My father ay tauld me, my mither an' a', It's true I lo'e Johnie, he's young and he's bonnie, I hae little tocher, ye've made a gude offer; She crap in ayont him, beside the stane wa', O the deil's in the lasses! they gang now sae braw, ca', Till they meet wi' some Johnie that's youthfu' and And they'll gie ye horns on ilk haffet to claw. "Come under my Plaidie" was printed in the Museum, and has since found ready admission into our lyric collections; yet it is deficient in the sprightly rustic grace and buoyant animation of many of our songs of courtship and matrimony. That an old man should desire a young wife, is nothing new; and that the vanity of woman should cast away true love for splendid dresses and a coach, is not uncommon. The charm, therefore, must lie in the poetry or in the vivid narrative. There is little that can be called poetry about it; and the narrative is never brightened up for a moment by any of those flashings-out of humour or of wit, which we remember, with pleasure and love, to repeat. It was written by Hector Macneill. DUNCAN GRAY. Duncan Gray came here to woo, On blithe Yule night, when we were fou, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Maggie coost her head fu' heigh, Duncan fleech'd, an' Duncan pray'd, Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan sigh'd baith out an' in, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Time an' chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die? She may gae to France-for me! Ha, ha, the wooing o't. How it comes let doctors tell, Ha, ha, the wooing o't; Meg grew sick as he grew heal, And O, her een, they spake sic things! Duncan was a lad o' grace, Maggie's was a piteous case, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan couldna be her death, Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath: Now they're crouse and canty baith ; "Duncan Gray is that kind of light-horse gallop of an air which precludes sentiment-the ludicrous is its ruling feature:" such are the words of Burns in his communication with Mr. Thomson concerning this lively song. Into the shortest measure, the poet had the unrivalled art of infusing ease and grace, and vivacity and humour. To airs for which our ancestors could only find a lucky line or two, which, from a penury of invention, they repeated through the verse, Burns found an overflow of happy verses, telling the lively or the tender story of the song without the clumsy assistance of those cuckoo repetitions. An ancient Duncan Gray once existed, but the hero had no right to be called “ a lad of grace." WANDERING WILLIE. Here awa', there awa', wandering Willie, 3 Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, e'e: It was na the blast brought the tear in my Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, The simmer to nature-my Willie to me. Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers, But Oh! if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, Flow still between us, thou wide-roaring main; May I never see it, may I never trow it, But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain! The old "Here awa' Willie," which inspired this song, has some merit, and is well known. The versions of Burns's song are numerous; and lyric poets may obtain instruction in the art of song-writing by reading the correspondence between the poet and the musician. To induce the song to echo the music with greater nicety, the poetry submitted to a kind of musical martyrdomsense was prevailed against by sound. I have restored the reading of the first rough sketch of the song in the second verse: the expression is more natural and touching. |