The Poetical Works of Miss Susanna Blamire.

SONGS.

SONGS.

THE CHELSEA PENSIONERS. 1

Air­The Days o' Langsyne.

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WHEN war had broke in on the peace of auld men, And frae Chelsea to arms they were summon'd again; Twa vet'rans grown gray, wi' their muskets sair soil'd, Wi' a sigh were relating how hard they had toil'd; The drum it was beating, to fight they incline, But aye they look back to the days o' langsyne.

Oh ! Davy, man, weel thou remembers the time, When twa brisk young callans, and baith i' our prime, The Duke bade us conquer, and show'd us the way, And mony a braw chiel we laid low on that day; Yet I'd venture, fu' cheerfu', this auld trunk o' mine, Could William but lead, and I fight, as langsyne.

But garrison duty is a' we can do, Tho' our arms are worn weak yet our hearts are still true; We carena [siccare na] for dangers by land or by sea, For Time is turn'd coward and no thee and me; And tho' at the change we should sadly repine, Youth winna return, nor the strength o' langsyne.

When after our conquests, it joys me to mind How thy Janet caress'd thee and my Meg was kind; They follow'd our fortunes, tho' never so hard, And we cared na for plunder wi' sic a reward; E'en now they're resolv'd baith their hames to resign, And will follow us yet for the sake o' langsyne.

NAY, NAY, CENSOR TIME.

NAY, nay, Censor Time, I'll be happy to-day, For I see thou'rt grown gray with thy cares; Then preach not to me, as my life steals away, Of the pleasure of far distant years.

The sands in thy glass in soft silence depart, Yet thy cheek grows the paler the while; But the drops there in mine fill the tubes of the heart, And mount to my lip with a smile.

And thou would'st smile too, if my fair one thou'd toast; Nay sip of my bumper and see ! Her charms will dissolve e'en thy age's chill frost, And make thee as youthful as me.

To be young, cried old Time, my own glass I'll forego, And freely will sip out of thine; Then tasted, and cried, Let thy Cynthia now know She has warm'd the cold bosom of Time.

For this the late rose shall still hang on her cheek, Though the blossoms of youth should decay; And the soft eye be left, its own language to speak, For a mind far more beauteous than they !

THOUGH BACCHUS MAY BOAST.

THOUGH Bacchus may boast of his care-killing bowl, And folly in thought-drowning revels delight, Such worship, alas ! has no charms for the soul When softer devotions the senses invite.

To the arrow of fate, or the canker of care, His potion oblivious a balm may bestow; But to fancy that feeds on the charms of the fair The death of reflection's the birth of all woe.

What soul that's possess'd of a dream so divine With riot would bid the sweet vision be gone ? For the tear that bedews sensibility's shrine Is a drop of more worth than all Bacchus's tun !

The tender excess which enamours the heart To few is imparted, to millions denied; Of those exquisite feelings, that please tho' we smart, Let fools make their jest, for them sages have died.

Each change and excess have thro' life been my doom, And well can I speak of its joy and its strife; The bottle affords us a glimpse through the gloom, But Love's the true sunshine that gladdens our life.

Come, then, rosy Venus, and spread o'er my sight The magic illusions that ravish the soul ! Awake in my breast the soft dream of delight, And drop from thy myrtle one leaf in my bowl !

Then deep will I drink of the nectar divine, Nor e'er, jolly god, from thy banquet remove; Each throb of my heart shall accord with the wine That's mellow'd by friendship and sweeten'd by love !

And now, my gay comrades, the myrtle and vine Shall united their blessings the choicest impart; Let reason, not riot, the garland entwine­ The result must be pleasure and peace to the heart.

IN THE DREAM OF THE MOMENT.

IN the dream of the moment I call'd for the bowl, And fondly imagined each grief would depart; But I found that a bumper can't reach the pure soul, Nor wine clear the sorrows that weigh down the heart.

Though fancy may sparkle as shines the gay glass, And wit, like air-bubbles, keep rising the while, Or mirth and good humour shake hands as they pass, And fond Recollection come back with a smile;

Yet, right if I ween, for the joys that are past I see a soft tear stealing into her eye;­ We know, gentle maid, that such hours cannot last, Though held fast by friendship and brighten'd by joy.

Ah ! well do I know, for, since reason's young dawn First held her light torch o'er this silver-grown head, I have mark'd the sweet floweret adorning the lawn, Fade under mine eye, and then mix with the dead.

The light leaves of summer that fan us to-day, And shake their green heads as we frolic around, One breath of cold winter shall waft them away, And a new waving race the next season be found.

Since thus it must be­since our summers must fade, And autumn and winter succeed in their turn, Let us make much of life, and enjoy her green shade, Nor long for lost pleasures continue to mourn.

WHEN THE SUNBEAMS OF JOY.

WHEN the sunbeams of joy gild the morn of our days, And the soft heart is warm'd both with hope and with praise, New pleasures, new prospects, still burst on the view, And the phantom of bliss in our walks we pursue: What tho' tangl'd in brakes, or withheld by the thorn, Such sorrows of youth are but pearls of the morn; As they "gem the light leaf" in the fervour of day, The warmth of the season dissolves them away.

In the noon-tide of life, though not robb'd of their fire, The warm wishes abate, and the spirits retire; Thus pictures less glowing give equal delight, When reason just tints them with shades of the night; Reflection's slow shadow steals down the gay hill, Though as yet you may shun the soft shade as you will, And on hope fix your eye, till the brightness, so clear, Shall hang on its lid a dim trembling tear.

Next, the shades of mild evening close gently around, And lengthen'd reflection must stalk o'er the ground; Through her lantern of magic past pleasures are seen, And we then only know what our day-dreams have been: On the painted illusion we gaze while we can, Though we often exclaim, What a bauble is man !­ In youth but a gewgaw­in age but a toy­ The same empty trifle as man and as boy !

FOR THE CARLISLE HUNT.

November, 1788
Air­In Country Quarters close confined.

WHEN the last leaf forsook the tree, And languid suns were seen, And winter whistl'd o'er the lea, And call'd the sportsmen keen; The goddess of the silver bow Stept forth, her sandals tipp'd with snow. Fal, lall, &c.

Her beauteous nymphs rang'd by her side, While hounds surround her horn;­ Stop here, my woodland train, she cried, Till welcom'd by the morn; See yonder comes the blushing fair, We'll soon hunt down her leading star. Fal, lall, &c.

A stag for long kept up the chase, But now at bay he stood; A nymph, of more than mortal race, Rush'd eager from the wood :­ "I come to set the prisoner free !" Then waved the cap of Liberty. Fal, lall, &c.

Diana, smiling, took her hand: "Where has my sister staid ? What hapless sons in foreign land Demand her dauntless aid ?" "A city, once well known to fame, Has struggl'd hard to keep my name: Fal, lall, &c.

"A few brave sons protect it now, The bulwark of the laws; While I come here to ask of you To aid the glorious cause; My daughters are like snowdrops seen, All dress'd in white and trimm'd with green." 1 Fal, lall, &c.

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They hasted to the social ball, Good humour met them there; Diana's arrows Cupid stole And aim'd them at the fair: "Her train has yet escap'd my arts, But now I shoot with Dian's darts: Fal, lall, &c.

"Yon lucid eye shall drop a tear­ That haughty heart shall bleed­ And many moons shall round the year Ere I repent the deed."

But Hymen heard, and with a smile, Declar'd he'd hover round Carlisle. Fal, lall, &c.

IN THAT EYE WHERE EXPRESSION.

IN that eye, where expression has sweetly been taught To paint a strong picture of reason and thought, Yet touch'd with such softness as leads us to know It can start into rapture, or melt into woe, Affection beams forth like the rays of the morn, And warms the young rose-bud that hope had just born.

Should words e'er be wanting to speak out more clear What tenderness hints in a trembling tear, See gentle Persuasion just take up her lyre, Whose finger, all rhetoric, gives language to wire,­ Till the voice that we love, ever closing the strain, Shall dwell on the ear till we hear it again.

Then tell me no more that you know not to please, With looks so engaging, and manners like these ! Thus the lily, all meekness, unconscious of power, Presumes not to vie with a loftier flower ! Yet the lover of sweetness must own, ere they part, 'Tis the lily alone he could wear in his heart.

IN THE SEARCH OF GOOD HUMOUR.

IN the search of good humour I've rambl'd all day, And just now honest truth has discover'd her way; When rubbing his telescope perfectly clear, Call'd out, "I have found her;" and bade me come here.

I'm grown weary of wit, who but dresses for show, And strives still to sparkle as much as your beau; For, if he can shine, though at dear friends' expense, He will raise contributions on feeling and sense.

Then learning is proud, nor can trifle with ease, Though in this little life 'tis oft trifles that please; Unbending austerity, wrapt up in self, Is so like a miser when hoarding his pelf.

Strong reason's a warrior that fights out his way, And seldom has leisure to rest or to play; Nay, so rough has he grown, unless great things are done, He thinks that all useless went down the bright sun.

O ! 'tis gentle good humour that makes life so sweet, And picks up the flowerets that garnish our feet; Then, from them extracting the balsam of health, Turns the blossoms of nature to true sterling wealth.

COME, MORTALS, ENLIVEN THE HOUR.

COME mortals, enliven the hour that is lent, Nor cloud with false fear the sunshine of to-day; The ills that hang o'er us what sighs can prevent, Or waft from the eye one moist sorrow away ? Though we see from afar, as he travels life's road, Old time mowing down both the shrub and the flower, Soon or late, we all know, he must sweep our abode, But why damp our mirth by inquiring the hour ?

In the span that's allotted then crowd every joy; Let the goblet run high if in dreams you delight; Though wine to true pleasure is oft an alloy, And sober reflection grows sick at the sight. Disguis'd are our pleasures, as well as our woes; On their choice must depend half the turn of our fate; With the tint of the mind every circumstance glows, And gives to life's trifles their colour and weight.

WHEN THE SOFT TEAR STEALS SILENTLY.

WHEN the soft tear steals silently down from the eye, Take no note of its course, nor detect the slow sigh; From some spring of shy sorrow its origin flows, Some tender remembrance that weeps as it goes.

Ah ! it is not to say what will bring to the mind The sweet joys departed, the friends left behind; A tune, or a song, or the time of the year, Strikes the key of reflection, and moans in the ear.

Thro' the gay scenes of youth the remembrancer strays, Till mem'ry steps back on old pleasures to gaze; Fleeting shadows they seem that glide calmly away, The remains of past hours, and the ghosts of a day.

When we set out in life every thing has its charms, Enkindles the fancy, and all the heart warms; 'Tis this makes us look on the joys that are past With an eye that turns coolly to glance on the last.

Let the tear then flow on, nor mark the full eye, 'Tis the soul's secret off'ring no mortal should spy; Few hearts are prepar'd for a rite so divine, When the feelings alone sacrifice at the shrine.

O WHERE IS THE SPLENDOUR.

Air­Humours of Glen.

O where is the splendour can shine away sorrow, Or where is the treasure can buy off a sigh ! Did riches e'er purchase the loan of to-morrow, Or find out a medicine to cure the moist eye ?

Let wealth spread her carpet, and ask the gay hours To dance in light circles its borders along; They'd sooner tend Patrick to Nature's green bowers "With Norah, dear Norah, the theme of his song."

Midst the joys of the heart sits one tender affection To heal every sorrow when tortur'd with pain; And, when feeling sinks down into silent dejection, Sends Hope with her cordial to cheer her again: Thus love has shown Norah the feints of high station, And told her that peace seldom joins the gay throng; While

"one sweet smile gives Patrick the wealth of a nation
From Norah, dear Norah, the theme of his song."

1

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O BID ME NOT TO WANDER.

Written when earnestly entreated to go to the South
of France for the recovery of her health.
Air­A Rose Tree.

O urge me not to wander, And quit my pleasant native shore; O let me still meander On those sweet banks I lov'd before !

The heart when fill'd with sorrow Can find no joy in change of scene, Nor can that cheat to-morrow Be aught but what to-day has been.

If pleasure e'er o'ertakes me, 'Tis when I tread the wonted round Where former joy awakes me, And strews its relics o'er the ground. There's not a shrub or flower But tells some dear lov'd tale to me, And paints some happy hour Which I, alas! no more shall see.

WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE !

Air­Sir James Baird.

WHAT ails this heart o' mine ? What ails this watery ee ? What gars me a' turn cauld as death When I take leave o' thee ? When thou art far awa Thou'lt dearer grow to me; But change o' place and change o' folk May gar thy fancy jee.

When I gae out at een, Or walk at morning air, Ilk rustling bush will seem to say I us'd to meet thee there. Then I'll sit down and cry, And live aneath the tree, And when a leaf fa's i' my lap I'll ca't a word frae thee.

I'll hie me to the bower That thou wi' roses tied, And where wi' mony a blushing bud I strove mysell to hide. I'll doat on ilka spot Where I hae been wi' thee; And ca' to mind some kindly word By ilka burn and tree !

Wi' sic thoughts i' my mind, Time through the world may gae, And find my heart in twenty years The same as 'tis to-day. 'Tis thoughts that bind the soul, And keep friends i' the ee; And gin I think I see thee aye, What can part thee and me ! 1

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I'VE GOTTEN A ROCK, I'VE GOTTEN A REEL.

Air­The White Cockade.

I'VE gotten a rock, I've gotten a reel, I've gotten a wee bit spinning-wheel; An' by the whirling rim I've found How the weary, weary warl goes round. 'Tis roun' an' roun' the spokes they go, Now ane is up, an' ane is low; 'Tis by ups and downs in Fortune's wheel, That mony ane gets a rock to reel.

I've seen a lassie barefoot gae, Look dash'd an' blate, wi' nought to say; But as the wheel turn'd round again, She chirp'd an' talk'd, nor seem'd the same:

Sae fine she goes, sae far aglee, That folks she kenn'd she canna see; An' fleeching chiels around her thrang, Till she miskens her a' day lang.

There's Jock, when the bit lass was poor, Ne'er trudg'd o'er the lang mossy moor, Though now to the knees he wades, I trow, Through winter's weet an' winter's snow: An' Pate declar'd the ither morn, She was like a lily amang the corn; Though ance he swore her dazzling een Were bits o' glass that black'd had been.

Now, lassies, I hae found it out, What men make a' this phrase about; For when they praise your blinking ee, 'Tis certain that your gowd they see: An' when they talk o' roses bland, They think o' the roses o' your land; But should dame Fortune turn her wheel, They'd aff in a dance of a threesome reel.

WHEN HOME WE RETURN.

Air­O say, bonny Lass, will you lie in a barrack ?

WHEN home we return, after youth has been spending, And many a slow year has been wasting and ending, We often seem lost in the once well-known places, And sigh to find age has so furrow'd dear faces; For the rose that has faded the eye still keeps mourning, And weeps every change that it sees on returning.

Should we miss but a tree where we us'd to be playing, Or find the wood cut where we saunter'd a-Maying,­ If the yew-seat's away, or the ivy's awanting, We hate the fine lawn and the new-fashion'd planting, Each thing call'd improvement seems blacken'd with crimes If it tears up one record of blissful old times.

When many a spring had call'd forth the sweet flowers, And many an autumn had painted the bowers, I came to the place where life had its beginning, Taking root with the groves that around me were springing; When I found them all gone, 'twas like dear friends departed, And I walk'd where they us'd to be half broken hearted !

When distant one bower my fancy still haunted, 'Twas hung round with woodbine my Jessy had planted I ran to the spot, where a weak flower remaining Could just nod its head to approve my complaining, A tear for a dewdrop I hid in its fringes, And sigh'd then to think what one's pleasures unhinges !

But, ah ! what is that to the friends oft estranging, Their manners still more than their looks daily changing; Where the heart us'd to warm to find civil behaviour, Make us wish we had stay'd from our country for ever, With the sweet days of youth in our fancies still glowing, And the love of old Friends with old Time ever growing !

O WHY SHOULD MORTALS SUFFER CARE.

Air­Give round the word Dismount.

O why should mortals suffer care To rob them of their present joy ? The moments that frail life can spare Why should we not in mirth employ ? Then come, my friends, this very hour Let us devote to social glee; To-morrow is a day unseen That may destroy the fairest flower, And bring dull care to you and me, Though so gay as we have been.

The wretch who money makes his god Will feel his heart ache when 'tis gone; Were this my lot I'd kiss the rod, I ne'er had much, and care for none. Then come, &c.

The great had never charms for me, I follow not their chariot's wheel, Their faults I just as plain can see As Paris did Achilles' heel. Then come, &c.

And Love, with all his softening powers, Could ne'er my hardy soul subdue; So I'll devote my social hours To mirth, to happiness, and you. Then come, &c.

Should dread of future ills molest, I'd charm them from my careless heart; See, Hope steps in, all gaily drest, And vows such souls should never part. Then come, &c.

Yet part we must,­Hope, thou'rt a cheat The vision's fled­the friends are gone; Yet memory shall their words repeat, And fonder grow of every one. But still in absence let us try To think of all the pleasure past,

And stop the tear, and check the sigh; For though such pleasure cannot last, Yet Time may still renew the scene Where so gay as we have been. 1

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OLD HARRY'S RETURN. 2

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THE wars are all o'er and my Harry's at hame, What else can I want now I've got him again ! Yet I kenna how 'tis, for I laugh and I cry, And I sigh, and I sab, yet it maun be for joy; My Harry he smiles, and he wipes aff the tear, An' I'm doubtfu' again gin it can be he's here, Till he takes wee bit Janet to sit on his knee, And ca's her his dawty, for oh ! she's like me.

Then the neighbours come in and they welcome him hame, And I fa' a greeting, though much I think shame; Then I steal ben the house while they talk o' the war, For I turn cauld as death when he shows them a scar. They tell o' ane Elliot, an' brave he maun be, But I ken a poor soldier as brave yet as he;

For when that the Spaniards were wreck'd on the tide­ "They are soldiers, my lads, let us save them," he cried. 1

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The neighbours being gane, and the bairns on his knee, He fetch'd a lang sigh, and he look'd sair at me; Poor woman, quo' he, ye'd hae muckle to do To get bread to yoursel, and thir wee bit things too ! It is true, my dear Harry, I toil'd verra hard, Sent Elspa to service, and Jocky to herd; For I knew unca weel 'twas an auld soldier's pride Aye to take frae his King, but frae nae ane beside !

Then guide ye my pension, quo' Harry, my life, 'Mang a' the King's troops wha can match me a wife; When young she was handsome, they envy'd me sair, But now when she's auld they may envy me mair ! What's a' the wide world to the joys o' the heart ? What are riches and splendour to those that maun part ? And might I this moment an emperor be, I'd thraw down the crown gin it kept me frae thee !

THE NABOB. 1

Air­Traveller's Return.

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WHEN silent time, wi' lightly foot, 2 Had trod on thirty years, I sought again my native land Wi' mony hopes and fears: Wha kens gin the dear friends I left May still continue mine ? Or gin I e'er again shall taste The joys I left langsyne ?

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As I drew near my ancient pile, My heart beat a' the way; Ilk place I pass'd seem'd yet to speak O' some dear former day; Those days that follow'd me afar, Those happy days o' mine, Whilk made me think the present joys A' naething to langsyne !

The ivy'd tower now met my eye, Where minstrels used to blaw; Nae friend stepp'd forth wi' open hand, Nae weel-kenn'd face I saw; Till Donald totter'd to the door, Wham I left in his prime, And grat to see the lad return He bore about langsyne.

I ran to ilka dear friend's room, As if to find them there, I knew where ilk ane used to sit, And hang o'er mony a chair; Till soft remembrance threw a veil Across these een o' mine, I clos'd the door, and sobb'd aloud, To think on auld langsyne !

Some pensy chiels, a new sprung race, Wad next their welcome pay, Wha shudder'd at my Gothic wa's, And wish'd my groves away: "Cut, cut," they cried, "those aged elms, Lay low yon mournfu' pine :" Na ! na ! our fathers' names grow there, Memorials o' langsyne.

To wean me frae these waefu' thoughts, They took me to the town; But sair on ilka weel-kenn'd face I miss'd the youthfu' bloom. At balls they pointed to a nymph Wham a' declar'd divine; But sure her mother's blushing cheeks Were fairer far langsyne !

In vain I sought in music's sound To find that magic art, Which oft in Scotland's ancient lays Has thrill'd through a' my heart: The sang had mony an artfu' turn; My ear confess'd 'twas fine; But miss'd the simple melody I listen'd to langsyne.

Ye sons to comrades o' my youth, Forgie an auld man's spleen, Wha 'midst your gayest scenes still mourns The days he ance has seen: When time has past, and seasons fled, Your hearts will feel like mine; And aye the sang will maist delight That minds ye o' langsyne !

THE SILLER CROUN.

Air­The Siller Croun.

AND ye shall walk in silk attire, And siller hae to spare, Gin ye'll consent to be his bride, Nor think o' Donald mair. O wha wad buy a silken goun Wi' a poor broken heart ! Or what's to me a siller croun, Gin frae my love I part !

The mind wha's every wish is pure Far dearer is to me; And ere I'm forc'd to break my faith I'll lay me doun an' dee ! For I hae pledg'd my virgin troth Brave Donald's fate to share; And he has gi'en to me his heart, Wi' a' its virtues rare.

His gentle manners wan my heart, He gratefu' took the gift; Could I but think to seek it back It wad be waur than theft ! For langest life can ne'er repay The love he bears to me; And ere I'm forc'd to break my troth I'll lay me doun an' dee. 1

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THE WAEFU' HEART.

Air­The Waefu' Heart.

GIN living worth could win my heart, You would na speak in vain; But in the darksome grave it's laid, Never to rise again. My waefu' heart lies low wi' his, Whose heart was only mine; And, O ! what a heart was that to lose,­ But I maun no repine.

Yet, O ! gin heaven in mercy soon Would grant the boon I crave, And take this life, now naething worth, Since Jamie's in his grave. And see ! his gentle spirit comes To show me on my way; Surpris'd, nae doubt, I still am here,­ Sair wondering at my stay.

I come, I come, my Jamie dear; And O ! wi' what good will I follow wheresoe'er ye lead ! Ye canna lead to ill.

She said; and soon a deadly pale Her faded cheek possess'd; Her waefu' heart forgot to beat,­ Her sorrows sunk to rest. 1

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Notes

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  1. Such is the original edition now before me; and it will be readily seen that it is considerably different from the copies in general circulation, not only in punctuation, but in grammatical construction. And the reason is obvious. The author's fine taste perceived that, however gallant the conduct of William duke of Cumberland might have been considered by his countrymen, his fearful proceedings at Culloden, and subsequently, would never allow a song, in which his military career was commemorated, to become popular in Scotland; and thus "the Duke" was altered to "the Prince," and "William" to "General." It may be more fittingly adapted to our own times by retaining "the Duke," and substituting "Arthur" for "William." I can never think of the disastrous affair of 1745, without calling to mind the Ettrick Shepherd's exquisite apology for the devotion of the Highlanders to the unfortunate Chevalier:­

  "What tho' we befriendit young Charlie ?­To tell it I dinna think shame;Poor lad, he cam to us but barely,An' reckon'd our mountains his hame.'Tis true that our reason forbade us;But tenderness carried the day;­Had Geordie come friendless amang us,Wi' him we had a' gane away."

  The Chelsea Pensioners may be found beautifully harmonized by Mr R. A. Smith in his "Scottish Minstrel,"
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  1. White and green are the uniform of the Carlisle Hunt.
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  1. It will be perceived that the author has borrowed the last line of each of the above stanzas from a fine Irish song, entitled "Tho' Leixlip is proud," in "The Poor Soldier," but nothing more.
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  1. This song seems to have been a favourite with the author, for I have met with it in various forms among her papers; and the labour bestowed upon it has been well repaid by the popularity it has all along enjoyed. The edition given, the best that has yet been in types, is printed from a copy of several of her poems and songs, fairly and carefully written out, apparently either for publication or for the perusal of a friend, all of which appear to have got her final corrections. See the air in First Collection of Reels It forms the 541st song in "The Scots Musical Museums". The original title of the air seems to have been "My Dearie, an' thou dee." It is the second song to the music, the first being Gall's beautiful "O, Mary, turn awa." "Both of these songs," says Mr Stenhouse, "are excellent."
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  1. This song has long been exceedingly popular in Cumberland, and is generally sung at the social parties in and about Carlisle.
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  2. Harry Macdowal.­Mrs Brown. This seems some incident which Miss Blamire had met with while resident in Scotland, as appears from the name Macdowal.
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  1. At Gibraltar the English soldiers risked their lives in saving the Spaniards when their floating batteries were on fire.­Mrs Brown.
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  1. I have met with many printed editions of this beautiful ballad, but scarcely two of them alike; the best appeared in the "Scots Magazine"; a very inferior one was published in the same work in 1802, p. 594. The present version is printed from two manuscripts in the author's handwriting, a copy of the poem in the handwriting of her sister Mrs Brown, and from Miss Thomson's collection, mentioned in the preface; which collection, I may here add, was procured by Miss Rowlands directly from the author, they being related. Miss Thomson's set of the ballad is almost the same as that published in the "Scots Magazine" for 1803, with the exception of some verbal differences of very little consequence. Besides these differences, the stanza beginning "In vain I sought in music's sound," and the last half of the concluding stanza, are wholly omitted; a circumstance easily enough accounted for, by the carelessness of transcription. I have, of course, used this copy as my chief guide, with a word here and there from the other manuscripts, when I thought they were to be preferred; for I have been exceedingly solicitous of giving a correct edition of this exquisite ballad, which has now stood the test of public opinion for upwards of half a century, and by the aid of the author's copies to free it from those interpolations which have so much disfigured it, and marred its engaging simplicity. For this endeavour I hope to obtain the approbation of every lover of lyric poetry; for, on comparing the present with the former editions, I am confident its superiority will be at once acknowledged.
  How much it occupied the author's thoughts, and the care she bestowed on its composition, will be manifested by contrasting the first rough sketch of the poem given at the end of this note, with that of the perfected copy in the text. Besides, it is a matter of real interest to mark the elaboration of any poem which has become established in our literature;­one which, like "The Nabob" has so long clung to the affections of the lovers of song on both sides of the Border;­which has charmed the social meetings of all classes of the community, and claimed for its simple beauties, and touching imagery, the willing tear from both old and young. I have heard it sung in the south of Scotland, when both singer and auditors were weeping. In the first copy we find the name Peter afterwards changed to that of Donald; perhaps Peter was the actual name of the faithful domestic, as the poem was founded on an incident which actually occurred. The first three stanzas are almost the same as that in the text;­the remainder is as follows :­

  Some hafflin' chiels, a new sprung race, Wad next their welcome pay, Wha shudder'd at my Gothic walls, And wish'd my groves away: "Cut, cut those odious trees," they cried, "And low lay yonder pine :" Deed no; your fathers' names grow there, Memorials o' langsyne !

  When time has change o' seasons brought; When flowers begin to fade; When summer suns haste down the sky, And autumn thins the shade; When wintry blasts are whistling round, Your hearts will feel like mine; And e'en a sang will maist delight That minds ye o' langsyne.

  To wean me frae these antique thoughts, They drew me to the toun; But there on brows where beauty sat I saw a siller croun: At balls they pointed to a nymph, Whom all declare divine; But sure her mother's blushing cheek Was fairer far langsyne !

  Dear youths, an auld man's warning take, Nor ance allow the mind To dwell on scenes that can't return, Or friends ye nae mair find; But as the fleeting moments pass, To present joys incline; And for the hour prepare some bliss That asks nought frae langsyne.

  The ills o' life thus to beguile Be still your constant aim; Nor let the joyful days o' youth Too soft remembrance claim; Else, tho' the mavis sweetly sings, The woods and flowers combine Wi' mony a friend to charm the heart, 'Twill sigh for auld langsyne !

  
  It may be worth while to remark that, on the paper in which the above is written, there is a song entitled "Song for the Carlisle Hunt, November, 1788;" which date may probably indicate the year in which "The Nabob" was composed. It is to be found in R. A. Smith's "Scottish Minstrel" vol. vi. p. 41, beautifully arranged.
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  2. A real incident.­Mrs Brown.
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  1. The above exquisite lyric forms the 240th song in Johnston's "Scots Musical Museums". Mr Stenhouse, in his notes to that work, which was republished in 1839, by Mr Blackwood, enriched with a preface, introduction, and additional illustrations, by David Laing, Esq., Keeper of the Signet Library,­says: "This fine song was originally published by Napier as a single sheet song, from which it was copied into the Museum; but neither the author nor the composer are yet known." Mr Stenhouse wrote this note more than twenty years ago. In the additional illustrations, written by Mr Laing, in vol. vi. p. 522 of the Museum, I have most unintentionally led that gentleman into error concerning Miss Blamire, which information he politely requested me to furnish him; it was the best I had at the time to give, but unfortunately many of the statements I have since found to be very incorrect. The song may be found beautifully set in R. A. Smith's "Scottish Minstrel,"
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  1. In the notes to the "Scots Musical Museum,"Mr Stenhouse says: "Both the words and music of this elegant and pathetic song were taken from a single sheet, printed in London about the year 1788, and sold by Joseph Dale, No. 19, Cornhill, 'sung by MASTER KNYVETT.' From this circumstance, I am led to conclude that it is a modern Anglo-Scottish production, especially as it does not appear in any of the old collections of our songs. If it be an imitation of the Scottish style however, it is a very successful one."