have injured either its tenderness or its simplicity. We have, however, many varieties of the song. Some fastidious persons, who believe that a man never addresses his wife by any familiar name, have substituted " Wifie, lie near me;" others, again, supposed they had amended the imaginary indecorum by singing "Laddie, lie near me." If I am called on to confess my own belief in this matter, I must say that men both of the north and south are in the practice of bestowing familiar and endearing names on their wives, and that I see in the hero and heroine of this song a wedded pair, who, separated by misfortune, had met again in mutual and overflowing joy.

THE TURNIMSPIKE.

Hersell pe highland shentleman,
Pe auld as Pothwell Prig, man;
And mony alterations seen,

Amang the lawland whig, man.
First when her to te lawlands came,

Nainsell was droving cows, man,
There was nae laws about hims nerse,
About the preeks or trews, man.

Nainsell did wear the philabeg,
The plaid pricked on her shouder ;
De gude claymore hung py her pelt,
Her pistol charged with powder.

But curse upon these Saxon preeks,
In which her limbs are lockit;
Ohon that ere she saw the day!
For a' her houghs pe prokit.

Every thing in the highlands now
Pe turned to alteration;

Te sodger dwall at our door cheek,
And tats a great vexation.
Scotland pe turned a Hingland now,
The laws pring in de cadger;
Nainsell wad durk him for his deeds,
But oh, she fears te sodger.

Anither law came after tat,

Me never saw te like, man;
They make a lang road on te ground,

And ca' him Turnimspike, man:

And wow she pe a ponny road,
Like Loudon corn riggs, man;
Where twa carts may gang on her,
And no preak ither's legs, man.

They charge a penny for ilka horse,
In troth she'll no be sheaper,
For nought but gaun upon the ground,
And they gi'e me a paper.

They take the horse then py te head,

And there they make him stand, man ;

She tells them she had seen the day

They had nae sic command, man.

And

Nae doubt nainsell maun draw her purse,
pay him what him like, man;
She'll see a shudgement on his door,
That filthy turnimspike, man.
But I'll away to te highland hills,
Where deil a ane dare turn her,
And no come near the turnimspike,

Save when she comes to purn her.

The humour of this lowland ditty lies not altogether in the comic style of the highlander: there is considerable naïveté in his complaint against the innovation of good roads and turnpike-gates, and still more in his wrath against that injurious and insulting but ludicrous act of Parliament which imprisoned him in lowland breeches. I am no admirer of songs which seek to excite laughter by the imperfections of language; and I shall insert no more of those ditties which show up a highlander floundering along in the mysterious humour of broken English.

Maxwelltown banks are bonnie,
Where early fa's the dew;
Where I and Annie Laurie

Made up the promise true;

Made up the promise true,
And never forget will I,

And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay down my head and die.

She's backet like a peacock,

She's breasted like a swan,

She's jimp about the middle,

Her waist you weel may span:
Her waist you weel may span,
And she has a rolling eye,
And for bonnie Annie Laurie

I'd lay down my head and die.

.

I found this song in the little "Ballad Book," collected and edited by a gentleman to whom Scottish literature is largely indebted-Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe of Hoddam. It is accompanied by the following notice:-"Sir Robert Laurie, first Baronet of the Maxwelton family (created 27th March, 1685), by his second wife, a daughter of Riddell of Minto, had three sons and

four daughters, of whom Anne was much celebrated for her beauty, and made a conquest of Mr. Douglas of Fingland, who is said to have composed the following verses under an unlucky star-for the lady married Mr. Ferguson of Craigdarroch." I have only to add, that I am glad such a song finds a local habitation in my native place.

GIN LIVING WORTH COULD WIN MY
ᎻᎬᎪᎡᎢ .

Gin living worth could win my heart,
Ye shou'dna sigh in vain;

But in the darksome grave it's laid,

Never to rise again.

My waefu' heart lies low wi' his

Whose heart was only mine;
And what a heart was that to lose!
But I maun not repine.

Yet oh! gin heaven in mercy soon
Would grant the boon I crave,

And tak this life, now naething worth,
Sin' Jamie's in his grave!

VOL. III.

S