THE EWIE WI' THE CROOKIT HORN.

May choicest blessings e'er attend
Each honest, open-hearted friend,
And calm and quiet be his end,

And all that's good watch o'er him!

May peace and plenty be his lot!
Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,
Peace and plenty be his lot,

And dainties a great store o' 'em!
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Unstained by any vicious spot,
And may he never want a groat,

That's fond o' Tullochgorum!

But for the sullen frampish fool,
That loves to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,

And discontent devour him!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
Dool and sorrow be his chance,

And nane say, Wae's me for him!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Wi' a' the ills that come frae France,
Whae'er he be that winna dance

The Reel o' Tullochgorum!

THE EWIE WI' THE CROOKIT HORN.

ANOTHER excellent song of old Skinner's.

O, were I able to rehearse

My Ewie's praise in proper verse,
I'd sound it out as loud and fierce

As ever piper's drone could blaw.
The Ewie wi' the crookit horn,
Weel deserved baith garse and corn;
Sic a Ewie ne'er was born

Hereabout, nor far awa'.
Sic a Ewie ne'er was born
Hereabout, nor far awa'.

I never needed tar nor keil
To mark her upo' hip or heel;
Her crookit horn did just as weel
To ken her by amo' them a'.

601

602

THE EWIE WI' THE CROOKIT HORN.

1

She never threatened scab nor rot,
But keepit aye her ain jog trot,
Baith to the fauld and to the cot,

Was never sweir to lead nor ca'.
Baith to the fauld and to the cot,

Was never sweir to lead nor ca'.

Cauld nor hunger never dang her,
Wind nor rain could never wrang her;
Ance she lay an ouk' and langer
Out aneath a wreath o' snaw.
When ither Ewies lap the dyke,
And ate the kail for a' the tyke,
My Ewie never played the like,

But tyced about the barn-yard wa';
My Ewie never played the like,

But tyced about the barn-yard wa'.

A better nor a thriftier beast
Nae honest man could weel ha'e wist:
Puir silly thing, she never missed

To ha'e ilk year a lamb or twa.
The first she had I ga'e to Jock,
To be to him a kind of stock,
And now the laddie has a flock

Of mair nor thirty head to ca';
And now the laddie has a flock

Of mair nor thirty head to ca'.

The neist I ga'e to Jean; and now
The bairn's sae braw, has fauld sae fu',
That lads sae thick come here to woo,

They're fain to sleep on hay or straw.
I lookit aye at ev'n for her,

For fear the foumart2 might devour her,
Or some mischanter had come o'er her,
Gin the beastie bade awa';

Or some mischanter had come o'er her,
Gin the beastie bade awa.

Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping,
(Wha can speak it without weeping?)
A villain cam' when I was sleeping,
And sta' my Ewie, horn and a';

Night.

2 Polecat.

HUGHIE GRAHAM.

I sought her sair upo' the morn,
And down aneath a buss o' thorn
I got my Ewie's crookit horn,

But ah, my Ewie was awa';
I got my Ewie's crookit horn,

But ah, my Ewie was awa'.

O! gin I had the loun that did it,
Sworn I have as weel as said it,
'Though a' the warld should forbid it,
I wad gi'e his neck a thra':

I never met wi' sic a turn
As this sin' ever I was born,
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn,

Puir sillie Ewie, stown awa';
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn,
Puir silly Ewie, stown awa'.

603

HUGHIE GRAHAM.

THERE are several editions of this ballad. This, here inserted, is from oral tradition in Ayrshire, where, when I was a boy, it was a popular song. It originally had a simple old tune, which I have forgotten.

66

Our lords are to the mountains gane,

A-hunting o' the fallow deer,
And they have grippet Hughie Graham,
For stealing o' the bishop's mare.

And they ha'e tied him hand and foot,
And led him up through Stirling toun;
The lads and lasses met him there,

Cried, Hughie Graham, thou art a loon.

O, lowse my right hand free," he says,
"And put my braid sword in the same;
He's no in Stirling toun this day

Daur tell the tale to Hughie Graham."
Up then bespake the brave Whitefoord,
As he sat by the bishop's knee,
"Five hundred white stots I'll gi'e you,
If ye 'll let Hughie Graham gae free."

"O, haud your tongue," the bishop says,
"And wi' your pleading let me be;
For though ten Grahams were in his coat,
Hughie Graham this day shall die."

66

Up then bespake the fair Whitefoord,
As she sat by the bishop's knee;
'Five hundred white pence I'll gi'e you,
If ye 'll gi'e Hughie Graham to me."
"O, haud your tongue now, lady fair,
And wi' your pleading let it be;
Although ten Grahams were in his coat,
It's for my honour he maun die."
They've ta’en him to the gallows knowe,
He looked to the gallows tree;
Yet never colour left his cheek,
Nor ever did he blink his e'e.

At length he looked round about,
To see whatever he could spy:
And there he saw his auld father,
And he was weeping bitterly.
"O, haud your tongue, my father dear
And wi' your weeping let it be;
Thy weeping 's sairer on my heart
Than a' that they can do to me.

"And ye may gi'e my brother John

66

My sword that's bent in the middle clear;
And let him come at twelve o'clock,
And see me pay the bishop's mare.

"And

ye may gi'e my brother James

My sword that 's bent in the middle brown;
And bid him come at four o'clock,

And see his brother Hugh cut down.

Remember me to Maggie, my wife,

The neist time ye gang o'er the moor:
Tell her she staw the bishop's mare,-
Tell her she was the bishop's whore.

“And ye may tell my kith and kin,

I never did disgrace their blood;
And when they meet the bishop's cloak
To mak' it shorter by the hood."

' Burns did not choose to be quite correct in stating that this copy of the ballad of "Hughie Graham" is printed from oral tradition in Ayrshire. The fact is, that four of the stanzas are either altered or superadded by himself.

Of this number the third and eighth are original; the ninth and tenth have received his corrections. Perhaps pathos was never more touching than in the picture of the hero singling out his poor aged father from the crowd of spectators; and the simple grandeur of preparation for this

A SOUTHLAND JENNY.

THIS is a popular Ayrshire song, though the notes were never taken down before. It, as well as many of the ballad tunes in this collection, was written from Mrs. Burns's voice.

A Southland Jenny that was right bonnie,
She had for a suitor a Norlan' Johnnie;

But he was siccan a bashfu' wooer

That he could scarcely speak unto her.

But blinks o' her beauty, and hopes o' her siller,
Forced him at last to tell his mind till 'er:

My dear, quo' he, we'll nae longer tarry,

Gin ye can love me, let's o'er the muir and marry.

MY TOCHER'S' THE JEWEL.

THIS tune is claimed by Nathaniel Gow. It is notoriously taken from "The Muckin' o' Geordie's Byre." It is also to be found, long prior to Nathaniel Gow's era, in Aird's " Selection of Airs and Marches," the first edition, under the name of "The Highway to Edinburgh."

THEN, GUIDWIFE, COUNT THE LAWIN'.

THE chorus of this is part of an old song, one stanza of which I recollect:

afflicting circumstance, in the verse that immediately precedes it, is matchless.

That the reader may properly appreciate the value of Burns's touches, I here subjoin two verses from the most correct copy of the ballad, as it is printed in the "Border Minstrelsy."

He looked over his left shoulder

And for to see what he might see;
There was he aware of his auld father
Came tearing his hair most piteouslie.

"O haud your tongue, my father," he says,
"And see that ye dinna weep for me!

For they may ravish me o' my life,

But they canna banish me from heaven hie."- CROMEK.

1 Dowry.