No More Learning

General
Mackay, when he found the Highlanders did not pursue his flying army,
said, "Dundee must be killed, or he never would have overlooked this
advantage. " A great stone marks the spot where Dundee fell.

* * * * *


THE EWIE WI' THE CROOKED HORN.

Another excellent song of old Skinner's.

* * * * *


CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD.

It is remarkable of this air that it is the confine of that country
where the greatest part of our Lowland music (so far as from the
title, words, &c. , we can localize it) has been composed. From
Craigie-burn, near Moffat, until one reaches the West Highlands, we
have scarcely one slow air of any antiquity.

The song was composed on a passion which a Mr. Gillespie, a particular
friend of mine, had for a Miss Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelpdale.
This young lady was born at Craigie-burn Wood. --The chorus is part of
an old foolish ballad.

* * * * *


FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOVE.

I added the four last lines, by way of giving a turn to the theme of
the poem, such as it is.
* * * * *


HUGHIE GRAHAM

There are several editions of this ballad. --This, here inserted, is
from oral tradition in Ayrshire, where, when I was a boy, it was a
popular song. --It originally had a simple old tune, which I have
forgotten.

"Our lords are to the mountains gane,
A hunting o' the fallow deer,
And they have gripet Hughie Graham,
For stealing o' the bishop's mare.

And they have tied him hand and foot,
And led him up, thro' Stirling town;
The lads and lasses met him there,
Cried, Hughie Graham, thou art a loun.

O lowse my right hand free, he says,
And put my braid sword in the same;
He's no in Stirling town this day,
Dare tell the tale to Hughie Graham.

Up then bespake the brave Whitefoord,
As he sat by the bishop's knee,
Five hundred white stots I'll gie you,
If ye'll let Hughie Graham gae free.

O haud your tongue, the bishop says,
And wi' your pleading let me be;
For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat,
Hughie Graham this day shall die.

Up then bespake the fair Whitefoord,
As she sat by the bishop's knee;
Five hundred white pence I'll gie you,
If ye'll gie Hughie Graham to me.

O haud your tongue now, lady fair,
And wi' your pleading let it be;
Altho' ten Grahams were in his coat,
It's for my honour he maun die.

They've ta'en him to the gallows knowe,
He looked to the gallows tree,
Yet never colour left his cheek,
Nor ever did he blink his e'e

At length he looked around about,
To see whatever he could spy:
And there he saw his auld father,
And he was weeping bitterly.

O haud your tongue, my father dear,
And wi' your weeping let it be;
Thy weeping's sairer on my heart,
Than a' that they can do to me.

And ye may gie my brother John
My sword that's bent in the middle clear;
And let him come at twelve o'clock,
And see me pay the bishop's mare.

And ye may gie my brother James
My sword that's bent in the middle brown;
And bid him come at four o'clock,
And see his brother Hugh cut down.

Remember me to Maggy my wife,
The neist time ye gang o'er the moor,
Tell her she staw the bishop's mare,
Tell her she was the bishop's whore.

And ye may tell my kith and kin,
I never did disgrace their blood;
And when they meet the bishop's cloak,
To mak it shorter by the hood.