CROMLET'S LILT.

ANONYMOUS. From the "Tea-Table Miscellany." 1724.

I'll have no funeral fire,
No tears nor sighs;
No grave do I require,
Nor obsequies;

The courteous redbreast, he

With leaves will cover me,

And sing my elegy

With doleful voice.

And when a ghost I am,

I'll visit thee,

O thou deceitful dame,

Whose cruelty

Has kill'd the kindest heart
That e'er felt Cupid's dart,

And never can desert

From loving thee!

Burns, in his notes to "Johnson's Museum," says: "The following interesting account of this plaintive dirge was communicated to Mr. Riddel by Alexander Fraser Tytler, Esq., of Woodhouselee: In the latter end of the sixteenth century the Chisholms were proprietors of the estate of Cromleck (now possessed by the Drummonds). The eldest son of that family was very much attached to a daughter of Stirling of Ardoch, commonly known by the name of fair Helen of Ardoch. At that time the opportunities of meeting betwixt the sexes were more rare, consequently more sought after than now; and the Scottish ladies, far from priding themselves on extensive literature, were thought sufficiently book-learned if they could make out the Scriptures in their mother-tongue. Writing was entirely out of the line of female education: at that period the most of our young men of family sought a fortune, or found a grave, in France. Cromleck, when he went abroad to the war, was obliged to leave the management of his correspondence with his mistress to a lay brother of the monastery of Dumblain, in the immediate neighbourhood of Cromleck, and near Ardoch. This man, unfortunately, was deeply sensible of Helen's charms. He artfully prepossessed her with stories to the disadvantage of Cromleck, and by the misinterpreting or keeping up the letters and messages intrusted to his care, he entirely irritated both. All connexion was broken off betwixt them: Helen was inconsolable; and Cromleck has left behind him, in the ballad called Cromlet's Lilt,' a proof of the elegance of his genius, as well as the steadiness of his love. When the artful monk thought time had sufficiently softened Helen's sorrow, he proposed himself as a lover: Helen was obdurate; but at last, overcome by the persuasions of her brother, with whom she lived, and who, having a family of thirty-one children, was probably very well pleased to get her off his hands, she submitted rather than consented to the ceremony. But there her compliance ended; and, when forcibly put into bed, she started quite frantic from it, screaming out, that, after three gentle taps on the wainscot, at the bed-head, she heard Cromleck's voice, crying, 'Helen, Helen, mind me!' Cromleck soon after coming home, the treachery of the confidant was discovered, her marriage disannulled, and Helen became Lady Cromleck."

This song is usually sung to the fine old melody claimed by the Irish and the Scotch, and known to the one as "Aileen Aroon," and to the other as "Robin Adair."

THROUGH THE WOOD, LADDIE.

From the "Tea-Table Miscellany," 1724.
Air-"Through the wood."

O SANDY, why leav'st thou thy Nelly to mourn ?
Thy presence could ease me;

When naething could please me;

Now dowie I sigh on the bank o' the burn,

Or through the wood, laddie, until thou return,

Though woods now are bonnie, and mornings are clear, While lav'rocks are singing,

And primroses springing;

Yet nane o' them pleases my eye or my ear,
When through the wood, laddie, ye dinna appear.

That I am forsaken, some spare na to tell ;

I'm fash'd wi' their scornin',

Baith e'enin' an' mornin';

Their jeering gaes aft to my heart wi' a knell,
When through the wood, laddie, I wander mysel.

Then stay, my dear Sandy, nae langer away;
But quick as an arrow

Haste, haste to thy marrow,

Wha's living in languor till that happy day,
When through the wood, laddie, thegither we'll gac!

WALY, WALY.

ANONYMOUS. From the "Tea-Table Miscellany," 1724.

Он, waly, waly up the bank,

And waly, waly down the brae,
And waly, waly yon burn-side,
Where I and my love wont to gae!
I lean'd my back unto an aik,

And thoucht it was a trusty tree;
But first it bow'd, and syne it brak :
Sae my true-love did lichtlie me.

D

Oh, waly, waly, but love be bonnie
A little time while it is new;
But when it's auld it waxes cauld,

And fades away like the morning dew.
Oh, wherefore should I busk my heid,
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true-love has me forsook,

And says he'll never love me mair.

Now Arthur's Seat shall be my bed,
The sheets shall ne'er be press'd by me,
St. Anton's Well shall be my drink,
Since my true-love has forsaken me.
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
O gentle death, when wilt thou come?
For of my life I am wearie.

'Tis not the frost that freezes fell,

Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie ;
"Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry;

But my love's heart grown cauld to me.
When we came in by Glasgow toun,
We were a comely sicht to see ;
My love was clad in the black velvet,
And I mysel' in cramasie.

But had I wist before I kiss'd

That love had been sae ill to win,
I'd lock'd my heart in a case of gowd,

And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin.

And it's oh! if my young babe were born,

And set upon the nurse's knee,

And I mysel' were dead and gone,

And the green grass growin' ower me!

Nothing is known with certainty as to the authorship of this exquisite song-one of the most affecting of the many that Scotland can boast. It has been supposed to refer to an incident in the life of the Lady Barbara Erskine, wife of the second Marquis of Douglas; but the allusions are evidently to the deeper woes of one not a wife -who "loved not wisely, but too well."

THE EWE-BUGHTS.

From the "Tea-Table Miscellany," 1724.

WILL ye gae to the ewe-bughts, Marion,
And wear-in the sheep wi' me?
The sun shines sweet, my Marion,
But nae half sae sweet as thee.

Oh, Marion's a bonnie lass,

And the blythe blink's in her ee;
And fain wad I marry Marion,
Gin Marion wad marry me.

There's gowd in your garters, Marion,
And silk on your white hause-bane;
Fu' fain wad I kiss my Marion

At e'en when I come hame.

There's braw lads in Earnslaw, Marion,
Wha gape and glower wi' their ee,
At kirk when they see my Marion ;
But nane o' them lo'es like me.

I've nine milk-ewes, my Marion,
A cow and a brawny quey;
I'll gi'e them a' to my Marion
Just on her bridal-day.

And ye'se get a green sey apron,
And waistcoat o' London broun;
And wow but ye'se be vap❜rin'
Whene'er ye gang to the toun.

I'm young and stout, my Marion;
Nane dances like me on the green;

And gin ye forsake me, Marion,

I'll e'en gae draw up wi' Jean.

Sae put on your pearlins, Marion,

And kirtle o' cramasie;

And as sune as the sun's down, Marion,

I will come west and see ye.

This song is signed by Allan Ramsay with a Q., signifying that it was an old song with additions and amendments by himself. The air is old and very beautiful. "Your remarks on the Ewe-Bughts' are just," says Burns in a letter to Thomson;