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

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THE OLD SCOTS BALLAD

OF

ANDREW LAMMIE,

OR,

Mill of Tifty's Annie.

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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.

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FALKIRK:
PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

ANDREW LAMMIE.

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At Mill of Tifty lived a man,
⁠In the neighbourhood of Fyvie,
He had a lovely daughter fair,
⁠Was called bonny Annie.

Her bloom was like the springing flower,
⁠That hails the rosy morning,
With innocence and graceful mien,
⁠Her beauteous form adorning.

Lord Fyvie had a trumpeter,
⁠Whose name was Andrew Lammie,
He had the art to gain the heart
⁠Of Mill of Tiftie's Annie.

Proper he was both young and gay,
⁠His like was not in Fyvie,
Nor was ane there that could compare,
⁠With this same Andrew Lammie.

Lord Fyvie he rode by the door,
⁠Where lived Tiftie'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
⁠Then 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 oppressed my tender breast,
⁠And love will waste my body.

The first time me and my love met,
⁠Was 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 Tiftie's bonny Annie;
With apples sweet he did me treat,
⁠And kisses soft and many.

It's up and down in Tiftie's den,
⁠Where the burn runs clear and bonny,
I've often gane to meet my love,
⁠My bonny Andrew Lammie.

But now, alas! her father heard,
⁠That the trumpeter of Fyvie,
Had had the art to gain the heart
⁠Of Mill of Tiftie'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 Tiftie's bonny Annie.

Woe be to Mill of Tiftie'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 Tiftie's bonny Annie.

Where will I find a boy so kind,
⁠That will carry a letter canny,
Who will run to Tiftie'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 bonny Annie.

It's up and down it Tiftie's den,
⁠Where the burn runs clear and bonnie,
There wilt thou come and I'll attend,
⁠My love I long to see thee.

Thou may'st 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'll buy to thee a bridal gown,
⁠My love I'll buy it bonny,
But I'll be dead ere ye come back,
⁠To see your bonny Annie.

If ye'll be true and constant too,
⁠As I am Andrew Lammie,
I shall ye we wed when I come back
⁠To see the lands of Fyvie.

I will be true and constant too,
⁠To thee my Andrew Lammie;
But my bridal bed or then'll 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 now for ever bid adieu
⁠To thee, my Andrew Lammie,
Or 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 to 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 ye are to Annie.

But if ye 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 bonny 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 were 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 wonderoas bonny,
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 in the hall door,
⁠For liking Andrew Lammie.

Alas! my father and mother dear,
⁠Why so cruel to your Annie;
My heart was broken first by love,
⁠My brother has broke my body.

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.

Ye neighbours hear baith far and near,
⁠And pity Tifty's Annie,
Who dies for love of one poor lad,
⁠For bonny 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 Fyvie,
Her tender heart it soon did break,
⁠And never saw Andrew Lammie.

Lord Fyvie he did wring his hands,
⁠Said, alas! for Tifty's Annie;
The fairest flower cut down by love,
⁠That ever sprang in Fyvie.

Woe be to Mill of Tifty's pride,
⁠He might have let them marry,
I should have given them both to live,
⁠Into 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.

Whan Andrew home from 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 bonny,
With tears I'll view the Brig of Shigh,
⁠Where I parted with my Annie.