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There is something of the sermon in this clever song: the author puts his hero through a regular course of worldly pursuits, and withdraws him from love, friendship, politics, and philosophy, with the resolution of seeking and finding consolation in his own bosom. When the song was composed, John Wilkes was in the full career of his short-lived popularity; and honest Skinner, incensed, probably, at the repeated insults which the demagogue offered to Scotland, remembered him in song. The satire of Churchill, and the wit of Wilkes, united for a time against my native country; and while the people were agitated and inflamed, it was no safe thing for a man even to shout " Wilkes and Liberty” with a Scottish accent in the streets of London.

THE MAID THAT TENDS THE GOATS.

Up amang yon cliffy rocks

Sweetly rings the rising echo,
To the maid that tends the goats,
Lilting o'er her native notes.

Hark! she sings, Young Sandy's kind,

An' he's promised ay to lo'e me;
Here's a brooch I ne'er shall tine

Till he's fairly married to me:

Drive away ye drone Time,
An' bring about our bridal day.

Sandy herds a flock o' sheep,

Aften does he blaw the whistle,
In a strain sae saftly sweet,
Lammies list ning daurna bleat.

He's as fleet's the mountain roe,
Hardy as the highland heather,
Wading through the winter snow,
Keeping aye his flock together;
But a plaid, wi' bare houghs,

He braves the bleakest norlan blast.

Brawly he can dance and sing

Canty glee or highland cronach;
Nane can ever match his fling,
At a reel, or round a ring;

Wightly can he wield a rung,

In a brawl he's ay the bangster:
A' his praise can ne'er be sung

By the langest-winded sangster.

Sangs that sing o' Sandy

Come short, though they were e'er sae lang.

This pleasing song was written by Mr. Robert Dudgeon, a farmer, near Dunse in Berwickshire. The air is very popular, and the song very pretty. He is not the only one of his name and family whom the lyric Muse has honoured with her visits.

Blithe

BESS THE GAWKIE.

young Bess to Jean did say,

Will ye gang to yon sunny brae,

Where flocks do feed, and herds do stray,

And sport a while wi' Jamie? Ah, na, lass! I'll no gang there, Nor about Jamie tak a care,

Nor about Jamie tak a care,

For he's ta'en up wi' Maggie.

For hark, and I will tell you, lass,
Jamie pass,

Did I not see young
Wi' meikle blitheness in his face,
Out owre the muir to Maggie:
I wat he ga'e her monie a kiss,
And Maggie took them ne'er amiss ;

"Tween ilka smack pleased her wi' this,
That Bess was but a gawkie-

For when a civil kiss I seek,

She turns her head and thraws her cheek, And for an hour she'll hardly speak:

Wha'd no ca' hér a gawkie?

But sure my Maggie has mair sense,
She'll gie a score without offence;

Now gie me ane into the mense,

And ye shall be my dawtie.

O Jamie, ye hae monie ta'en,

But I will never stand for ane
Or twa when we do meet again,

So ne'er think me a gawkie.
Ah, na, lass, that canna be;

Sic thoughts as thae are far frae me,
Or onie thy sweet face that see,
E'er to think thee a gawkie.

But, whisht, nae mair o' this we'll speak,
For yonder Jamie does us meet;
Instead o' Meg he kiss'd sae sweet,
I trow he likes the gawkie.

O dear Bess, I hardly knew,
When I cam' by your gown sae new;
I think you've got it wet wi' dew.
Quoth she, that's like a gawkie!

It's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain,
And I'll get gowns when it is gane:
Sae ye may gang the gate ye came,
And tell it to your dawtie.
The guilt appear'd in Jamie's cheek:
He cried, O cruel maid, but sweet,

If I should gang anither gate,
I ne'er could meet my dawtie.

The lasses fast frae him they flew,
And left poor Jamie sair to rue
That ever Maggie's face he knew,
Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie.

As they gade owre the muir they sang,
The hills and dales wi' echoes rang,
The hills and dales wi' echoes rang,

Gang o'er the muir to Maggie.

This has been a favourite song for many years, and few of our popular lyrics have so much genuine naïveté and dramatic animation. For a long while it went without an author's name; but in addition to the assurance of my father and general tradition, I am now authorised, by the family of the author, to print it as the composition of the Rev. Mr. Morehead. My friend William Gray, of Magdalen College, Oxford, a gentleman who unites a deep knowledge and warm admiration of our national literature with very high classical attainments, had the kindness to inquire about it during his residence in Galloway. He was assured by Herries Morehead, Esq. of Spottes, that the song was written by his father, the late minister of the parish of Urr, on a love adventure of his early days, and that the author himself was the fortunate and unfortunate hero.

END OF VOL. III.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS.

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