# Old Scottish ballad of Andrew Lammie, or, Mill of Tifty's Annie

The Old Scottish Ballad
OF
ANDREW LAMMIE;
OR
MILL OF TIFTY'S ANNIE.
O mother dear, make me my bed. And lay my face to Fyvie; Thus will I lie, and thus will die, For my dear Andrew Lammie.
PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.
ANDREW LAMMIE.
At Mill of Tifty lived a man, In the neighbourhood of Fyvie— He had a lovely daughter fair Was called bonnie Annie.
Her bloom was like the springing flower That hails the rosy morning, With innocence and graceful mein Her beauteous face adorning.
Lord Fyvie had a Trumpeter, Whose name was Andrew Lammie— He had the art to gain the heart Of Mill of Tifty's Annie.
​Proper he was, both young and gay, His like was not in Fyvie, Nor was there ane that could compare With this same Andrew Lammie.
And Fyvie he rode by the door, Where lived Tifty’s Annie; His trumpeter rode him before, Even this same Andrew Lammie.
Her mother called her to the door, Come here to me my Annie— Did e’er you see a prettier man Than the trumpeter of Fyvie?
Nothing she said, but sighing sore, Alas for bonnie Annie; She durst not own her heart was won By the trumpeter of Fyvie.
At night when all went to their bed, All slept full soon but Annie; Love so oppressed her tender breast, And love will waste her body.
Love comes in at my bed-side, And love lies down beyond me— Love so opprest my tender breast, And love will waste my body.
The first time me and my love Were in the woods of Fyvie, His lovely form and speech so soft Soon gained the heart of Annie.
He called me mistress, I said no, I’m Tifty’s bonnie Annie; With apples sweet he did me treat, And kisses soft and many.
​It’s up and down in Tifty’s glen, Where the burn rins clear and bonnie I’ve often gane to meet meet my love, My bonnie Andrew Lammie.
But now alas! her father heard That the trumpeter of Fyvie, Had had the art to gain the heart Of Mill of Tifty’s Annie.
Her father soon a letter wrote And sent it on to Fyvie, To tell his daughter was bewitched By his servant Andrew Lammie.
Then up the stair his trumpeter He called soon and shortly, Pray tell me soon what’s this you’ve done To Tifty’s bonnie Annie.
Woe be to Mill of Tifty’s pride, For it has ruined many— They’ll not have’t said that she should wed The trumpeter of Fyvie.
In wicked art I had no part, Nor therein am I canny; True love alone the heart has won Of Tifty’s bonnie Annie.
Where shall I find a boy so kind That will carry a letter canny; Who will run to Tifty’s town— Give it to my love Annie.
Tifty he has daughters three Who all are wonderous bonnie; But ye’ll ken her o’er a’ the rest, Give that to bonnie Annie.
​Its up and down in Tifty’s glen, Where the burn rins clear and bonnie, There wilt thou come and I’ll attend, My love I long to see thee.
Thou mayest come to the brig of Shigh, And there I’ll come and meet thee; It’s there we will renew our love Before I go and leave you.
My love I go to Edinburgh town, And for a while must leave thee; She sighed sore, and said no more, But I wish that I were with you.
I will be true and constant too, To thee my Andrew Lammie, But my bridal bed will then be made In the green church-yard of Fyvie.
The time is gone and now comes on, My dear that I must leave thee— If longer here I should appear, Mill of Tifty he would see me.
I’ll buy to thee a bridal gown, My love I’ll buy it bonnie— But I’ll be dead ere ye come back To see your bonnie Annie.
If ye’ll be true and constant too, As I am Andrew Lammie; I shall ye wed when I come back To see the lands of Fyvie.
I now for ever bid adieu To thee my Andrew Lammie; Ere ye come back I will be laid In the green church-yard of Fyvie.
​He hied him to the head of the house, To the house top of Fyvie, He blew his trumpet loud and shrill, It was heard at Mill of Tifty.
Her father locked the door at night, Laid by the keys fu’ canny, And when he heard the trumpet sound, Said, your cow is lowing Annie.
My father dear, I pray forbear, And reproach not your Annie— I’d rather hear that cow low, Than all the kye in Fyvie.
I would not for my braw new gown, And all your gifts so many, That it was told in Fyvie land How cruel you are to Annie.
But if you strike me I will cry, And gentlemen will hear me— Lord Fyvie will be riding by, And he’ll come in and see me.
At the same time the lord came in, He said what ails thee Annie? It’s all for love now I must die, For bonnie Andrew Lammie.
Pray Mill of Tifty give consent, And let your daughter marry; It will be with some higher match Than the trumpeter of Fyvie.
If she was come of as high a kind As she’s advanced in beauty, I would take her unto myself, And make her my own lady.
​Fyvie lands are far and wide, And they are wonderous bonnie; But I would not leave my own true love For all the lands in Fyvie.
Her Father struck her wonderous sore, As also did her mother, Her sisters also did her scorn— But woe be to her brother.
Her brother struck her wonderous sore, With cruel strokes and many; He broke her back on the hall door, For loving Andrew Lammie.
Alas! my father and my mother dear, Why so cruel to your Annie? My heart was broken first by love, My brother has broke my body.
O my mother dear make me my bed, And lay my face to Fyvie; Thus will I life, and thus will die, For my dear Andrew Lammie.
Ye neighbours hear, both far and near, And pity Tifty’s Annie, Who dies for love of one poor lad, For bonnie Andrew Lammie.
No kind of vice e’er stained my life, Or hurt my virgin honour; My youthful heart was won by love, But death will me exoner.
Her mother then she made her bed, And laid her face to Fyyie; Her tender heart it soon did break. And ne’er say Andrew Lammie.
​Lord Fyvie he did wring his hands, Said, Alas! for Tifty’s Annie; The fairest flower cut down by him, That ever sprung in Fyvie.
Woe be to Mill of Tifty’s pride, He might have let them marry; I should have given both to live Within the lands of Fyvie.
Her father sorely now laments The loss of his dear Annie; And wishes he had given consent To wed with Andrew Lammie.
When Andrew hame frae Edinburgh came With muckle grief and sorrow— My love is dead for me to-day, I’ll die for her to-morrow.
Now I will run to Tifty’s den, Where the burn runs clear and bonnie— With tears I’ll view the brig of Shigh, Where I parted with my Annie.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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