But the wenches skirl'd, "He's no be here!
His eldrich look gars us swarf wi' fear;
An' the fient a ane will the house come near,
If they think but o' Aiken-drum.

"For a foul an' a stalwart ghaist is he,
Despair sits broodin' abune his e'e-bree,
And unchancie to light on a maiden's e'e,
Is the glower o' Aiken-drum."

"Puir clipmalabors! ye hae little wit;
Is'tna Hallowmas now, an' the crap out yet?"
Sae she silenced them a' wi' a stamp o' her fit-
"Sit yer wa's down, Aiken-drum!"

Round a' that side what wark was dune

By the streamer's gleam, or the glance o' the mune;
A word, or a wish, an' the brownie cam' sune,
Sae helpfu' was Aiken-drum.

But he slade aye awa or the sun was up,

*

He ne'er could look straught on Macmillan's cup;
They watch'd-but nane saw him his brose ever sup,
Nor a spune sought Aiken-drum.

On Blednoch banks, an' on chrystal Cree,
For mony a day a toiled wight was he;

And the bairns they played harmless roun' his knee,
Sae social was Aiken-drum.

But a new-made wife, fu' o' frippish freaks,
Fond o' a' things feat for the five first weeks,
Laid a mouldy pair o' her ain man's breeks
By the brose o' Aiken-drum.

* A communion cup belonging to a minister of the name of Macmillan, long preserved in the parish of Kirkcowan, and employed as a test by which to ascertain the orthodoxy of suspected persons.

Let the learned decide when they convene,
What spell was him an' the breeks between ;
For frae that day forth he was nae mair seen,
An' sair miss'd was Aiken-drum.

He was heard by a herd gaun by the Thrieve,
Crying, "Lang, lang now may I greet an' grieve;
For, alas! I ha'e gotten baith fee an' leave-
O luckless Aiken-drum !"

Awa', ye wrangling sceptic tribe,

Wi' your pros an' your cons wad ye decide
'Gain the sponsible voice o' a hale countryside,
On the facts 'bout Aiken-drum?

Though the Brownie o' Blednoch lang be gane,
The mark o' his feet's left on mony a stane;
An' mony a wife an' mony a wean

Tell the feats o' Aiken-drum.

E'en now, light loons that jibe an' sneer
At spiritual guests an' a' sic gear,
At the Glashnoch Mill hae swat wi' fear,
An' look'd roun' for Aiken-drum.

An' gudely folks hae gotten a fright,

When the mune was set, an' the stars gied nae light;
At the roarin' linn, in the howe o' the night,

Wi' sughs like Aiken-drum.

Mill o' Tifty's Annie.

This ballad is founded on real circumstances, the heroine being the daughter of the Miller of Tifty, near Fyvie, in Aberdeenshire, and the hero the Trumpeter of the Laird of Fyvie. Both parties are said to have been remarkable

for their good looks. They had met, they had looked, they had been conquered, each by the beauty of the other. Andrew Lammie wished to make Annie (or rather Agnes, for such it appears was her real name) Smith his happy bride, and Annie as ardently wished to become so; but the obdurate parent stepped in in the shape and character of the Miller of Tifty, who esteemed the match beneath his dignity, and would have none of the Trumpeter. The unhappy result of the affair was that both lovers died of a broken heart. Annie's death, according to her gravestone in Fyvie Churchyard, took place on the 19th January, 1631. Andrew, however, it would appear, did not die as related in the ballad. It is asserted that several years afterwards the melancholy fate of Tifty's Annie being mentioned, and the ballad being sung in a company in Edinburgh where he was present, he remained silent and motionless, till at length he was discovered by a groan suddenly bursting from him, and several of the buttons flying from his waist

coat.

"The beauty, gallantry, and amiable qualities of Bonnie Andrew Lammie seem, says Mr. Jamieson, "to have been proverbial wherever he went; and the good old Cummer' in Allan Ramsay as the best evidence of the power of her own youthful charms, and the best apology for having 'cast a leggen girth hersel', says :

I'se warrant ye have a' heard tell

O' bonnie Andrew Lammie;

Stiffly in luve wi' me he fell,

As soon as e'er he saw me.
That was a day."

It is an extremely pathetic and affecting story.

AT Mill o' Tifty lived a man,

In the neighbourhood of Fyvie ;
He had a lovely daughter fair,
Was called bonnie Annie.

Her bloom was like the springing flower
That salutes the rosy morning;

With innocence, and graceful mien,

Her beauteous form adorning.

Lord Fyvie had a Trumpeter,

Whose name was Andrew Lammie;
He had the art to gain the heart
Of Mill o' Tifty's Annie.

Proper he was, both young and gay,
His like was not in Fyvie ;
No one was there that could compare
With this same Andrew Lammie.

Lord Fyvie he rode by the door
Where livéd Tifty's Annie;
His Trumpeter rode him before,

Even this same Andrew Lammie.

Her mother call'd her to the door--
"Come hear to me, my Annie;
Did you ever see a prettier man
Than the Trumpeter of Fyvie?"

She sighed sore, but said no more;
Alas for bonnie Annie !

She durst not own her heart was won
By the Trumpeter of Fyvie.

At night, when they went to their beds,
All slept full sound but Annie;
Love so opprest her tender breast,
Thinking on Andrew Lammie.

"Love comes in at my bedside,

And love lies down beyond me;
Love has possess'd my tender breast,
And love will waste my body.

"The first time I and my love met,
Was in the woods of Fyvie;
His lovely form and speech so sweet
Soon gain'd the heart of Annie.

"He called me mistress; I said, No

I'm Tifty's bonnie Annie;

With apples sweet he did me treat,

And kisses soft and many.

“It's up and down in Tifty's den,

Where the burn runs clear and bonnie,

I've often gone to meet my love,

My bonnie Andrew Lammie."

But now, alas! her father heard
That the Trumpeter of Fyvie
Had had the art to gain the heart
Of Tifty's bonnie Annie.

Her father soon a letter wrote,
And sent it on to Fyvie,
To tell his daughter was bewitched
By his servant Andrew Lammie.

When Lord Fyvie this letter read,
Oh, dear! but he was sorry;
"The bonniest lass in Fyvie's land
Is bewitched by Andrew Lammie."

Then up the stair his Trumpeter

He called soon and shortly

"Pray, tell me soon, what's this you've done To Tifty's bonnie Annie?"

"In wicked art I had no part,

Nor therein am I cannie;

True love alone the heart has won

Of Tifty's bonnie Annie.

"But woe betide Mill o' Tifty's pride,

For it has ruin'd many;

He'll no ha'e 't said that she should wed

The Trumpeter of Fyvie.