And for an hour she'll scarcely speak; Who'd not call her a gawkie? O, Jamie, ye ha'e mony tane, Sic thoughts as these are far from me, E'er to think thee a gawkie. But whisht!-nae mair of this we'll speak, I trow he likes the gawkie. O dear bess, I hardly knew, Quoth she, that's like a gawkie: It's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain, I ne'er could meet my dawtie. The lasses fast frae him they flew, Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie. As they went o'er the muir they sang; The hills and dales with echoes rang, The hills and dales with echoes rang, Gang o'er the muir to Maggy! FAIR ANNIE OF LOCHROYAN. (ORIGINAL SONG OF OH OPEN THE DOOR, LORD GREGORY). It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, Renfrew, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkcudbright, and Dumfries-shires, there is scarcely an old song or tune which, from the title, &c. can be guessed to belong to, or be the production of these counties. This, conjecture, is one of these very few; as the ballad, which is a long one, is called both by tradition and in printed collections, The Lass o' Lochroyan, which I take to be Lochroyan in Galloway.-BURNS. SWEET Annie built a bonnie ship, And set her on the sea; The sails were a' of the damask silk, The gladsome waters sung below, And the sweet wind sung aboveMake way for Annie of Lochroyan, She comes to seek her love. A gentle wind came with a sweep, The moon looked out with all her stars, That all as diamonds shone: She took her young son in her arms, The sea wave wakened rude. All for thy sake, Lord Gregory, love, The foam hangs on the topmost cliff, The fires run on the sky, And hear you not your true love's voice, And her sweet baby's cry? But aye the mair he called Anie, The broader grew the tide. And hey Annie, and how Annie, But aye the louder he cried Annie, The louder roared the sea. The wind waxed loud, the sea grew rough, The ship sunk nigh the shore, O first he kissed her cherry cheek, But there was nae breath within. ROSLIN CASTLE. THESE beautiful verses were the production of a Richard Hewit, a young man that Dr. Blacklock, to whom I am indebted for the anec. dote, kept for some years as an amanuensis. I do not know who was the author of the second song to the tune. Tytler, in his amusing history of Scots music, gives the air to Oswald; but in Oswald's own collection of Scots tunes, where he affixes an asterisk to those he himself composed, he does not make the least claim to the tune.-BURNS. 'Twas in that season of the year, When all things gay and sweet appear, That Colin, with the morning ray, Arose and sung his rural lay. Of Nanny's charms the shepherd sung, The hills and dales with Nanny rung; While Roslin Castle heard the swain, And echoed back the cheerful strain. Awake, sweet Muse! the breathing spring, O, hark, my love! on ev'ry spray, I have met with another traction, that the the original one, but though it has a very great deal of merit, it is not quite ladies' reading. BURNS. old song to this tune, Hae ye ony pots or pans, Or onie broken chanlers, was composed on one of the Kenmure family, in the Cavalier times; and alluded to an amour he had, while under hiding, in the disguise of an itinerant tinker. The air is also known by the name of The Blacksmith and his Apron, which from the rythym, seeins to have been a line of some old song to the tune.-BURNS. HAVE you any pots or pans, Or any broken chandlers? I am a tinkler to my trade, And newly come frae Flanders, Disbanded, we've a bad run; Madam, if you have wark for me, For any man's resentment; Yet to yoursel I'm bauld to tell, Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c. Love Jupiter into a swan He like a bull o'er meadows ran, Then may not I, as well as he, To cheat your Argos blinker, Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c. Sir, ye appear a cunning man, Of mine you'll drive a nail in. SAW YE NAE MY PEGGY? SAW ye nae my Peggy, Coming o'er the lea? O! how Peggy charms me; Nought but charms all over; Who would leave a lover, 'Till I happy be. When I hope to gain her, Happy wou'd I be! The original words, for they can scarcely be called verses, seem to be as follows; a song familiar from the cradle to every Scottish ear. Saw ye my Maggie, High kilted was she, Her coat aboon her knee. What mark has your Maggie, That ane may ken hea ve? (by) Though it by no means follows that the sil liest verses to an air must, for that reason, be THIS charming song is much older, and in- the original song; yet I take this ballad, of deed superior, to Ramsay's verses, "The Toast," which I have quoted part, to be the old verses. as he calls them. There is another set of the The two songs in Ramsay, one of them eviwords, much older still, and which I take to be [dently his own, are never to be met with in the Then upo' sight the hailstains thud fire-side circle of our peasantry; while that | If they command the storms to blaw, FYE, GAE RUB HER O'ER WI' STRAE. Ir is self-evident that the first four lines of this song are part of a song more ancient than Ramsay's beautiful verses which are annexed to them. As music is the language of nature; and poetry, particularly songs, are always less or more localized (if I may be allowed the verb) by some of the modifications of time and place, this is the reason why so many of our Scots airs have outlived their original, and perhaps many subsequent sets of verses; except a single name, ar phrase, or sometimes one or two lines, simply to distinguish the tunes by. To this day among people who know nothing of Ramsay's verses, the following is the song, and all the song that ever I heard :-BURNS. GIN ye meet a bonnie lassie, Gie her a kiss and let her gae ; Fye, gae rub her, rub her, rub her, Fye, gar rub her o'er wi' strae. Look up Driving their baws frae whins or tee, There's no nae gowfers to be seen; Then fling on coals, and ripe the ribs, Then let's get in the tappit hen. Good claret best keeps out the cauld, Leave to the gods your ilka care, If that they think us worth their while, They can a rowth of blessings spare, Which will our fashious fears beguile. For what they have a mind to do, That will they do, should we gang wood; But soon as ere they cry, "Be quiet," The blatt'ring winds dare nae mair move, Let neist day come as it thinks fit, Be sure ye dinna quat the grip Of ilka joy when ye are young, Sweet youth's a blythe and heartsome time; Before it wither and decay. Watch the saft minutes of delyte, "Haith, ye're ill-bred," she'll smiling say; And hide hersell in some dark nook. Her laugh will lead you to the place Nineteen nay-says are haff a grant. Now to her heaving bosom cling, And sweetly toolie for a kiss, These bennisons, I'm very sure, Are of the gods' indulgent grant; THE LASS O' LIVISTON. THE old song, in three eight-line stanzas, is well known, and has merit as to wit and humour; but it is rather unfit for insertion.-It begins, THE bonnie lass o' Liviston, Her name ye ken, her name ye ken, &c. &c. THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE | The Weaver and his Shuttle, O, whit though sung much quicker, is every note the MUIR. RAMSAY found the first line of this song, which had been preserved as the title of the charming air, and then composed the rest of the verses to suit that line. This has always a finer effect than composing English words, or words with an idea foreign to the spirit of the old title. Where old titles of songs convey any idea at all, it will generally be found to be quite in the spirit of the air.-BURNS. THE last time I came o'er the muir, I left my love behind me: Beneath the cooling shade we lay, Gazing and chastely sporting; We kiss'd and promis'd time away, Till night spread her black curtain: I pitied all beneath the skies, Ev'n kings, when she was nigh me; In raptures I beheld her eyes, Which could but ill deny me. Should I be call'd where cannons roar, Where dangers may surround me; To feast on glowing kisses, In all my soul there's not one place Their waves the Alps shall cover; The next time I gang o'er the muir, very tune. But now they're threadbare worn, As I have had right mony, For he's weel wordy o' them, And better gin I had to gie, Frae fauts I'll strive to keep them free For when the lad was in his prime, For a' the care they've gi'en me yet, We'll keep them hale between us yet. Now to conclude,—his gray breeks, That show themsells upo' the knee! A' wee while as I may, I shall hae them prepared, Stained. JOHNNY'S GRAY BREEKS. THOUGH this has certainly every evidence of eing a Scottisn air, yet there is a well-known sne and song in the North of Ireland, called, |