Now to her heaving bosom cling, 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 bonie lass o' Liviston, Her name ye ken, her name ye ken, To lie her lane, to lie her lane. &c. &c. THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MOOR. 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. JOHNNY'S GRAY BREEKS. THOUGH this has certainly every evidence of being a Scotish air, yet there is a well-known tune. and song in the North of Ireland, called, The Weaver and his Shuttle, O, which though sung much quicker, is every note the very tune. When I was in my se'nteen year, I was baith blythe and bonny, He gain'd my heart in twa three weeks, He spake sae blythe and kindly; And I made him new gray breeks, That fitted him most finely. He was a handsome fellow; His humour was baith frank and free, Like gowd they glitter'd in my ee;- But now they're threadbare worn, For he's weel wordy o' them, And I'll tak pains upo' them, Frae fauts I'll strive to keep them free.. To clead him weel shall be my care, For when the lad was in his prime, For a' the care they've gi'en me yet, And gin we live anither year, We'll keep them hale betwen us yet. Now to conclude,—his gray breeks, I'll sing them up wi' mirth and glee; Here's luck to a' the gray steeks,* That show themsells upo' the knee! And if wi' health I'm spared, A' wee while as I may, I shall hae them prepared, MAY EVE, OR KATE OF ABERDEEN. KATE of Aberdeen, is, I believe, the work of poor Cunningham the player; of whom the following anecdote, though told before, deserves a recital. A fat dignitary of the church coming past Cunningham one Sunday as the poor poet was busy plying a fishing-rod in some stream near Durham, his native country, his reverence reprimanded Cunningham very severely for such an occupation on such a day. |