These were
originally
English verses:--I gave them the Scots dress.
Robert Burns
I'll tak the curchie aff my head,
Aff my head, aff my head;
I'll tak the curchie aff my head,
And row't about the feetie o't. "
The tune is an old Highland air, called "Shuan truish willighan. "
* * * * *
LADDIE, LIE NEAR ME.
This song is by Blacklock.
* * * * *
THE GARDENER AND HIS PAIDLE.
This air is the "Gardener's March. " The title of the song only is old;
the rest is mine.
* * * * *
THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.
Tune. --"Seventh of November. "
I composed this song out of compliment to one of the happiest and
worthiest married couples in the world, Robert Riddel, Esq. , of
Glenriddel, and his lady. At their fire-side I have enjoyed more
pleasant evenings than at all the houses of fashionable people in this
country put together; and to their kindness and hospitality I am
indebted for many of the happiest hours of my life.
* * * * *
THE GABERLUNZIE MAN.
The "Gaberlunzie Man" is supposed to commemorate an intrigue of James
the Fifth. Mr. Callander, of Craigforth, published some years ago an
edition of "Christ's Kirk on the Green," and the "Gaberlunzie Man,"
with notes critical and historical. James the Fifth is said to have
been fond of Gosford, in Aberlady parish, and that it was suspected by
his contemporaries, that in his frequent excursions to that part of
the country, he had other purposes in view besides golfing and
archery. Three favourite ladies, Sandilands, Weir, and Oliphant (one
of them resided at Gosford, and the others in the neighbourhood), were
occasionally visited by their royal and gallant admirer, which gave
rise to the following advice to his majesty, from Sir David Lindsay,
of the Mount, Lord Lyon.
"Sow not your seed on Sandylands,
spend not your strength in Weir,
And ride not on an Elephant,
For gawing o' your gear. "
* * * * *
MY BONNIE MARY.
This air is Oswald's; the first half stanza of the song is old, the
rest mine.
* * * * *
THE BLACK EAGLE.
This song is by Dr. Fordyce, whose merits as a prose writer are well
known.
* * * * *
JAMIE, COME TRY ME.
This air is Oswald's; the song mine.
* * * * *
THE LAZY MIST.
This song is mine.
* * * * *
JOHNIE COPE.
This satirical song was composed to commemorate General Cope's defeat
at Preston Pans, in 1745, when he marched against the Clans.
The air was the tune of an old song, of which I have heard some
verses, but now only remember the title, which was,
"Will ye go the coals in the morning. "
* * * * *
I LOVE MY JEAN.
This air is by Marshall; the song I composed out of compliment to Mrs.
Burns.
N. B. It was during the honeymoon.
* * * * *
CEASE, CEASE, MY DEAR FRIEND, TO EXPLORE.
The song is by Dr. Blacklock; I believe, but am not quite certain,
that the air is his too.
* * * * *
AULD ROBIN GRAY.
This air was formerly called, "The bridegroom greets when the sun
gangs down. " The words are by Lady Ann Lindsay, of the Balcarras
family.
* * * * *
DONALD AND FLORA.
This is one of those fine Gaelic tunes, preserved from time immemorial
in the Hebrides; they seem to be the ground-work of many of our finest
Scots pastoral tunes. The words of this song were written to
commemorate the unfortunate expedition of General Burgoyne in America,
in 1777.
* * * * *
O WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL.
This air is Oswald's; the song I made out of compliment to Mrs. Burns.
* * * * *
THE CAPTIVE ROBIN.
This air is called "Robie donna Gorach. "
* * * * *
THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY.
This air is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it his lament for his
brother. The first half-stanza of the song is old; the rest mine.
* * * * *
MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.
The first half-stanza of this song is old; the rest is mine.
* * * * *
CA' THE EWES AND THE KNOWES.
This beautiful song is in true old Scotch taste, yet I do not know
that either air or words were in print before.
* * * * *
THE BRIDAL O'T.
This song is the work of a Mr. Alexander Ross, late schoolmaster at
Lochlee; and author of a beautiful Scots poem, called "The Fortunate
Shepherdess. "
"They say that Jockey 'll speed weel o't,
They say that Jockey 'll speed weel o't,
For he grows brawer ilka day,
I hope we'll hae a bridal o't:
For yesternight nae farder gane,
The backhouse at the side wa' o't,
He there wi' Meg was mirden seen,
I hope we'll hae a bridal o't.
An' we had but a bridal o't,
An' we had but a bridal o't,
We'd leave the rest unto gude luck,
Altho' there should betide ill o't:
For bridal days are merry times,
And young folks like the coming o't,
And scribblers they bang up their rhymes,
And pipers they the bumming o't.
The lasses like a bridal o't,
The lasses like a bridal o't,
Their braws maun be in rank and file,
Altho' that they should guide ill o't:
The boddom o' the kist is then
Turn'd up into the inmost o't,
The end that held the kecks sae clean,
Is now become the teemest o't.
The bangster at the threshing o't.
The bangster at the threshing o't,
Afore it comes is fidgin-fain,
And ilka day's a clashing o't:
He'll sell his jerkin for a groat,
His linder for anither o't,
And e'er he want to clear his shot,
His sark'll pay the tither o't
The pipers and the fiddlers o't,
The pipers and the fiddlers o't,
Can smell a bridal unco' far,
And like to be the middlers o't;
Fan[293] thick and threefold they convene,
Ilk ane envies the tither o't,
And wishes nane but him alane
May ever see anither o't.
Fan they hae done wi' eating o't,
Fan they hae done wi' eating o't,
For dancing they gae to the green,
And aiblins to the beating o't:
He dances best that dances fast,
And loups at ilka reesing o't,
And claps his hands frae hough to hough,
And furls about the feezings o't. "
* * * * *
TODLEN HAME.
This is perhaps the first bottle song that ever was composed.
* * * * *
THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE.
This air is the composition of my friend Allan Masterton, in
Edinburgh. I composed the verses on the amiable and excellent family
of Whitefoords leaving Ballochmyle, when Sir John's misfortunes had
obliged him to sell the estate.
* * * * *
THE RANTIN' DOG, THE DADDIE O'T.
I composed this song pretty early in life, and sent it to a young
girl, a very particular acquaintance of mine, who was at that time
under a cloud.
* * * * *
THE SHEPHERD'S PREFERENCE.
This song is Dr. Blacklock's. --I don't know how it came by the name,
but the oldest appellation of the air was, "Whistle and I'll come to
you, my lad. "
It has little affinity to the tune commonly known by that name.
* * * * *
THE BONIE BANKS OF AYR.
I composed this song as I conveyed my chest so far on the road to
Greenock, where I was to embark in a few days for Jamaica.
I meant it as my farewell dirge to my native land.
* * * * *
JOHN O' BADENYON.
This excellent song is the composition of my worthy friend, old
Skinner, at Linshart.
"When first I cam to be a man
Of twenty years or so,
I thought myself a handsome youth,
And fain the world would know;
In best attire I stept abroad,
With spirits brisk and gay,
And here and there and everywhere,
Was like a morn in May;
No care had I nor fear of want,
But rambled up and down,
And for a beau I might have pass'd
In country or in town;
I still was pleas'd where'er I went,
And when I was alone,
I tun'd my pipe and pleas'd myself
Wi' John o' Badenyon.
Now in the days of youthful prime
A mistress I must find,
For _love_, I heard, gave one an air
And ev'n improved the mind:
On Phillis fair above the rest
Kind fortune fixt my eyes,
Her piercing beauty struck my heart,
And she became my choice;
To Cupid now with hearty prayer
I offer'd many a vow;
And danc'd, and sung, and sigh'd, and swore,
As other lovers do;
But, when at last I breath'd my flame,
I found her cold as stone;
I left the jilt, and tun'd my pipe
To John o' Badenyon.
When _love_ had thus my heart beguil'd
With foolish hopes and vain,
To _friendship's_ port I steer'd my course,
And laugh'd at lover's pain
A friend I got by lucky chance
'Twas something like divine,
An honest friend's a precious gift,
And such a gift was mine:
And now, whatever might betide,
A happy man was I,
In any strait I knew to whom
I freely might apply;
A strait soon came: my friend I try'd;
He heard, and spurn'd my moan;
I hy'd me home, and tun'd my pipe
To John o' Badenyon.
Methought I should be wiser next,
And would a _patriot_ turn,
Began to doat on Johnny Wilks,
And cry up Parson Horne.
Their manly spirit I admir'd,
And prais'd their noble zeal,
Who had with flaming tongue and pen
Maintain'd the public weal;
But e'er a month or two had past,
I found myself betray'd,
'Twas _self_ and _party_ after all,
For a' the stir they made;
At last I saw the factious knaves
Insult the very throne,
I curs'd them a', and tun'd my pipe
To John o' Badenyon. "
* * * * *
A WAUKRIFE MINNIE.
I picked up this old song and tune from a country girl in
Nithsdale. --I never met with it elsewhere in Scotland.
"Whare are you gaun, my bonie lass,
Whare are you gaun, my hinnie,
She answer'd me right saucilie,
An errand for my minnie.
O whare live ye, my bonnie lass,
O whare live ye, my hinnie,
By yon burn-side, gin ye maun ken,
In a wee house wi' my minnie.
But I foor up the glen at e'en,
To see my bonie lassie;
And lang before the gray morn cam,
She was na hauf sa sacie.
O weary fa' the waukrife cock,
And the foumart lay his crawin!
He wauken'd the auld wife frae her sleep,
A wee blink or the dawin.
An angry wife I wat she raise,
And o'er the bed she brought her;
And wi' a mickle hazle rung
She made her a weel pay'd dochter.
O fare thee weel, my bonie lass!
O fare thee weel, my hinnie!
Thou art a gay and a bonie lass,
But thou hast a waukrife minnie. "
* * * * *
TULLOCHGORUM.
This first of songs, is the master-piece of my old friend Skinner. He
was passing the day, at the town of Cullen, I think it was, in a
friend's house whose name was Montgomery. Mrs. Montgomery observing,
_en passant_, that the beautiful reel of Tullochgorum wanted words,
she begged them of Mr. Skinner, who gratified her wishes, and the
wishes of every Scottish song, in this most excellent ballad.
These particulars I had from the author's son, Bishop Skinner, at
Aberdeen.
* * * * *
FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.
This song is mine, all except the chorus.
* * * * *
AULD LANG SYNE.
Ramsay here, as usual with him, has taken the idea of the song, and
the first line, from the old fragment which may be seen in the
"Museum," vol. v.
* * * * *
WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT.
This air is Masterton's; the song mine. --The occasion of it was
this:--Mr. W. Nicol, of the High-School, Edinburgh, during the autumn
vacation being at Moffat, honest Allan, who was at that time on a
visit to Dalswinton, and I, went to pay Nicol a visit. --We had such a
joyous meeting that Mr. Masterton and I agreed, each in our own way,
that we should celebrate the business.
* * * * *
KILLIECRANKIE.
The battle of Killiecrankie was the last stand made by the clans for
James, after his abdication. Here the gallant Lord Dundee fell in the
moment of victory, and with him fell the hopes of the party. General
Mackay, when he found the Highlanders did not pursue his flying army,
said, "Dundee must be killed, or he never would have overlooked this
advantage. " A great stone marks the spot where Dundee fell.
* * * * *
THE EWIE WI' THE CROOKED HORN.
Another excellent song of old Skinner's.
* * * * *
CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD.
It is remarkable of this air that it is the confine of that country
where the greatest part of our Lowland music (so far as from the
title, words, &c. , we can localize it) has been composed. From
Craigie-burn, near Moffat, until one reaches the West Highlands, we
have scarcely one slow air of any antiquity.
The song was composed on a passion which a Mr. Gillespie, a particular
friend of mine, had for a Miss Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelpdale.
This young lady was born at Craigie-burn Wood. --The chorus is part of
an old foolish ballad.
* * * * *
FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOVE.
I added the four last lines, by way of giving a turn to the theme of
the poem, such as it is.
* * * * *
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.
"Our lords are to the mountains gane,
A hunting o' the fallow deer,
And they have gripet Hughie Graham,
For stealing o' the bishop's mare.
And they have tied him hand and foot,
And led him up, thro' Stirling town;
The lads and lasses met him there,
Cried, Hughie Graham, thou art a loun.
O lowse my right hand free, he says,
And put my braid sword in the same;
He's no in Stirling town this day,
Dare 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 gie you,
If ye'll let Hughie Graham gae free.
O haud your tongue, the bishop says,
And wi' your pleading let me be;
For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat,
Hughie Graham this day shall die.
Up then bespake the fair Whitefoord,
As she sat by the bishop's knee;
Five hundred white pence I'll gie you,
If ye'll gie Hughie Graham to me.
O haud your tongue now, lady fair,
And wi' your pleading let it be;
Altho' 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 around 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 gie my brother John
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 gie 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 Maggy 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. "
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL.
This tune is claimed by Nathaniel Gow. --It is notoriously taken from
"The muckin o' Gordie'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, GUID WIFE, COUNT THE LAWIN'.
The chorus of this is part of an old song, no stanza of which I
recollect.
* * * * *
THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME.
This tune is sometimes called "There's few gude fellows when Willie's
awa. "--But I never have been able to meet with anything else of the
song than the title.
* * * * *
I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR.
This song is altered from a poem by Sir Robert Ayton, private
secretary to Mary and Ann, Queens of Scotland. --The poem is to be
found in James Watson's Collection of Scots Poems, the earliest
collection printed in Scotland. I think that I have improved the
simplicity of the sentiments, by giving them a Scots dress.
* * * * *
THE SODGER LADDIE.
The first verse of this is old; the rest is by Ramsay. The tune seems
to be the same with a slow air, called "Jackey Hume's Lament"--or,
"The Hollin Buss"--or "Ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? "
* * * * *
WHERE WAD BONNIE ANNIE LIE.
The old name of this tune is,--
"Whare'll our gudeman lie. "
A silly old stanza of it runs thus--
"O whare'll our gudeman lie,
Gudeman lie, gudeman lie,
O whare'll our gudeman lie,
Till he shute o'er the simmer?
Up amang the hen-bawks,
The hen-bawks, the hen-bawks,
Up amang the hen-bawks,
Amang the rotten timmer. "
* * * * *
GALLOWAY TAM.
I have seen an interlude (acted at a wedding) to this tune, called
"The Wooing of the Maiden. " These entertainments are now much worn out
in this part of Scotland. Two are still retained in Nithsdale, viz.
"Silly Pure Auld Glenae," and this one, "The Wooing of the Maiden. "
* * * * *
AS I CAM DOWN BY YON CASTLE WA.
This is a very popular Ayrshire song.
* * * * *
LORD RONALD MY SON.
This air, a very favourite one in Ayrshire, is evidently the original
of Lochaber. In this manner most of our finest more modern airs have
had their origin. Some early minstrel, or musical shepherd, composed
the simple, artless original air; which being picked up by the more
learned musician, took the improved form it bears.
* * * * *
O'ER THE MOOR AMANG THE HEATHER.
This song is the composition of a Jean Glover, a girl who was not only
a whore, but also a thief; and in one or other character has visited
most of the Correction Houses in the West. She was born I believe in
Kilmarnock,--I took the song down from her singing, as she was
strolling through the country, with a sleight-of-hand blackguard.
* * * * *
TO THE ROSE-BUD.
This song is the composition of a ---- Johnson, a joiner in the
neighbourhood of Belfast. The tune is by Oswald, altered, evidently,
from "Jockie's Gray Breeks. "
* * * * *
YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS.
This tune is by Oswald. The song alludes to a part of my private
history, which it is of no consequence to the world to know.
* * * * *
IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE.
These were originally English verses:--I gave them the Scots dress.
* * * * *
EPPIE M'NAB.
The old song with this title has more wit than decency.
* * * * *
WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR.
This tune is also known by the name of "Lass an I come near thee. " The
words are mine.
* * * * *
THOU ART GANE AWA.
This time is the same with "Haud awa frae me, Donald. "
* * * * *
THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL.
This song of genius was composed by a Miss Cranston. It wanted four
lines, to make all the stanzas suit the music, which I added, and are
the four first of the last stanza.
"No cold approach, no alter'd mien,
Just what would make suspicion start;
No pause the dire extremes between,
He made me blest--and broke my heart! "
* * * * *
THE BONIE WEE THING.
Composed on my little idol "the charming, lovely Davies. "
* * * * *
THE TITHER MORN.
This tune is originally from the Highlands. I have heard a Gaelic song
to it, which I was told was very clever, but not by any means a lady's
song.
* * * * *
A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON.
This most beautiful tune is, I think, the happiest composition of that
bard-born genius, John Riddel, of the family of Glencarnock, at Ayr.
The words were composed to commemorate the much-lamented and premature
death of James Ferguson, Esq. , jun. of Craigdarroch.
* * * * *
DAINTIE DAVIE.
This song, tradition says, and the composition itself confirms it, was
composed on the Rev. David Williamson's begetting the daughter of Lady
Cherrytrees with child, while a party of dragoons were searching her
house to apprehend him for being an adherent to the solemn league and
covenant. The pious woman had put a lady's night-cap on him, and had
laid him a-bed with her own daughter, and passed him to the soldiery
as a lady, her daughter's bed-fellow. A mutilated stanza or two are to
be found in Herd's collection, but the original song consists of five
or six stanzas, and were their _delicacy_ equal to their _wit_ and
_humour_, they would merit a place in any collection. The first stanza
is
"Being pursued by the dragoons,
Within my bed he was laid down;
And weel I wat he was worth his room,
For he was my Daintie Davie. "
Ramsay's song, "Luckie Nansy," though he calls it an old song with
additions, seems to be all his own except the chorus:
"I was a telling you,
Luckie Nansy, Luckie Nansy
Auld springs wad ding the new,
But ye wad never trow me. "
Which I should conjecture to be part of a song prior to the affair of
Williamson.
* * * * *
BOB O' DUMBLANE.
RAMSAY, as usual, has modernized this song. The original,
which I learned on the spot, from my old hostess in the principal inn
there, is--
"Lassie, lend me your braw hemp heckle,
And I'll lend you my thripplin-kame;
My heckle is broken, it canna be gotten,
And we'll gae dance the bob o' Dumblane.
Twa gaed to the wood, to the wood, to the wood.
Twa gaed to the wood--three came hame;
An' it be na weel bobbit, weel bobbit, weel bobbit
An' it be na weel bobbit, we'll bob it again. "
I insert this song to introduce the following anecdote, which I have
heard well authenticated. In the evening of the day of the battle of
Dumblane, (Sheriff Muir,) when the action was over, a Scots officer in
Argyll's army, observed to His Grace, that he was afraid the rebels
would give out to the world that _they_ had gotten the victory. --"Weel,
weel," returned his Grace, alluding to the foregoing ballad, "if they
think it be nae weel bobbit, we'll bob it again. "
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 293: _Fan_, when--the dialect of Angus. ]
* * * * *
THE BORDER TOUR.
Left Edinburgh (May 6, 1787)--Lammermuir-hills miserably dreary, but
at times very picturesque. Lanton-edge, a glorious view of the
Merse--Reach Berrywell--old Mr. Ainslie an uncommon character;--his
hobbies, agriculture, natural philosophy, and politics. --In the first
he is unexceptionably the clearest-headed, best-informed man I ever
met with; in the other two, very intelligent:--As a man of business he
has uncommon merit, and by fairly deserving it has made a very decent
independence. Mrs. Ainslie, an excellent, sensible, cheerful, amiable
old woman--Miss Ainslie--her person a little _embonpoint_, but
handsome; her face, particularly her eyes, full of sweetness and good
humour--she unites three qualities rarely to be found together; keen,
solid penetration; sly, witty observation and remark; and the
gentlest, most unaffected female modesty--Douglas, a clever, fine,
promising young fellow. --The family-meeting with their brother; my
_compagnon de voyage_, very charming; particularly the sister. The
whole family remarkably attached to their menials--Mrs. A. full of
stories of the sagacity and sense of the little girl in the
kitchen. --Mr. A. high in the praises of an African, his
house-servant--all his people old in his service--Douglas's old nurse
came to Berrywell yesterday to remind them of its being his birthday.
A Mr. Dudgeon, a poet at times,[294] a worthy remarkable
character--natural penetration, a great deal of information, some
genius, and extreme modesty.
_Sunday. _--Went to church at Dunse[295]--Dr. Howmaker a man of strong
lungs and pretty judicious remark; but ill skilled in propriety, and
altogether unconscious of his want of it.
_Monday. _--Coldstream--went over to England--Cornhill--glorious river
Tweed--clear and majestic--fine bridge. Dine at Coldstream with Mr.
Ainslie and Mr. Foreman--beat Mr. F---- in a dispute about Voltaire. Tea
at Lenel House with Mr. Brydone--Mr. Brydone a most excellent heart,
kind, joyous, and benevolent; but a good deal of the French
indiscriminate complaisance--from his situation past and present, an
admirer of everything that bears a splendid title, or that possesses a
large estate--Mrs. Brydone a most elegant woman in her person and
manners; the tones of her voice remarkably sweet--my reception extremely
flattering--sleep at Coldstream.
_Tuesday. _--Breakfast at Kelso--charming situation of Kelso--fine
bridge over the Tweed--enchanting views and prospects on both sides of
the river, particularly the Scotch side; introduced to Mr. Scott of
the Royal Bank--an excellent, modest fellow--fine situation of
it--ruins of Roxburgh Castle--a holly-bush, growing where James II. of
Scotland was accidentally killed by the bursting of a cannon. A small
old religious ruin, and a fine old garden planted by the religious,
rooted out and destroyed by an English hottentot, a _maitre d'hotel_
of the duke's, a Mr. Cole--climate and soil of Berwickshire, and even
Roxburghshire, superior to Ayrshire--bad roads. Turnip and sheep
husbandry, their great improvements--Mr. M'Dowal, at Caverton Mill, a
friend of Mr. Ainslie's, with whom I dined to-day, sold his sheep, ewe
and lamb together, at two guineas a piece--wash their sheep before
shearing--seven or eight pounds of washen wool in a fleece--low
markets, consequently low rents--fine lands not above sixteen
shillings a Scotch acre--magnificence of farmers and farm-houses--come
up Teviot and up Jed to Jedburgh to lie, and so wish myself a good
night.
_Wednesday. _--Breakfast with Mr. ---- in Jedburgh--a squabble between
Mrs. ----, a crazed, talkative slattern, and a sister of hers, an old
maid, respecting a relief minister--Miss gives Madam the lie; and
Madam, by way of revenge, upbraids her that she laid snares to
entangle the said minister, then a widower, in the net of
matrimony--go about two miles out of Jedburgh to a roup of parks--meet
a polite, soldier-like gentleman, a Captain Rutherford, who had been
many years through the wilds of America, a prisoner among the
Indians--charming, romantic situation of Jedburgh, with gardens,
orchards, &c. , intermingled among the houses--fine old ruins--a once
magnificent cathedral, and strong castle. All the towns here have the
appearance of old, rude grandeur, but the people extremely idle--Jed a
fine romantic little river.
Dine with Capt. Rutherford--the Captain a polite fellow, fond of money
in his farming way; showed a particular respect to my bardship--his
lady exactly a proper matrimonial second part for him. Miss Rutherford
a beautiful girl, but too far gone woman to expose so much of a fine
swelling bosom--her face very fine.
Return to Jedburgh--walk up Jed with some ladies to be shown Love-lane
and Blackburn, two fairy scenes. Introduced to Mr. Potts, writer, a
very clever fellow; and Mr. Somerville, the clergyman of the place, a
man and a gentleman, but sadly addicted to punning. --The walking party
of ladies, Mrs. ---- and Miss ---- her sister, before mentioned. --N. B.
These two appear still more comfortably ugly and stupid, and bore me
most shockingly. Two Miss ----, tolerably agreeable. Miss Hope, a
tolerably pretty girl, fond of laughing and fun. Miss Lindsay, a
good-humoured, amiable girl; rather short _et embonpoint_, but
handsome, and extremely graceful--beautiful hazel eyes, full of
spirit, and sparkling with delicious moisture--an engaging face--_un
tout ensemble_ that speaks her of the first order of female minds--her
sister, a bonnie, strappan, rosy, sonsie lass. Shake myself loose,
after several unsuccessful efforts, of Mrs. ---- and Miss ----, and
somehow or other, get hold of Miss Lindsay's arm. My heart is thawed
into melting pleasure after being so long frozen up in the Greenland
bay of indifference, amid the noise and nonsense of Edinburgh. Miss
seems very well pleased with my bardship's distinguishing her, and
after some slight qualms, which I could easily mark, she sets the
titter round at defiance, and kindly allows me to keep my hold; and
when parted by the ceremony of my introduction to Mr. Somerville, she
met me half, to resume my situation. --Nota Bene--The poet within a
point and a half of being d--mnably in love--I am afraid my bosom is
still nearly as much tinder as ever.
The old cross-grained, whiggish, ugly, slanderous Miss ----, with all
the poisonous spleen of a disappointed, ancient maid, stops me very
unseasonably to ease her bursting breast, by falling abusively foul
on the Miss Lindsays, particularly on my Dulcinea;--I hardly refrain
from cursing her to her face for daring to mouth her calumnious
slander on one of the finest pieces of the workmanship of Almighty
Excellence! Sup at Mr. ----'s; vexed that the Miss Lindsays are not of
the supper-party, as they only are wanting. Mrs. ---- and Miss ----still
improve infernally on my hands.
Set out next morning for Wauchope, the seat of my correspondent, Mrs.
Scott--breakfast by the way with Dr. Elliot, an agreeable,
good-hearted, climate-beaten old veteran, in the medical line; now
retired to a romantic, but rather moorish place, on the banks of the
Roole--he accompanies us almost to Wauchope--we traverse the country
to the top of Bochester, the scene of an old encampment, and Woolee
Hill.
Wauchope--Mr. Scott exactly the figure and face commonly given to
Sancho Panca--very shrewd in his farming matters, and not unfrequently
stumbles on what may be called a strong thing rather than a good
thing. Mrs. Scott all the sense, taste, intrepidity of face, and bold,
critical decision, which usually distinguish female authors. --Sup with
Mr. Potts--agreeable party. --Breakfast next morning with Mr.
Somerville--the _bruit_ of Miss Lindsay and my bardship, by means of
the invention and malice of Miss ----. Mr. Somerville sends to Dr.
Lindsay, begging him and family to breakfast if convenient, but at all
events to send Miss Lindsay; accordingly Miss Lindsay only comes. --I
find Miss Lindsay would soon play the devil with me--I met with some
little flattering attentions from her. Mrs. Somerville an excellent,
motherly, agreeable woman, and a fine family. --Mr. Ainslie, and Mrs.
S----, junrs. , with Mr. ----, Miss Lindsay, and myself, go to see
_Esther_, a very remarkable woman for reciting poetry of all kinds,
and sometimes making Scotch doggerel herself--she can repeat by heart
almost everything she has ever read, particularly Pope's Homer from
end to end--has studied Euclid by herself, and in short, is a woman of
very extraordinary abilities. --On conversing with her I find her fully
equal to the character given of her. [296]--She is very much flattered
that I send for her, and that she sees a poet who has _put out a
book_, as she says. --She is, among other things, a great florist--and
is rather past the meridian of once celebrated beauty.
I walk in _Esther's_ garden with Miss Lindsay, and after some little
chit-chat of the tender kind, I presented her with a proof print of my
Nob, which she accepted with something more tinder than gratitude. She
told me many little stories which Miss ---- had retailed concerning her
and me, with prolonging pleasure--God bless her! Was waited on by the
magistrates, and presented with the freedom of the burgh.
Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some melancholy, disagreeable
sensations. --Jed, pure be thy crystal streams, and hallowed thy sylvan
banks! Sweet Isabella Lindsay, may peace dwell in thy bosom,
uninterrupted, except by the tumultuous throbbings of rapturous love!
That love-kindling eye must beam on another, not on me; that graceful
form must bless another's arms; not mine!
Kelso. Dine with the farmers' club--all gentlemen, talking of high
matters--each of them keeps a hunter from thirty to fifty pounds
value, and attends the fox-huntings in the country--go out with Mr.
Ker, one of the club, and a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to lie--Mr. Ker a
most gentlemanly, clever, handsome fellow, a widower with some fine
children--his mind and manner astonishingly like my dear old friend
Robert Muir, in Kilmarnock--everything in Mr. Ker's most elegant--he
offers to accompany me in my English tour. Dine with Sir Alexander
Don--a pretty clever fellow, but far from being a match for his divine
lady. --A very wet day * * *--Sleep at Stodrig again; and set out for
Melrose--visit Dryburgh, a fine old ruined abbey--still bad
weather--cross Leader, and come up Tweed to Melrose--dine there, and
visit that far-famed, glorious ruin--come to Selkirk, up Ettrick; the
whole country hereabout, both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stony.
_Monday. _--Come to Inverleithing, a famous shaw, and in the vicinity
of the palace of Traquair, where having dined, and drank some
Galloway-whey, I hero remain till to-morrow--saw Elibanks and
Elibraes, on the other side of the Tweed.
_Tuesday. _--Drank tea yesternight at Pirn, with Mr.
Horseburgh. --Breakfasted to-day with Mr. Ballantyne of
Hollowlee--Proposal for a four-horse team to consist of Mr. Scott of
Wauchope, Fittieland: Logan of Logan, Fittiefurr: Ballantyne of
Hollowlee, Forewynd: Horsburgh of Horsburgh. --Dine at a country inn,
kept by a miller, in Earlston, the birth-place and residence of the
celebrated Thomas a Rhymer--saw the ruins of his castle--come to
Berrywell.
_Wednesday. _--Dine at Dunse with the farmers' club-company--impossible
to do them justice--Rev. Mr. Smith a famous punster, and Mr. Meikle a
celebrated mechanic, and inventor of the threshing-mills.
_Thursday_, breakfast at Berrywell, and walk into Dunse to see a
famous knife made by a cutler there, and to be presented to an Italian
prince. --A pleasant ride with my friend Mr. Robert Ainslie, and his
sister, to Mr. Thomson's, a man who has newly commenced farmer, and
has married a Miss Patty Grieve, formerly a flame of Mr. Robert
Ainslie's. --Company--Miss Jacky Grieve, an amiable sister of Mrs.
Thomson's, and Mr. Hood, an honest, worthy, facetious farmer, in the
neighbourhood.
_Friday. _--Ride to Berwick--An idle town, rudely picturesque. --Meet
Lord Errol in walking round the walls. --His lordship's flattering
notice of me. --Dine with Mr. Clunzie, merchant--nothing particular in
company or conversation--Come up a bold shore, and over a wild country
to Eyemouth--sup and sleep at Mr. Grieve's.
_Saturday. _--Spend the day at Mr. Grieve's--made a royal arch mason of
St. Abb's Lodge,[297]--Mr. William Grieve, the oldest brother, a joyous,
warm-hearted, jolly, clever fellow--takes a hearty glass, and sings a
good song. --Mr. Robert, his brother, and partner in trade, a good
fellow, but says little. Take a sail after dinner. Fishing of all
kinds pays tithes at Eyemouth.
_Sunday. _--A Mr. Robinson, brewer at Ednam, sets out with us to
Dunbar.
The Miss Grieves very good girls. --My bardship's heart got a brush
from Miss Betsey.
Mr. William Grieve's attachment to the family-circle, so fond, that
when he is out, which by the bye is often the case, he cannot go to
bed till he see if all his sisters are sleeping well ---- Pass the
famous Abbey of Coldingham, and Pease-bridge. --Call at Mr. Sheriff's
where Mr. A. and I dine. --Mr. S. talkative and conceited.
