Craft were my bride,
      Wi’ purples and pearlings enew. 
        Dear and dearest of ony,
        I ‘ve woo’d, and bookit, and a’;
        And do you think scorn o’ your Johnnie,
        And grieve to be married at a’?”

    She turn’d, and she blush’d, and she smiled,
      And she lookit sae bashfully down;
    The pride o’ her heart was beguiled,
      And she play’d wi’ the sleeve o’ her gown;
    She twirl’d the tag o’ her lace,
      And she nippit her boddice sae blue;
    Syne blinkit sae sweet in his face,
      And aff like a maukin she flew. 
        Woo’d, and married, and a’,
        Married and carried awa’;
        She thinks hersel’ very weel aff,
        To be woo’d, and married, and a’.

[34] Of the song, “Woo’d, and married, and a’,” there is another version, published in Johnson’s “Musical Museum,” vol. i. p. 10, which was long popular among the ballad-singers.  This was composed by Alexander Ross, schoolmaster of Lochlee, author of “Helenore, or the Fortunate Shepherdess.”  A song, having a similar commencement, had previously been current on the Border.

WILLIAM DUDGEON.

Though the author of a single popular song, William Dudgeon is entitled to a place among the modern contributors to the Caledonian minstrelsy.  Of his personal history, only a very few facts have been recovered.  He was the son of a farmer in East-Lothian, and himself rented an extensive farm at Preston, in Berwickshire.  During his border tour in May 1787, the poet Burns met him at Berrywell, the residence of the father of his friend Mr Robert Ainslie, who acted as land-steward on the estate of Lord Douglas in the Merse.  In his journal, Burns has thus recorded his impression of the meeting:—­“A Mr Dudgeon, a poet at times, a worthy, remarkable character, natural penetration, a great deal of information, some genius, and extreme modesty.”  Dudgeon died in October 1813, about his sixtieth year.

UP AMONG YON CLIFFY ROCKS.

    Up among yon cliffy rocks
      Sweetly rings the rising echo,
    To the maid that tends the goats
    Lilting o’er her native notes. 
      Hark, she sings, “Young Sandy ’s kind,
        An’ he ’s promised aye to lo’e me;
      Here ’s a brooch I ne’er shall tine,
        Till he ’s fairly married to me. 
    Drive away, ye drone, Time,
    And bring about our bridal day.

    “Sandy herds a flock o’ sheep;
      Aften does he blaw the whistle
    In a strain sae saftly sweet,
    Lammies list’ning daurna bleat. 
      He ’s as fleet ’s the mountain roe,
        Hardy as the Highland heather,
      Wading through the winter snow,
        Keeping aye his flock together;
    But a plaid, wi’ bare houghs,
    He braves the bleakest norlan’ blast.