I sit on my creepie, I spin at my wheel,
And think on the laddie that lo'ed me sae weel;
He had but a saxpence,

he brak’ it in twa,
And gi’ed me the haef o't when he gade awa'.

Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa';
Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa';
The simmer is coming, cauld winter's awa',
And ye'll come back and see me in spite o' them a'.

Mr. Peter Buchan states that this song was written by a schoolmaster at Rathen in Aberdeenshire, of the name of George Halket, who died in 1756. Mr. Halket was a Jacobite, and wrote some squibs after the “Forty-five,” which gave such offence to the Duke of Cumberland, that he offered a reward of 1001, for the author's head. The poet, however, escaped the danger, and died peaceably in his bed. The hero of the piece was a James Robertson, gardener at Logie.

LOW DOUN I' THE BRUME.

JAMES CARNEGIE.

From “The Lark," a collection of Scottish Songs, 1765.

My daddie is a cankert carle,

He'll no twine wi' his gear;
My minnie she's a scaulding' wife,
Hauds a' the house asteer.
But let them say, or let them do,

It's a' ane to me;
For he's low doun, he's in the brume,

That's waitin' on me:
Waitin' on me, my love,

He's waitin' on me:
For he's low doun, he's in the brume,

That's waitin' on me.

My auntie Kate sits at her whecl,

And sair she lightlies me;
But weel ken I it's a' envy,
For ne'er a joe has she.

But let them say, &c.

My cousin Kate was sair beguiled

Wi' Johnnie o' the Glen;
And aye sinsyne she cries, Beware
O’ fause deluding men !

But let them say, &c.

Gleed Sandy he cam' wast yestreen,

And speir'd when I saw Pate;
And aye sinsyne the neebors round
They jeer me air and late,
But let them

say,

&c.

WHEN I UPON THY BOSOM LEAN.

JOHN LAPRAIK. 1780.

WHEN I upon thy bosom lean,

I
And fondly clasp thee a' my ain,
I glory in the sacred ties

That made us ane wha ance were twain.
A mutual flame inspires us baith,

The tender look, the meltin' kiss :
Even years shall ne'er destroy our love,

But only gie us change o' bliss.

Hae I a joy ? it's a' her ain!

United still her heart and mine;
They're like the woodbine round the tree,

That's twined till death shall them disjoin.

The author of this beautiful song was the friend and correspondent of Robert Burns. In his “ Epistle to J. Lapraik, an old Scottish bard,” dated April 1st, 1785. Burns pays his predecessor the following fine compliment :

There was ae sang amang the rest,
A boon them a' it pleased me best,
That some kind husband had addrest

To some sweet wife :
It thirl'd the heart-strings through the breast

A' to the life.

I've scarce heard aught described sae weel,
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ;
Thought I, .Can this be Pope, or Steele,

Or Beattie's wark?'
They told me 'twas an odd kind chiel

About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin fain to hear't,
And sae about him there I spiert;
Then a' that ken't him round declared

He had ingine,
That nane excell'd it, few cam near't,

It was sae fine.

That set him to a pint of ale,
An' either douce or merry tale,
Or rhymes an’ sangs he'd made himsel',

Or witty catches,
'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale

He had few matches.

Then up I gat an' swoor an aith,
Though I should pawn my pleugh an' graith,
Or die a cadger pownie's death

At some dyke-back,
A pint and gill I'd gie them baith

To hear your crack.

" Lapraik," says Burns, “was a very worthy facetious old fellow, late of Dalfram, hear Muirkirk, which little property he was obliged to sell in consequence of some connexion as security for some persons concerned in that villanous bubble, the Ayr Bank.' He has often told me that he composed this song one day when his wife had been fretting over their misfortunes.” Lapraik died in 1807.

This song was composed by Thomas D'Urfey. It originally appeared in a collection

entitled “ Wit and Mirth,' 1698.-C. R.

а

'Twas within a mile of Edinburgh town,

In the rosy time of the year ;
Sweet flowers bloom’d, and the grass was down,
And each shepherd woo'd his dear.

Bonnie Jockie, blythe and gay,

Kiss'd sweet Jenny making hay: The lassie blush'd, and frowning cried, “Na, na, it winna do ; I canna, canna, winna, winna, maunna buckle to.”

Jockie was a wag that never would wed,

Though long he had follow'd the lags : Contented she earn'd and eat her brown bread, And merrily turn'd up

the

grass. Bonnie Jockie, blythe and free,

Won her heart right merrily : Yet still she blush'd, and frowning cried, “Na, na, it winna do ; I canna, canna, winna, winna, maunna buckle to.”

But when he vow'd he would make her his bride,

Though his flocks and herds were not few, She gave him her hand, and a kiss beside,

And yow'd she'd for ever be true.

Bonnie Jockie, blythe and free,

Won her heart right merrily: At church she no more frowning cried, " Na, na, it winna do; I canna, canna, winna, winna, maunna buckle to.”

Modernised from a song by Thomas D'Urfey. The air to which the song is now usually sung is of more recent origin than the words, having been the composition of Mr. Hook, father of the late Theodore Hook the novelist. Mr. Hook, besides composing many beautiful English melodies, wrote several in imitation of the Scottish manner, many of which are still popular.

THOU ART GANE AWA' FRAE ME, MARY.

ANONYMOUS.

From “Johnson's Museum,” 1787. To the tune of “Haud awa'

frae me, Donald."

Thou art gane awa', thou art gane awa',

Thou art gane awa' frae me, Mary ;
Nor friends nor I could make thee stay-

Thou hast cheated them and me, Mary.
Until this hour I never thought

That aught could alter thee, Mary;
Thou art still the mistress of

my heart,
Think what you will of me, Mary,

Whate'er he said or might pretend

That stole the heart of thine, Mary,
True love, I'm sure, was ne'er his end,

Or nae sic love as mine, Mary.
I spoke sincere, nor flatter'd much,

Had no unworthy thoughts, Mary;
Indition, wealth, nor naething such :

No, I loved only thee, Mary.

Though you've been false, yet while I live

l'll lo'e nae maid but thee, Mary;
Let friends forget, as I forgive,

Thy wrongs to them and me, Mary.
So then, farewell! of this be sure,

Since you've been false to me, Mary,
For all the world I'd not endure

Half what I've done for thee, Mary.