There is something of the sermon in this clever song: the author puts his hero through a regular course of worldly pursuits, and withdraws him from love, friendship, politics, and philosophy, with the resolution of seeking and finding consolation in his own bosom. When the song was composed, John Wilkes was in the full career of his short-lived popularity; and honest Skinner, incensed, probably, at the repeated insults which the demagogue offered to Scotland, remembered him in song. The satire of Churchill, and the wit of Wilkes, united for a time against my native country; and while the people were agitated and inflamed, it was no safe thing for a man even to shout " Wilkes and Liberty” with a Scottish accent in the streets of London. THE MAID THAT TENDS THE GOATS. Up amang yon cliffy rocks Sweetly rings the rising echo, Hark! she sings, Young Sandy's kind, An' he's promised ay to lo'e me; Till he's fairly married to me: Drive away ye drone Time, Sandy herds a flock o' sheep, Aften does he blaw the whistle, He's as fleet's the mountain roe, He braves the bleakest norlan blast. Brawly he can dance and sing Canty glee or highland cronach; Wightly can he wield a rung, In a brawl he's ay the bangster: By the langest-winded sangster. Sangs that sing o' Sandy Come short, though they were e'er sae lang. This pleasing song was written by Mr. Robert Dudgeon, a farmer, near Dunse in Berwickshire. The air is very popular, and the song very pretty. He is not the only one of his name and family whom the lyric Muse has honoured with her visits. Blithe BESS THE GAWKIE. young Bess to Jean did say, Will ye gang to yon sunny brae, Where flocks do feed, and herds do stray, And sport a while wi' Jamie? Ah, na, lass! I'll no gang there, Nor about Jamie tak a care, Nor about Jamie tak a care, For he's ta'en up wi' Maggie. For hark, and I will tell you, lass, Did I not see young "Tween ilka smack pleased her wi' this, For when a civil kiss I seek, She turns her head and thraws her cheek, And for an hour she'll hardly speak: Wha'd no ca' hér a gawkie? But sure my Maggie has mair sense, Now gie me ane into the mense, And ye shall be my dawtie. O Jamie, ye hae monie ta'en, But I will never stand for ane So ne'er think me a gawkie. Sic thoughts as thae are far frae me, But, whisht, nae mair o' this we'll speak, O dear Bess, I hardly knew, It's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain, If I should gang anither gate, The lasses fast frae him they flew, As they gade owre the muir they sang, Gang o'er the muir to Maggie. This has been a favourite song for many years, and few of our popular lyrics have so much genuine naïveté and dramatic animation. For a long while it went without an author's name; but in addition to the assurance of my father and general tradition, I am now authorised, by the family of the author, to print it as the composition of the Rev. Mr. Morehead. My friend William Gray, of Magdalen College, Oxford, a gentleman who unites a deep knowledge and warm admiration of our national literature with very high classical attainments, had the kindness to inquire about it during his residence in Galloway. He was assured by Herries Morehead, Esq. of Spottes, that the song was written by his father, the late minister of the parish of Urr, on a love adventure of his early days, and that the author himself was the fortunate and unfortunate hero. END OF VOL. III. LONDON: PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS. |