The Book of Scottish Song/Maggy Maclane

Maggy Maclane.

[This truly graphic, and truly Scottish production first appeared in "The Glasgow Journal of General Literature," (Dec. 19th, 1835,) a periodical conducted by Mr. R. B. Hardy. It describes the fortunes of poor Maggy Maclane, who, from a rich young beauty, the toast and rage of the whole country-side, sunk down into a deserted and poverty-stricken old maid. Nothing could exceed the triumphs of Maggy during her brief reign. Suitors of all descriptions, and from all quarters, flocked around her, but Maggy, from the variety of her choice, was ill to please and obdurate, till her mother, "the couthie cosh Widow Maclane," accepts of one of the rejected lovers—a pawkie tailor—and the fortunes of Maggy are turned. The sketches of Maggy's wooers, and of the merry-makings held in her house, are of the richest and broadest description, while the touches of pathos that occur in painting the after-desolation of Maggy's abode—

"It's aye the dry floor, Meg's—the day e'er sae drookin';"

or the emptmess of her garner—

—"the warst's when the wee mouse looks out wi' a tear to her,
Frae the meal-kist o' Maggy Maclane,"

are eminently striking. Indeed, the whole poem we consider to be of first rate excellence, and to the lovers of genuine Scottish idiom it must prove a rare, as to most of them it will be an original, treat.—The author of Maggy Maclane was James Mayne, for many years a small jobbing printer in Glasgow, of which city he was a native. He died in the Island of Trinidad in 1842, whither he had gone some years previous, to edit a newspaper there. He was a nephew of John Mayne, author of "Logan Braes," &c.]

Doon i' the glen by the lown o' the trees,
Lies a wee theeket bield, like a bike for the bees;
But the hinnie there skepp'd—gin ye're no dour to please—
It's virgin Miss Maggy Maclane!
There's few seek Meg's shed noo, the simmer sun jookin';
It's aye the dry floor, Meg's—the day e'er sae drookin'!
But the heather-blabs hing whare the red blude's been shooken
I' bruilzies for Maggy Maclane!

Doon by Meg's howf-tree the gowk comes to woo;
But the corncraik's aye fley'd at her hallan-door joo!
An' the red-breast ne'er cheeps but the weird's at his mou',
For the last o' the roses that's gane!
Nae trystin' at Meg's noo—nae Hallowe'en rockins!
Nae howtowdie guttlens—nae mart-puddin' yockins!
Nae bane i' the blast's teeth blaws snell up Glendockens!
Clean bickers wi' Maggy Maclane!

Meg's auld lyart gutcher swarf'd dead i' the shawe:
Her bein, fouthy minnie,—she's aff an' awa'!
The grey on her pow but a simmerly snaw!—
The couthy, cosh Widow Maclane!
O titties be tentie! though air i' the day wi' ye,—
Think that the green grass may ae day be hay wi' ye!—
Think o' the leal minnie—mayna be aye wi' ye!
When sabbin' for Maggy Maclane.

Lallan' joes—Hielan' joes—Meg ance had wale;
Fo'k wi' the siller, and chiefs wi' the tail!
The yaud left the bum to drink out o' Meg's pail—
The sheltie braw kent "the Maclane."
Awa' owre the muir they cam' stottin' an' stoicherin'!
Tramper an' traveller, a' beakin' an' broicherin'!
Cadgers an' cuddy-creels, oigherin'!—hoigherin'!
"The lanlowpers!"—quo Maggy Maclane.

Cowtes were to fother:—Meg owre the bum flang!
Nowte were to tether:—Meg through the wood rang!
The widow she kenn'd-na to bless or to bann!
Sic waste o' gude wooers to hain!
Yet, aye at the souter, Meg grumph'd her! an' grumph'd her!
The loot-shouther'd wabster, she humph'd her! and humph'd her!
The lamiter tailor, she stump'd her! an' stump'd her!
Her minnie might groo or grane!

The tailor he likit cockleekie broo;
An' doon he cam' wi' a beck an' a boo:—
Quo' Meg,—"We'se sune tak' the cleckon aff you;"—
An' plump! i' the burn he's gane!
The widow's cheek redden'd; her heart it play'd thud! aye;
Her garters she cuist roon' his neck like a wuddie!
She linkit him oot; but wi' wringin' his duddies,
Her weed-ring it's burst in twain!

Wowf was the widow—to haud nor to bing!
The tailor he's aff, an' he's coft a new ring!
Th' deil squeeze his craig's no wordy the string!—
He's waddet auld Widow Maclane!
Auld?—an' a bride! Na, ye'd pitied the tea-pat!
O saut were the skadyens! but balm's in Glenlivat!
The haggis was bockin' oot bluters o' bree-fat,
An' hoteh'd to the piper its lane!—

Doon the bumside, i' the lown o' the glen,
Meg reists her bird-lane, i' a but-an-a-ben:
Steal doon when ye dow,—i' the dearth, gentlemen,—
Ye'se be awmous to Maggy Maclane!
Lane bauks the virgin—nae white pows now keekin
Through key-hole an' cranny; nae cash blade stan's sleekin'
His nicherin' naigie, his gaudamons seekin'!
Alack for the days that are gane!

Lame's fa'n the souter!—some steek i' his thie!
The cooper's clean gyte, wi' a hoopin' coughee!
The smith's got sae blin'—wi' a spunk i' his e'e!—
He's tyned glint o' Maggy Maclane!
Meg brake the kirk pew-door—Auld Beukie leuk'd near-na her!
She dunkled her pattie—Young Sneckie ne'er speir'd for her!
But the warst's when the wee mouse leuks oot, wi' a tear to her,
Frae the meal-kist o' Maggy Maclane!

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