composed of eight or nine ragged birches. The Earl of Traquair has planted a clump of trees near by, which he calls "The New Bush." HEAR me, ye nymphs, and every swain, Was where I first did love her. That day she smil'd and made me glad, I try'd to sooth my am'rous flame, Yet now she scornful flees the plain, Ye rural pow'rs, who hear my strains, CROMLET'S LILT. "In the latter end of the 16th century, the Chisholins were proprietors of the estate of Cromlecks (now possessed by the Drummonds). The eldest son of that family was very much attached to a daughter of Sterling of Ardoch, commonly known by the naine of Fair Helen of Ardoch. "At that time the opportunities of meeting betwixt the sexes were more rare, consequently more sought after than now; and the Scottish ladies, far from priding themselves on extensive literature, were thought sufficiently book-learned if they could make out the Scriptures in their mother tongue. Writing was entirely out of the line of female education: At that period the most of our young men of family sought a fortune, or found a grave, in France. Cromlus, when he went abroad to the war, was obliged to leave the management of his correspondence with his mistress to a lay brother of the monastery of Dumblain, in the immediate neighbourhood of Cromleck, and near Ardoch. This man, unfortunately, was deeply sensible of Helen's charms. He artfully prepossessed her with stories to the disadvantage of Cromlus; and by misinterpreting or keeping up the letters and messages intrusted to his care, he entirely irritated both. All connection was broken off betwixt them: Helen was inconsolable, and Cromlus has left behind him, in the ballad called Cromlet's Lilt, a proof of the elegance of his genius, as well as the steadiness of his love. "When the artful monk thought time had sufficiently softened Helen's sorrow, he proposed himself as a lover: Helen was obdurate: but at last, overcome by the persuasions of her brother with whom she lived, and who, having a family of thirty-one children, was probably very well pleased to get her off his hands, she submitted, rather than consented to the ceremony; but there her compliance ended; and, when forcibly put into bed, she started quite frantic from it, screaming out, that after three gentle taps on the wainscoat, at the bed head, she heard Cromlus's voice, crying, Helen, Helen, mind me.' Cromlus soon after coming home, the treachery of the confidant was discovered, her marriage disannulled,-and Helen became lady Cromlecks." N. B. Marg, Murray, mother to these thirtyone children, was daughter to Murray of Strewn, one of the seventeen sons of Tullybardine, and whose youngest son, commonly called the Tutor of Ardoch, died in the year 1715, aged 111 years. And when a ghost I am, I'll visit thee, O thou deceitful dame, Whose cruelty Has kill'd the kindest heart From loving thee. MY DEARIE, IF THOU DIE. Love never more shall give me pain, Thy beauty doth such pleasure give, If fate shall tear thee from my breast, How shall I lonely stray! In dreary dreams the night I'll waste, In sighs, the silent day. I ne'er can so much virtue find, Nor such perfection see; Then I'll renounce all woman kind, My Peggy, after thee. No new-blown beauty fires my heart, But thine, which can such sweets impart, 'Twas this, that like the morning sun, And when its destin'd day is done, Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, SHE ROSE AND LET ME IN. THE old set of this song, which is still to be found in printed collections, is much prettier than this but somebody, I believe it was Ramsay, took it into his head to clear it of some seeming indelicacies, and made it at once more chaste and more dull. THE night her silent sable wore, She, shrouded only with her smock, Fast lock'd within her close embrace, Resolv'd the fort to win; Then, then, beyond expressing, But ah at last she prov'd with bairn, Look'd e'en just like a fool. She sigh'd, and curs'd the fatal hour But who cou'd cruelly deceive, I lov'd her so, I could not leave And now she thanks the happy time GO TO THE Ewe-bughts, MARION. | have one of the earliest copies of the song, and it has prefixed, I AM not sure if this old and charming air be of the South, as is commonly said, or of the North of Scotland. There is a song apparently as ancient as Ewe-Bughts, Marion, which sings to the same tune, and is evidently of the North. It begins thus : THE Lord o' Gordon had three dochters, They wad na stay at bonnie Castle Gordon, WILL Ye go to the ewe-bughts, Marion, And the blyth blinks in her e'e; Gin Marion wad marry me. There's gowd in your garters, Marion, And silk on your white hause-bane; Fu' fain wad I kiss my Marion, At e'en when I come kame. There's braw lads in Earnslaw, Marion, Wha gape, and glower with their e'e, At kirk when they see my Marion ; But nane of them lo'es like me. I've nine milk-ewes, my Marion, And ye's get a green sey apron, And waistcoat of the London brown, And wow! but ye will be vap'ring, Whene'er ye gang to the town. I'm young and stout, my Marion ; Nane dance like me on the green; And gin ye forsake me, Marion, I'll e'en draw up wi' Jean: Sae put on your pearlins, Marion, And kyrtle of the cramasie; And soou as my chin has nae hair on, I shall come west, and see ye. · LEWIS GORDON.† THIS air is a proof how one of our Scots tunes comes to be composed out of another. This is marked in the Tea Table Miscellany as an old song with additions-Ed. Lord Lewis Gordon, younger brother to the then Duke of Gordon, commanded a detachment for the Chevalier, and acquitted himself with great gallantry and judgment. He died in 1751." Tune of Tarry Woo. Of which tune, a different set has insensibly varied into a different air.-To a Scots critic, the pathos of the line, "Tho' his back be at the wa'," -must be very striking.-It needs not a Jacobite prejudice to be affected with this song. The supposed author of "Lewis Gordon" was a Mr. Geddes, priest, at Shenval, in the Ainzie. OH! send Lewie Gordon hame, Here's to him that's far awa! Oh hon! my Highland man, Oh! to see his tartan-trews, The princely youth that I do mean, On his breast he wears a star; You'd tak him for the God of War Ok hon, &c. Oh to see this Princely One, Seated on a royal throne! Disasters a' would disappear, Then begins the Jub'lee year! Oh hon, &c. OH ONO CHRIO. DR. BLACKLOCK informed me that this song was composed on the infamous massacre of Glencoe. OH! was not I a weary wight! Oh! ono chri, oh! ono chri— Maid, wife, and widow, in one night! When in my soft and yielding arms, O! when most I thought him free from harms. Even at the dead time of the night, They broke my bower, and slew my knight. With ae lock of his jet-black hair, I'll tie my heart for evermair; Nae sly-tongued youth, or flatt'ring swain, Shall e'er untye this knot again; Thine still, dear youth, that heart shall be, Nor pant for aught, save heaven and thee. (The chorus repeated at the end of each line). MAGGIE LAUDER. that Lieutenant Smith, whom he mentions in the ninth stanza, came to Haddington after the publication of the song, and sent a challenge to Skirvin to meet him at Haddington, and an THIS old song, so pregnant with Scottish naivieté and energy, is much relished by all ranks, notwithstanding its broad wit and pal-swer for the unworthy manner in which he had pable allusions.-Its language is a precious model of imitation: sly, sprightly, and forcibly expressive.-Maggie's tongue wags out the nicknames of Rob the Piper with all the careless lightsomeness of unrestrained gaiety. WHA wad na be in love And speir'd what was't they ca'd her ;- Maggie, quo' he, and by my bags, Piper, quo' Meg, hae ye your bags? If ye be Rob, I've heard o' you, The lasses a', baith far and near, Then to his bags he flew wi' speed, Weel done! quo' he-play up! quo' she; Weel hae ye play'd your part, quo' Meg, noticed him in his song. "Gang awa back,” said the honest farmer," and tell Mr. Smith that I hae na leisure to come to Haddington; but tell him to come here; and I'll tak a look o' him; and if I think I'm fit to fecht him, I'll fecht him; and if no-I'll do as he did,—I'l rin awa." THE Chevalier, being void of fear, The brave Lochiel, as I heard tell, Led Camerons on in clouds, man; They loos'd with devilish thuds, man: The bluff dragoons swore blood and 'oons, And yet they flee when them they see, And winna fire a gun, man: They turn'd their back, the foot they brake, Some wet their cheeks, some fyl'd their breeks, The volunteers prick'd up their ears, And vow gin they were crouse, man; Menteith the great, when hersell sh-t, TRANENT MUIR. Tune-" Killicrankie." "TRANENT-MUIR" was composed by a Mr. Skirvin, a very worthy respectable farmer, near Haddington. I have heard the anecdote often, • The minister of Longformacus, a volunteer; who, happening to come the night before the battle, upon a Highland gelding, easing nature at Preston, threw him over, and carried his gun as a trophy to Cope's camp. |