Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/72

54

[ by in 1789, for Johnson's Museum, to a very old tune, called John Anderson, my jo. The original John Anderson, according to tradition, is said to have been the town-piper of Kelso. In Bishop Percy's MS. book of ballads (a production of the middle of the 16th century) occur the following verses:—

The latter four lines, it will be observed, form a principal portion of the modern "Nid, noddin'."]

[In a collection of "Poetry, original and selected," published in penny Nos. between the years 1795 and 1798, by Messrs. Brash & Reid, Glasgow, and now very scarce, several additional stanzas to "John Anderson, my jo," are given, which were probably from the pen of one of the partners, Mr., who, as we have already hinted at page 3, had a knack in eking out popular ditties. Mr. Reid was born at Glasgow in 1764, and for nearly thirty years carried on in his native city a most respectable bookselling business, in company with Mr. Brash. He died in 1831. Only the first four of the following stanzas can be fairly attributed to him.]

John Anderson, my jo, John,

I wonder what ye mean,

To rise sae early in the morn,

And sit sae late at e'en;

Ye'll blear out a' your een, John,

And why should you do so?

Gang sooner to your bed at e'en,

John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

When nature first began

To try her canny hand, John,

Her master-piece was man;

And you amang them a', John,

Sae trig frae tap to toe,

She proved to be nae journeyman,

John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

Ye were my first conceit,

And ye need na think it strange, John,

That I ca' ye trim and neat;

Though some folks say ye're auld, John,

I never think ye so,

But I think ye're aye the same to me,

John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

We've seen our bairns' bairns,

And yet, my dear John Anderson,

I'm happy in your arms,

And sae are ye in mine, John,

I'm sure ye'll ne'er say no,

Tho' the days are gane that we have seen,

John Anderson, my jo,

John Anderson, my jo, John,

What pleasure does it gi'e,

To see sae many sprouts, John,

Spring up 'tween you an' me;

And ilka lad and lass, John,

In our footsteps to go,

Makes perfect heaven here on earth,

John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

Our siller ne'er was rife,

And yet we ne'er saw poverty,

Sin' we were man and wife;