JOHN HAY'S BONNIE LASSIE.

Then, fye, let's a' to the bridal,
For there will be lilting there,
For Jock 'll be married to Maggie,
The lass wi' the gowden hair.

541

Lord Napier, in a letter to Mark Napier, dated Thirlestane, December 15, 1831, says of this song," Sir William Scott was the author of that well-known Scots song, 'Fye, let us a' to the Bridal' —a better thing than Horace ever wrote. My authority was my father."

JOHN HAY'S BONNIE LASSIE.

JOHN HAY'S "Bonnie Lassie" was daughter of John Hay, Earl or Marquis of Tweeddale, and the late Countess Dowager of Roxburgh. She died at Broomlands, near Kelso, some time between the years 1720 and 1740.

She's fresh as the spring, and sweet as Aurora,

When birds mount and sing, bidding day a good-morrow;
The sward o' the mead, enamelled wi' daisies,

Looks withered and dead when twinned of her graces.

But if she appear where verdures invite her,

The fountains run clear, and flowers smell the sweeter;
'Tis heaven to be by when her wit is a-flowing,
Her smiles and bright een set my spirits a-glowing.

THE BONNIE BRUCKET LASSIE.

THE first two lines of this song 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 Edinburgh as a common printer, with leaky shoes, a sky-lighted hat, and knee-buckles as unlike as Georgeby-the-grace-of-God and Solomon-the-son-of-David; yet that same unknown drunken mortal is author and compiler of threefourths of Elliot's pompous "Encyclopædia Britannica," which he composed at half-a-guinea a week.

The bonnie brucket lassie,

She's blue beneath the een;
She was the fairest lassie
That danced on the green.

542

SAE MERRY AS WE TWA HA'E BEEN.

A lad he lo'ed her dearly,—

She did his love return;
But he his vows has broken,
And left her for to mourn.

66

"My shape," says she, was handsome,

My face was fair and clean;
But now I'm bonnie brucket,
And blue beneath the een.
My eyes were bright and sparkling
Before that they turned blue;
But now they're dull with weeping,
And a', my love, for you.

"O! could I live in darkness,
Or hide me in the sea,
Since my love is unfaithful,
And has forsaken me.
No other love I suffered
Within my breast to dwell;
In nought have I offended,
But loving him too well."
Her lover heard her mourning,
As by he chanced to pass;
And pressed unto his bosom
The lovely brucket lass.

66

"My dear," said he, cease grieving,
Since that your love is true,-

My bonnie brucket lassie,

I'll faithful prove to you."

SAE MERRY AS WE TWA HA'E BEEN.

THIS song is beautiful. The chorus in particular is truly pathetic. I never could learn anything of its author.

CHORUS.

Sae merry as we twa ha'e been,

Sae merry as we twa ha’e been;

My heart it is like for to break,

When I think on the days we ha'e seen.

A lass that was laden wi' care

Sat heavily under a thorn;

I listened awhile for to hear,

When thus she began for to mourn:

THE BANKS OF FORTH.

"Whene'er my dear shepherd was there,
The birds did melodiously sing,
And cold nipping winter did wear
A face that resembled the spring.
"Our flocks feeding close by his side,
He gently pressing my hand,
I viewed the wide world in its pride,
And laughed at the pomp of command.
'My dear,' he would oft to me say,

What makes you hard-hearted to me?
O! why do you thus turn away

From him who is dying for thee?'
"But now he is far from my sight,—
Perhaps a deceiver may prove,
Which makes me lament day and night,
That ever I granted my love.
At eve, when the rest of the folk
Were merrily seated to spin,

I sat myself under an oak

And heavily sighed for him."

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THE BANKS OF FORTH.

THIS air is Oswald's.

["Here's anither-it's no a Scots tune, but it passes for ane. Oswald made it himsel', I reckon. He has cheated mony a ane, but he canna cheat Wandering Willie."-SIR WALTER SCOTT.]

Ye sylvan powers that rule the plain,
Where sweetly winding Fortha glides,
Conduct me to those banks again,

Since there my charming Mary bides.

Those banks that breathe their vernal sweets
Where every smiling beauty meets,

Where Mary's charms adorn the plain,
And cheer the heart of every swain.
Oft in the thick embowering groves,
Where birds their music chirp aloud,
Alternately we sung our loves,

And Fortha's fair meanders viewed.
The meadows wore a general smile;
Love was our banquet all the while;
The lovely prospect charmed the eye,
To where the ocean met the sky.

Once, on the grassy bank reclined,
Where Forth ran by in murmurs deep,
It was my happy chance to find

The charming Mary lulled asleep;
My heart then leaped with inward bliss,
I softly stooped, and stole a kiss;

She waked, she blushed, and gently blamed,
'Why, Damon! are you not ashamed ?"

66

Ye sylvan powers, ye rural gods,

To whom we swains our cares impart,
Restore me to those blest abodes,

And ease, oh, ease my love-sick heart!
Those happy days again restore,
When Mary and I shall part no more;
When she shall fill these longing arms,
And crown my bliss with all her charms.

THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR.

THIS is another beautiful song of Mr. Crawford's composition. In the neighbourhood of Traquair, tradition still shows the old "Bush ;" which, when I saw it in the year 1787, was 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!
I'll tell how Peggy grieves me;
Though thus I languish and complain,
Alas! she ne'er believes me.
My vows and sighs, like silent air,
Unheeded, never move her,
The bonny bush aboon Traquair,
Was where I first did love her.

That day she smiled and made me glad,
No maid seemed ever kinder;
I thought mysel' the luckiest lad,
So sweetly there to find her.
I tried to soothe my am'rous flame
In words that I thought tender;
If more there passed, I'm not to blame,
I meant not to offend her.

Yet now she scornful flees the plains,
The fields we then frequented;

If e'er we meet she shows disdain,
She looks as ne'er acquainted.

CROMLECK'S LILT.

The bonnie bush bloomed fair in May,-
Its sweets I'll aye remember;
But now her frowns make it decay;
It fades as in December.

Ye rural powers, who hear my strains,
Why thus should Peggy grieve me?
O! make her partner in my pains;
Then let her smiles relieve me.
If not, my love will turn despair,
My passion no more tender;
I'll leave the bush aboon Traquair,
To lonely wilds I'll wander.

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CROMLECK'S LILT.

THE following interesting account of this plaintive dirge was communicated to Mr. Riddel by Alexander Fraser Tytler, Esq., of Woodhouselee :

--

"In the latter end of the sixteenth 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 the daughter of Stirling of Ardoch, commonly known by the name of Fair Helen of Ardoch.

"At that time the opportunities of meeting between 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. Cromleck, 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 Cromleck; and, by misinterpreting or keeping back the letters and messages intrusted to his care, he entirely irritated both. All connection was broken off betwixt them: Helen was inconsolable; and Cromleck has left behind him, in the ballad called 'Cromleck'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

T