Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do?
Why left I Amynta? why broke I my vow?
Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore,
And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more.

Through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wide ocean secure me from love:
Oh, fool, to imagine that aught could subdue
A love so well founded, a passion so true!
Oh, what, &c.

Alas! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine;
Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine :
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain;
The moments neglected return not again.
Oh, what, &c.

AH, THE POOR SHEPHERD'S MOURNFUL FATE!

WILLIAM HAMILTON of Bangour. From the "Tea-Table Miscellany," 1724.

An, the poor shepherd's mournful fate,

When doom'd to love and doom'd to languish,

To bear the scornful fair one's hate,

Nor dare disclose his anguish!

Yet eager looks and dying sighs
My secret soul discover,

While rapture trembling through mine eyes

Reveals how much I love her.

The tender glance, the reddening cheek

O'erspread with rising blushes,

A thousand various ways they speak,
A thousand various wishes.

For, oh, that form so heavenly fair,

Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling;
That artless blush and modest air,
So fatally beguiling;

Thy every look and every grace,

So charm whene'er I view thee,-
Till death o'ertake me in the chase,
Still will my hopes pursue thee.
Then, when my tedious hours are past,
Be this last blessing given,
Low at thy feet to breathe my last,
And die in sight of heaven.

MY MOTHER BIDS ME BIND MY HAIR.

MRS. JOHN HUNTER, wife of the celebrated surgeon, born 1742, died 1821. The Music by SIR H. R. BISHOP.

My mother bids me bind my hair
With bands of rosy hue,

Tie up my sleeves with ribands rare,
And lace my bodice blue.

For why, she cries, sit still and weep,
While others dance and play?

Alas! I scarce can go or creep
While Lubin is away.

'Tis sad to think the days are gone
When those we love were near:

I sit upon this mossy stone,

And sigh when none can hear.

And while I spin my flaxen thread,
And sing my simple lay,

The village seems asleep, or dead,
Now Lubin is away.

ROY'S WIFE.

MRS. GRANT of Carron, born 1745, died 1814.

Roy's wife of Aldivalloch,

Roy's wife of Aldivalloch,

Wat ye how she cheated me

As I cam o'er the braes of Balloch?

She vow'd, she swore she wad be mine,
She said she lo'ed me best o' onie;

But ah! the faithless, fickle quean,

She's ta'en the carle, and left her Johnnie.
Roy's wife, &c.

O she was a cantie quean,

Weel could she dance the Highland walloch;
How happy I, had she been mine,

Or I'd been Roy of Aldivalloch!
Roy's wife, &c.

Her hair sae fair, her een sae clear,

Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bonnie;

To me she ever will be dear,

Though she's for ever left her Johnnie.
Roy's wife, &c.

The Inverness Courier says:-"A friend who has been examining the parish register in Cabrach, Banffshire, says he has lighted on the veritable Roy of Aldivalloch and his once fickle wife, so famous in Scottish song. On 21st February, 1727, John Roy, lawful son to Thomas Roy in Aldivalloch, was married to Isabel, daughter of Alister Stewart, sometime resident in Cabrach. They had been previously "contracted" on the 28th January. The Braes of Balloch are in the neighbourhood of Aldivalloch; and the song was written by a lady of the district. Allan Cunningham says:-' Mr. Oromek, an anxious inquirer into all matters illustrative of Northern song, ascribes 'Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch' to Mrs. Murray, of Bath; while George Thomson and all other editors of Scottish song impute it to Mrs. Grant, of Carron. I am not aware that the authorship has been settled.' Our old friend was not so zealous a literary antiquary as his son, Mr. Peter Cunningham. There is no doubt as to the authorship of the song. It was written by a lady named Grant, a native of Aberlour, who was married first to her cousin, Mr. Grant of Carron, near Elchies, and, on his death, to a physician-Dr. Murray, of Bath. The dates of this lady's birth and death are said to have been 1745 and 1814-consequently, she was long after the period of John Roy mentioned in the parish register. Perhaps there was some popular tradition as to the

courtship and the rustic dame's inconstancy, or Mrs. Grant may have taken up the burden of some older forgotten ballad. Many of our best songs were modelled on rude fragmentary lyrics that had floated down through generations, emblaming some piece of local history, or celebrating some fine river, hill, or landscape."

In corroboration of the idea of the accomplished writer of the "Inverness Courier," whose fine taste and accuracy are well known, the following may be cited. It appears in Mr. Peter Buchan's manuscript collection of songs taken down from the mouths of the peasantry in the North of Scotland, and is probably the original on which MRS. GRANT founded her own and vastly superior version. It may be objected that Mr. Buchan's version is later than MRS. GRANT's, or a parody upon it. On this point it is impossible to speak with certainty:

Davie Gordon in Kirktown

And Tibbie Stewart o' Aldivalloch,

Sae merrily's they play'd the loon

As they sat in the braes o' Balloch.

Roy's wife o' Aldivalloch,

Roy's wife o' Aldivalloch;

She's gien her puir auld man the glaiks
Coming through the braes o' Balloch.

Auld Roy spied them's he passed by,

An, oh, he gae an unco walloch;

And after them he soon did hie,

And chas'd them through the braes o'Balloch.
Roy's wife, &c.

Silly body, Aldivalloch;

Puir body, Aldivalloch;

He lost his hose and baith his sheen
Coming through the braes o' Balloch.
Roy's wife, &c.

He drew a stick when he came near,
And sware he'd gie the lad a thrashin';

Than he lap and vow'd and sware,

He was in sic an awfu' passion.
Roy's wife, &c.

But Davie soon did rin awa,

He wudna bide to banter wi' him;

Syne Roy Tibbie's back did claw,
An' hame she ran like birds a-flying.
Roy's wife, &c.

Now Tibbie's promised there for life
To meet nae ither man in Balloch;

But be a gude an' kindly wife,
And gang nae mair to Aldivalloch.
Roy's wife, &c.

E

WHAR ha'e

ye been a' day,

My boy Tammy ?

I've been by burn and flow'ry brae,
Meadow green and mountain grey,
Courting o' this young thing,

Just come frae her mammy.

And whar gat ye that young thing,
My boy Tammy ?-

I got her down in yonder howe,
Smiling on a bonnie knowe,
Herding ae wee lamb and ewe

For her poor mammy.

What said ye to the bonnie bairn,
My boy Tammy ?-

I praised her een sae lovely blue,
Her dimpled cheek and cherry mou';
I pree'd it aft, as ye may trow,—

She said she'd tell her mammy.