Such fondness once for me she showed,
But now, alas! tis o'er;

Ah! gramachree, mo challie nouge,
Mo Molly astore!

Then fare thee well, my Molly dear!

Thy loss I still shall moan;

Whilst life remains in Strephon's heart,

"Twill beat for thee alone.

Though thou art false, may Heaven on thee
Its choicest blessings pour!

Ah! gramachree, mo challie nouge,
Mo Molly astore!

THE COLLIER'S BONNIE LASSIE.

THE first half-stanza is much older than the days of Ramsay. The old words began thus:

The collier has a dochter, and O! she's wonder bonnie;
A laird he was that sought her, rich baith in lands and

money.

She wad nae ha'e a laird, nor wad she be a lady;

But she wad ha'e a collier, the colour o' her daddie.

The verses in Johnson's "Museum" are pretty: Allan Ramsay's songs are always true to nature.

The collier has a daughter,

And O, she's wonder bonnie!
A laird he was that sought her,
Rich baith in land and money.
The tutors watched the motion
Of this young honest lover;
But love is like the ocean-

Wha can its deeps discover?

He had the heart to please ye,
And was by a' respected;
His airs sat round him easy,
Genteel, but unaffected.
The collier's bonnie lassie,

Fair as the new-blown lily,
Aye sweet and never saucy,
Secured the heart of Willie.

THE old words of this song are omitted here, though much more beautiful than these inserted, which were mostly composed by poor Fergusson, in one of his merry humours. They began thus:

:

I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie, O,

I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie, O.

Although the night were ne'er sae wat,

And I were ne'er sae weary, O,

I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie, O.

Fergusson's song:

Nae herds wi' kent, and collie there,
Shall ever come to fear ye, O,
But laverocks whistling in the air,
Shall woo, like me, their dearie, O!

While others herd their lambs and ewes,
And toil for world's gear, my jo,

Upon the lea my pleasure grows
Wi' you, my kind dearie, O!

538 MARY SCOTT, THE FLOWER OF YARROW.

Will ye gang o'er the lea-rig?
My ain kind dearie, O!

And cuddle there sae kindly wi' me?
My kind dearie, O!

At thorny dyke, and birkin tree,
We'll daff, and ne'er be weary, O!
They'll sing ill e'en frae you and me,
Mine ain kind dearie, Ó!

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 Francis Elliot, of Stobbs, and of the late Lord Heathfield.

There is a circumstance in their contract of marriage that merits attention, and 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. Allan Ramsay's version is as follows:

Happy's the love which meets return,
When in soft flame souls equal burn;
But words are wanting to discover
The torments of a hapless lover.
Ye registers of Heaven, relate,
If looking o'er the rolls of Fate,
Did you there see me marked to marrow
Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow?

Ah, no! her form's too heavenly fair,-
Her love the gods alone must share;
While mortals with despair explore her,
And at a distance due adore her.
O lovely maid! my doubts beguile,
Revive and bless me with a smile:
Alas! if not, you'll soon debar a'
Sighing swain on the banks of Yarrow.

Be hush, ye fears! I'll not despair,-
My Mary's tender as she's fair;
Then I'll go tell her all mine anguish;
She is too good to let me languish.

DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE.

With success crowned, I'll not envy
The folks who dwell above the sky;
When Mary Scott's become my marrow,
We'll make a paradise of Yarrow.

539

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.

BLINK OVER THE BURN, SWEET BETTIE.

THE old words, all that I remember, are,

Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
It is a cauld winter night;
It rains, it hails, it thunders,
The moon she gi'es na light.
It's a' for the sake o' sweet Betty
That ever I tint my way;
Sweet, let me lie beyond thee
Until it be break o' day.

O, Betty will bake my bread,
And Betty will brew my ale,
And Betty will be my love,

When I come over the dale.
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
Blink over the burn to me,
And while I ha'e life, dear lassie,
My ain sweet Betty thou's be.

THE BLITHESOME BRIDAL.

I FIND "The Blithesome Bridal" in James Watson's collection of Scots poems, printed at Edinburgh in 1706. This collection; the publisher says, is the first of its nature which has been published in our own native Scots dialect. It is now extremely

scarce,

Come, fye, let us a' to the wedding,
For there will be lilting there,
For Jock will be married to Maggie,
The lass wi' the gowden hair.
And there will be lang kail and castocks,
And bannocks o' barley-meal;
And there will be guid saut herring,
To relish a cog o' guid ale.

And there will be Sandy the sutor,
And Will wi' the meikle mou,
And there will be Tam the blutter,
With Andrew the tinkler, I trow;
And there will be bow-legged Robie,
With thumbless Katie's gudeman,
And there will be blue-cheeked Dobbie,
And Laurie, the laird of the lan'.
And there will be sow-libber Patie,
And plookie-faced Wat i' the mill;
Capper-nosed Francis and Gibbie,
That wons i' the howe o' the hill;
And there will be Alister Sibbie,
Wha in wi' black Bessie did mool,
With snivelling Lilie and Tibbie,

The lass that stands aft on the stool.

And there will be fadges and brochan,

Wi' rowth o' guid gabbocks o' skate;
Powsowdie and drammock and crowdie,
And caller nowt feet on a plate;
And there will be partans and buckies,
And whitings and speldings anew;
With singed sheep-heads and a haggis,
And scadlips to sup till ye spue.

And there will be lappered milk kebbuck,
And sowens, and carles, and laps;
With swats and well-scrapèd paunches,
And brandy in stoups and in caps;
And there will be meal-kail and porrage,
Wi' skirk to sup till ye reve,
And roasts to roast on a brander,
Of flewks that were taken alive.

Scrapt haddocks, wilks, dulse, and tangle,
And a mill o' guid snishing to prie:
When weary wi' eating and drinking,
We'll rise up and dance till we die.