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[.—"Instead of saying why or when I wrote this song, or telling the reasons that induced me to imitate the natural ballad style of the north, I will tell a little touching story, which has long been popular in my native place. At the close of the last rebellion, a party of the Duke of Cumberland's dragoons passed through Nithsdale; they called at a lone house, where a widow lived, and demanded refreshments. She brought them milk; and her son, a youth of sixteen, prepared kale and butter—this, she said, was all her store. One of the party inquired how she lived on such slender means: "I live," she said, "on my cow, my kale-yard, and on the blessing of God." He went and killed the cow, destroyed her kale, and continued his march. The poor woman died of a broken heart, and her son wandered away from the inquiry of friends and the reach of compassion. It happened, afterwards, in the continental war, when the British army had gained a great victory, that the soldiers were seated on the ground, making merry with wine, and relating their exploits—'All this is nothing,' cried a dragoon, 'to what I once did in Scotland—I starved a witch in Nithsdale; I drank her milk, I killed her cow, destroyed her kale-yard, and left her to live upon God—and I dare say he had enough ado with her.' 'And don't you rue it?' exclaimed a soldier starting up—'don't you rue it?' 'Rue what?' said the ruffian; 'what would you have me rue? she's dead and damned, and there's an end of her.' 'Then, by my God!' said the other, 'that woman was my mother—draw your sword—draw.' They fought on the spot, and while the Scottish soldier passed his sword through his body, and turned him over in the pangs of death, he said, 'Had you but said you rued it, God should have punished you, not I.]

gang ye, ye silly auld carle,

Wi' yere staff and shepherd fare?

I'm gaun to the hill, thou sodger-man,

To shift my hirsels' lair.

Ae stride or twa took the silly auld carle,

An' a gude lang stride took he.

I trow thou art a freck auld carle,

Wilt thou show the way to me?

For I have ridden down bonnie Nith,

Sae have I the silver Orr,

And a' for the blood o' the young Maxwell,

Which I love as a gled loves gore.

And he has gone wi' the silly auld carle,

Adown by the rocks sae steep,

Until that they came to the auld castle

That hangs o'er Dee sae deep.

The rocks were high, the woods were dark,

The Dee roll'd in its pride;

Light down and gang, thou sodger-man,

For here ye mayna ride.

He drew the reins of his bonnie grey steed,

And gaily down he sprang:

His war-coat was of the scarlet fine,

Where the golden tassels hang.

He threw down his plaid, the silly auld carle,

The bonnet frae boon his bree:

And who was it but the young Maxwell?

And his good brown sword drew he.

Thou kill'd my father, thou base Southron,

Sae did ye my brethren three;

Which brake the heart of my ae sister,

I loved as the light of my e'e.

Now draw thy sword, thou base Southron,

Red wet wi' blood o' my kin;

That sword, it cropt the fairest flower

E'er grew wi' a head to the sun.

There's ae stroke for my dear auld father,

There's twa for my brethren three;

And there's ane to thy heart for my ae sister,

Whom I loved as the light of my e'e.

[ "Poems chiefly in the Scottish dialect, by the Rev. . In two volumes. Edinburgh, 1805."—Tune, "Bonnie Dundee."]

dear little lassie, why, what's a' the matter?

My heart it gangs pittypat, winna lie still;

I've waited, and waited, an' a' to grow better

Yet, lassie, believe me, I'm aye growing ill:

My head 's turn'd quite dizzy, an' aft when I'm speaking

I sigh, an' am breathless, an' fearfu' to speak;

I gaze aye for something I fain wad be seeking,

Yet, lassie, I kenna weel what I wad seek.