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Being a Paper entitled 'Pet Marjorie; A Story of a Child's Life fifty years ago.' New Edition, with Illustrations by Warwick Brookes. Demy 4to, 7s. 6d. and 6s. Rab and his Friends. Cheap Illustrated Edition. Square 12mo. ornamental wrapper, 1s. EDINBURGH: DAVID DOUGLAS. Transcriber's Notes: Antiquated spellings have been preserved. The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate. In the INDEX, a page number "25" was added after: Footnotes VERSES—A FRAGMENT. Descriptive of Bruntisfield House, now in the possession of Mr. Warrender, written in June 1790 at the desire of a young lady to whom the author was much attached. Near where Edina's smoky turrets rise, And Arthur rears his bold and lofty head, Where the green meadow broad expanded lies, And yellow furze the sporting links bespread,— By tallest Elms and spreading Beech concealed From vulgar eyes—from busy care retired, To tender Melancholy alone revealed, Or Love, by Truth and Gentleness inspired,— An ancient Pile of gothic structure stands, Whose massy walls still brave the lapse of years, Once the retreat of rude confederate Bands, Or safe Asylum to a virgin's fears. No longer now the seat of War's alarms, Far gentler sounds are echoed here around, Sacred to Genius—here th' Enthusiast warms, Or pensive walks as o'er enchanted ground. No longer on the jarring hinges sweeps Th' unwieldy Portal as in times of yore. Secure within the peaceful owner sleeps, Nor dreams of wounds, or pants for human gore. The arched Gateway open still invites, The curious Traveller to pause awhile, Instructs the grave—the gay but ill delights, Nor asks the vacant for a single smile. High o'er its top the branching Elms ascend, And gild their summits in the Evening beam, The creeping ivy, Ruin's constant friend, Clasps its worn sides and enters every seam. Musing, within these limits oft I rove, A slave to Love's alternate hopes and fears, With heedless footsteps pace the silent grove, And vent the Sorrows of my heart in tears. Here tune my Soul to Pity's softest strain, Mark the swift progress of Life's fleeting hour, Learn, from my own, to feel another's Pain, Nor covet wealth, or court ambitious Power. Here too, when from the West the sun's last ray Shoots thro' the gloom, and brightens all the scene, Here fair Eliza oft was wont to stray, And add new lustre to the vernal green. In his MS. notes, written in 1700, William Wauchope of Niddrie mentions the Fairlies of Brede among the seven old families in the county which were already extinct. The others were—the Logans of Lochsterrick (Restalrig); the Prestons of Craigmillar, the Herrings of Gilmerton, the Edmistons of Edmiston, the Giffords of Sheriffhall, and the Lauders of the Bass. A flowrie howm between twa verdant braes, Where lasses use to wash and spread their claes; A trottin' burnie wimplin' thro' the ground, Its channel pebbles shining smooth and round, lies down in the hollow at the bottom of the hill by the Braid Burn. Old Mr. Trotter of the Bush was very anxious to establish the fact that Habbie's Howe was up the Logan Water in Glencorse; and Mr. Brown of Newhall claimed the site for his property farther west along the Pentlands, and wrote a book to prove that he was right. In consequence, it is the generally received opinion that the spot now called Habbie's Howe on Newhall was the one intended by Allan Ramsay; but, according to the tradition received by my informant from Allan Ramsay's friends and relations, both were wrong. Thus the Lindesay spoke, Thus clamour still the war-notes when The King to mass his way has ta'en, Or to St. Katharine's of Sienne, Or Chapel of Saint Rocque. Scott—"Marmion." Thair superstitious pilgramagis To menie divers imagis; Sum to Sanct Roche, with diligence To saif them from the pestilence; For thair teeth to Sanct Apollene; To Sanct Tred well to mend thair ene. THE TWO BROTHERS. There were two brothers in the north, Lord William and Lord John, And they would try a wrestling match, So to the fields they've gone, gone, gone; So to the fields they've gone. They wrestled up, they wrestled down, Till Lord John fell on the ground, And a knife into Lord William's pocket Gave him a deadly wound, wound, wound; Gave him a deadly wound. "Oh take me on your back, dear William," he said, "And carry me to the burnie clear, And wash my wound sae deep and dark, Maybe 'twill bleed nae mair, mair, mair; Maybe 'twill bleed nae mair." He took him up upon his back, An' carried him to the burnie clear, But aye the mair he washed his wound It aye did bleed the mair, mair, mair; It aye did bleed the mair. "Oh take me on your back, dear William," he said, "And carry me to the kirkyard fair, And dig a grave sae deep and dark, And lay my body there, there, there; And lay my body there." "But what shall I say to my father dear, When he says, 'Willie, what's become of John?'" "Oh, tell him I am gone to Greenock town To buy him a puncheon of rum, rum, rum; To buy him a puncheon of rum." "And what shall I say to my sister dear, When she says, 'Willie, what's become of John?'" "Oh, tell her I've gone to London town, To buy her a marriage-gown, gown, gown; To buy her a marriage-gown." "But what shall I say to my grandmother dear, When she says, 'Willie, what's become of John?'" "Oh, tell her I'm in the kirkyard dark, And that I'm dead and gone, gone, gone; And that I'm dead and gone." 'Twas in Craigmillar's dusky hall That first I lent my ear To that deep tempter Lethington, With Moray bending near. Aytoun—"Bothwell." There seems to have been a hereditary friendship between the Bothwell family and the Wauchopes. Robert Wauchope is the "young Niddrie" mentioned in the following lines, as riding with James, Earl of Bothwell, to intercept the queen and carry her off to Dunbar— Hay, bid the trumpet sound the march, Go, Bolton, to the van; Young Niddrie follows with the rear. Set forward, every man! Aytoun—"Bothwell." His son Archibald (the young Niddrie of William Wauchope's notes) was a friend and companion of Francis, Lord Bothwell, and was concerned in the attack on the palace of Holyrood, December 27, 1591. (See History and Genealogy of the Family of Wauchope of Niddrie-Merschell, by James Paterson, 1858. Privately printed.) THE WATER O' WEARIE'S WELL. There cam a bird out o' a bush On water for to dine, And sighing sair, said the King's dochter, "O! wae's this heart o' mine." He's ta'en a Harp into his hand, He's harped them a' asleep, Except it was the King's dochter, Who ae wink couldna get. He's luppen on his berry-brown steed, Ta'en her on behind himsel', And they rade down to that water That they ca' Wearie's Well. "Wade in, wade in, my ladye fair, Nae harm shall thee befa'. Aft times I hae watered my guid steed Wi' the water o' Wearie's Well." The first step she steppit in, She steppit to the knee, And sighin' said this ladye fair, "This water's no' for me." "Wade in, wade in, my ladye fair, Nae harm shall thee befa'. Aft times I hae watered my guid steed Wi' the water o' Wearie's Well." The next step that she stepped in, She steppit to the middle, And sighin' said that ladye fair, "I've wat my golden girdle." "Wade in, wade in, my ladye fair, Nae harm shall thee befa'. Aft times I hae watered my guid steed Wi' the water o' Wearies Well." The next step that she stepped in, She steppit to the chin, And sighin' said this ladye fair, "It will gar our loves to twine." "Seven King's dochters I hae drowned In the water o' Wearie's Well, And I'll mak' you the eighth o' them, An' I'll ring for you the Bell." "Sin' I am standin' here," she says, "This dowie death to die, Grant me ae kiss o' your fause, fause mouth, For that would comfort me." He leaned him ower his saddle bow To kiss her cheek and chin, She's ta'en him in her arms twa And thrown him headlong in. "Sin' seven King's dochters ye've drowned there In the water o' Wearie's Well, I'll mak' you bridegroom to them a', An' ring the Bell mysel'." An' aye she warsled, an' aye she swam, Till she won to dry land, Then thankit God maist heartilie The dangers she'd ower cum. The other song is the Scottish version of the old fairy tale of the Frog Prince, and runs thus:— THE LADYE AND THE FAIRY; Oh, open the door, my hinnie, my heart! Oh, open the door, my ain true love! An' mind the words that you and I spak By the well o' the woods o' Wearie O! Oh, gi'e me my castock, Oh, gi'e me my kail, my hinnie, my heart, Oh, gi'e me my kail, my ain true love! An' mind the words that you and I spak' At the well in the woods o' Wearie. Oh, gi'e me your hand, my hinnie, my heart, Oh, gi'e me your hand, my ain true love, An' mind the words that you and I spak' By the well in the woods o' Wearie. Oh, wae to ye now, my hinnie, my heart, Oh, wae to ye now, my wise fause love; Ye've broken the words ye gi'ed to me At the well in the woods o' Wearie! There is a very pretty old tune to "The Paddo's Sang."
THE MARCHIONESS OF DOUGLAS. Oh, waly, waly up yon bank, An' waly, waly down yon brae, An' waly, waly by yon burn side, Whar I an' my love were wont to gae. Hey nonnie, nonnie, but love is bonnie A little while, when it is new, But when it's auld, it waxes cauld, An' wears awa like mornin' dew. Oh, wherefore sud I busk my head, An' wherefore sud I kaim my hair, Sin' my gude Lord's forsaken me, An' says he'll never lo'e me mair. When we rade in, by Glasgow toun, We were a comely sight to see, My Lord was clad in black velvet An' I, mysel', in cramasye. Now Arthur's Seat shall be my bed, Nae roof henceforth shall shelter me. St. Anton's Well shall be my drink, Sin' my gude Lord's forsaken me. It's no' the frost, that freezes fell, Nor driftin' snaw's inclemencie, It's no' sic cauld, that gars me greet, But my love's heart's grown cauld to me. When I lay sick, an' very sick, When I lay sick, an' like to die, A gentleman o' gude account Cam' frae the west to visit me; But Blackwood whispered in my Lord's ear A fause word, baith o' him an' me. "Gae, little Page, an' tell your Lord If he'll come doun an' dine wi' me, I'll set him on a chair o' gowd An' serve him on my bended knee." "When cockle shells turn siller bells, When wine draps red frae ilka tree, When frost and snaw will warm us a', Then I'll come doun an' dine wi' thee!" If I had kent, as I ken now That love it was sae ill to win, I wad ne'er hae wet my cherry cheek For ony man, or mother's son. When my father gat word o' this, I wat, an angry man was he. He sent fourscore o' his Archers bauld To bring me safe to his ain countrie. "Fare ye well then, Jamie Douglas, I need care as little as ye care for me. The Earl o' Mar is my father dear, An' I sune will see my ain countrie. "Ye thocht that I was like yoursel', Loving ilk ane I did see; But here I swear, by the heavens clear, I never lo'ed a man but thee." Slowly, slowly rose he up An' slowly, slowly cam' he doun, An' when he saw her on horseback set, He garred his drums and trumpets sound. When I upon my horse was set, My tenants a' were wi' me ta'en, They sat them doun upon their knees An' begged me to come back again. "Oh fare ye weel, my bonnie Palace, An' fare ye weel, my children three. God grant your father may get mair grace, An' lo'e ye better than he's lo'ed me! "An' wae be to you, ye fause Blackwood, Aye, an' an ill death may ye die, Ye were the first, and the foremost man, That parted my ain gude Lord and me." As we cam' on, through Edinbreuch toun, My gude father, he welcomed me, He caused his minstrels loud to sound, It was nae music at a' to me; Nae mirth, nor music sounds in my ear, Sin' my ain Lord's forsaken me. "Now haud y'r tongue, my daughter dear, An' o' your weepin' let me be; A bill o' divorce I'll gar write for him, An' I'll get as gude a Lord to thee." "Oh, haud your tongue, my father dear, An' o' your talking let me be; I wadna gi'e a look o' my gude Lord's face For a' the Lords in the north countrie. "The lintie is a bonnie bird, An' aften flies far frae its nest, Sae a' the warld may plainly see He's far awa' that I lo'e best." As she was sitting at her bower window, Lookin' afar ower hill and glen, Wha did she see but fourscore men That came to tak' her back again. Out bespak' the foremost man, (An' whaten a weel spoken man was he!) "If the Lady o' Douglas be within Ye'll bid her come doun and speak to me." Then out bespak' her father dear, I wat an angry man was he, "Ye may gang back the gate ye cam', For my daughter's face ye'se never see." "Now hand your tongue, my father dear, An' o' your folly let me be, For I'll gae back to my gude Lord, Sin' his love has come back to me." She laughed like ony new-made bride, When she bad farewell to her father's towers; But the tear, I wat, stude in her e'e, When she cam' in sicht o' her ain Lord's bowers. As she rade by the Orange Gate, Whaten a blyth sight did she see, Her gude Lord comin' her to meet, An' in his hand, her bairnies three. "Oh, bring to me a pint o' wine, That I may drink to my Ladie." She took the cup intill her hand, But her bonnie heart, it burst in three. Sanct Tredwell als thare may be sene, Quhilk on ane prik hes baith her ene. Sir David Lindsay—"The Monarchie." ----and now of Rome that beiris the rod, Undir the hevin to lowse and bind, Paip Alexander. The Pontiff here meant must have been the virtuous Alexander VI., who was Divine Vicegerent, from 1492 to 1503." In Select Remains of the Ancient Popular Poetry of Scotland, printed by Dr. Laing in 1822, the poem is given, and entitled The cursing of Sir John Rowlis Upoun the steilars of his fowlis; but to which of the two Rowlls this refers is unknown. Health to immortal Jeffrey! once in name England could boast a judge almost the same. English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. |