NO DOMINIES FOR ME, LADDIE. I chanced to meet an airy blade, A lang cravat at him did wag, And buckles at his knee, laddie; Says he, my heart, by Cupid's dart, Is captivate to thee, lassie. I'll rather chuse to thole grim death; But for your sake I'll fleece the flock, If I be spared I'll be a laird, And thou's be madam call'd, lassie. But what if ye should chance to die, Leave bairnies, ane or twa, laddie? Naething wad be reserved for them But hair-moul'd books to gnaw, laddie. At this he angry was, I wat, He gloom'd and look'd fu' hie, laddie: I left my dominie, laddie. At the next offer hold him fast, Then I returning hame again, And coming down the town, laddie, At twa words we agreed, laddie. He led me to his quarter-house, Where we exchanged a word, laddie: We had nae use for black gowns there, We married o'er the sword, laddie. Martial music's far more fine Than ony sermon bell, laddie; Gold, red and blue, is more divine Kings, queens, and princes, crave the aid VOL. III. U While dominies are much employ'd 'Bout whores and sackcloth gowns, laddie. They look like, Let me be, laddie: No dominies for me, laddie. This song was written by the Reverend Nathaniel Mackay of Crossmichael, in Galloway; and it is alleged that he was himself the slighted dominie whom he has so felicitously ridiculed; for he had paid his addresses, in early life, to a fair but scornful lady, who considered herself far above the rank and pretensions of a "newmade pulpiteer," and finally yielded to the assiduities of an admirer who sported a gaudier livery, and pursued a more attractive and romantic vocation. THE BONNIE BRUCKET LASSIE. The bonnie brucket lassie, She's blue beneath the een; She was the fairest lassie That danced on the green. She did his love return; And left her for to mourn. My shape, she says, was handsome, And blue beneath the een. My eyes were bright and sparkling, My person it was comely, My shape they said was neat; O could I live in darkness, Within my breast to dwell; In nought I have offended Her lover heard her mourning, And press'd unto his bosom I'll faithful prove to you. James Tytler, the author of this popular song, was a clever and very eccentric character-a printer, a publisher, a poet, a compiler, a projector, a wild democrat, and a maker of balloons. His labours were many and unproductive. He was familiar with all the varieties of evil fortune, and experienced by turns the misery of a poet, a publisher, and a drudge to literary speculators. This person exhibited a sad image of daily dependence for bread on the pen. With leaky shoes, a hat without the crown, neighbourless kneebuckless, clothes ragged and stained with poet's and with printer's ink, and animated by whisky, he has been seen gliding from house to house at the twilight, as much from dread of encountering a creditor, as from shame of his wretchedness. At last he entered deeply into the wild schemes of our revolutionary fanatics, and was obliged to seek refuge in America, where he died in the fifty-eighth year of his age. This song, to which alone of all his works he owes the notice of his name, originated in an ancient lyric of the same title, which is not quite ladies' reading. |