OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Book of Scottish Song/Johnnie's Grey Breeks

Johnnie’s Grey Breeks.
[The air called "Johnnie's Grey Breeks" is one of the most beautiful in the whole range of Scottish melody, and yet nothing is known of its history. It is given in Oswald's collection, 1742, both according to the original way, in triple time, and also in common time, the latter supposed to be done by Oswald himself. Burns says, "Though it has certainly every evidence of being a Scottish air, yet there is a well-known tune in the north of Ireland, called 'The Weaver and his Shuttle, O,' which, though sung much quicker, is every note the very tune." The old Scotch song of "Johnnie's Grey Breeks" is, however, much older than "The Weaver and his Shuttle, O," and the latter must therefore have borrowed the air from the former. We cannot give the original version of the song, some of which might be considered rather coarse for "modern ears polite," but we give a modified set of it, which is still of considerable antiquity, and used to be popular at our country firesides. In Johnson's Museum, another set of words is given to the same tune, beginning,
"Now smiling spring again appears With all the beauties of her train, Love soon of her arrival hears, And files to wound the gentle swain;"—
which Burns pronounces to be execrable—and certainly the song is not worth quoting.]
When I was in my se'nteen year, I was baith blythe and bonnie, O; The lads lo'ed me baith far and near, But I lo'ed nane but Johnnie, O: He gain'd my heart in twa three weeks, He spake sae blythe and kindly, O; And I made him new grey breeks, That fitted him most finely, O.
He was a handsome fellow: His humour was baith frank and free; His bonnie locks sae yellow, Like gowd they glitter'd in my e'e: ​His dimpled chin and rosy cheeks, And face sae fair and ruddy, O; And then a-days his grey breeks Were neither auld nor duddy, O.
But now they are threadbare worn, They're wider than they wont to be; They're tash'd-like and sair torn, And clouted upon ilka knee. But gin I had a simmer's day, As I ha'e had right monie, O, I'd make a web o' new grey, To be breeks to my Johnnie, O.
For he's weel wordy o' them, And better, gin I had to gi'e, And I'll tak' pains upo' them, Frae faults I'll strive to keep them free. To cleid him weel shall be my care, To please him a' my study, O! But he maun wear the auld pair A wee, though they be duddy, O.
For when the lad was in his prime, Like him there warna monie, O. He ca'd me aye his bonnie thing, Sae wha wadna lo'e Johnnie, O? O, I lo'e Johnnie's grey breeks, For a' the care they've gi'en me yet, And gin we live another year, We'll mak' them hale between us yet.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Johnnie and Mary

Johnnie and Mary.
[This was introduced as a Scotch song in Bickerstaff's opera of "Love in a Village," first acted at Covent Garden Theatre in 1762.]
Down the burn and through the mead,
His golden locks wav'd o'er his brow; Johnnie lilting, tun'd his reed, And Mary wip'd her bonnie mou': Dear she loo'd the well known song. While her Johnnie, blythe and bonnie, Sung her praise the whole day long. Down the burn and through the mead, His golden locks wav'd o'er his brow, Johnnie lilting, tun'd his reed, And Mary wip'd her bonnie mou'.
Costly claiths she had but few; Of rings and jewels nae great store; Her face was fair, her love was true, And Johnnie wisely wish'd nae more: Love's the pearl the shepherds prize; O'er the mountain, near the fountain, Love delights the shepherd's eyes. Down the burn, &c.
Gold and titles give not health, And Johnnie could nae these impart; Youthfu' Mary's greatest wealth, Was still her faithfu' Johnnie's heart: Sweet the joys the lovers find, Great the treasure, sweet the pleasure, Where the heart is always kind. Down the burn, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Julia

Julia.
[Dugald Moore.]
She was a sunbeam in the storm,— A star that gently lifted Above the dark its beauteous form, When the dull tempest shifted. She loved—that passion like a spell With her young dreams was blended: The flowerets from youth's chaplet fell Before her spring-time ended.
In yon church-yard, the flowers are fair Beneath heaven's blue expansion:— But a sweeter gem is lying there, In dark oblivion's mansion; The bud of promise to all eyes— O'er whom the wild wind dashes,— But she shall flourish in the skies, When stars and worlds are ashes.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Jumpin' John

Jumpin’ John.
[The tune of "Jumpin' John," or "Joan's Placket," is very old, and is thought to be the progenitor of the Irish air called "Lillibulero." There is a tradition that "Jumpin' John" was the tune played when Mary Queen of Scots was proceeding to her execution, but on this no reliance can be placed, as it is very unlikely that music of any kind was played on that melancholy occasion, and no contemporary accounts of her death speak of music having been employed. Part of the following words are old, and part modern.]
Her daddie forbade, her minnie forbade, Forbidden she wadna be; She wadna trow't, the brows't she brew'd Wad taste sae bitterlie.
The lang lad, they ca' Jumpin' John, Aft spier'd the bonnie lassie; But faither and mither agreed thegither, That nae sic match sud be. Her daddie, &c.
A cow and a cauf, a ewe and a hauf, And thretty gude shillins and three; A vera gude tocher, a cotter man's dochter, The lass wi' the bonnie black e'e. Her daddie, &c.
Her daddie bade her counsel tak', But counsel she tuik nane; And lang and sair the lassie rued, Sae fuil-like she'd been taen. Her daddie, &c. ​"Oh! for my daddie's kindly luik, My minnie's kindly care! Gin I were in their ingle neuk, I'd never leave it mair." Her daddie, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/John Hay's Bonnie Lassie

John Hay's Bonnie Lassie.
[Both the air and the words of this song are older than Ramsay's day, although the latter appear for the first time in the Tea-Table Miscellany. "I have found it asserted," says Mr. Robert Chambers, "by a credible tradition in Roxburghshire, that this song was written by a working joiner, in honour of a daughter of John, first Marquis of Tweeddale, who is here familiarly called by his simple name, John Hay. She was a sister of the second marquis, who under his junior title of Lord Yester, is usually given as the author of the first version of 'Tweedside.' The Marquis of Tweeddale had two daughters, Lady Margaret and Lady Jean; but, Burns having somewhere mentioned, that the song was written in honour of one who was afterwards Countess of Roxburghe, we are enabled to set forward the eldest, Lady Margaret, as the heroine. We are further enabled, by Mr. Wood's Peerage, to state the probable era of the song. Lady Margaret Hay, wife of the third Earl of Roxburghe, was a widow, at the age of twenty-five, in the year 1682. Allowing from thirteen to five-and-twenty as the utmost range of age during which she could be celebrated as 'John Hay's bonnie lassie,' the song must have been written between the years 1670 and 1682, probably nearer the first era than the last. It may be mentioned as a remarkable circumstance regarding this interesting lady, that she survived her husband, in uninterrupted widowhood, the amazingly long period of seventy-one years. She died at Broomlands, near Kelso, on the 23d of January, 1753, at the age of ninety-six, after having seen out several generations of her short-lived descendants; the third person in descent being then in possession of the honours of Roxburghe. Her husband was one of the unfortunate persons who were drowned at Yarmouth-roads, on the occasion of the shipwreck of the Glocester frigate, which was bringing the Duke of York down to Scotland, May, 1682."]
By smooth-winding Tay a swain was reclining, Aft cried he, Oh, hey! maun I still live pining Mysel' thus away, and daurna discover To my bonnie Hay, that I am her lover.
Nae mair it will hide; the flame waxes stranger; If she"s not my bride, my days are nae langer: Then I'll take a heart, and try at a venture; May be, ere we part, my vows may content her.
She's fresh as the spring, and sweet as Aurora, When birds mount and sing, bidding day a good morrow: The sward of the mead, enamell'd with daisies, Looks wither'd and dead, when twined of her graces.
But if she appear where verdure invite her, The fountains run clear, and the flowers smell the sweeter, 'Tis heaven to be by, when her wit is a-flowing: Her smiles and bright eyes set my spirits a-glowing.
The mair that I gaze, the deeper I'm wounded: Struck dumb with amaze, my mind is confounded: I'm all in a fire, dear maid, to caress ye; For a' my desire is John Hay's bonnie lassie.
# The Book of Scottish Song/John Maut

John Maut.
Ye'll a' ha'e heard tell o' John Maut, John Maut, Ye'll a' ha'e heard tell o' John Maut; He's been sae to blame, that he's got a bad name, But, faith! he's far waur than he's ca't, John Maut.
His doublet is raggit, John Maut, John Maut,
His doublet is raggit, John Maut, His hat's down in the crown, he has awfu' like shoon, And his stockings are waefully gau't, John Maut. Ye'll a' ha'e, &c.
He swears like a trooper, John Maut, John Maut, He swears like a trooper, John Maut;
He ne'er sticks at a lee, and he'll fecht wi' a flee, Tho' nane but himsel's in the faut, John Maut. Ye'll a' ha'e, &c.
He's whiles in the skies, John Maut, John Maut, He's whiles in the skies, John Maut; But down in the mud, he plays clash wi' a thud, And his claes ye might clean wi' a claut, John Maut. Ye'll a' ha'e, &c.
The weans they get fun wi' John Maut, John Maut,
The weans they get fun wi' John Maut,
They hoot and they cry as they see him gang by, But whiles though he lends them a claut, John Maut. Ye'll a' ha'e, &c.
The lasses a' lo'e John Maut, John Maut, The lasses a' lo'e John Maut; They swear it's no true, but they get themsels fou, And then they sairly misca't, John Maut. Ye'll a' ha'e, &c.
The wives are fond o' John Maut, John Maut,
The wives are a' fond o' John Maut;
They say he is gran', they ne'er mind their guidman, But they coax, and they cuddle, and daut, John Maut. Ye'll a' ha'e, &c.
Sae I redd ye tak' tent o' John Maut, John Maut, I redd ye tak' tent o' John Maut; He's no weel to ha'e for a friend or a fae, Sae I redd ye keep out o' his claut, John Maut. Ye'll a' ha'e, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Sandy Allan

Sandy Allan.
[Alex. Hume.—Air, "Saw ye Johnny coming."]
Wha is he I hear sae crouse, There ahint the hallan? Whase skirling rinus through a' the house, Ilk corner o' the dwallin'. O! it is ane, a weel kent chiel, As mirth e'er set a bawlin', Or filled a neuk in drouthy biel,— It's canty Sandy Allan.
He has a gauey kind gude wife, This blythesome Sandy Allan, Wha lo'es him mickle mair than life, An' glories in her callan. As sense an' sound are ane in song, Sae's Jean an' Sandy Allan, Twa hearts, yet but ae pulse an' tongue, Ha'e Luckie an' her callan.
To gi'e to a', it's aye his rule, Their proper name an' callin'; A knave's a knave, a fule's a fule, Wi' honest Sandy Allan. For ilka vice he has a dart, An' heavy is it's fallin'; But aye for worth a kindred heart Has ever Sandy Allan.
To kings his knee he wunna bring, Sae proud is Sandy Allan; The man wha richtly feels is king, Owre rank, wi' Sandy Allan. Auld Nature just to show the warl', Ae truly honest callan; E'en strippit till't, and made a carle, An' ca'd him Sandy Allan.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Roy's Wife

Roy's Wife.
[Sometimes erroneously ascribed to the late Mrs. Grant of Laggan. The authoress was Mrs. Grant of Carron, near Elchies, on the river Spey, afterwards married to Dr. Murray of Bath. She was born near Aberlour about 1745, and died about 1814.]
Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, Wat ye how she cheated me, As I cam' o'er the braes of Balloch?
She vow'd, she swore she wad be mine; She said she lo'ed me best of onie; But ah! the fickle, faithless quean, She's ta'en the carle, and left her Johnnie. Roy's wife, &c.
O, she was a cantie quean, Weel could she dance the Highland walloch, How happy I, had she been mine, Or I been Boy of Aldivalloch. Roy's wife, &c.
Her hair sae fair, her een sae clear, Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bonnie; To me she ever will be dear, Though she's for ever left her Jolmnie. Roy's wife, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Sae merry as we ha'e been

Sae merry as we ha'e been.
[This is the title of a very old air, which is to be found in our oldest musical collections. The original words to the tune are probably lost. The old chorus, however, is retained in the following beautifully-natural song, which was first printed in Herd's collection, 1776. Burns characterizes the chorus as "truly pathetic."
"Sae merry as we twa ha'e been, Sae merry as we twa ha'e been! My heart it is like for to break, When I think on the days we ha'e seen."
The version here given of the present song differs somewhat, but chiefly in verbal points, from that given by Herd.]
A lass that was laden wi' care Sat heavily under a thorn; I listen'd a while for to hear, When thus she began for to mourn:— Whene'er my own lover was near, The birds seem'd far sweeter to sing; The cold nipping winter-time wore A face that resembled the spring. Sae merry as we twa ha'e been, Sae merry as we twa ha'e been! My heart is like for to break, When I think on the days we ha'e seen.
There was love in his sweet silent looks, There was love in the touch of his hand; I liked mair the glance o' his e'e, Then a' the green earth to command: A word, and a look, and a touch— Hard-hearted, oh! how could I be? Oh! the cauldest lass i' the land Wad ha'e sigh'd and ha'e melted like me! Sae merry as we twa ha'e been, Sae merry as we twa ha'e been! I wonder my heart disna break, When I think on the days we ha'e seen.
But now he is far, far awa', Between us is the rolling sea; And the wind that wafts pleasure to a', Brings nae word frae Willie to me. At night, when the rest o' the folk Are merrily seated to spin, I sit mysel' under an oak, A-heavily sighing for him. Sae merry as we twa ha'e been, Sae merry as we twa ha'e been! My heart it will break ere the spring, As I think on the days that are gane.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Sailor's Wife's Song

Sailor’s Wife's Song.
[W. B. Sangster.—Here first printed.]
Oh weary long this lonely night An' dowie dark the starless skies, Like my poor heart that hath nae light, But comes from my beloved's eyes, An' thine, dear babe, in lightest sleep, Unbroken as the summer's deep.
Roll on, thou cold and stilly hours, Roll on like waves that gently fan The morning with her honied flowers, When leaves grow brighter, every one, An' the soft air, like silver bells, Sings in the broom that gems our dells.
I hear the gentle rush of wings— I see the light of wandering stars, And many a budding hope upsprings, Guttering with gowden dots and bars; But ah! woe's me, 'tis in my mind A peopled world, where all are blind.
And now, ah! now, the vision fades, The colours fly—the lights are gone— The inmates hang their weary heads, Their features freeze—are turn'd to stone, Alas, alas! my baby boy, Awake and give thy mother joy.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Sandy

Sandy.
[From a volume entitled "Twelve Dramatic Sketches, founded on the Pastoral Poetry of Scotland. By W. M. Hetherington, A. M.:" Edinburgh, 1829.]
O Sandy is a braw lad, An' Sandy is a fine, An' Sandy is a bonnie lad, An', best of a', he's mine! There's Tibby glooms, and Nelly geeks, An' Nanny looks fu' shy, And Katie downa speak to me; But troth I carena by! For Sandy is a braw lad, An' Sandy is a fine, An' Sandy is a bonnie lad, An', best of a', he's mine!
Auld Girzie, wi' her cock-up nose, She fuffs like ony goose; An' wee bit perkin Marjory, Poor thing! looks unco crouse: Fat Lizzie's een for vera spite, They glow like ony coal, An' Betty, wi' her brucket face, My sight she canna thole. For Sandy is, &c.
The slae is sour, but sourer far Is muckle wry-mouth'd Jean; An' lang-tongued Eppie, warst ava, She flytes fra morn till e'en; Mim Marion thraws her wrinkled chafts Like ony beggar's dud, Gleed Matty shakes her corky head, And winks as she were wud. For Sandy is, &c.
There's no a lass in a' the town, But sair she hates poor me; Daft gouks! they fear they'll lose their joe,— And sae it e'en may be! To tempt them, for a week or twa, The secret yet I'll hide; But I could tell, or this day month, Wha will be Sandy's bride! O Sandy is, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Royal Charlie

Royal Charlie.
[Modern Jacobite song.]
The news frae Moidart cam' yestreen, Will soon gar mony ferlie, For ships o' war have just come in, An' landed Royal Charlie! Come through the heather, Around him gather, Ye're a' the welcomer early, Around him cling wi' a' your kin, For wha'll be king but Charlie? Come through the heather, around him gather, Come Ronald, come Donald, come a' thegither, And crown him rightfu', lawful king, For wha'll be king but Charlie?
The Highland clans wi' sword in hand, Frae John o' Groats to Airly, Ha'e to a man declared to stand Or fa' wi' royal Charlie. Come through, &c.
The Lowlands a', baith great an' sma', Wi' mony a lord an' laird, ha'e Declared for Scotia's king an' law, An' spier ye wha but Charlie? Come through, &c.
There's ne'er a lass in a' the land, But vows baith late an' early, To man she'll ne'er gi'e heart or hand, Wha wadna fecht for Charlie. Come through, &c.
Then here's a health to Charlie's cause, An' be't complete and early, His very name my heart's blood warms,— To arms for royal Charlie! Come through, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Sailor and Shepherdess

Sailor and Shepherdess.
[This appeared in one of the early Noctes Ambrosianæ of Blackwood's Magazine (the Royal Number of 1822.) It is probably from the pen of Professor Wilson.]
SAILOR.
When lightning parts the thunder-cloud, That blackens all the sea, And tempests sough through sail and shroud Ev'n then I'll think on thee, Mary.
SHEPHERDESS.
I wrap me in that keepsake plaid, And lie down amang the snaw; While frozen are the tears I shed, For him that's far awa, Willie!
SAILOR.
We sail past monie a bonnie isle; Wi' maids the shores are thrang; Before my e'e there's but ae smile, Within my ear ae sang, Mary.
SHEPHERDESS.
In kirk, on every Sabbath-day For ane on the great deep, Unto my God I humbly pray— And while I pray, I weep, Willie.
SAILOR.
The sands are bright wi' golden shells, The groves wi' blossoms fair; And I think upon the heather-bells, That deck thy glossy hair, Mary.
SHEPHERDESS.
I read thy letters sent from far, And aft I kiss thy name, And ask my Maker, frae the war If ever thou'lt come hame, Willie.
SAILOR.
What though your father's hut be lown Aneath the green hill-side? The ship that Willie sails in, blown Like chaff by wind and tide, Mary?
SHEPHERDESS.
Oh! weel I ken the raging sea, And a' the steadfast land, Are held, wi' specks like thee and me, In the hollow of His hand, Willie.
SAILOR.
He sees thee sitting on the brae, Me hinging on the mast; And o'er us baith, in dew or spray, His saving shield is cast, Mary.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Sanct Mungo

Sanct Mungo.
[Alex. Rodger.]
Sanct Mungo wals ane famous sanct, And ane cantye carle wals hee, He drank o' ye Molendinar burne, Quhan bettere hee culdna prie!
Zit quhan he could gotte stronger cheere, He neuer wals wattere drye, Butte dranke o' ye streame o' ye wimpland worme, And loot ye borne rynne bye. ​Sanct Mungo wals ane merrye sanct, And merryle hee sang; Quhaneuer hee liltit uppe hys sprynge, Ye very Firre Parke rang; Butte thoch hee weele culd lilt and synge, And mak' sweet melodye, He chauntit aye ye bauldest straynes, Quhan prymed wi' barlye-bree.
Sanct Mungo wals ane godlye sanct, Farre-famed for godlye deedis, And grete delyte hee daylye took Inn countynge owre hys beadis, Zit I, Sanct Mungo's youngeste sonne, Can count als welle als hee; Butte ye beadis quilk I like best to count Are ye beadis o' barlye-bree.
Sanct Mungo wals ane jolly sanct:— Sae weele hee lykit gude zil, Thatte quhyles hee staynede hys quhyte vesture, Wi' dribblands o' ye still; Butte I, his maist unwordye sonne, Haue gane als farre als hee, For ance I tynde my gamiente skirtis, Throuch lufe o' barlye-bree.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Sae flaxen were her ringlets

Sae flaxen were her ringlets.
[This was one of Burns's finest contributions to George Thomson's collection. The "Chloris" here celebrated was Jean Lorimer of Craigieburn, in Dumfries-shire, who was also the heroine of "Lassie wi' the Lint-white Locks," and other songs. The description is said to have been true to her appearance. She was unfortunate in life, and died so recently as 1831. The air of the song is Irish, and called Oonagh.]
Sae flaxen were her ringlets, Her eyebrows of a darker hue, Bewitchingly o'erarching Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. Her smiling, sae wyling, Wad mak' a wretch forget his woe; What pleasure, what treasure, Unto those rosy lips to grow! Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, When first her bonnie face I saw; And, aye my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'.
Like harmony her motion; Her pretty ankle is a spy, Betraying fair proportion, Wad mak' a saint forget the sky. Sae warming, sae charming, Her faultless form and gracefu air; Ilk feature—auld nature Declared that she could do nae mair. Hers are the willing chains o' love, By conquering beauty's sovereign law; And, aye my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'.
Let others love the city, And gaudy show at sunny noon; Gi'e me the lonely valley, The dewy eve, and rising moon, Fair-beaming, and streaming, Her silver light the boughs amang; While falling, recalling, The amorous thrush concludes her sang: There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove By whimpling burn and leafy shaw, And hear my vows o' truth and love, And say thou lo'es me best of a'?
# The Biographical Dictionary of America/Bangs, John Kendrick

​BANGS, John Kendrick, author, was born in Yonkers, N. Y., May 27. 1862; son of Francis Nehemiah and Amelia Frances (Bull) Bangs; grandson of Nathan Bangs, D. D., and a descendant of Edward Bangs, who came from England on the Anne, landing at Plymouth, Mass., in July, 1623. He was graduated from the school of political science, Columbia college, in 1883, and studied law, 1883-'84. He began his literary career as a contributor to Life in 1883, was associate editor of that paper, 1884-'88, and in 1888 became editor of the humorous department of the periodicals published by Harper & Brothers. He became editor of the Drawer in 1888, of Literary Notes in July, 1898; of Literature in January, 1899, and editor of Harper's Weekly in December, 1899. He was Democratic candidate for mayor of Yonkers, N. Y., in 1894; was made president of the Halstead school, Yonkers, N. Y., in 1896, and was vice-president of the Yonkers board of education in 1897. He is the author of: "Roger Camerden" (1887); "New Waggings of Old Tales" (1887); "The Lorgnette" (1887); "Katherine" (1888); "Mephistopheles "(1889); "Tiddledy winks Tales" (1891); "The Tiddledy-winks Poetry Book" (1892); "In Camp with a Tin Soldier" (1892); "Half Hours with Jimmie-boy" (1893); "Coffee and Repartee" (1893); "Three Weeks in Politics" (1894); "The Water Ghost" (1894); "Chum to Chum Papers" (1894); "The Idiot" (1895); "The Invention of the Idiot" (1890); "Mr. Bonaparte of Corsica" (1895); "The Remarkable Adventures of Sandboys" (1895); "The Paradise Club" (1896); "The Mantel-Piece Minstrels" (1896); "The Bicyclers and Three Other Farces" (1896); "A Rebellious Heroine" (1896); "A House-Boat on the Styx" (1896); " Toppleton's Client" (1897); "The Pursuit of the House-Boat" (1897); "Paste Jewels" (1898); "Ghosts I have Met" (1898); "Peeps at People" (1898); "A Prophecy and a Plea" (1898); "The Idiot at Home" (1809); "The Enchanted Typewriter" (1899); "The Dreamers, a Club" (1899); "Cobwebs From a Library Corner " (1899).