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NO DOMINIES FOR ME, LADDIE.

I chanced to meet an airy blade,
A new-made pulpiteer, laddie,
Wi' cock'd up hat and powder'd wig,
Black coat, and cuffs fu' clear, laddie.

A lang cravat at him did wag,

And buckles at his knee, laddie; Says he, my heart, by Cupid's dart, Is captivate to thee, lassie.

I'll rather chuse to thole grim death;
So cease and let me be, laddie:
For what? says he; Good troth, said I,
No dominies for me, laddie.
Ministers' stipends are uncertain rents
For lady's conjunct-fee, laddie;
When books and gowns are a' cried down,
No dominies for me, laddie.

But for your sake I'll fleece the flock,
Grow rich as I grow auld, lassie ;

If I be spared I'll be a laird,

And thou's be madam call'd, lassie. But what if ye should chance to die,

Leave bairnies, ane or twa, laddie? Naething wad be reserved for them

But hair-moul'd books to gnaw, laddie.

At this he angry was, I wat,

He gloom'd and look'd fu' hie, laddie:
When I perceived this, in haste

I left my dominie, laddie.
Fare ye well, my charming maid;
This lesson learn of me, lassie,

At the next offer hold him fast,
That first makes love to thee, lassie.

Then I returning hame again,

And coming down the town, laddie,
By my good luck I chanced to meet
A gentleman dragoon, laddie;
And he took me by baith the hands,
'Twas help in time of need, laddie:
Fools on ceremonies stand,

At twa words we agreed, laddie.

He led me to his quarter-house,

Where we exchanged a word, laddie: We had nae use for black gowns there, We married o'er the sword, laddie. Martial music's far more fine

Than ony sermon bell, laddie;

Gold, red and blue, is more divine
Than black, the hue of hell, laddie.

Kings, queens, and princes, crave the aid
Of my brave stout dragoon, laddie;

VOL. III.

U

While dominies are much employ'd

'Bout whores and sackcloth gowns, laddie.
Away wi' a' these whining loons!

They look like, Let me be, laddie:
I've more delight in roaring guns

No dominies for me, laddie.

This song was written by the Reverend Nathaniel Mackay of Crossmichael, in Galloway; and it is alleged that he was himself the slighted dominie whom he has so felicitously ridiculed; for he had paid his addresses, in early life, to a fair but scornful lady, who considered herself far above the rank and pretensions of a "newmade pulpiteer," and finally yielded to the assiduities of an admirer who sported a gaudier livery, and pursued a more attractive and romantic vocation.

THE BONNIE BRUCKET LASSIE.

The bonnie brucket lassie,

She's blue beneath the een;

She was the fairest lassie

That danced on the green.
A lad he loo'd her dearly,

She did his love return;
But he his vows has broken,

And left her for to mourn.

My shape, she says, was handsome,
My face was fair and clean;
But now I'm bonnie brucket,

And blue beneath the een.

My eyes were bright and sparkling,
Before that they turn'd blue;
But now they're dull with weeping,
And a', my love, for you.

My person it was comely,

My shape they said was neat;
But now I am quite changed,
My stays they winna meet.
A' night I sleeped soundly,
My mind was never sad ;
But now my rest is broken,
Wi' thinking o' my lad.

O could I live in darkness,
Or hide me in the sea,
Since my love is unfaithful,
And has forsaken me!
No other love I suffer'd

Within my breast to dwell;

In nought I have offended
But loving him too well.

Her lover heard her mourning,
As by he chanced to pass ;

And press'd unto his bosom
The lovely brucket lass.
My dear, he said, cease grieving;
Since that your love's so true,
My bonnie brucket lassie,

I'll faithful prove to you.

James Tytler, the author of this popular song, was a clever and very eccentric character-a printer, a publisher, a poet, a compiler, a projector, a wild democrat, and a maker of balloons. His labours were many and unproductive. He was familiar with all the varieties of evil fortune, and experienced by turns the misery of a poet, a publisher, and a drudge to literary speculators. This person exhibited a sad image of daily dependence for bread on the pen. With leaky shoes, a hat without the crown, neighbourless kneebuckless, clothes ragged and stained with poet's and with printer's ink, and animated by whisky, he has been seen gliding from house to house at the twilight, as much from dread of encountering a creditor, as from shame of his wretchedness. At last he entered deeply into the wild schemes of our revolutionary fanatics, and was obliged to seek refuge in America, where he died in the fifty-eighth year of his age. This song, to which alone of all his works he owes the notice of his name, originated in an ancient lyric of the same title, which is not quite ladies' reading.

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