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And her two eyes like stars in skies,

Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck.
O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet,

Mally's modest and discreet,
Mally's rare, Mally's fair,

Mally's every way complete.


Tune—“It was a' for our rightfu' king."

It was a' for our rightfu' king,

We left fair Scotland's strand;
It was a' for our rightfu' king

We e'er saw Irish land, my dear ;
We e'er saw Irish land.

* The above song is published in Johnson's Scots Musical Museum,' Vol. 5, but without any allusion to its being altered or improved by Burns, though Mr Cunningham, in his recent edition of the Poet's Works, assumes as much, and publishes it accordingly. In his notes to the Jacobite Reliques, the Ettrick Shepherd says, this song was written by Captain Ogilvie, who was killed on the banks of the Rhine in the year 1695. Sir Walter Scott, in his notes to Rokeby, Canto 3, acknowledges that it suggested to him the idea of his own beautiful lyric, “A weary lot is thine." We give the old song, such as it occurs in stall ballads, which was the prototype of the above.

The cold winter it is past and gone,

And now comes on the spring,
And I am one of the king's life-guards,

And I must go fight for my king, my dear;
And I must go fight for my king.

Now since to the wars you must go,

One thing I pray grant me,
It's I will dress myself in man's attire,

And I'll travel along with thee, my dear,
And I'll travel along with thee.

Now a' is done that men can do,

And a’ is done in vain ;
My love and native land farewell,

For I maun cross the main, my dear;
For I maun cross the main.

I would not for ten thousand worlds

That my love endangered were so ;
The rattling of drums and shining of swords,

Will cause great sorrow and wo, my dear,
Will cause great sorrow and wo.

I will do the thing for my true love,

That she will not do for me;
It's I'll put cuffs of black on my red coat,

And mourn till the day I die, my dear,
And mourn till the day I die.

I will do more for my true love,

Than he will do for me;
I'll cut my hair and roll me bare,
And mourn till the day I die, my dear,
And mourn till the day I die.

So farewell mother and father dear,

My kith and kin also,
My sweet and bonny Mally Stewart,
You're the cause of all my wo, my dear,
You're the cause of all my wo.

When we came to bonny Stirling town,

As we lay all in tent, By the King's orders we were all taken, And to Germany we were all sent, my dear, And to Germany we were all sent.


So farewell bonny Stirling town,

And the maids therein also;
And farewell bonny Mally Stewart,

You're the cause of all my wo, my dear,
You're the cause of all my wo.

She took the slippers off her feet,
And the cockups off her hair ;

He turned him right, and round about

Upon the Irish shore; And gae

his bridle-reins a shake, With adieu for evermore, my

dear With adieu for evermore.


The sodger from the wars returns,

The sailor frae the main ;
But I hae parted frae my love,

Never to meet again, my dear;
Never to meet again.

When day is gane, and night is come,

And a' folk bound to sleep ;
I think on him that's far awa',

The lee-lang night, and weep, my dear;
The lee-lang night, and weep.

And she has ta'en a long journey,

For seven lang years and mair, my dear,
For seven lang years and mair.

Sometimes she rade, sometimes she gaed,

Sometimes sat down to mouin,
And it was aye the o'ercome o' her tale,

Shall I e'er see my bonny laddie return, my dear,
Shall I e'er see my bonny laddie return.

The trooper turned himself round about,

All on the Irish shore;
He has gi'en the bridle reins a shake,

Saying adieu for evermore, my dear,
Saying adieu for evermore,


Tune—" Craigton's Growing."

0, Lady Mary Ann

Looks o'er the castle wa',
She saw three bonnie boys

Playing at the ba’;

youngest he was
The flower amang them a',
My bonnie laddie's young,

But he's growin' yet.

Burns noted the song and the air from a lady in the north country when upon his tour in that district, and communicated it to Johnson; and it must be confessed that, in so much of it as is his own, he has displayed all his accustomed taste and fine feeling. From the “Museum” Mr Finlay transplanted it into his collection of ballads, but apparently without the slightest notion of the master mind which had been at work upon it. In “ The North Countrie Garland, Edinburgh, 1824," edited by Mr Maidment, advocate, we are furnished with the first version of the old ballad, accompanied with the following historical note :“ The estate of Craigstoun was acquired by John Urquhart, better known by the name of the tutor of Cromarty. It would appear that the ballad refers to his grandson, who married Elizabeth, daughter of Sir Robert Innes of that ilk, and by her had one son. This John Urquhart died 30th November, 1634.-Spalding, (vol. i. p. 36,) after mentioning the great mortality in the Craigstoun family, says, “thus in three years space, the good sire, son, and oy, died. He adds, that “the Laird of Innes, whose sister was married to this Urquhart of Leathers, (the father,) and not without her consent, as was thought, gets the guiding of this young boy, and without advice of friends, shortly and quietly marries him, upon his own eldest daughter Elizabeth Innes.' He mentions that young Craigstoun's death was generally attributed to melancholy, in consequence of Sir Robert Innes refusing to pay old Craigstoun's debts. The creditors bestowing many maledictions which touched the young man's conscience, albeit he could not mend it.'. The father died in December, 1631, and the son in 1634. The marriage consequently must have been of short duration.”

We subjoin a copy of it as traditionally preserved in the west of Scotland :

O father! O father!

An ye think it fit,
We'll send him a year

To the college yet :
We'll sew a green ribbon

Round about his hat,
And that will let them ken

He's to marry yet.

The trees they are ivied, the leaves they are green,
The days are a' awa that I hae seen,
On the cauld winter nights I ha'e to lie my lane,

For my bonnie laddie's lang o' growing,

O father dear, you have done me great wrong,
You have wedded me to a boy that's too young,
He is scarce twelve, and I'm but thirteen,

And my bonnie laddie's lang o' growing.

O daughter dear, I have done you no wrong,
I have wedded you to a noble lord's son,
He'll be the lord, and ye'll wait on,

And your bonnie laddie's daily growing.

O father dear, if you think it fit,
We'll send him to the college a year or twa yet;
We'll tie a green ribbon round about his hat,

And that will be a token that he's married.

And O father dear, if this pleaseth you,
I will cut my hair aboon my brow;
Coat, vest, and breeches I will put on,

And I to the college will go wi' him.

She's made him shirts o' the Holland sae fine,
And wi' her ain hands she sewed the same;
And aye the tears came trickling down,

Saying, my bonnie laddie's lang o' growing.

In his twelfth year he was a married man,
And in his thirteenth he had his auld son,
And in his fourteenth his grave it was green,

Sae that put an end to his growing,


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