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I sit on my creepie, I spin at my wheel,
he brak’ it in twa,
Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa';
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.
From “The Lark," a collection of Scottish Songs, 1765.
My daddie is a cankert carle,
He'll no twine wi' his gear;
It's a' ane to me;
That's waitin' on me:
He's waitin' on me:
That's waitin' on me.
My auntie Kate sits at her whecl,
And sair she lightlies me;
But let them say, &c.
My cousin Kate was sair beguiled
Wi' Johnnie o' the Glen;
But let them say, &c.
Gleed Sandy he cam' wast yestreen,
And speir'd when I saw Pate;
WHEN I UPON THY BOSOM LEAN.
JOHN LAPRAIK. 1780.
WHEN I upon thy bosom lean,
That made us ane wha ance were twain.
The tender look, the meltin' kiss :
But only gie us change o' bliss.
Hae I a joy ? it's a' her ain!
United still her heart and mine;
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,
To some sweet wife :
A' to the life.
I've scarce heard aught described sae weel,
Or Beattie's wark?'
It pat me fidgin fain to hear't,
He had ingine,
It was sae fine.
That set him to a pint of ale,
Or witty catches,
He had few matches.
Then up I gat an' swoor an aith,
At some dyke-back,
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.
'Twas within a mile of Edinburgh town,
In the rosy time of the year ;
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
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.
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 ;
Thou hast cheated them and me, Mary.
That aught could alter thee, Mary;
Whate'er he said or might pretend
That stole the heart of thine, Mary,
Or nae sic love as mine, Mary.
Had no unworthy thoughts, Mary;
No, I loved only thee, Mary.
Though you've been false, yet while I live
l'll lo'e nae maid but thee, Mary;
Thy wrongs to them and me, Mary.
Since you've been false to me, Mary,
Half what I've done for thee, Mary.