We will a' gae sing, boys;
Where will we begin, boys?
We'll begin where we left aff,
And we'll begin at twelve, boys.

What will be our twelve, boys?
What will be our twelve, boys?
Twelve's the Twelve Apostles ;
Eleven's maidens in a dance;
Ten's the Ten Commandments;
Nine's the Muses o' Parnassus ;
Eight's the table rangers;
Seven's the stars of heaven;

Six the echoing waters;

Five's the hymnlers o' my bower;
Four's the gospel-makers;

Three, three thrivers;

Twa's the lily and the rose,

That shine baith red and green, boys:

My only ane, she walks alane,

And evermair has dune, boys.*

FIRESIDE NURSERY STORIES.

WHAT man of middle age, or above it, does not remember the tales of drollery and wonder which used to be told by the fireside, in cottage and in nursery, by the old women, time out of mind the vehicles for such traditions? These stories were in general of a simple kind, befitting the minds which they were to regale; but in many instances they displayed considerable fancy, at the same time that they derived an inexpressible charm from a certain antique air which they had brought down with them from the world of their birth—a world still more primitive, and rude, and romantic, than that in which they were told, old as it now appears to us. They breathed of a time when society was in its simplest elements, and the most familiar natural things were as yet unascertained from the supernatural. It seems not unlikely that several of these legends had been

*The above two songs are from a large manuscript collection of hitherto unpublished Scottish songs, by Mr P. Buchan.

handed down from very early ages-from the mythic times of our Gothic history-undergoing of course great change, in accordance with the changing character of the people, but yet, like the wine in the Heidelberg tun, not altogether renewed.

A considerable number of popular stories, apparently of the kind here alluded to, are cited by name-but, alas! by name only-in the curious early specimen of Scottish prose composition, The Complaynt of Scotland, a sort of quaint political pamphlet published in 1548. Amongst others are the tale of The Red Etin, The Black Bull of Norroway, The Walle of the World's End, and Pure Tynt Rashiecoat, all of which Dr Leyden, in his learned notes on the book, says he remembers hearing recited in his infancy; besides a tale of

Arthur Knight, who raid on night,
With gilten spur and candlelight.

The three first of these have fortunately been recovered, and are here committed to print. Preceding them, however, are a few of the simplest narratives of the Scottish nursery, in prose as well as verse.

THE MILK-WHITE DOO.

There was once a man that wrought in the fields, and had a wife, and a son, and a dochter. One day he caught a hare, and took it hame to his wife, and bade her make it ready for his dinner. While it was on the fire, the goodwife aye tasted and tasted at it, till she had tasted it a' away, and then she didna ken what to do for her goodman's dinner. So she cried in Johnie her son to come and get his head kaimed; and when she was kaiming his head, she slew him, and put him into the pat. Well, the goodman came hame to his dinner, and his wife set down Johnie well boiled to him; and when he was eating, he takes up a fit [foot], and says, 'That's surely my Johnie's fit.' 'Sic nonsense! it's ane o' the hare's,' says the goodwife. Syne he took up a hand, and says, 'That's surely my Johnie's hand.' 'Ye're havering, goodman; it's anither o' the hare's feet.' So when the goodman had eaten his dinner, little Katy, Johnie's sister, gathered a' the banes, and put them in below a stane at the cheek o' the door

Where they grew, and they grew,

To a milk-white doo,

That took its wings,

And away it flew.

And it flew till it came to where twa women were washing claes, and it sat down on a stane, and cried—

'Pew, pew,

My minny me slew,

My daddy me chew,

My sister gathered my banes,

And put them between twa milk-white stanes;
And I grew, and I grew,

To a milk-white doo,

And I took to my wings, and away I flew?

'Say that owre again, my bonny bird, and we'll gie ye a' thir claes,' says the women.

'Pew, pew,

My minny me slew,' &c.

And it got the claes; and then flew till it came to a man counting a great heap o' siller, and it sat down and cried— 'Pew, pew,

My minny me slew,' &c.

'Say that again, my bonny bird, and I'll gie ye a' this siller,' says the man.

And it got a' the siller; and syne it flew till it came to twa millers grinding corn, and it cried

'Say that again, my bonny bird, and I'll gie ye this millstane,' says the miller.

And it gat the millstane; and syne it flew till it lighted on its father's house-top. It threw sma' stanes down the lum, and Katy came out to see what was the matter; and the doo threw a' the claes to her. Syne the father came out, and the doo threw a' the siller to him. And syne the mother cam out, and the doo threw down the millstane upon her

and killed her. And at last it flew away, and the goodman and his dochter after that

Lived happy, and died happy,

And never drank out of a dry cappy.

[It is curious to find that this story, familiar in every Scottish nursery fifty years ago, is also prevalent in Germany, where it is called Machaudel Boom, or the Holly Tree. The song of the bird spirit in Lower Saxon is almost the same word for word

Min moder de mi slacht't,
Min vader de mi att,
Min swester de Marleeniken,
Söcht alle min beeniken

Un bind't se in een siden dook

Legt's unner den machaudel boom,

Kyvitt! kyvitt! ach wat een schön vogel bin ick !]

THE CROWDEN DOO.

'Where hae ye been a' day,

My bonny wee crowden doo?"

'Oh I hae been at my stepmother's house;
Make my bed, mammie, now!
Make my bed, mammie, now!'

'Where did ye get your dinner,
My bonny wee crowden doo?"
'I got it in my stepmother's;

Make my bed, mammie, now, now, now!
Make my bed, mammie, now!'

'What did she gie ye to your dinner,
My bonny wee crowden doo ?'
'She ga'e me a little four-footed fish ;
Make my bed, mammie, now, now, now!
Make my bed, mammie, now!'

'Where got she the four-footed fish,

My bonny wee crowden doo ?'

'She got it down in yon well strand;

Oh make my bed, mammie, now, now, now!

Make my bed, mammie, now!'

'What did she do wi' the banes o't,

My bonny wee crowden doo?'

'She ga'e them to the little dog;

Make my bed, mammie, now, now, now!

Make my bed, mammie, now!'

"Oh what became o' the little dog,
My bonny wee crowden doo?'
'Oh it shot out its feet and died!

Oh make my bed, mammie, now, now, now!
Oh make my bed, mammie, now!'

[This beautiful little ballad, of which the above is Mrs Lockhart's copy, as she used to sing it to her father at Abbotsford, is the same as a ballad called Grandmother Addercook, which is popular in Germany. There is a similar ballad of great beauty-Lord Randal-in the Border Minstrelsy, where, however, the victim is a handsome young huntsman.]

THE CATTIE SITS IN THE KILN-RING SPINNING.
The cattie sits in the kiln-ring,

Spinning, spinning;

And by came a little wee mousie,

Rinning, rinning.

'Oh what's that you're spinning, my loesome,
Loesome lady?'

'I'm spinning a sark to my young son,'
Said she, said she.

'Weel mot he brook it, my loesome,
Loesome lady?

'Gif he dinna brook it weel, he may brook it ill,'
Said she, said she.

'I soopit my house, my loesome,
Loesome lady?

'Twas a sign ye didna sit amang dirt then,'
Said she, said she.

'I fand twall pennies, my winsome,
Winsome lady?'

"Twas a sign ye warna sillerless,'

Said she, said she.

'I gaed to the market, my loesome,
Loesome lady.'

"'Twas a sign ye didna sit at hame then,'
Said she, said she.

'I coft a sheepie's head, my winsome,
Winsome lady.

"Twas a sign ye warna kitchenless,'
Said she, said she.