle-stealing for. merly was a mere foraging expedition; and it has been remarked, that many of the best families in the North can trace their descent from these daring sons of the mountains. The produce (by way of a dowry to a laird's daughter) of a Michaelmas-moon, is proverbial; and by the aid of Lochiel's lanthorn (the moon) these exploits were the most desirable things imaginable. Nay, to this day, a Highlander that is not a sturdy moralist, does not deem it a very great crîme to lift (such is the phrase) a sheep now and then. If the reader be curious to contemplate one of these heroes in the cradle, he may read the following Highland balou, or Nursery Song: It is wildly energetic and strongly characteristic of the rude and uncultivated manners of the Border Islands.
Hee, balou, my sweet wee Donald,
DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE.
I HAVE been informed, that the tune of Down the Burn, Davie, was the composition of David Maigh, keeper of the blood slough hounds,* belonging to the Laird of Riddel, in Tweeddale.
Leeze me on thy bonny craigie !
* In the South of Scotland, especially in the counties adjoining to England, there is another dog of a marvellous nature, called Suthounds (this is improper, according to Jamieson ; it ought to be Sleuth-hund), because, when their masters are robbed, if they tell whether it be horse, sheep, or neat, that is stolen from them, immediately they pursue the scent of the thief, following him or them through all sorts of ground, and water, till they find him out and seize him; by the benefit whereof the goods are often recovered again.
Lewis's Hist. of Great Brit. 1729. p. 56.
When trees did bud, and fields were green,
And broom bloom'd fair to see;
And love laugh'd in her e’e;
To speak her mind thus free, ..,
And I shall follow thee.
Now Davie did each lad surpass,
That dwalt on yon burn side,
Just meet to be a bride ;
Her een were bonie blue;
Her lips like dropping dew.
As down the burn they took their way,
What tender tales they said ! His cheek to her’s he aft did lay,
And with her bosom play'd;