And when young Derwentwater kneel'd, My gentle fair ladie! The tears gave way to the glow o' luve In our gude ladie's e'e. I will think me on this bonnie ring, O never a word our ladie spake, He has drapp'd frae his hand the tassel o' gowd Which knots his gude weir-glove, And he has drapp'd a spark frae his een Which gars our ladie love. Come down, come down, our gude lord says, Come down, my fair ladie; O dinna young Lord Derwent stop, The morning sun is hie. VOL. III. Thy harlot front, frae the white curtain, Jud Our ladie look'd frae the turret top As lang as she could see ; I believe there is no traditional testimony to support the surmise of the poet, that the wife of one of the Jacobite chiefs had a criminal regard for the unfortunate Earl of Derwentwater. He was a young and brave and generous nobleman, and his fate was vehemently lamented in the north of England. The aurora borealis, which appeared then for the first time, and shone remarkably vivid on the night of his execution, is still known in the north by the name of Lord Derwentwater's lights. A very beautiful song is popularly known by the title of "Lord Derwentwater's good night." And fare thee well, my bonnie gray steed, I wish I had been asleep in my bed, The last time I mounted thee: The warning bell now bids me cease, My trouble's nearly o'er; Yon sun now rising from the sea Shall rise on me no more. Fifteen hundred braver men never were led to battle than those whom Derwentwater conducted to Preston: but the senses of the leaders seemed bewildered and confounded, and they allowed themselves to be surrounded and manacled, and conducted to the axe and the gibbet without murmur or resistance. AWA WHIGS, AWA. Our thistles flourish'd fresh and fair, Awa whigs, awa, Awa whigs, awa; Ye're but a pack o' traitor loons, Our sad decay in church and state The whigs came o'er us for a curse, A foreign whiggish loon brought seeds, But we'll pu' a' his dibbled leeks, Our ancient crown's fa'n i' the dust, H Deil blind them wi' the stour o't! And write their names i' his black beuk, Grim vengeance lang has ta'en a nap, The deil he heard the stour o' tongues, Sae grim he sat amang the reek, Thrang bundling brimstone matches; Awa whigs, awa, Awa whigs, awa; Ye'll rin me out o' wun spunks, Some of the lines of this song are as old as the days of Oliver Cromwell, and some of them are of very recent composition. It was a favourite fancy of the Jacobites to place their enemies in perdition, and distribute infernal power and rule among them according to their labours in the cause of the house of Orange or Hanover. Meston, and many nameless writers, indulged in this poetical mode of punishment; which drew down upon them the indignant reproach of Addison. I wish not to defend it; but since the Whigs divided all power and domination among themselves on this earth, the Jacobites might be justified in their imaginary appropriation of paradise and in allotting a place of punishment to their enemies.-The air of the song is very ancient. THE WEE WEE GERMAN LAIRDIE. Wha the deil hae we got for a king Without the hose, and but the breeks; The wee wee German lairdie. And he's clapt down in our gudeman's chair, And he's brought fouth o' foreign trash, And dibbled them in his yardie. He's pu'd the rose o' English loons, |