Chapter 8

The year is wearing to the wane, An' day is fading west awa', Loud raves the torrent an' the rain, And dark the cloud comes down the shaw; But let the tempest tout an' blaw Upon his loudest winter horn, Good night, and joy be wi' you a', We 'll maybe meet again the morn!

O, we hae wander'd far and wide O'er Scotia's hills, o'er firth an' fell, An' mony a simple flower we 've cull'd, An' trimm'd them wi' the heather-bell! We 've ranged the dingle an' the dell, The hamlet an' the baron's ha', Now let us take a kind farewell,-- Good night, an' joy be wi' you a'!

Though I was wayward, you were kind, And sorrow'd when I went astray; For O, my strains were often wild, As winds upon a winter day. If e'er I led you from the way, Forgie your Minstrel aince for a'; A tear fa's wi' his parting lay,-- Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!

JAMES MUIRHEAD, D.D.

James Muirhead was born in 1742, in the parish of Buittle, and stewartry of Kirkcudbright. His father was owner of the estate of Logan, and representative of the family of Muirhead, who, for several centuries, were considerable landed proprietors in Galloway. He was educated at the Grammar School of Dumfries, and in the University of Edinburgh. Abandoning the legal profession, which he had originally chosen, he afterwards prosecuted theological study, and became, in 1769, a licentiate of the Established Church. After a probation of three years, he was ordained to the ministerial charge of Urr, a country parish in the stewartry. In 1794 he received the degree of D.D. from the University of Edinburgh. Warmly attached to his flock, he ministered at Urr till his death, which took place on the 16th of May 1806.

Dr Muirhead was a person of warm affections and remarkable humour; his scholarship was extensive and varied, and he maintained a correspondence with many of his literary contemporaries. As an author, he is not known to have written aught save the popular ballad of "Bess, the Gawkie,"--a production which has been pronounced by Allan Cunningham "a song of original merit, lively without extravagance, and gay without grossness,--the simplicity elegant, and the naivete scarcely rivalled."[61]

[61] We have frequently had occasion to remark the ignorance of modern editors regarding the authorship of the most popular songs. Every collector of Scottish song has inserted "Bess, the Gawkie;" but scarcely one of them has correctly stated the authorship. The song has been generally ascribed to an anonymous "Rev. Mr Morehead;" by some to the "Rev. Robert Morehead;" and Allan Cunningham, who states that his father was acquainted with the real author, has described him as the "Rev. William Morehead!"

BESS, THE GAWKIE.

TUNE--_"Bess, the Gawkie."_

Blythe young Bess to Jean did say, Will ye gang to yon sunny brae, Where flocks do feed, and herds do stray, And sport a while wi' Jamie? Ah, na, lass, I 'll no gang there, Nor about Jamie tak' a care, Nor about Jamie tak' a care, For he 's ta'en up wi' Maggie.

For hark, and I will tell you, lass, Did I not see young Jamie pass, Wi' mickle blytheness in his face, Out ower the muir to Maggie. I wat he gae her mony a kiss, And Maggie took them nae amiss; 'Tween ilka smack pleased her wi' this, That Bess was but a gawkie.

For when a civil kiss I seek, She turns her head, and thraws her cheek, And for an hour she 'll hardly speak; Wha 'd no ca' her a gawkie? But sure my Maggie has mair sense, She 'll gie a score without offence; Now gie me ane into the mense, And ye shall be my dawtie.

O Jamie, ye hae monie ta'en, But I will never stand for ane Or twa when we do meet again; So ne'er think me a gawkie. Ah, na, lass, that canna be; Sic thoughts as thae are far frae me, Or ony thy sweet face that see, E'er to think thee a gawkie.

But, whisht, nae mair o' this we 'll speak, For yonder Jamie does us meet; Instead o' Meg he kiss'd sae sweet, I trow he likes the gawkie. O, dear Bess! I hardly knew, When I cam' by, your gown sae new; I think you 've got it wet wi' dew! Quoth she, That 's like a gawkie!

It 's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain, And I 'll get gowns when it is gane; Sae ye may gang the gate ye came, And tell it to your dawtie. The guilt appear'd in Jamie's cheek; He cried, O cruel maid, but sweet, If I should gang anither gate, I ne'er could meet my dawtie.

The lasses fast frae him they flew, And left poor Jamie sair to rue That ever Maggie's face he knew, Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie. As they gaed ower the muir, they sang, The hills and dales wi' echoes rang, The hills and dales wi' echoes rang, Gang o'er the muir to Maggie.

MRS AGNES LYON.

A female contemporary of the Baroness Nairn, of kindred tastes, and of equal indifference to a poetical reputation, was Mrs Agnes Lyon of Glammis. She was the eldest daughter of John Ramsay L'Amy, of Dunkenny, in Forfarshire, and was born at Dundee about the commencement of the year 1762. She was reputed for her beauty, and had numerous suitors for her hand; but she gave the preference to the Rev. Dr James Lyon, minister of Glammis, to whom she was married on the 25th of January 1786. Of a highly cultivated mind and most lively fancy, she had early improved a taste for versifying, and acquired the habit of readily clothing her thoughts in the language of poetry. She became the mother of ten children; and she relieved the toils of their upbringing, as well as administered to the improvement of their youthful minds, by her occasional exercises in verse. Her four volumes of MS. poetry contain lyrics dated as having been written from the early period of her marriage to nearly the time of her decease. The topics are generally domestic, and her strain is lively and humorous; in pathetic pieces she is tender and singularly touching. Possessed of a correct musical ear, she readily parodied the more popular songs, or adapted words to their airs, with the view of interesting her friends, or producing good humour and happiness in the family circle. She had formed the acquaintance of Neil Gow, the celebrated violinist, and composed, at his particular request, the words to his popular tune "Farewell to Whisky,"--the only lyric from her pen which has hitherto been published. In all the collections of Scottish song, it appears as anonymous. In the present work, it is printed from a copy in one of her MS. volumes.

Mrs Lyon died on the 14th September 1840, having survived her husband about two years, and seen the greater number of her children carried to the grave. Entirely free of literary ambition, she bequeathed her MSS. to the widow of one of her sons, to whom she was devotedly attached, accompanied by a request, inscribed in rhyme at the beginning of the first volume, that the compositions might not be printed, unless in the event of a deficiency in the family funds. Their origin is thus described:--

"Written off-hand, as one may say, Perhaps upon a rainy day, Perhaps while at the cradle rocking. Instead of knitting at a stocking, She 'd catch a paper, pen, and ink, And easily the verses clink. Perhaps a headache at a time Would make her on her bed recline, And rather than be merely idle, She 'd give her fancy rein and bridle. She neither wanted lamp nor oil, Nor found composing any toil; As for correction's iron wand, She never took it in her hand; And can, with conscience clear, declare, She ne'er neglected house affair, Nor put her little babes aside, To take on Pegasus a ride. Rather let pens and paper flame, Than any mother have the shame (Except at any _orra time_) To spend her hours in making rhyme."

In person, Mrs Lyon was of the middle height, and of a slender form. She had a fair complexion, her eyes were of light blue, and her countenance wore the expression of intelligence. She excelled in conversation; and a retentive memory enabled her to render available the fruits of extensive reading. In old age, she retained much of the buoyant vivacity of youth, and her whole life was adorned by the most exemplary piety.

NEIL GOW'S FAREWELL TO WHISKY.[62]

TUNE--_"Farewell to Whisky."_

You 've surely heard of famous Neil, The man who play'd the fiddle weel; He was a heartsome merry chiel', And weel he lo'ed the whisky, O! For e'er since he wore the tartan hose He dearly liket _Athole brose_![63] And grieved he was, you may suppose, To bid "farewell to whisky," O!

Alas! says Neil, I'm frail and auld, And whiles my hame is unco cauld; I think it makes me blythe and bauld, A wee drap Highland whisky, O! But a' the doctors do agree That whisky 's no the drink for me; I 'm fley'd they'll gar me tyne my glee, By parting me and whisky, O!

But I should mind on "auld lang syne," How Paradise our friends did tyne, Because something ran in their mind-- Forbid--like Highland whisky, O! Whilst I can get good wine and ale, And find my heart, and fingers hale, I 'll be content, though legs should fail, And though forbidden whisky, O!

I 'll tak' my fiddle in my hand, And screw its strings whilst they can stand, And mak' a lamentation grand For guid auld Highland whisky, O! Oh! all ye powers of music, come, For deed I think I 'm mighty glum, My fiddle-strings will hardly bum, To say, "farewell to whisky," O!

[62] In the Author's MS., the following sentences occur prefatory to this song:--"Everybody knows Neil Gow. When he was poorly, the physicians forbade him to drink his favourite liquor. The words following were composed, at his particular desire, to a lamentation he had just made." Mrs Lyon became acquainted with Gow when she was a young lady, attending the concerts in Dundee, at which the services of the great violinist were regularly required. The song is very inaccurately printed in some of the collections.

[63] A beverage composed of honey dissolved in whisky.

SEE THE WINTER CLOUDS AROUND.[64]

See the winter clouds around; See the leaves lie on the ground; Pretty little Robin comes, Seeking for his daily crumbs!

In the window near the tree, Little Robin you may see; There his slender board is fix'd, There his crumbs are bruised and mix'd.

View his taper limbs, how neat! And his eyes like beads of jet; See his pretty feathers shine! Little Robin haste and dine.

When sweet Robin leaves the space, Other birds will fill his place; See the Tit-mouse, pretty thing! See the Sparrow's sombre wing!

Great and grand disputes arise, For the crumbs of largest size, Which the bravest and the best Bear triumphant to their nest.

What a pleasure thus to feed Hungry mouths in time of need! For whether it be men or birds, Crumbs are better far than words.

[64] These simple stanzas, conveying such an excellent _morale_ at the close, were written, almost without premeditation, for the amusement and instruction of a little girl, the author's grandchild, who had been on a visit at the manse of Glammis. The allusion to the _board_ in the second verse refers to a little piece of timber which the amiable lady of the house had affixed on the outside of one of the windows, for holding a few crumbs which she daily spread on it for _Robin_, who regularly came to enjoy the bounty of his benefactress. This lyric, and those following, are printed for the first time.

WITHIN THE TOWERS OF ANCIENT GLAMMIS.[65]

TUNE--_"Merry in the Hall."_

Within the towers of ancient Glammis Some merry men did dine, And their host took care they should richly fare In friendship, wit, and wine. But they sat too late, and mistook the gate, (For wine mounts to the brain); O, 'twas merry in the hall, when the beards wagg'd all; O, we hope they 'll be back again; We hope they 'll be back again!

Sir Walter tapp'd at the parson's door, To find the proper way, But he dropt his switch, though there was no ditch, And on the steps it lay. So his wife took care of this nice affair, And she wiped it free from stain; For the knight was gone, nor the owner known, So he ne'er got the switch again; So he ne'er got the switch again.

This wondrous little whip[66] remains Within the lady's sight, (She crambo makes, with some mistakes, But hopes for further light). So she ne'er will part with this switch so smart, These thirty years her ain; Till the knight appear, it must just lie here, He will ne'er get his switch again; He will ne'er get his switch again!

[65] This lively lyrical rhapsody, written in April 1821, celebrates an amusing incident connected with the visit of Sir Walter Scott to the Castle of Glammis, in 1793. Sir Walter was hospitably entertained in the Castle, by Mr Peter Proctor, the factor, in the absence of the noble owner, the Earl of Strathmore, who did not reside in the family mansion; and the conjecture may be hazarded, that he dropt his whip at the manse door on the same evening that he drank an English pint of wine from the _lion beaker_ of Glammis, the prototype of the _silver bear_ of Tully-Veolan, "the _poculum potatorium_ of the valiant baron."--(See _Note_ to Waverley, and Lockhart's Life of Sir Walter Scott).

[66] The whip is now in the custody of Mr George Lyon, of Stirling, the author's son.

MY SON GEORGE'S DEPARTURE.[67]

TUNE--_"Peggy Brown."_

The parting kiss, the soft embrace, I feel them at my heart! 'Twere joy to clasp you in those arms, But agony to part. But let us tranquillise our minds, And hope the time may be, When I shall see that face again, So loved, so dear to me!

Five tedious years have roll'd along, And griefs have had their sway, Though many comforts fill'd my cup, Yet thou wert far away. On pleasant days, when friends are met, Our sports are scarce begun, When I shall sigh, because I miss My George, my eldest son!

I owe my grateful thanks to Heaven, I 've seen thee well and gay, I 've heard the music of thy voice, I 've heard thee sweetly play. O try and cheer us with your strains Ere many twelvemonths be, And let us hear that voice again, So loved, so dear to me!

[67] This lay of affection is dated September 1820, when the author received a visit from her eldest son, who was then settled as a merchant in London. Mr George Lyon, the subject of the song, and the only surviving member of the family, is now resident at Snowdoun House, Stirling.

ROBERT LOCHORE.

Robert Lochore was descended from a branch of a Norman family of that name, long established in the neighbourhood of Biggar, and of which the representative was the House of Lochore de Lochore in Fifeshire. He was born at Strathaven, in the county of Lanark, on the 7th of July 1762, and, in his thirteenth year, was apprenticed to a shoemaker in Glasgow. He early commenced business in the city on his own account. In carrying on public improvements he ever evinced a deep interest, and he frequently held public offices of trust. He was founder of the "Annuity Society,"--an institution attended with numerous benefits to the citizens of Glasgow.

Mr Lochore devoted much of his time to private study. He was particularly fond of poetical composition, and wrote verses with facility, many of his letters to his intimate friends being composed in rhyme. His poetry was of the descriptive order; his lyrical effusions were comparatively rare. Several poetical tales and songs of his youth, contributed to different periodicals, he arranged, about the beginning of the century, in a small volume. The greater number of his compositions remain in MS. in the possession of his family. He died in Glasgow, on the 27th April 1852, in his ninetieth year. Of a buoyant and humorous disposition, he composed verses nearly to the close of his long life; and, latterly, found pleasure in recording, for the amusement of his family, his recollections of the past. He was universally beloved as a faithful friend, and was deeply imbued with a sense of religion.

NOW, JENNY LASS.

TUNE--_"Garryowen."_

Now, Jenny lass, my bonnie bird, My daddy 's dead, an' a' that; He 's snugly laid aneath the yird, And I 'm his heir, an' a' that; I 'm now a laird, an' a' that; I 'm now a laird, an' a' that; His gear an' land 's at my command, And muckle mair than a' that.

He left me wi' his deein' breath, A dwallin' house, an' a' that; A burn, a byre, an' wabs o' claith-- A big peat-stack, an' a' that. A mare, a foal, an' a' that; A mare, a foal, an' a' that; Sax guid fat kye, a cauf forby, An' twa pet ewes, an' a' that.

A yard, a meadow, lang braid leas, An' stacks o' corn, an' a' that-- Enclosed weel wi' thorns an' trees, An' carts, an' cars, an' a' that; A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that; A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that; Guid harrows twa, cock, hens, an' a'-- A grecie, too, an' a' that.

I 've heaps o' claes for ilka days, For Sundays, too, an' a' that; I 've bills an' bonds on lairds an' lands, And siller, gowd, an' a' that. What think ye, lass, o' a' that? What think ye, lass, o' a' that? What want I noo, my dainty doo, But just a wife to a' that.

Now, Jenny dear, my errand here Is to seek ye to a' that; My heart 's a' loupin', while I speer Gin ye 'll tak me, wi' a' that. Mysel', my gear, an' a' that; Mysel', my gear, an' a' that; Come, gie 's your loof to be a proof, Ye 'll be a wife to a' that.

Syne Jenny laid her neive in his-- Said, she 'd tak him wi' a' that; An' he gied her a hearty kiss, An' dauted her, an' a' that. They set a day, an' a' that; They set a day, an' a' that; Whan she 'd gang hame to be his dame, An' haud a rant, an' a' that.

MARRIAGE, AND THE CARE O'T.

TUNE--_"Whistle o'er the lave o't."_

Quoth Rab to Kate, My sonsy dear, I 've woo'd ye mair than half a-year, An' if ye 'd wed me, ne'er cou'd speer Wi' blateness, an' the care o't. Now to the point: sincere I 'm we 't; Will ye be my half-marrow sweet? Shake han's, and say a bargain be 't, An' ne'er think on the care o't.

Na, na, quo' Kate, I winna wed, O' sic a snare I 'll aye be rede; How mony, thochtless, are misled By marriage, an' the care o't! A single life 's a life o' glee, A wife ne'er think to mak' o' me, Frae toil an' sorrow I 'll keep free, An' a' the dool an' care o't.

Weel, weel, said Robin, in reply, Ye ne'er again shall me deny, Ye may a toothless maiden die, For me, I 'll tak' nae care o't. Fareweel, for ever!--aff I hie;-- Sae took his leave without a sigh: Oh! stop, quo' Kate, I 'm yours, I 'll try The married life, an' care o't.

Rab wheel't about, to Kate cam' back, An' gae her mou' a hearty smack, Syne lengthen'd out a lovin' crack 'Bout marriage, an' the care o't. Though as she thocht she didna speak, An' lookit unco mim an' meek, Yet blythe was she wi' Rab to cleek In marriage, wi' the care o't.

MARY'S TWA LOVERS.

TUNE--_"Bessie Bell and Mary Gray."_

Dear Aunty, I 've been lang your care, Your counsels guid ha'e blest me; Now in a kittle case ance mair Wi' your advice assist me: Twa lovers frequent on me wait, An' baith I frankly speak wi'; Sae I 'm put in a puzzlin' strait Whilk o' the twa to cleek wi'.

There 's sonsy James, wha wears a wig, A widower fresh and canty, Though turn'd o' sixty, gaes fu' trig, He 's rich, and rowes in plenty. Tam 's twenty-five, hauds James's pleugh, A lad deserves regardin'; He 's clever, decent, sober too, But he 's no worth ae fardin'.

Auld James, 'tis true, I downa see, But 's cash will answer a' things; To be a lady pleases me, And buskit be wi' braw things. Tam I esteem, like him there 's few, His gait and looks entice me; But, aunty, I 'll now trust in you, And fix as ye advise me.

Then aunt, wha spun, laid down her roke, An' thus repliet to Mary: Unequal matches in a yoke Draw thrawart and camstrarie. Since gentle James ye dinna like, Wi 's gear ha'e nae connexion; Tam 's like yoursel', the bargain strike, Grup to him wi' affection.

THE FORLORN SHEPHERD.[68]

TUNE--_"Banks of the Dee."_

Ye swains wha are touch'd wi' saft sympathy's feelin', For victims wha 're doom'd sair affliction to dree, If a heart-broken lover, despairin' an' wailin', Claim pity, your pity let fa' upon me. Like you I was blest with content, an' was cheerie,-- My pipe wont to play to the cantiest glee, When smilin' an' kind was my Mary, sweet Mary, While Mary was guileless, an' faithfu' to me.

She promised, she vow'd, she wad be my half-marrow, The day too was set, when our bridal should be; How happy was I, but I tell you wi' sorrow, She 's perjured hersel', ah! an' ruined me. For Ned o' Shawneuk, wi' the charms o' his riches, An' sly winnin' tales, tauld sae pawky an' slee, Her han' has obtain'd, an' clad her like a duchess, Sae baith skaith an' scorn ha'e come down upon me.

Ye braes ance enchantin', o' you I 'm now wearie, An' thou, ance dear haunt, 'neath the aul' thornie tree, Where in rapture I sat an' dawtit fause Mary, Fareweel! ye 'll never be seen mair by me. Awa' as a pilgrim, far distant I 'll wander, 'Mang faces unkent, till the day that I dee. Ye shepherds, adieu! but tell Mary to ponder, To think on her vows, an' to think upon me.

[68] This song is here printed for the first time.

JOHN ROBERTSON.

John Robertson, author of "The Toom Meal Pock," a humorous song which has long been popular in the west of Scotland, was the son of an extensive grocer in Paisley, where he was born about the year 1770. He received the most ample education which his native town could afford, and early cultivated a taste for the elegant arts of music and drawing. Destined for one of the liberal professions, the unfortunate bankruptcy of his father put an effectual check on his original aspirations. For a period he was engaged as a salesman, till habits of insobriety rendered his services unavailable to his employer. As a last resort, he enlisted in the regiment of local militia; and his qualifications becoming known to the officers, he was employed as a regimental clerk and schoolmaster. He had written spirited verses in his youth; and though his muse had become mournful, she continued to sing. His end was melancholy: the unfortunate circumstances of his life preyed upon his mind, and in a paroxysm of phrensy he committed suicide. He died in the vicinity of Portsmouth, in the beginning of April 1810, about six weeks before the similar death of his friend, Robert Tannahill. A person of much ingenuity and scholarship, Robertson, with ordinary steadiness, would have attained a good position in life.

THE TOOM MEAL POCK.

Preserve us a'! what shall we do, Thir dark, unhallow'd times; We 're surely dreeing penance now, For some most awfu' crimes. Sedition daurna now appear, In reality or joke; For ilka chiel maun mourn wi' me, O' a hinging, toom meal pock, And sing, Oh waes me!