The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume I Part 20

New pearlings are cause o' her sorrow-- New pearlings and plenishing too; The bride that has a' to borrow Has e'en right muckle ado.

Woo'd, and married, and a'; Woo'd, and married, and a'; And is na she very weel aff, To be woo'd, and married, and a'?

Her mither then hastily spak-- "The la.s.sie is glaikit wi' pride; In my pouches I hadna a plack The day that I was a bride.

E'en tak to your wheel and be clever, And draw out your thread in the sun; The gear that is gifted, it never Will last like the gear that is won.

Woo'd, and married, an' a', Tocher and havings sae sma'; I think ye are very weel aff To be woo'd, and married, and a'."

"Toot, toot!" quo' the gray-headed faither; "She 's less of a bride than a bairn; She 's ta'en like a cowt frae the heather, Wi' sense and discretion to learn.

Half husband, I trow, and half daddy, As humour inconstantly leans; A chiel maun be constant and steady, That yokes wi' a mate in her teens.

Kerchief to cover so neat, Locks the winds used to blaw; I 'm baith like to laugh and to greet, When I think o' her married at a'."

Then out spak the wily bridegroom, Weel waled were his wordies, I ween,-- "I 'm rich, though my coffer be toom, Wi' the blinks o' your bonnie blue een; I 'm prouder o' thee by my side, Though thy ruffles or ribbons be few, Than if Kate o' the Craft were my bride, Wi' purples and pearlings enew.

Dear and dearest of ony, I 've woo'd, and bookit, and a'; And do you think scorn o' your Johnnie, And grieve to be married at a'?"

She turn'd, and she blush'd, and she smiled, And she lookit sae bashfully down; The pride o' her heart was beguiled, And she play'd wi' the sleeve o' her gown; She twirl'd the tag o' her lace, And she nippit her boddice sae blue; Syne blinkit sae sweet in his face, And aff like a maukin she flew.

Woo'd, and married, and a', Married and carried awa'; She thinks hersel' very weel aff, To be woo'd, and married, and a'.

[34] Of the song, "Woo'd, and married, and a'," there is another version, published in Johnson's "Musical Museum," vol. i. p. 10, which was long popular among the ballad-singers. This was composed by Alexander Ross, schoolmaster of Lochlee, author of "Helenore, or the Fortunate Shepherdess." A song, having a similar commencement, had previously been current on the Border.

WILLIAM DUDGEON.

Though the author of a single popular song, William Dudgeon is ent.i.tled to a place among the modern contributors to the Caledonian minstrelsy.

Of his personal history, only a very few facts have been recovered. He was the son of a farmer in East-Lothian, and himself rented an extensive farm at Preston, in Berwickshire. During his border tour in May 1787, the poet Burns met him at Berrywell, the residence of the father of his friend Mr Robert Ainslie, who acted as land-steward on the estate of Lord Douglas in the Merse. In his journal, Burns has thus recorded his impression of the meeting:--"A Mr Dudgeon, a poet at times, a worthy, remarkable character, natural penetration, a great deal of information, some genius, and extreme modesty." Dudgeon died in October 1813, about his sixtieth year.

UP AMONG YON CLIFFY ROCKS.

Up among yon cliffy rocks Sweetly rings the rising echo, To the maid that tends the goats Lilting o'er her native notes.

Hark, she sings, "Young Sandy 's kind, An' he 's promised aye to lo'e me; Here 's a brooch I ne'er shall tine, Till he 's fairly married to me.

Drive away, ye drone, Time, And bring about our bridal day.

"Sandy herds a flock o' sheep; Aften does he blaw the whistle In a strain sae saftly sweet, Lammies list'ning daurna bleat.

He 's as fleet 's the mountain roe, Hardy as the Highland heather, Wading through the winter snow, Keeping aye his flock together; But a plaid, wi' bare houghs, He braves the bleakest norlan' blast.

"Brawly can he dance and sing, Canty glee or Highland cronach; Nane can ever match his fling, At a reel or round a ring, In a brawl he 's aye the bangster: A' his praise can ne'er be sung By the langest-winded sangster; Sangs that sing o' Sandy, Seem short, though they were e'er sae lang."

WILLIAM REID.

William Reid was born at Glasgow on the 10th of April 1764. His father, a baker by trade, was enabled to give him a good education at the school of his native city. At an early age he was apprenticed to Messrs Dunlop and Wilson, booksellers; and in the year 1790, along with another enterprising individual, he commenced a bookselling establishment, under the firm of "Brash and Reid." In this business, both partners became eminently successful, their shop being frequented by the _literati_ of the West. The poet Burns cultivated the society of Mr Reid, who proved a warm friend, as he was an ardent admirer, of the Ayrshire bard. He was an enthusiastic patron of literature, was fond of social humour, and a zealous promoter of the interests of Scottish song. Between 1795 and 1798, the firm published in numbers, at one penny each, "Poetry, Original and Selected," which extended to four volumes. To this publication, both Mr Reid, and his partner, Mr Brash, made some original contributions. The work is now very scarce, and is accounted valuable by collectors. Mr Reid died at Glasgow, on the 29th of November 1831, leaving a widow and a family.

THE LEA RIG.[35]

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

And cuddle there fu' kindly Wi' me, my kind dearie, O!

At th.o.r.n.y bush, or birken tree, We 'll daff and never weary, O!

They 'll scug ill een frae you and me, My ain kind dearie, O!

Nae herds wi' kent or colly there, Shall ever come to fear ye, O!

But lav'rocks, whistling in the air, Shall woo, like me, their dearie, O!

While ithers herd their lambs and ewes, And toil for warld's gear, my jo, Upon the lea my pleasure grows, Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O!

At gloamin', if my lane I be, Oh, but I'm wondrous eerie, O!

And mony a heavy sigh I gie, When absent frae my dearie, O!

But seated 'neath the milk-white thorn, In ev'ning fair and clearie, O!

Enraptured, a' my cares I scorn, When wi' my kind dearie, O!

Whare through the birks the burnie rows, Aft hae I sat fu' cheerie, O!

Upon the bonny greensward howes, Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O!

I've courted till I've heard the craw Of honest chanticleerie, O!

Yet never miss'd my sleep ava, Whan wi' my kind dearie, O!

For though the night were ne'er sae dark, And I were ne'er sae weary, O!

I'd meet thee on the lea rig, My ain kind dearie, O!

While in this weary world of wae, This wilderness sae dreary, O!

What makes me blythe, and keeps me sae?

'Tis thee, my kind dearie, O!

[35] The two first stanzas of this song are the composition of the gifted and unfortunate Robert Fergusson. It is founded on an older ditty, beginning, "I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig." See Johnson's "Musical Museum," vol. iv. p. 53.

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.[36]

John Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what ye mean, To rise sae early in the morn, And sit sae late at e'en; Ye 'll blear out a' your een, John, And why should you do so?

Gang sooner to your bed at e'en, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, When Nature first began To try her canny hand, John, Her masterpiece was man; And you amang them a', John, Sae trig frae tap to toe-- She proved to be nae journeyman, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, Ye were my first conceit; And ye needna think it strange, John, That I ca' ye trim and neat; Though some folks say ye 're auld, John, I never think ye so; But I think ye 're aye the same to me, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, We 've seen our bairns' bairns; And yet, my dear John Anderson, I 'm happy in your arms; And sae are ye in mine, John, I 'm sure ye 'll ne'er say, No; Though the days are gane that we have seen, John Anderson, my jo.