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other character had visited most of the correction-houses in the west. She was born, I believe, in Kilmarnock. I took the song down from her singing, as she was strolling through the country with a slight-of-hand blackguard." There are older, and there are newer verses on this subject, but Jean Glover has surpassed them far in gaiety, and life, and ease. Her song became popular about the year 1790, and is likely to continue a favourite.

FOR THE SAKE OF GOLD.

For the sake of gold she has left me-o;
And of all that's dear she's bereft me-o;
She me forsook for a great duke,
And to endless wo she has left me-o.

A star and garter have more art

Than youth, a true and faithful heart;
For empty titles we must part;
For glittering show she has left me-o.

No cruel fair shall ever move
My injured heart again to love;
Thro' distant climates I must rove,
Since Jeany she has left me-o.

VOL. III.

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Ye powers above, I to your care
Resign my faithless lovely fair;
Your choicest blessings be her share,
Tho' she has ever left me-o!

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To the inconstancy of Miss Jean Drummond, of Megginch, we are indebted for this popular song. It is seldom that woman's fickleness produces so much pleasure. Dr. Austin, a physician in Edinburgh, had wooed and won this young lady, when her charms captivated the Duke of Athol; and the doctor was compelled to console himself with song when his bride became a duchess. One naturally inquires the cause of such inconstancy; and it would appear that her lover was right when he sung,

For the sake of gold she has left me-o.

The noble admirer for whose love she was faithless was a man somewhat advanced in life-a widow had won him before, and borne him a family-and he had only wealth and rank to oppose to youth and to talent. On the death of his grace the duchess married Lord Adam Gordon, and Providence indulged her with a long life, that she might reflect and repent.

CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES.

Ca' the yowes to the knowes,

Ca' them where the heather grows,

Ca' them where the burnie rowes,
My bonnie dearie.

As I gade down the water side,
There I met my shepherd lad,
He rowed me sweetly in his plaid,
An' he ca'd me his dearie.

Will ye gang down the water side
And see the waves sae sweetly glide
Beneath the hazels spreading wide?
The moon it shines fu' clearly.

Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf leather shoon to thy white feet;
And in my arms yese lie and sleep,'
And ye shall be my dearie.

If ye'll but stand to what ye've said,
Ise gang wi' you, my shepherd lad,
And ye may rowe me in your plaid,

And I shall be your dearie.

While water wimples to the sea,
While day blinks in the lift sae hie,
Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e,
Ye shall be my dearie.

The song is partly old and partly new; what is old is very old, what is new was written by a gentleman of the name of Pagan. The last verse is very sweet and sincere. To render the song more consistent I have omitted one verse, in which the heroine is made to express her apprehensions of a moonlight walk by the river side, though she had been before on, the banks of the same stream, and "rowed sweetly" in her shepherd's plaid. It is a very pleasant pastoral, and was once very popular. Its truth can be felt by all who have led out their flocks to pasture by the green braes, on the heathy hills, and by the running streams. Burns says, "this song is in the true old Scottish taste, yet I do not know that either air or words were ever in print before." It has a border sound; and the line,

Ise gang

wi' you, my shepherd lad,

is Annandale or Eskdale, and, I believe, good Yarrow.

TULLOCHGORUM.

Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cried,
And lay your disputes all aside,

What signifies't for folks to chide

For what's been done before them?

Let Whig and Tory all agree,
Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,
Let Whig and Tory all agree
To drop their whigmegmorum.

Let Whig and Tory all agree

To spend the night with mirth and glee, And cheerfu' sing alang wi' me

The reel of Tullochgorum.

Tullochgorum's my delight,

It gars us a' in ane unite,

And ony sumph that keeps up spite,

In conscience I abhor him.

Blithe and merry we's be a',
Blithe and merry, blithe and merry,
Blithe and merry we's be a',

And mak' a cheerfu' quorum.

Blithe and merry we's be a',
As lang as we hae breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',

The reel of Tullochgorum.

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