Chapter 11

[76] Tannahill was believed never to have entertained particular affection towards any of the fair sex. We have ascertained that, at different periods, he paid court to two females of his own rank. The first of these was Jean King, sister of his friend John King, one of the minor poets of Paisley; she afterwards married a person of the name of Pinkerton; and her son, Mr James Pinkerton, printer, Paisley, has frequently heard her refer to the fear she had entertained lest "Rob would write a song about her." His next sweetheart was Mary Allan, sister of the poet Robert Allan. This estimable woman was a sad mourner on the poet's death, and for many years wept aloud when her deceased lover was made the subject of conversation in her presence. She still survives, and a few years since, to join some relations, she emigrated to America. Some verses addressed to her by the poet she continues to retain with the fondest affection.

JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE.[77]

The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin' To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom, And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she 's bonny; For guileless simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha 'd blight, in its bloom, the sweet flower o' Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, Thou 'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie, The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie, Till charm'd with sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I 'd languish in pain; And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour, If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

[77] "Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane" was published in 1808, and has since received an uncommon measure of popularity. The music, so suitable to the words, was composed by R. A. Smith. In the "Harp of Renfrewshire" (p. xxxvi), Mr Smith remarks that the song was at first composed in two stanzas, the third being subsequently added. "The Promethean fire," says Mr Smith, "must have been burning but _lownly_, when such commonplace ideas could be written, after the song had been so finely wound up with the beautiful apostrophe to the mavis, 'Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening.'" The heroine of the song was formerly a matter of speculation; many a "Jessie" had the credit assigned to her; and passengers by the old stage-coaches between Perth and the south, on passing through Dunblane, had pointed out to them, by the drivers, the house of Jessie's birth. One writer (in the _Musical Magazine_, for May 1835) records that he had actually been introduced at Dunblane to the individual Jessie, then an elderly female, of an appearance the reverse of prepossessing! Unfortunately for the curious in such inquiries, the heroine only existed in the imagination of the poet; he never was in Dunblane, which, if he had been, he would have discovered that the sun could not there be seen setting "o'er the lofty Benlomond." Mr Matthew Tannahill states that the song was composed to supplant an old one, entitled, "Bob o' Dumblane." Mr James Bowie, of Paisley, supplies the information, that in consequence of improvements suggested from time to time by R. A. Smith and William Maclaren, Tannahill wrote eighteen different versions of this song.

LOUDOUN'S BONNIE WOODS AND BRAES.[78]

AIR--_"Lord Moira's Welcome to Scotland."_

Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes, I maun lea' them a', lassie; Wha can thole when Britain's faes Wald gi'e Britons law, lassie? Wha would shun the field of danger? Wha frae fame wad live a stranger? Now when Freedom bids avenge her, Wha would shun her ca', lassie? Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes Hae seen our happy bridal days, And gentle Hope shall soothe thy waes, When I am far awa', lassie.

"Hark! the swelling bugle sings, Yielding joy to thee, laddie, But the dolefu' bugle brings Waefu' thoughts to me, laddie. Lanely I may climb the mountain, Lanely stray beside the fountain, Still the weary moments countin', Far frae love, and thee, laddie. O'er the gory fields of war, When Vengeance drives his crimson car, Thou 'lt maybe fa', frae me afar, And nane to close thy e'e, laddie."

O! resume thy wonted smile! O! suppress thy fears, lassie! Glorious honour crowns the toil That the soldier shares, lassie; Heaven will shield thy faithful lover, Till the vengeful strife is over, Then we 'll meet nae mair to sever, Till the day we die, lassie; 'Midst our bonnie woods and braes, We 'll spend our peaceful, happy days, As blithe 's yon lightsome lamb that plays On Loudoun's flowery lea, lassie.

[78] Tannahill wrote this song in honour of the Earl of Moira, afterwards Marquis of Hastings, and the Countess of Loudoun, to whom his Lordship had been shortly espoused, when he was called abroad in the service of his country.

THE LASS O' ARRANTEENIE.[79]

Far lone amang the Highland hills, 'Midst Nature's wildest grandeur, By rocky dens, and woody glens, With weary steps I wander. The langsome way, the darksome day, The mountain mist sae rainy, Are nought to me when gaun to thee, Sweet lass o' Arranteenie.

Yon mossy rosebud down the howe, Just op'ning fresh and bonny, Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel bough, And 's scarcely seen by ony; Sae, sweet amidst her native hills, Obscurely blooms my Jeanie, Mair fair and gay than rosy May, The flower o' Arranteenie.

Now, from the mountain's lofty brow, I view the distant ocean, There Av'rice guides the bounding prow, Ambition courts promotion:-- Let Fortune pour her golden store, Her laurell'd favours many; Give me but this, my soul's first wish, The lass o' Arranteenie.

[79] This song was written on a young lady, whom a friend of the author met at Ardentinny, a retired spot on the margin of Loch Long.

YON BURN SIDE.[80]

AIR--_"The Brier-bush."_

We 'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side, Where the bushes form a cosie den, on yon burn side; Though the broomy knowes be green, And there we may be seen, Yet we 'll meet--we 'll meet at e'en down by yon burn side.

I 'll lead you to the birken bower, on yon burn side, Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flower, on yon burn side; There the busy prying eye, Ne'er disturbs the lovers' joy, While in ither's arms they lie, down by yon burn side, Awa', ye rude, unfeeling crew, frae yon burn side, Those fairy scenes are no for you, by yon burn side; There fancy smoothes her theme, By the sweetly murm'ring stream, And the rock-lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn side.

Now the plantin' taps are tinged wi' goud, on yon burn side, And gloamin' draws her foggy shroud o'er yon burn side; Far frae the noisy scene, I 'll through the fields alane, There we 'll meet, my ain dear Jean, down by yon burn side.

[80] The poet and one of his particular friends, Charles Marshall (whose son, the Rev. Charles Marshall, of Dunfermline, is author of a respectable volume, entitled "Lays and Lectures"), had met one evening in a tavern, kept by Tom Buchanan, near the cross of Paisley. The evening was enlivened by song-singing; and the landlord, who was present, sung the old song, beginning, "There grows a bonny brier-bush," which he did with effect. On their way home together, Marshall remarked that the words of the landlord's song were vastly inferior to the tune, and humorously suggested the following burlesque parody of the first stanza:--

"There 's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail-yard, There 's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail-yard, They were set by Charlie Marshall, And pu'd by Nannie Laird, Yet there 's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail-yard."

He added that Tannahill would do well to compose suitable words for the music. The hint sufficed; the friends met after a fortnight's interval, when the poet produced and read the song of "Yon burn side." It immediately became popular. Marshall used to relate this anecdote with much feeling. He died in March 1851, at the age of fourscore.

THE BRAES O' GLENIFFER.[81]

AIR--_"Bonny Dundee."_

Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Gleniffer, The auld castle's turrets are cover'd wi' snaw; How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover, Amang the broom bushes by Stanley-green shaw: The wild flowers o' summer were spread a' sae bonnie, The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree; But far to the camp they hae march'd my dear Johnnie, And now it is winter wi' nature and me.

Then ilk thing around us was blythesome and cheery, Then ilk thing around us was bonny and braw; Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary, And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw. The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie, They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee, And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie, 'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me.

Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain, And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae; While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain, That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me.

'Tis no its loud roar on the wintry winds swellin', 'Tis no the cauld blast brings the tears i' my e'e, For, O, gin I saw but my bonny Scots callan', The dark days o' winter were summer to me!

[81] The Braes of Gleniffer are a tract of hilly ground, to the south of Paisley. They are otherwise known as Stanley Braes.

THROUGH CROCKSTON CASTLE'S LANELY WA'S.[82]

AIR--_"Crockston Castle."_

Through Crockston Castle's lanely wa's The wintry wind howls wild and dreary; Though mirk the cheerless e'ening fa's, Yet I hae vow'd to meet my Mary. Yes, Mary, though the winds should rave Wi' jealous spite to keep me frae thee, The darkest stormy night I 'd brave, For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.

Loud o'er Cardonald's rocky steep, Rude Cartha pours in boundless measure; But I will ford the whirling deep, That roars between me and my treasure. Yes, Mary, though the torrent rave, Wi' jealous spite, to keep me frae thee, Its deepest flood I 'd bauldly brave, For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.

The watch-dog's howling loads the blast, And makes the nightly wand'rer eerie; But when the lonesome way is past, I 'll to this bosom clasp my Mary! Yes, Mary, though stern winter rave, With a' his storms, to keep me frae thee, The wildest dreary night I 'd brave, For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.

[82] The ruin of Crockston Castle is situated on the brow of a gentle eminence, about three miles south-east of Paisley. The Castle, in the twelfth century, was possessed by a Norman family, of the name of Croc; it passed, in the following century, by the marriage of the heiress, into a younger branch of the House of Stewart, who were afterwards ennobled as Earls of Lennox. According to tradition, Queen Mary and Lord Darnley occasionally resided in the castle; and it is reported that the unfortunate princess witnessed from its walls the fall of her fortunes at the battle of Langside. Crockston Castle is now the possession of Sir John Maxwell, Bart., of Pollock.

THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER.[83]

AIR--_"The Three Carls o' Buchanan."_

Let us go, lassie, go To the braes o' Balquhither, Where the blaeberries grow 'Mang the bonnie Highland heather; Where the deer and the rae, Lightly bounding together, Sport the lang summer day On the braes o' Balquhither.

I will twine thee a bower By the clear siller fountain, And I 'll cover it o'er Wi' the flowers o' the mountain; I will range through the wilds, And the deep glens sae dreary, And return wi' their spoils To the bower o' my dearie.

When the rude wintry win' Idly raves round our dwelling, And the roar of the linn On the night breeze is swelling; So merrily we 'll sing, As the storm rattles o'er us, Till the dear sheiling ring Wi' the light lilting chorus.

Now the summer is in prime, Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme A' the moorlands perfuming; To our dear native scenes Let us journey together, Where glad innocence reigns, 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.

[83] A clerical friend has communicated to us the following stanza, which he heard sung by an old Highlander, as an addition to the "Braes o' Balquhither:"--

"While the lads of the south Toil for bare worldly treasure-- To the lads of the north Every day brings its pleasure: Oh, blithe are the joys That the Highlandman possesses, He feels no annoys, For he fears no distresses."

GLOOMY WINTER 'S NOW AWA'.

AIR--_"Lord Balgonie's Favourite."_

Gloomy winter 's now awa' Saft the westling breezes blaw, 'Mang the birks of Stanley-shaw, The mavis sings fu' cheery, O! Sweet the crawflower's early bell Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell, Blooming like thy bonny sel', My young, my artless dearie, O!

Come, my lassie, let us stray O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae, Blithely spend the gowden day, 'Midst joys that never weary, O! Towering o'er the Newton woods, Laverocks fan the snaw-white clouds, Siller saughs, wi' downy buds, Adorn the banks sae briery, O!

Round the sylvan fairy nooks, Feath'ry breckans fringe the rocks, 'Neath the brae the burnie jouks, And ilka thing is cheery, O! Trees may bud, and birds may sing, Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring, Joy to me they canna bring, Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O!

O! ARE YE SLEEPING, MAGGIE?

AIR--_"Sleepy Maggie."_

O! Are ye sleeping, Maggie? O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? Let me in, for loud the linn Is roaring o'er the warlock craigie.

Mirk and rainy is the night, No a starn in a' the carry;[84] Lightnings gleam athwart the lift, And winds drive wi' winter's fury. O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.

Fearful soughs the bourtree bank, The rifted wood roars wild and dreary, Loud the iron yate does clank, And cry of howlets makes me eerie. O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.

Aboon my breath I daurna' speak, For fear I rouse your waukrife daddie, Cauld 's the blast upon my cheek, O rise, rise, my bonny lady! O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.

She opt the door, she let him in, He cuist aside his dreeping plaidie: "Blaw your warst, ye rain and win', Since, Maggie, now I 'm in aside ye."

Now, since ye 're waking, Maggie! Now, since ye 're waking, Maggie! What care I for howlet's cry, For bourtree bank, or warlock craigie?

[84] This expression commonly means, the direction in which the clouds are carried by the wind, but it is here used to denote the firmament.

NOW WINTER, WI' HIS CLOUDY BROW.

AIR--_"Forneth House."_

Now Winter, wi' his cloudy brow, Is far ayont yon mountains; And Spring beholds her azure sky Reflected in the fountains: Now, on the budding slaethorn bank, She spreads her early blossom, And wooes the mirly-breasted birds To nestle in her bosom.

But lately a' was clad wi' snaw, Sae darksome, dull, and dreary; Now laverocks sing to hail the spring, And Nature all is cheery. Then let us leave the town, my love, And seek our country dwelling, Where waving woods, and spreading flowers, On every side are smiling.

We 'll tread again the daisied green, Where first your beauty moved me; We 'll trace again the woodland scene, Where first ye own'd ye loved me; We soon will view the roses blaw In a' the charms of fancy, For doubly dear these pleasures a', When shared with thee, my Nancy.

THE DEAR HIGHLAND LADDIE, O!

GAELIC AIR--_"Mor nian a Ghibarlan."_

Blithe was the time when he fee'd wi' my father, O! Happy were the days when we herded thegither, O! Sweet were the hours when he row'd me in his plaidie, O! And vow'd to be mine, my dear Highland laddie, O!

But, ah! waes me! wi' their sodgering sae gaudy, O! The laird's wys'd awa my braw Highland laddie, O! Misty are the glens, and the dark hills sae cloudy, O! That aye seem'd sae blythe wi' my dear Highland laddie, O!

The blaeberry banks now are lonesome and dreary, O! Muddy are the streams that gush'd down sae clearly, O! Silent are the rocks that echoed sae gladly, O! The wild melting strains o' my dear Highland laddie, O!

He pu'd me the crawberry, ripe frae the boggy fen: He pu'd me the strawberry, red frae the foggy glen; He pu'd me the row'n frae the wild steeps sae giddy, O! Sae loving and kind was my dear Highland laddie, O!

Fareweel, my ewes, and fareweel, my doggie, O! Fareweel, ye knowes, now sae cheerless and scroggie, O! Fareweel, Glenfeoch, my mammy and my daddie, O! I will leave you a' for my dear Highland laddie, O!

THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN.

AIR--_"The Shepherd's Son."_

The midges dance aboon the burn, The dews begin to fa'; The pairtricks down the rushy holm, Set up their e'ening ca'. Now loud and clear the blackbirds' sang Rings through the briery shaw, While flitting, gay, the swallows play Around the castle wa'.

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky, The mavis mends her lay, The redbreast pours his sweetest strains, To charm the ling'ring day. While weary yeldrins seem to wail, Their little nestlings torn; The merry wren, frae den to den, Gaes jinking through the thorn.

The roses fauld their silken leaves, The foxglove shuts its bell, The honeysuckle and the birk Spread fragrance through the dell Let others crowd the giddy court Of mirth and revelry-- The simple joys that Nature yields Are dearer far to me.

BARROCHAN JEAN.[85]

AIR--_"Johnnie M'Gill."_

'Tis haena ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean? And haena ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean? How death and starvation came o'er the hail nation, She wrought sic mischief wi' her twa pawky e'en.

The lads and the lasses were deeing in dizzins, The tane kill'd wi' love and the tither wi' spleen; The ploughing, the sawing, the shearing, the mawing, A' wark was forgotten for Barrochan Jean!

Frae the south and the north, o'er the Tweed and the Forth, Sic coming and ganging there never was seen; The comers were cheerie, the gangers were blearie, Despairing or hoping for Barrochan Jean!

The carlines at hame were a' girning and graning, The bairns were a' greeting frae morning till e'en; They gat naething for crowdy, but runts boil'd to sowdie, For naething gat growing for Barrochan Jean!

The doctors declared it was past their descriving, The ministers said 'twas a judgment for sin; But they lookit sae blae, and their hearts were sae wae, I was sure they were deeing for Barrochan Jean!

The burns on road-sides were a' dry wi' their drinking, Yet a' wadna slockin' the drouth i' their skin; A' around the peat-stacks, and alangst the dyke-backs, E'en the winds were a' sighing, "Sweet Barrochan Jean!"

The timmer ran done wi' the making o' coffins, Kirkyards o' their sward were a' howkit fu' clean; Dead lovers were packit like herring in barrels, Sic thousands were deeing for Barrochan Jean!

But mony braw thanks to the Laird o' Glen Brodie, The grass owre their graffs is now bonnie and green, He sta' the proud heart of our wanton young lady, And spoil'd a' the charm o' her twa pawky e'en.

[85] Writing to his friend Barr, on the 24th December 1809, Tannahill remarks:--"You will, no doubt, have frequently observed how much some old people are given to magnify the occurrences of their young days. 'Barrochan Jean' was written on hearing an old grannie, in Lochwinnoch parish, relating a story something similar to the subject of the song; perhaps I have heightened her colouring a little."

O, ROW THEE IN MY HIGHLAND PLAID!

Lowland lassie, wilt thou go Where the hills are clad with snow; Where, beneath the icy steep, The hardy shepherd tends his sheep? Ill nor wae shall thee betide, When row'd within my Highland plaid.

Soon the voice of cheery spring Will gar a' our plantin's ring, Soon our bonny heather braes Will put on their summer claes; On the mountain's sunny side, We 'll lean us on my Highland plaid.

When the summer spreads the flowers, Busks the glens in leafy bowers, Then we 'll seek the caller shade, Lean us on the primrose bed; While the burning hours preside, I 'll screen thee wi' my Highland plaid.

Then we 'll leave the sheep and goat, I will launch the bonny boat, Skim the loch in canty glee, Rest the oars to pleasure thee; When chilly breezes sweep the tide, I 'll hap thee wi' my Highland plaid.

Lowland lads may dress mair fine, Woo in words mair saft than mine; Lowland lads hae mair of art, A' my boast 's an honest heart, Whilk shall ever be my pride;-- O, row thee in my Highland plaid!

"Bonny lad, ye 've been sae leal, My heart would break at our fareweel; Lang your love has made me fain; Take me--take me for your ain!" Across the Firth, away they glide, Young Donald and his Lowland bride.

BONNY WOOD OF CRAIGIE LEA.[86]

Thou bonny wood of Craigie lea! Thou bonny wood of Craigie lea! Near thee I pass'd life's early day, And won my Mary's heart in thee.

The broom, the brier, the birken bush, Bloom bonny o'er thy flowery lea, And a' the sweets that ane can wish Frae Nature's hand, are strew'd on thee.

Far ben thy dark green plantin's shade, The cooshat croodles am'rously, The mavis, down thy bughted glade, Gars echo ring frae every tree. Thou bonny wood, &c.

Awa, ye thoughtless, murd'ring gang, Wha tear the nestlings ere they flee! They 'll sing you yet a canty sang, Then, O, in pity, let them be! Thou bonny woods, &c.

When winter blaws in sleety showers, Frae aff the norlan' hills sae hie, He lightly skiffs thy bonny bowers, As laith to harm a flower in thee. Thou bonny wood, &c.

Though Fate should drag me south the line, Or o'er the wide Atlantic sea; The happy hours I 'll ever mind, That I, in youth, hae spent in thee. Thou bonny wood, &c.

[86] Craigie Lea is situated to the north-west of Paisley.

GOOD NIGHT, AND JOY.[87]

AIR--_"Good night, and joy be wi' you a'."_