SAE MERRY AS WE TWA HA'E BEEN. THIS song is beautiful.-The chorus in particular is truly pathetic.--I never could learn any thing of its author. THE idea of this song is to me very original : the two first lines are all of it that is old. The rest of the song, as well as those songs in the Museum marked T, are the works of an obscure, tippling, but extraordinary body of the name of Tytler, commonly known by the name of Balloon Tytler, from his having projected a balloon: A mortal, who, though he drudges about Edin-A burgh as a common printer, with leaky shoes, a sky-lighted hat, and knee-buckles as unlike as George-by-the-Grace-of-God, and Solomon-the Son-of-David; yet that same unknown drunken mortal is author and compiler of three-fourths Elliot's pompous Encyclopedia Britannica, which he composed at half a guinea a week!* I LASs that was laden with care When thus she began for to mourn: Our flocks feeding close by his side, I view'd the wide world in its pride, What makes you hard-hearted to me? But now he is far from my sight, I set myself under an oak, THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. THIS is another beautiful song of Mr. Craw ford's composition. In the neighbourhood of Traquair, tradition still shews the old "Bush;" which, when I saw it in the year 1787, wm composed of eight or nine ragged birches. The HEAR me, ye nymphs, and every swain,` Was where I first did love her. That day she smil'd and made me glad, 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 Chisholms 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 name 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 Cromfortune, or found a grave, in France. lus, 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. SINCE all thy vows, false maid, And my poor heart betray'd To sad despair, Into some wilderness, My grief I will express, Have I not graven our loves In yonder spreading groves, Tho' false thou be: Was not a solemn oath Constant to be? Some gloomy place I'll find, Some doleful shade, Into that hollow cave, So faithlessly. Remember me. 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, In dreary dreams the night I'll waste, I ne'er can so much virtue find, Nor such perfection see; 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, 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, When at her father's yate I knock'd, She, shrouded only with her smock, Arose and loot me in. Fast lock'd within her close embrace, Resolv'd the fort to win ; And her fond heart was soon betray'd 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, 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, That's the lad that I'll gang wi'! The princely youth that I do mean, 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 chriMaid, 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 ac 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). THE BEDS OF SWEET ROSES. THIS song, as far as I know, for the first time appears here in print.-When I was a boy, it was a very popular song in Ayrshire. I remember to have heard those fanatics, the Buchanites, sing some of their nonsensical rhymes, which they dignify with the name of hymns, to this air.-BURNS. As I was a walking One morning in May, The flowers were bloomin' gay, As fresh as dawnin' day, Down among the beds of sweet roses. Fu' white was her barefoot, New bathed in the dew; Whiter was her white hand, Her een were bonnie blue; And kind were her whispers, And sweet was her moo, Down among e beds o' sweet roses. My father and my mother, I wot they told me true, That I liked ill to thrash, For I kend the way to woo, CORN RIGS ARE BONNY. Mr Patie is a lover gay, His mind is never muddy, Ilis breath is sweeter than new hay, The shining of his een surprise; 'Tis heaven to hear him tawking, Last night I met him on a bawk, Let maidens of a silly mind Refuse what maist they're wanting, Since we for yielding are design'd, We chastely should be granting; Then I'll comply and marry Pate, And syne my cockernony He's free to touzle air or late, Where corn rigs are bonny. 1 All the old words that ever I could meet with to this air were the following, which seem to have been an old chorus. O corn rigs and rye rigs, O corn rigs are bonnie; And where'er you meet a bonnie lass, Preen up her cockernony. WAUKIN O' THE FAULD. THERE are two stanzas still sung to this tune, which I take to be the original song whence Ramsay composed his beautiful song of that name in the Gentle Shepherd.-It begins, O will ye speak at our town, As ye come frae the fauld, &c. I regret that, as in many of our old songs, the delicacy of this old fragment is not equal to its wit and humour. My Peggy is a young thing, Just enter'd in her teens, Fair as the day, and sweet as May, My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, Whene'er we meet alane, I wish nae mair to lay my care, My Peggy smiles sae kindly, Whene'er I whisper love, That I look down on a' the town, My Peggy sings sae saftly, |