Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse; THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MOOR. The last time I came o'er the moor Beneath the cooling shade we lay, Gazing and chastely sporting; We kissed and promised time away, Till night spread her dark curtain. I pitied all beneath the skies, E'en kings, when she was nigh me; In raptures I beheld her eyes, Which could but ill deny me. Should I be called where cannons roar, Where mortal steel may wound me; Or cast upon some foreign shore, Where dangers may surround me; Yet hopes again to see my love, To feast on glowing kisses, Shall make my cares at distance move, In prospect of such blisses. In all my soul there's not one place Since she excels in every grace, The next time I go o'er the moor, My love more fresh shall blossom. THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL.1 So bonny, blythe, and gay, Her arms, white, round, and smooth, Breasts rising in their dawn, To age it would give youth To press them with his hand. Thro' all my spirits ran An ecstacy of bliss, When I such sweetness fan' Without the help of art, Like flowers that grace the wild, She did her sweets impart, Whene'er she spoke or smil'd. Her looks they were so mild, Free from affected pride, She me to love beguil'd; I wish'd her for my bride. O had I all the wealth Hopetoun's high mountains fill, Insur'd lang life and health, And pleasure at my will; I'd promise and fulfil, That none but bonny she, The lass of Patie's Mill, Should share the same with me. BESSIE BELL AND MARY GRAY. O Bessie Bell and Mary Gray, They bigged a bow'r on yon burn brae, 1 Burns in a letter to Mr. Thompson gives the following history of the song. He says that Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudoun Castle, being on a visit to the Earl of Loudoun, and one forenoon riding or walking out together, they passed a sweet romantic spot on Irvine water, still called Patie's Mill, where a bonnie lass was "tedding hay bareheaded on the green." The earl observed to Allan that it would be a fine theme for a song. Ramsay took the hint, and lingering behind he composed the first sketch of the Lass of Patie's Mill, which he produced that day at dinner. Fair Bessy Bell I lo'ed yestreen, They gar my fancy falter. Now Bessy's hair's like a lint tap; She smiles like a May morning, Her waist and feet's fu' genty, Her lips, O wow! they're dainty. And Mary's locks are like the craw, She blooming, tight, and tall is; Dear Bessy Bell and Mary Gray, Ye unco sair oppress us, Ye are sic bonnie lasses: To ane by law we're stented; THE YELLOW-HAIR'D LADDIE. In April, when primroses paint the sweet plain, There, under the shade of an old sacred thorn, morn: He sung with so soft and enchanting a sound, The shepherd thus sung: "Though young Maddie Her beauty is dash'd with a scornful proud air; "That Maddie, in all the gay bloom of her youth, But Susie was faithful, good-humour'd, and free, "That mamma's fine daughter, with all her great Was awkwardly airy, and frequently sour." ROBERT CRAWFORD. BORN 1690-DIED 1733. He was on terms of intimacy with Allan Ramsay and William Hamilton of Bangour. He assisted the former in "the glory or the shame" of composing new songs for many old Scottish melodies, which appeared in Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, published in the year 1724, and is one of the "ingenious young gentlemen" of whom the editor speaks as contributors to his Miscellany. ROBERT CRAWFORD, author of the beautiful | Auchinames family. pastoral ballad of "Tweedside," was born about the year 1690. He was a cadet of the family of Drumsoy, and is sometimes called William Crawford of Auchinames, a mistake in part arising from Lord Woodhouselee misapplying an expression in one of Hamilton of Bangour's letters regarding a Will Crawford. His father, Patrick Crawford (or Crawfurd), was twice married, first to a daughter of a Gordon of Turnberry, by whom he had two sons- -Thomas, and Robert the poet; second to Jean, daughter of Crawford of Auchinames, in Renfrewshire, by whom he had a large family. Hence the mistake of making the poet belong to the Crawford is said to have been a remarkably handsome man, and to have spent many years in Paris. Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, in a letter to Dr. Blacklock, dated Oct. 27, 1787, says: "You may tell Mr. Burns when you see him that Colonel Edmonston told me t'other day that his cousin Colonel George Crawfurd | that formerly adorned the west bank of the was no poet, but a great singer of songs: but Quair water, in Peeblesshire, about a mile from that his eldest brother Robert (by a former Traquair House, the seat of the Earl of Tramarriage) had a great turn that way, having quair. But only a few spectral-looking remains written the words of The Bush aboon Tra- now denote the spot so long celebrated in the quair' and 'Tweedside.' That the Mary to popular poetry of Scotland. Leafless even in whom it was addressed was Mary Stewart, of summer, and scarcely to be observed upon the the Castlemilk family, afterwards wife of Mr. | bleak hill-side, they form a truly melancholy John Belches. The colonel (Edmonston) never memorial of what must once have been an saw Robert Crawford, though he was at his object of great pastoral beauty, as well as the burial fifty-five years ago. He was a pretty scene of many such fond attachments as that young man, and lived long in France." Ac- delineated in the following verses." Crawford, cording to Sir Walter Scott, the Mary celebrated who has genuine poetical fancy and great in "Tweedside" was of the Harden family, a sweetness of expression, gives us many beautidescendant of another famed beauty, Mary ful images of domestic life. His pipe, like the Scott of Dryhope, in Selkirkshire, known by pipe of Ramsay, is the name of "the Flower of Yarrow." Harden is an estate on the Tweed, about four miles from Melrose. Mr. Ramsay's letter fixes Crawford's death in the year 1732, while according to information obtained by Robert Burns from another source, he was drowned in coming from France in 1733. Such are the few details we possess concerning one of Scotland's sweetest singers. "A dainty whistle with a pleasant sound," and it summons to modest love and chaste joy. Like the voice of the cuckoo, it calls us to the green hills, the budding trees, and the rivulet bank; to the sound of water and the sight of opening flowers. "The true muse of native pastoral," says Allan Cunningham, "seeks not to adorn herself with unnatural ornament; Of the many beautiful songs written by her spirit is in homely love and fireside joy; Crawford the most celebrated are "Tweedside" tender and simple, like the religion of the land, and "The Bush aboon Traquair." Speaking she utters nothing out of keeping with the of the last-mentioned lyric, Dr. Robert Cham-character of her people and the aspect of the bers, a native of Peebles, says: "The Bush soil-and of this spirit, and of this feeling, aboon Traquair' was a small grove of birches Crawford is a large partaker." THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, That day she smiled, and made me glad, I thought myself the luckiest lad, I tried to soothe my amorous flame If more there pass'd, I'm not to blame, Yet now she scornful flees the plain, If e'er we meet, she shows disdain, Ye rural powers, who hear my strains, ONE DAY I HEARD MARY. One day I heard Mary say, How shall I leave thee? Stay, dearest Adonis, stay; why wilt thou grieve me? Alas! my fond heart will break, if thou should leave me: I'll live and die for thy sake, yet never leave thee. Say, lovely Adonis, say, has Mary deceived thee? Did e'er her young heart betray new love, that has grieved thee? My constant mind ne'er shall stray, thou may believe me. I'll love thee, lad, night and day, and never leave thee. Adonis, my charming youth, what can relieve thee? Can Mary thy anguish soothe? This breast shall receive thee. My passion can ne'er decay, never deceive thee; Delight shall drive pain away, pleasure revive thee. But leave thee, leave thee, lad, how shall I leave thee? Oh! that thought makes me sad; I'll never leave thee! Where would my Adonis fly? why does he grieve me? Alas! my poor heart will die, if I should leave thee. LEADER HAUGHS AND YARROW. Ten thousand birds were singing; On Leader Haughs and Yarrow. How sweet her face, where every grace But bless my bonnie marrow: Yet though she's fair, and has full share O, bonnie lass! have but the grace My wand'ring ghaist will ne'er get rest, I'll study to delight ye. O, sweetest Sue! 'tis only you Can make life worth my wishes, If equal love your mind can move, To grant this best of blisses. Thou art my sun, and thy least frown Would blast me in the blossom: But if thou shine and make me thine, I'll flourish in thy bosom. TWEEDSIDE. What beauties does Flora disclose! Not all the gay flowers of the field, Not Tweed gliding gently through those, Such beauty and pleasure does yield. The warblers are heard in the grove, The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, The blackbird and sweet-cooing dove, With music enchant ev'ry bush. Come, let us go forth to the mead, Let us see how the primroses spring; We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, And love while the feather'd folks sing. How does my love pass the long day? Does Mary not tend a few sheep? Do they never carelessly stray, While happily she lies asleep? Should Tweed's murmurs lull her to rest, Kind nature indulging my bliss, To relieve the soft pains of my breast, I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. 'Tis she does the virgins excel, No beauty with her may compare; Love's graces all round her do dwell, She's fairest where thousands are fair. Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray? Oh! tell me at noon where they feed? Shall I seek them on sweet winding Tay, Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed? MY DEARIE, IF THOU DEE. Love never more shall give me pain, My dearie, if thou dee. If fate shall tear thee from my breast, How shall I lonely stray: In dreary dreams the night I'll waste, In sighs the silent day. I ne'er can so much virtue find, Nor such perfection sce; Then I'll renounce all womankind, No new-blown beauty fires my heart But thine, which can such sweets impart, Gave joy and life to me; Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, Those charms so dear to me! Oh! never rob them from these armsI'm lost if Peggy dee. DOUN THE BURN, DAVIE. When trees did bud, and fields were green, Now Davie did each lad surpass That dwelt on this burnside; And Mary was the bonniest lass, Just meet to be a bride: Her cheeks were rosie, red, and white; Her een were bonnie blue; Her looks were like the morning bright, Her lips like dropping dew. As doun the burn they took their way, And love was aye the tale; Sic pleasure to renew? Quoth Mary, Love, I like the burn, WHEN SUMMER COMES. When summer comes,' the swains on Tweed But my lov'd song is then the broom There Colin tun'd his oaten reed, And won my yielding heart; He sung of Tay, of Forth, and Clyde, Yet more delightful is the broom Not Teviot braes, so green and gay, More pleasing far are Cowdenknowes, 1 The last stanza was added by Burns.--ED, |