Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, The following particulars regarding this song are given by Mr. Starke in the life of the author in the "Biographica Scotica," Edinburgh, 1805: "One of Mr. Gall's songs in particular, the original manuscript of which I have by me, has acquired a high degree of praise, from its having been printed among the works of Burns, and generally thought the production of that poet. The reverse, indeed, was only known to a few of Mr. Gall's friends, to whom he communicated the verses before they were published. The fame of Burns stands in no need of the aid of others to support it; and to render back the song in question to its true author, is but an act of distributive justice due alike to both these departed poets, whose ears are now equally insensible to the incense of flattery or the slanders of malevolence. At the time when the 'Scots Musical Museum' was published at Edinburgh by Mr. Johnson, several of Burns's songs made their appearance in that publication. Mr. Gall wrote the song entitled A Farewell to Ayrshire,' prefixed Burns's name to it, and sent it anonymously to the publisher of that work. From thence it has been copied into the later editions of the works of Burns. In publishing the song in this manner, Mr. Gall probably thought that it might, under the sanction of a name known to the world, acquire some notice, while in other circumstances its fate might have been 'to waste its sweetness on the desert air."" Neither Mr. Gall nor his biographer seem to have reflected upon the dishonesty of the proceeding towards the public, and of the gross unfairness towards the greater poet, whose name was used. LOGAN BRAES. JOHN MAYNE,* author of the "Siller Gun." First printed in the "Star" "By Logan's streams, that rin sae deep, Wi' my dear lad on Logan braes. But wae's my heart! thae days are gane, While my dear lad maun face his faes Far, far frae me an' Logan braes. Nae mair at Logan kirk will he Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk. *John Mayne, formerly editor of the "Star" newspaper, died in the year 1836. I weel may sing thae days are gane- While my dear lad maun face his faes At e'en, when hope amaist is gone, Where aft he kept his tryst wi' me. While for her love she thus did sigh, While sair she grat on Logan braes. "What can I do but weep and mourn? Then straight to Logan kirk they went, BONNIE LADY ANN. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, born 1784, died 1842. From "Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song." THERE'S kames o' hinnie 'tween my luve's lips, And gowd amang her hair; Her breists are lapt in a holy veil, Nae mortal een keek there. What lips daur kiss, or what hand daur touch, Or what arm o' luve daur span, The hinnie lips, the creamy lufe, She kisses the lips o' her bonnie red rose, Wat wi' the blobs o' dew; But nae gentle lip nor semple lip Maun touch her ladie mou'. But a broider'd belt, wi' a buckle o' gowd, Her jimpy waist maun span; Oh, she's an armfu' fit for heaven My bonnie Lady Ann. Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers Tied up wi' siller thread, And comely sits she in the midst, Men's longing een to feed. She waves the ringlets frae, her cheek Wi' her milky, milky hand; And her every look beams wi' grace divine, My bonnie Lady Ann. The mornin' clud is tasselt wi' gowd, Like my luve's broider'd cap; And on the mantle that my Is mony a gowden drap. luve wears Her bonnie ee-bree's a holy arch, Cast by nae earthly han'; And the breath o' heaven is atween the lips O' my bonnie Lady Ann. I wonderin' gaze on her stately steps, To my luve, alas! she mauna stoop, My een are bauld, they dwall on a place Where I daurna mint my han'; But I water and tend and kiss the flowers I am but her father's gardener lad, My auld mither gets my wee wee fee, Wi' fatherless bairnies twa. My lady comes, my lady gaes Wi' a fu' and kindly han'; Oh, their blessin' maun mix wi' my luve, THE SPRING OF THE YEAR. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. From "Cromek's Remains." GONE were but the winter cold, Cold's the snaw at my head, And the finger of death's at my een, Let none tell my father, Or my mother sae dearI'll meet them both in heaven At the spring of the year. OUR LADYE'S BLESSED WELL. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. THE moon is gleaming far and near, And cold comes down the evening dew K There is a time for holy song, Oh, thou wert born as fair a babe Born in the April moon; Was it a breath of evil wind "That harm'd thee, lovely child? Or was't the fairy's charmèd touch That all thy bloom defiled? I've watched thee in the mirk midnight, And watch'd thee in the day, And sung our Ladye's sacred song, To keep the elves away. The moon is sitting on the hill, On a fair sea thy father sails Among the spicy isles: He thinks on thee, he thinks on me, And as he thinks he smiles; And sings, while he his white sail trims, About his Anna's sunny locks, And of her bright blue ee. |