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'Twad be my dead, that will be seen,
My heart wad burst wi' anguish.

Beyond thee, &c.

But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine,

Say, thou lo’es nane before me;
And a' my days o’ life to come,
I'll gratefully adore thee.

Beyond thee, &c.


I ADDED the four last lines by way of giving a turn to the theme of the poem, such as it is.

Frae the friends and land I love,

Driv'n by fortune's felly spite;
Frae my best belov'd I rove,

Never mair to taste delight.
Never mair maun hope to find

Ease frae toil, relief frae care,
When remembrance racks the mind,
Pleasures but unveil despair.

Brightest climes shall mirk appear,

Desart ilka blooming shore;
Till the fates, nae mair severe,

Friendship, love and peace restore.
Till revenge wi' laureld head

Bring our banish'd hame again;
And ilk loyal, bonie lad,

Cross the seas and win his ain.


This blythsome song, so full of Scottish humour and convivial merriment, is an intimate favourite at Bridal Trystes, and House-heatings. It contains a spirited picture of a country ale-house touched off with all the lightsome gaiety so peculiar to the rural muse of Caledonia, when at a fair.

Instead of the line,

“ Girdle cakes weel toasted brown,"

I have heard it sung,

“ Knuckled cakes weel brandert brown.”

These cakes are kneaded out with the knuckles, and toasted over the red embers of wood on a gridiron. They are remarkably fine, and have a delicate relish when eaten warm with ale. On winter market nights the landlady heats them, and drops them into the quaigh to warm the ale :

« Weel does the cannie Kimmer ken

gar the swats gae glibber down.”

Blyth, blyth, blyth was she,

Blyth was she butt and ben;
And well she loo'd a Hawick gill,

And leugh to see a tappit hen.
She took me in, and set me down,

And heght to keep me lawing-free;
But, cunning carling that she was,
She gart me birle



We loo'd the liquor well enough;
But waes my



cash was done Before that I had quench'd my drowth,

And laith I was to pawn my shoon.

When we had three times toom'd our stoup,

And the niest chappin new begun,
Wha started in to heeze our hope,

But Andro wi' his cutty gun.

The carling brought her kebbuck ben,

With girdle-cakes weel-toasted brown,
Well does the canny kimmer ken,

They gar the swats gae glibber down.
We ca'd the bicker aft about;

Till dawning we ne'er jee'd our bun,


the cleanest drinker out Was Andro wi' his cutty gun.

He did like ony mavis sing,

And as I in his oxter sat,
He ca'd me ay his bonny thing,

And mony a sappy kiss I gat:
I hae been east, I hae been west,
I hae been far



sun; But the blythest lad that e'er I saw

Was Andro wi' his cutty gun !*

* In a country ale-house of the time of this song, were seen mud walls lackered with lime; a chimney-piece hung with quaighs and chappin stoups. In the corner a huge barrel of homebrew ale, and a corner-cupboard, where the “ cunning Car




THERE are several editions of this ballad. This, here inserted, is from oral tradition in Ayrshire, where, when I was a boy, it was a popular song.--It originally, had a simple old tune, which I have forgotten.

line” held her “ Girdle Cakes weel toasted brown." A little window, with oaken boards, hung on leather hinges, and two panes of coarse glass; the window-cheeks pasted over with ballads, and favourite songs. Before the window was placed the oaken table, encircled by a motley company :-old men, with broad blue bonnets, wide boot-hose, and long staffs, which they held by the middle when they walked. Mixing with these, were the young lads with their sweethearts sitting on their knees, with the old narrative landlord repeating his jests three times turned. The pushing about of stoups ;-the old men telling tales of parish quarrels and private squabbles ;- the lasses singing songs ;-and the lads wooing at intervals, form altogether a whimsical and original groupe, which is not easily so well and so happily sketched as in “ Andrew wi' his cuttie gun.”

* Burns did not chuse to be quite correct in stating that this copy of the ballad of Hughie Graham is printed from oral tradition in Ayrshire. The truth is, that four of the stanzas are either altered or super-added by himself.

Of this number the third and eighth are original; the vinth and tenth have received his corrections. Perhaps pathos was


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