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And yit for mister I will nocht fenye,
Fyire hundreth fleis now in a flok.
Call ye nocht that ane joly menye,
To go to 'giddir Jynny, and Jok?"
Ane trene truncheour, ane ramehorn spone,
Twa buttis of barkit blasnit ledder,
All graith that ganis to hobbill schone,
Ane thraweruk to twyne ane tedder,
Ane brydill, ane girth, and ane swyne bledder,
Ane maskene-fatt, ane fetterit lok,
Ane scheip weill keipit fra ill wedder,
To'gang to giddir, Jynny and Jok.'
Tak thair for my parte of the feist;
It is weill kpawin I am weill bodin;
Ye may nocht say my parte is leist.
The wyfe said, Speid, the kaill are soddin,
And als the laverok is fust and loddin;
Quhen ye haif done tak hame the brok.
The rost wes twche, sa wer thay bodin ;

Syne gaid to gidder bayth, Jynny and Jok.*
* The wowing of Jok and Jynny'-Lord Hailes
observes, has 'by frequent publications, been much
corrupted. Every publisher took the liberty of
adding or altering just as his fancy led him.'t I
have followed Mr. Laing's very accurate copy in the
Ancient Popular Poetry of Scotland [4to. 1822].
In this singular ballad the reader will perceive much
similarity of style to the song printed in the former

* “ When these good old bards wrote, we had not yet made Use of imported Trimming upon our Cloaths, nor of foreign Embroidery in our Writings. Their Poetry is the product of their own country, not pilfered and spoiled in the Transportation from abroad. Their images are native, and their Landscapes domestic, copied from those fields and meadows we every day behold.” Preface to the Evergreen. ALLAN RAMSAY.

† Ancient Scots Poems, p. 292.

volume, [p. 63), called ' Phillida flouts me,' and the absurd stall-copy rhymes of Arthur O'Bradley.' *

To advance the Reformation in Scotland, many parts of the popular songs were mingled with obscene verses, and sung by the rabble to the tunes of the most favourite hymns in the Latin service. In 1590, and again in 1621, a curious volume of these divine songs in ridicule of Romish priests, was published in Edinburgh, bearing the following title, ' Ane compendious Booke of Godly and Spiritual Sangs, collectit out of sundrie parts of the Scripture, with sundrie of other Ballats, changed out of profaine Sanges, for avoyding of Sinne and Harlotrie.' Of the grossness and profaneness of these 'godly sangs,' the reader will judge by the specimens :

Johne, cum kis me now,

Johne cum kis me now;
John, cum kis me by and by,

And make no more adow.

The Lord thy God I am,

That John does thee call,
John represents the man,

By grace celestiall,

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• Some objections have been made to the first volume of this work, on account of its not containing, what the Editor's friends are pleased to call, “The popular songs of England.' Let me say here that the popular county garlands, collected by Ritson and others, contain few songs reaching mediocrity. The Editor searched these volumes, and the hanging walls of melody in Seven Dials, in the hopes of culling a dozen excellent songs to adorn these pages, the fruit of his research is printed in Vol. I. p. 219. The reader will judge of the general merit of these popular English songs by the specimen.




My prophets call, my preachers cry,

Johne come kis me now;
Johne come kis me by and by,

And mak nae mair adow. The popular song before alluded to, ' Hey the day dawis,'—is thus rendered for the service of religion.

Hay now the day dallis,
Now Christ on us callis,
Now welth on our wallis,
Appeiris anone:
Now the word of God rings,
Whilk is King of all Kings;
Now Christis flock sings,

The night is neere gone.
Wo be unto zou hypocrits,
That on the Lord sa loudly lies,
And all to fill zour foull bellies,
Ze are poght of Christ's blude nor bone.
For ze preich your awin dremis,
And sa the word of God blasphemis,
God wot sa weill it seemis,

The night is neere gone. John Anderson my jo, is said to have been the air of a favourite hymn with the Romish priests.



John Anderson my jo, cum in as ze gae bye,
And ze sall get a sheips heid weel baken in a pye;
Weel baken in a pye, and the haggis in a pat;
John Anderson my jo, cum in, and ze's get that.


And how doe ze, Cummer? and how hae ze threven ?
And how mony bairns hae ze? Wom. Cummer, I hae seven.
Man. Are they to zour awin gude man : Wom. Na, Cummer, na;
For five of them were gotten, quhan he was awa'.

PERCY, II, 132.

* By the seven bairns,' says Percy,

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the Seven Sacraments, five of which were the spurious offspring of Mother Church ; the first stanza contains a satirical allusion to the luxury of the Popish clergy.'

I will conclude these specimens of 'godly sangs,' by a spiritual version of an old English song quoted by Fletcher in the Knight of the Burning Pestle,

Quho is at my windo, who who:
Goe from my windo, goe, goe:
Quha calls there, so like ane stranger,
Goe from my windo, goe :
Lord I am here.

It was an unholy plan of advancing true religion by means of lasciviousness and profaneness. This is not the only time that song has been made of great service in reformations and revolutions.

Alexander Montgomery flourished in the end of the sixteenth century, and shares with Scott the honour of being the first to give song an elegance of thought and diction. Had not the lyrics of Montgomery fortunately been preserved by printing and manuscript, we should have known little of either his beautiful sentiments or name.

After invoking the muse to distil her streams of eloquence in praise of the comeliness of his mistress, he continues

To kythe hir cunning, Natur wald

Iodeu hir with sik grace,
My spreit rejosis to behald

Her smyling angels face,
Lyk Phæbus in the south,
To skorne the rest of youth.

Hir curling loks, lyk golden rings,
Abont her hevingly haffats hings;

Quhlks do decore
Hir body more,
Quhom I adore

Above all things.
Hir brouis ar brent: lyk golden threeds,

Hir siluer shyning brees :
The bony blinks, my courage feeds,

Of hir tua christall ees,
Tuinkling illuminous,
With beams amorous ;
Quhairin tua naikit boyis resorts,
Quhais countenance good hope reports;

For they appeir
Vith smyling cheir,
As they wald speir

At me some sports.

Hir comelie cheeks of vive colour,

Of rid and vhyt ymixt,
Ar lyk the sanguene jonet flour

Into the lillie fixt.
Hir month mellifluous,
Hir breathing savorous,
Hir rosie lippis most eminent,
Hir teeth lyk pearle of orient;

Hir halse more vhyt
Nor I can wryt
With that perfyt

And sapient.

Hir vestall breist of ivorie,

Quhairon ar fixit fast
Tua tuins of clepe virginitie,

Lyk boullis of alabast.
Out throu hir snauie skin,
Maist cleirlie kythes within,
Hir saphir veins, lyk threids of silk
Or violets in vhytest milk.

If Nature sheu,
Hir hevinly heu
In vhyt and blue,-

It wes that ilk.

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