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Now the planting taps are ting’d 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.
ELLEN BHOYOCIID (OR THE BEAUTIFUL)*,
Row weel, my boatie, row weel,
Row weel, my merry men a',
And there's grief in my father's ha'.
And the skiff it dancit licht on the merry wee waves,
And it flew uwre the water sae blue, And the wind it blew licht, and the moon it shone bricht
But the boatie ne'er reach'd Allandhu.
* For an account of the traditional tale on which this beautiful little imi. tation of the old ballad is founded, we refer to the 3d No. of the Wanderer, Glasgow, 1818, 8vo. It is the production of Mr. A. M*C. whom we are proud to recognize as a native of Renfrewshire, and from the specimen before us to hail as a poet of no mean promise.
Obon ! for fair Ellen, ohon!
Ohon! for the pride of Strathcoe
Lord Reoch, thy Ellen lies low.
As coreckit and revysit be ane Scotisman.
O for my awin Roy quod gude Wallas,
The richteous Roy of fair Scotland, Atween me and my Soveranis blude,
I trow thair be som ill seid sawn.
* This goodly ballad that records one of the many adventures of Wallace, is probably founded on a similar incident rehearsed by Henry in the fifth book of his metrical life of the hero: .
-Wallace said myself will pass in feyr.
Wallas out owr yon burn he lap,
And he hes lichtit law down on yon plain ; And he wes awar, o ane gaie ladie,
As scho wes at the well waschin.
“Quhat tydandis, qubat tydandis, fair ladie" he sayis, “Quhat tydandis, hastow to tell untill me?
hat tydandis, quhat tyda dis, fair ladie" he sayis, “Quhat tydandis, hastow in the south countrie ?
Considerable discrepancies, however, exist between the two accounts; a cir. cumstance which may easily be accounted for, from the love the lower orders have of the marvellous. It was first printed, we believe, in Johnstone's Scots Musical Museum, and after that republished by the late ingenious Mr. John Findlay of Glasgow, in his Scottish, Historical, and Romantic Ballads. From an old M.S. copy of it, in the possession of a friend, we have been able to give what we humbly consider rather a better text, besides restoring it to its original orthography, which, to our antiquarian readers, must be a matter of some consequence. The generality of Editors very often fall into one, or other, or both of these prime errors, when editing the poetical remains of former ages, namely, that of corrupting the text by their own interpolations, and that, of modernising the ancient spelling, under the pretext of obliging their readers, who, for the most part, we dare say, would rather thank them to let it alone.
No apology we imagine is necessary to the public for coupying their attention with these effusions in honour of Wallace. Every thing connected with him is dear to the hearts of Scotsmen-all his well known haunts are visited with a superstitious awe and veneration-his name is the thrilling watchword of patriotism, liberty, and independence. The finest trait in our national character will be lost when his praises are no longer sung with rapture, and his atchievements no longer remembered with interest. Would to God this event may never happen.
“ Laigh down in yon wee hostleir hous
Thair bin fyftein Inglismen I lede, And thai are seikin for gude Wallas,
Ittis him to tak and him to heid."
“ Thair is nocht in my purs” quod gude Wallas,
Thair is nocht ava, not ane bare pennie,
Thir fyftein Inglismen to see."
And quhan he cam to yon wee hostleir hous,
He bade Benedicite be thair ; * And quhat lerges to ane puir eild wicht,
Haif ye in charitie to spair ?
" Qubare wes ye born, auld crukit carl,
Quhare wes ye born, in quhat countrie?" “ I am a trew Scot baith born and bred,
And ane auld crukit carl siclyk as you see."
" I wuld gie fyftein merkis to onie crukit carl,
To onie crukit carl siclyk as ye,
God wot he's the man I wuld verie fain see.
He strak the brym Captane alangis the chaffis blade,
That nevit ane bit o meal he ate mair, And he stickit the lave at the buird quhare thai sat,
And he left them aw lyin spreitless thair.
“Get up, gude-wyff, get up," quod he,
“And get som deil denner to me in haste, For it will sune be three lang lang dayis,
Syn I ae bit o meit did taste."
The denner wes nge weil readie,
Nor wes it on the tabill set, Quhyll uther fyftein Inglismen
Wer lichtit aw down fornentis the yett.
“ Cum out, cum out, now, gude Wallas, .
This is the day that thow maun die." “ I lippen nocht sae litill to God, he sayis,
But doubt tho I be but ill worthie."
The gude-wyff scho had ane auld gude-man,
Be gude Wallas he sikarlie stude, Quhyll ten o thir fyftein Inglismen
Befoir the dure lay steipit in thair blude.
The uthir fyff to the grene-wud ran,
And he hangit them ilk ape on the bowis roun, And on the neist morn, wi his mirrie men aw,
He sat at dyn in Lochmaben toun.