The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows indeed;

And happy be the lot o' a'
Wha wishes her to speed.

Oh, weel may the boatie row,
That fills a heavy creel,
And cleeds us a' frae tap to tae,

And buys our parritch meal.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows indeed;

And happy be the lot o' a'
That wish the boatie speed.

When Jamie vow'd he wad be mine,
And wan frae me my heart,
Oh, muckle lighter grew my creel—
He swore we'd never part.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows fu' weel;

And muckle lighter is the load
When love bears up the creel.

My kurtch I put upo' my head,
And dress'd mysel' fu' braw;
I trow my heart was dowf and wae,
When Jamie gaed awa'.

But weel may the boatie row,

And lucky be her part,

And lightsome be the lassie's care
That yields an honest heart.

When Sawnie, Jock, and Janetie,
Are up and gotten lear,
They'll help to gar the boatie row,
And lighten a' our care.

The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows fu' weel;

And lightsome be her heart that bears

The murlain and the creel!

And when wi' age we're worn down,
And hirpling round the door,
They'll row to keep us dry and warm,
As we did them before.

Then weel may the boatie row

That wins the bairns' bread,

And happy be the lot o' a'

That with the boatie speed!

Burns, in his Correspondence, states that this song was written by a Mr. Ewen of Aberdeen. Mr. Peter Buchan has recovered from tradition the old ballad upon which it appears to have been founded. The second stanza in Mr. Buchan's version is the same as that we have given; but the other stanzas bear no resemblance to the modern song. Its merits or demerits do not entitle it to publication. chorus is often sung as follows:

The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows fu' weel;

And muckle luck attend the boat,

The merlin, and the creel.

The

LIZZY LINDSAY.

From "Johnson's Museum," 1787. Air-The Ewe-Bughts."
"WILL ye gang to the Highlands, Lizzy Lindsay?
Will ye gang to the Highlands wi' me?
Will ye gang to the Highlands, Lizzy Lindsay,
My bride and my darling to be ?"

"To gang to the Highlands wi' you, sir,
I dinna ken how that may be ;

For I ken nae the land that ye live in,
Nor ken I the lad I'm gaun wi’.”

66

"O Lizzy lass, ye maun ken little,

If sae that ye dinna ken me;

For my name is Lord Roland MacDonald,
A chieftain o' high degree."

She has kilted her coats o' green satin,
She has kilted them up to the knee,

And she's aff wi' Lord Roland MacDonald,

His bride and his darling to be.

There is another and more modern version of this song by Mr. Robert Gilfillan, which appears in some collections of Scottish songs.

AULD ROBIN GRAY.*

LADY ANNE LINDSAY.

YOUNG Jamie lo'ed me weel, and he sought me for his bride,
But saving a crown he had naething else beside;
To mak that crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea,
And the crown and the pound were baith for me.

He hadna been gane a week but only twa,

When my mither she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa',
My father brak his arm, and my Jamie at the sea,
And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courting to me.

My father cou'dna work, and my mither cou'dna spin;
I toil'd baith day and night, but their bread I cou’dna win ;
Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his ee
Said, Jeanie, for their sakes, oh, will you marry me?
My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;

But the wind it blew high, and the ship it proved a wreck;
The ship it proved a wreck,--why didna Jeanie die?
And why do I live to say, Oh, waes me!

My father urged me sair; my mither didna speak,
But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break;
So they gied him my hand, though my heart was at the sea,
And auld Robin Gray is gudeman to me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four,

When sitting sae mournfully ae day at the door,

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I cou'dna think it he,
Until he said, Jeanie, I'm come to marry thee.

*"This pathetic ballad, of which the authorship was long a mystery, was written by Lady Anne Lindsay, daughter of the Earl of Balcarras, and afterwards Lady Barnard. It appears to have been composed at the commencement of the year 1772, when the author was yet a young girl. It was published anonymously, and acquired great popularity. No one, however, came forward to lay claim to the laurels lavished upon it; and a literary controversy sprung up to decide the authorship. Many conjectured that it was as old as the days of David Rizzio, if not composed by that unfortunate minstrel himself; while others considered it of a much later date. The real author was, however, suspected; and ultimately, when she was an old woman, Sir Walter Scott received a letter from Lady Anne herself, openly avowing that she had written it. She stated that she had been long suspected by her more intimate friends, and often questioned with respect to the mysterious ballad, but that she had always managed to keep her secret to herself without a direct and absolute denial. She was induced to write the song by a desire to see an old plaintive Scottish air ("The bridegroom grat when the sun gaed down "), which was a favourite with her, fitted with

Oh, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
We took but ae kiss, and tore ourselves away:
I wish I were dead, but I'm nae like to die;
And why do I live to say, Oh, waes me!

I

gang like a ghaist, I carena to spin,

I darena think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin
But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,

For auld Robin Gray is a kind man to me.

;

THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE.

WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. From Herd's Collection, 1776.

BUT are ye sure the news is true?

And are ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to think o' wark?

Ye jauds, fling by your wheel!
Is this a time to think o' wark,
When Colin's at the door?
Rax down my cloak-I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a';

There's nae luck about the house,

When our gudeman's awa'.

words more suitable to its character than the ribald verses which had always hitherto, for want of better, been sung to it. It struck her that some tale of virtuous distress in humble life would be most suitable to the plaintive character of her favourite air; and she accordingly set about such an attempt, taking the name of "Auld Robin Gray " from an ancient herd at Balcarras. When she had written two or three of the verses, she called to her junior sister (afterwards Lady Hardwicke), who was the only person near her, and thus addressed her: "I have been writing a ballad, my dear; I am oppressing my heroine with many misfortunes; I have already sent her Jamie to sea, and broken her father's arm, and made her mother fall sick, and given her Auld Robin Gray for her lover; but I wish to load her with a fifth sorrow within the four lines-poor thing! Help me to one." "Steal the cow, Sister Anne," said the little Elizabeth. "The cow," adds Lady Anne in her letter, "was immediately lifted by me, and the song completed."

Lady Anne Barnard died in a vigorous old age about two years after her confession to Sir Walter Scott. The air to which the song is now usually sung is the composition of an English amateur, the Rev. William Leeves, rector of Wrington, who died in 1828, at the age of eighty.

And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop satin gown,

For I maun tell the baillie's wife
That Colin's come to town.
My Turkey slippers I'll put on,
My stockins pearl-blue-
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.

For there's nae luck, &c.

Rise up and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pat;
Gie little Kate her cotton gown,
And Jock his Sunday's coat.
Mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their stockins white as snaw;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman—
He likes to see them braw.

For there's nae luck, &c.

There are twa hens into the crib

Hae fed this month or mair;

Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare.

And spread the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw,

For wha can tell how Colin fared

When he was far awa'?

For there's nae luck, &c.

Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue,

His breath's like cauler air;

His very foot has music in't,
As he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again,
And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck, &c.

The cauld blasts o' the winter wind
That thirled through my heart,
They're a' blawn bye, I hae him safe,
Till death we'll never part.