Joanna Baillie was born on the 11th of September 1762, in the manse of Bothwell, in Lanarkshire. Her father, Dr James Baillie, was descended from the old family of Baillie of Lamington, and was consequently entitled to claim propinquity with the distinguished Principal Robert Baillie, and the family of Baillie of Jerviswood, so celebrated for its Christian patriotism. The mother of Joanna likewise belonged to an honourable house: she was a descendant of the Hunters of Hunterston; and her two brothers attained a wide reputation in the world of science—Dr William Hunter being an eminent physician, and Mr John Hunter the greatest anatomist of his age. Joanna—a twin, the other child being still-born—was the youngest of a family of three children. Her only brother was Dr Matthew Baillie, highly distinguished in the medical world. Agnes, her sister, who was eldest of the family, remained unmarried, and continued to live with her under the same roof.
In the year 1768, Dr Baillie was transferred from the parochial charge of Bothwell to the office of collegiate minister of Hamilton,—a town situate, like his former parish, on the banks of the Clyde. He was subsequently elected Professor of Divinity in the University of Glasgow. After his death, which took place in 1778, his daughters both continued, along with their widowed mother, to live at Long Calderwood, in the vicinity of Hamilton, until 1784, when they all accepted an invitation to reside with Dr Matthew Baillie, who had entered on his medical career in London, and had become possessor of a house in Great Windmill Street, built by his now deceased uncle, Dr Hunter.
Though evincing no peculiar promptitude in the acquisition of learning, Joanna had, at the very outset of life, exhibited remarkable talent in rhyme-making. She composed verses before she could read, and, before she could have fancied a theatre, formed dialogues for dramatic representations, which she carried on with her companions. But she did not early seek distinction as an author. At the somewhat mature age of twenty-eight, after she had gone to London, she first published, and that anonymously, a volume of miscellaneous poems, which did not excite any particular attention. In 1798, she published, though anonymously at first, "A Series of Plays: in which it is attempted to delineate the stronger Passions of the Mind, each Passion being the subject of a Tragedy and a Comedy." In a lengthened preliminary dissertation, she discoursed regarding the drama in all its relations, maintaining the ascendency of simple nature over every species of adornment and decoration. "Let one simple trait of the human heart, one expression of passion, genuine and true to nature," she wrote, "be introduced, and it will stand forth alone in the boldness of reality, whilst the false and unnatural around it fades away upon every side, like the rising exhalations of the morning." The reception of these plays was sufficient to satisfy the utmost ambition of the author, and established the foundation of her fame. "Nothing to compare with them had been produced since the great days of the English drama; and the truth, vigour, variety, and dignity of the dramatic portraits, in which they abound, might well justify an enthusiasm which a reader of the present day can scarcely be expected to feel. This enthusiasm was all the greater, when it became known that these remarkable works, which had been originally published anonymously, were from the pen of a woman still young, who had passed her life in domestic seclusion."[28] Encouraged by the success of the first volume of her dramas on the "Passions," the author added a second in 1802, and a third in 1812. During the interval, she published a volume of miscellaneous dramas in 1804, and produced the "Family Legend" in 1810,—a tragedy, founded upon a Highland tradition. With a prologue by Sir Walter Scott, and an epilogue by Henry Mackenzie, the "Family Legend" was produced at the Edinburgh theatre, under the auspices of the former illustrious character; and was ably supported by Mrs Siddons, and by Terry, then at the commencement of his career. It was favourably received during ten successive performances. "You have only to imagine all that you could wish to give success to a play," wrote Sir Walter Scott to the author, "and your conceptions will still fall short of the complete and decided triumph of the 'Family Legend.' The house was crowded to a most extraordinary degree; many people had come from your native capital of the west; everything that pretended to distinction, whether from rank or literature, was in the boxes; and in the pit, such an aggregate mass of humanity as I have seldom, if ever, witnessed in the same space." Other two of her plays, "Count Basil" and "De Montfort," brought out in London, the latter being sustained by Kemble and Siddons, likewise received a large measure of general approbation; but a want of variety of incident prevented their retaining a position on the stage. In 1836, she produced three additional volumes of dramas; her career as a dramatic writer thus extending over the period of nearly forty years.
Subsequent to her leaving Scotland, in 1784, Joanna Baillie did not return to her native kingdom, unless on occasional visits. On the marriage of her brother to a sister of the Lord Chief-Justice Denman, in 1791, she passed some years at Colchester; but she subsequently fixed her permanent habitation at Hampstead. Her mother died in 1806. At Hampstead, in the companionship of her only sister, whose virtues she has celebrated in one of her poems, and amidst the society of many of the more distinguished literary characters of the metropolis, she continued to enjoy a large amount of comfort and happiness. Her pecuniary means were sufficiently abundant, and rendered her entirely independent of the profits of her writings. Among her literary friends, one of the most valued was Sir Walter Scott, who, being introduced to her personal acquaintance on his visit to London in 1806, maintained with her an affectionate and lasting intimacy. The letters addressed to her are amongst the most interesting of his correspondence in his Memoir by his son-in-law. He evinced his estimation of her genius by frequently complimenting her in his works. In his "Epistle to William Erskine," which forms the introduction to the third canto of "Marmion," he thus generously eulogises his gifted friend:—
"Or, if to touch such chord be thine,
Restore the ancient tragic line,
And emulate the notes that wrung
From the wild harp, which silent hung
By silver Avon's holy shore,
Till twice a hundred years roll'd o'er;
When she, the bold Enchantress, came,
With fearless hand and heart on flame!
From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure,
And swept it with a kindred measure,
Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove
With Montfort's hate and Basil's love,
Awakening at the inspirÉd strain,
Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived again."
To Joanna, Scott inscribed his fragmental drama of "Macduff's Cross," which was included in a Miscellany published by her in 1823.
Though a penury of incident, and a defectiveness of skill in sustaining an increasing interest to the close, will probably prevent any of her numerous plays from being renewed on the stage, Joanna Baillie is well entitled to the place assigned her as one of the first of modern dramatists. In all her plays there are passages and scenes surpassed by no contemporaneous dramatic writer. Her works are a magazine of eloquent thoughts and glowing descriptions. She is a mistress of the emotions, and
"Within her mighty page,
Each tyrant passion shews his woe and rage."
The tragedies of "Count Basil" and "De Montfort" are her best plays, and are well termed by Sir Walter Scott a revival of the great Bard of Avon. Forcible and energetic in style, her strain never becomes turgid or diverges into commonplace. She is masculine, but graceful; and powerful without any ostentation of strength. Her personal history was the counterpart of her writings. Gentle in manners and affable in conversation, she was a model of the household virtues, and would have attracted consideration as a woman by her amenities, though she had possessed no reputation in the world of letters. She was eminently religious and benevolent. Her countenance bore indication of a superior intellect and deep penetration. Though her society was much cherished by her contemporaries, including distinguished foreigners who visited the metropolis, her life was spent in general retirement. She was averse to public demonstration, and seemed scarcely conscious of her power. She died at Hampstead, on the 23d of February 1851, at the very advanced age of eighty-nine, and a few weeks after the publication of her whole Works in a collected form.
The songs of Joanna Baillie immediately obtained an honourable place in the minstrelsy of her native kingdom. They are the simple and graceful effusions of a heart passionately influenced by the melodies of the "land of the heath and the thistle," and animated by those warm affections so peculiarly nurtured in the region of "the mountain and the flood." "Fy, let us a' to the wedding," "Saw ye Johnnie comin'?" "It fell on a morning when we were thrang," and "Woo'd, and married, and a'," maintain popularity among all classes of Scotsmen throughout the world. Several of the songs were written for Thomson's "Melodies," and "The Harp of Caledonia," a collection of songs published at Glasgow in 1821, in three vols. 12mo, under the editorial care of John Struthers, author of "The Poor Man's Sabbath." The greater number are included in the present work.
THE MAID OF LLANWELLYN.
I 've no sheep on the mountain, nor boat on the lake,
Nor coin in my coffer to keep me awake,
Nor corn in my garner, nor fruit on my tree—
Yet the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.
Soft tapping, at eve, to her window I came,
And loud bay'd the watch-dog, loud scolded the dame;
For shame, silly Lightfoot; what is it to thee,
Though the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me?
Rich Owen will tell you, with eyes full of scorn,
Threadbare is my coat, and my hosen are torn:
Scoff on, my rich Owen, for faint is thy glee
When the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.
The farmer rides proudly to market or fair,
The clerk, at the alehouse, still claims the great chair;
But of all our proud fellows the proudest I 'll be,
While the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.
For blythe as the urchin at holiday play,
And meek as the matron in mantle of gray,
And trim as the lady of gentle degree,
Is the maid of Llanwellyn who smiles upon me.
GOOD NIGHT, GOOD NIGHT!
The sun is sunk, the day is done,
E'en stars are setting one by one;
Nor torch nor taper longer may
Eke out the pleasures of the day;
And since, in social glee's despite,
It needs must be, Good night, good night!
The bride into her bower is sent,
And ribbald rhyme and jesting spent;
The lover's whisper'd words and few
Have bade the bashful maid adieu;
The dancing-floor is silent quite—
No foot bounds there, Good night, good night!
The lady in her curtain'd bed,
The herdsman in his wattled shed,
The clansman in the heather'd hall,
Sweet sleep be with you, one and all!
We part in hope of days as bright
As this now gone—Good night, good night!
Sweet sleep be with us, one and all!
And if upon its stillness fall
The visions of a busy brain,
We 'll have our pleasure o'er again;
To warm the heart, to charm the sight,
Gay dreams to all! Good night, good night!
THOUGH RICHER SWAINS THY LOVE PURSUE.
Though richer swains thy love pursue,
In Sunday gear and bonnets new;
And every fair before thee lay
Their silken gifts, with colours gay—
They love thee not, alas! so well
As one who sighs, and dare not tell;
Who haunts thy dwelling, night and noon,
In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon.
I grieve not for my wayward lot,
My empty folds, my roofless cot;
Nor hateful pity, proudly shown,
Nor altered looks, nor friendship flown;
Nor yet my dog, with lanken sides,
Who by his master still abides;
But how wilt thou prefer my boon,
In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon?
POVERTY PARTS GUDE COMPANIE.[29]
Air—"Todlin' Hame."
When white was my owrelay as foam of the linn,
And siller was chinking my pouches within;
When my lambkins were bleating on meadow and brae,
As I gaed to my love in new cleeding sae gay—
Kind was she, and my friends were free;
But poverty parts gude companie.
How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of delight!
The piper play'd cheerly, the cruisie burn'd bright;
And link'd in my hand was the maiden sae dear,
As she footed the floor in her holiday gear.
Woe is me! and can it then be,
That poverty parts sic companie?
We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk;
We met in the sunshine, we met in the mirk;
And the sound of her voice, and the blinks of her een,
The cheering and life of my bosom have been.
Leaves frae the tree at Martinmas flee,
And poverty parts sweet companie.
At bridal and in fair I 've braced me wi' pride,
The bruse I hae won, and a kiss of the bride;
And loud was the laughter, gay fellows among,
When I utter'd my banter, or chorus'd my song.
Dowie to dree are jesting and glee,
When poverty parts gude companie.
Wherever I gaed the blythe lasses smiled sweet,
And mithers and aunties were mair than discreet,
While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board;
But now they pass by me, and never a word.
So let it be; for the worldly and slie
Wi' poverty keep nae companie.
But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart;
The spaewife has tauld me to keep up my heart;
For wi' my last sixpence her loof I hae cross'd,
And the bliss that is fated can never be lost.
Cruelly though we ilka day see
How poverty parts dear companie.
FY, LET US A' TO THE WEDDING.[30]
Fy, let us a' to the wedding,
For they will be lilting there;
For Jock's to be married to Maggie,
The lass wi' the gowden hair.
And there will be jilting and jeering,
And glancing of bonnie dark een;
Loud laughing and smooth-gabbit speering
O' questions, baith pawky and keen.
And there will be Bessy, the beauty,
Wha raises her cock-up sae hie,
And giggles at preachings and duty;
Gude grant that she gang nae ajee!
And there will be auld Geordie Tanner,
Wha coft a young wife wi' his gowd;
She 'll flaunt wi' a silk gown upon her,
But, wow! he looks dowie and cowed.
And braw Tibby Fowler, the heiress,
Will perk at the top o' the ha',
Encircled wi' suitors, whase care is
To catch up the gloves when they fa'.
Repeat a' her jokes as they 're cleckit,
And haver and glower in her face,
When tocherless Mays are negleckit—
A crying and scandalous case.
And Mysie, whase clavering aunty
Wad match her wi' Jamie, the laird;
And learns the young fouk to be vaunty,
But neither to spin nor to caird.
And Andrew, whase granny is yearning
To see him a clerical blade,
Was sent to the college for learning,
And cam' back a coof, as he gaed.
And there will be auld Widow Martin,
That ca's hersel' thretty and twa!
And thrawn-gabbit Madge, wha for certain
Was jilted by Hab o' the Shaw.
And Elspy, the sewster, sae genty—
A pattern of havens and sense—
Will straik on her mittens sae dainty,
And crack wi' Mess John in the spence.
And Angus, the seer o' ferlies,
That sits on the stane at his door,
And tells about bogles, and mair lies
Than tongue ever utter'd before.
And there will be Bauldy, the boaster,
Sae ready wi' hands and wi' tongue;
Proud Paty and silly Sam Foster,
Wha quarrel wi' auld and wi' young.
And Hugh, the town-writer, I 'm thinking,
That trades in his lawyerly skill,
Will egg on the fighting and drinking,
To bring after grist to his mill.
And Maggie—na, na! we 'll be civil,
And let the wee bridie abee;
A vilipend tongue it is evil,
And ne'er was encouraged by me.
Then fy, let us a' to the wedding,
For they will be lilting there,
Frae mony a far-distant ha'ding,
The fun and the feasting to share.
For they will get sheep's-head and haggis,
And browst o' the barley-mow;
E'en he that comes latest and lagis
May feast upon dainties enow.
Veal florentines, in the o'en baken,
Weel plenish'd wi' raisins and fat;
Beef, mutton, and chuckies, a' taken
Het reekin' frae spit and frae pat.
And glasses (I trow 'tis nae said ill)
To drink the young couple gude luck,
Weel fill'd wi' a braw beechen ladle,
Frae punch-bowl as big as Dumbuck.
And then will come dancing and daffing,
And reelin' and crossin' o' han's,
Till even auld Lucky is laughing,
As back by the aumry she stan's.
Sic bobbing, and flinging, and whirling,
While fiddlers are making their din;
And pipers are droning and skirling,
As loud as the roar o' the linn.
Then fy, let us a' to the wedding,
For they will be lilting there;
For Jock 's to be married to Maggie,
The lass wi' the gowden hair.
HOOLY AND FAIRLY.[31]
Oh, neighbours! what had I to do for to marry?
My wife she drinks posset and wine o' Canary;
And ca's me a niggardly, thrawn-gabbit cairly.
O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!
She sups, wi' her kimmers, on dainties enow,
Aye bowing, and smirking, and wiping her mou';
While I sit aside, and am helpit but sparely.
O gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
O gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!
To fairs, and to bridals, and preachings an' a',
She gangs sae light-headed, and buskit sae braw,
In ribbons and mantuas, that gar me gae barely.
O gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
O gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly!
I' the kirk sic commotion last Sabbath she made,
Wi' babs o' red roses, and breast-knots o'erlaid;
The dominie stickit the psalm very nearly.
O gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
O gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!
She 's warring and flyting frae mornin' till e'en,
And if ye gainsay her, her een glower sae keen;
Then tongue, neive, and cudgel, she 'll lay on me sairly.
O gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
O gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!
When tired wi' her cantrips, she lies in her bed—
The wark a' negleckit, the chalmer unred—
While a' our gude neighbours are stirring sae early.
O gin my wife wad wark timely and fairly!
Timely and fairly, timely and fairly;
O gin my wife wad wark timely and fairly!
A word o' gude counsel or grace she 'll hear none;
She bandies the elders, and mocks at Mess John;
While back in his teeth his own text she flings sairly.
O gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
O gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly!
I wish I were single, I wish I were freed;
I wish I were doited, I wish I were dead;
Or she in the mouls, to dement me nae mairly.
What does it 'vail to cry, Hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
Wasting my health to cry, Hooly and fairly.
THE WEARY PUND O' TOW.
A young gudewife is in my house,
And thrifty means to be,
But aye she 's runnin' to the town
Some ferlie there to see.
The weary pund, the weary pund, the weary pund o' tow,
I soothly think, ere it be spun, I 'll wear a lyart pow.
And when she sets her to her wheel,
To draw her threads wi' care,
In comes the chapman wi' his gear,
And she can spin nae mair.
The weary pund, &c.
And then like ony merry May,
At fairs maun still be seen,
At kirkyard preachings near the tent,
At dances on the green.
The weary pund, &c.
Her dainty ear a fiddle charms,
A bagpipe 's her delight,
But for the crooning o' her wheel
She disna care a mite.
The weary pund, &c.
"You spake, my Kate, of snaw-white webs
Made o' your hinkum twine,
But, ah! I fear our bonnie burn
Will ne'er lave web o' thine.
The weary pund, &c.
"Nay, smile again, my winsome mate,
Sic jeering means nae ill;
Should I gae sarkless to my grave,
I'll loe and bless thee still."
The weary pund, &c.
THE WEE PICKLE TOW.[32]
A lively young lass had a wee pickle tow,
And she thought to try the spinnin' o't;
She sat by the fire, and her rock took alow,
And that was an ill beginnin' o't.
Loud and shrill was the cry that she utter'd, I ween;
The sudden mischanter brought tears to her een;
Her face it was fair, but her temper was keen;
O dole for the ill beginnin' o't!
She stamp'd on the floor, and her twa hands she wrung,
Her bonny sweet mou' she crookit, O!
And fell was the outbreak o' words frae her tongue;
Like ane sair demented she lookit, O!
"Foul fa' the inventor o' rock and o' reel!
I hope, gude forgi'e me! he 's now wi' the d—l,
He brought us mair trouble than help, wot I weel;
O dole for the ill beginnin' o't!
"And now, when they 're spinnin' and kempin' awa',
They 'll talk o' my rock and the burnin' o't,
While Tibbie, and Mysie, and Maggie, and a',
Into some silly joke will be turnin' it:
They 'll say I was doited, they 'll say I was fu';
They 'll say I was dowie, and Robin untrue;
They 'll say in the fire some luve-powther I threw,
And that made the ill beginning o't.
"O curst be the day, and unchancy the hour,
When I sat me adown to the spinnin' o't!
Then some evil spirit or warlock had power,
And made sic an ill beginnin' o't.
May Spunkie my feet to the boggie betray,
The lunzie folk steal my new kirtle away,
And Robin forsake me for douce Effie Gray,
The next time I try the spinnin' o't."
THE GOWAN GLITTERS ON THE SWARD.
The gowan glitters on the sward,
The lav'rock's in the sky,
And collie on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.
Oh, no! sad and slow,
And lengthen'd on the ground;
The shadow of our trysting bush
It wears so slowly round.
My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west,
My lambs are bleating near;
But still the sound that I lo'e best,
Alack! I canna hear.
Oh, no! sad and slow,
The shadow lingers still;
And like a lanely ghaist I stand,
And croon upon the hill.
I hear below the water roar,
The mill wi' clacking din,
And lucky scolding frae the door,
To ca' the bairnies in.
Oh, no! sad and slow,
These are nae sounds for me;
The shadow of our trysting bush
It creeps sae drearily!
I coft yestreen, frae chapman Tam,
A snood o' bonnie blue,
And promised, when our trysting cam',
To tie it round her brow.
Oh, no! sad and slow,
The mark it winna pass;
The shadow o' that dreary bush
Is tether'd on the grass.
O now I see her on the way!
She 's past the witch's knowe;
She 's climbing up the brownie's brae—
My heart is in a lowe.
Oh, no! 'tis not so,
'Tis glamrie I hae seen;
The shadow o' that hawthorn bush
Will move nae mair till e'en.
My book o' grace I 'll try to read,
Though conn'd wi' little skill;
When collie barks I 'll raise my head,
And find her on the hill.
Oh, no! sad and slow,
The time will ne'er be gane;
The shadow o' our trysting bush
Is fix'd like ony stane.
SAW YE JOHNNIE COMIN'?
