The music here is from a series of books I lent Paul Burns out the RSH archive, ‘Scotish Minstrel’ (undated 19thC publications). He has very wonderfully provided these for us from them.
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Jenny has kindly loaned to me some rare books in her ‘Scotish Minstrel’ collection of Vocal melodies.
This tune can be found in volume 5 and is song 2 entitled ‘The Bonnie Breast Knots.’
The title refers to a lady’s “breast knot” – the decoration of ribbons on the bodice of a woman’s dress.
Headphones recommended.
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Braes O’ Killicrankie is from volume 4 of the ‘Scotish Minstrel Collection’. The Battle of Killiecrankie was fought in June, 1689.
Where hae ye been sae braw, lad?
Where hae ye been sae brankie-o?
Where hae ye been sae braw, lad?
Cam’ ye by Killiecrankie-o?
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An’ ye had been where I hae been
Ye wadna been sae cantie-o
An’ ye had seen what I hae seen
On the braes o’ Killiecrankie-o
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I fought at land, I fought at sea
At hame I fought my auntie-o
But I met the Devil and Dundee
On the braes o’ Killiecrankie-o
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The bauld pitcur fell in a furr
And Clavers gat a clankie-o
Or I had fed an Athol gled
On the braes o’ Killiecrankie-o
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This tune title in the ‘Scotish Minstrel’ is ‘Strathearn.’
The tune is actually titled ‘Miss Carmichael’s Minuet’ (Circa 1768).
A poem accompanies the tune, entitled ‘Adieu To Strathearn,’ by Carolina Oliphant (1766 to 1845), Baroness Nairn.
Strathearn, oh! how shall I quit thy sweet groves?
How bid thee a long, oh! an endless adieu?
Sad memory over such happiness roves,
As not hope’s own magic can never renew.
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Sweet scene of my childhood, delight of my youth!
Thy far-winding waters no more I must see;
Thy high-wavering bowers, thy gay woodland flowers,
They wave now, they bloom now, no longer for me.
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From the ‘Scotish Minstrel’ book collection comes this tune; ‘Sir James the Ross, A Historical Ballad,’ sometimes called ‘The Buchanshire Tragedy,’ was composed by the youthful Michael Bruce (1746-1767).
SIR JAMES THE ROSS.
Of all the Scottish northern chiefs,
Of high and warlike fame,
The bravest was Sir James Ross,
A knight of meikle fame.
His growth was like the tufted fir
Which crowns yon mountain s brow,
And, waving o’er his shoulders broad,
His locks of yellow flew.
The chieftain of the brave clan Ross,
A firm undaunted band,
Five hundred warriors drew their swords
Beneath his high command.
Thrice he had stood the bloody fight
Against the English keen,
Ere two-and-twenty opening springs
His blooming youth had seen.
The fair Matilda dear he loved,
A maid of beauty rare ;
Even Margaret or, our Scottish throne,
Was never half so fair.
Lang he had woo’d, lang she refused.
With seeming scorn and pride ;
Yet alt her eyes confess’d the tale
Her faithless tongue deny’d.
At length, pleased with his well-tired faith,
She allow’d his tender claim ;
She vow’d to him her virgin heart.
And own’d a mutual flame.
Her father, Buchan’s cruel lord,
Her passion disapproved,
And bade her wed Sir John the Grahame,
And leave the youth she loved.
At night they met, as they were want,
Within a shadey wood,
Where, on a bank, beside a burn,
A blooming saugh tree stood.
Conceal’d amang the underwood
The crafty Donald lay,
The brother of sir John the Grahame,
To hear what they might say.
When thus the maid began, “My sire
Your passion disapproves,
And bids me wed Sir John the Grahame;
So here must end our loves.
My father’s will must be obey’d.
Nought boots me to withstand :
Some fairer maid, in beauty’s bloom,
Must bless you with her hand.
Matilda soon shall be forgot,
And from thy mind effaced:
But may that happiness be thine,
Which I can never taste.”
“What do I hear? Is this thy vow?”
Sir James the Ross replied;
“And will Matilda wed the Grahame?
Though sworn to be my bride.
His sword shall sooner pierce my heart,
Than ‘reave me of these charms!”
Then clasp’d her to his beating breast,
Fast lock’d her in his arms.
“I spake to try thy love!” said she,
“I’ll ne’er wed man but thee:
The grave shall be my bridal bed,
Ere Grahame my husband be.
Take then, dear youth, this faithful kiss,
In witness of my troth;
And every plague become my lot,
That day I break my oath.”
They parted thus, the sun was set ?
Up hastily Donald flies.
“And, Turn thee. turn thee, beardless youth!”
He loud insulting cries.
Soon turn’d about the fearless chief,
And soon his sword he drew:
For Donald’s blade, before his breast,
Had pierced his tartans through.
“This for my brother’s slighted love!
His wrongs sit on my arm.”
Three paces back the youth retired,
To save himself from harm.
Returning swift, his hand he rear’d
From Donald’s head above,
And through his brains and crashing bones
His sharp-edged weapon drove.
He stagger’d, reel’d, then tumbled down
A lump of breathless clay;
“So fall my foes!” quoth valiant Ross,
And stately rode away.
Through the green wood he quickly hied
Unto Lord Buchan’s hall,
And at Matilda’s widow stood,
And thus began to call :
“Art thou asleep, Matilda dear?
Awake! my love, awake!
Thy luckless lover calls on thee,
A long farewell to take.
For I have slain fierce Donald Grahame?
His blood is on my sword?
And far far distant are my men,
For to protect their lord.
To Skye I’ll now direct my way,
Where my two brothers hide.
And raise the valiant of the Isle
To combat on my side.”
“O do not so!” the maid replied,
“With me till morning stay;
For dark and dreary is the road,
And dangerous is the way.
All night I’ll watch you in the park,
My faithful page I’ll send,
To run and raise the Ross’s clan,
Their master to defend.
Beneath a bush he laid him down,
And row’d him in his plaid;
While, trembling for her lover’s fate,
At distance stood the maid.
Swift ran the page o’er hill and dale,
Till, in a lowly glen,
He met the furious Sir John Grahame,
With twenty of his men.
“Where goest thou, little page?” said he,
“So late who did thee send?”
“I go to raise the Ross’s clan,
Their master to defend;
For he has slain fierce Donald Grahame?
His blood is on his sword?
And far far distant are his men,
For to protect their lord.”
“And has he slain my brother dear?”
The furious Grahame replies;
Dishonour blast my name! but he
By me ere morning die.
Tell me where is Sir James the Ross?
I will thee well reward,”
“He sleeps into Lord Buchan’s park,
Matilda is his guard.”
They prick’d their steeds in furious mood,
And scour’d along the lea,
And reach’d unto Lord Buchan’s park
By dawning of the day.
Matilda stood without the gate,
To whom thus Grahame did say?
“Saw ye Sir James the Ross last night,
Or did he pass this way?”
“Last day at noon,” Matilda said,
“Sir James the Ross pass’d by;
He urged his steed in furious mood,
And onward fast did hie.
By this time he’s at Edinburgh.
If man and horse hold good.”
“Your page then lied, who said he was
Now sleeping in your wood.”
She wrung her hands, she tore her hair,
“Brave Ross thou art betray’d!
And ruin’d by those means,” she cried,
“From whence I hoped thine aid.”
By this the valiant knight awoke,
The virgin’s shrieks he heard,
And up he rose and drew his sword,
Ere the fierce band appear’d.
“Your sword last night my brother slew,
His blood yet dims its shine:
But before the rising of the sun
Your blood shall reek on mine.”
“You word it well,” the chief replies,
“But deeds approve the man;
Set bye your men, and, hand to hand,
We’ll try what valour can.
Oft boasting hides a coward’s heart;
My trusty sword you fear,
Which shone in front at Flodden-Field,
While yours kept in the rear.”
Then forward strode in dauntless mood,
And dared him to the fight:
The Grahame gave back? he fear’d his arm,
For well he knew its might.
Four of his men, the bravest four,
Sank down beneath his sword;
Yet still he scorn this base revenge,
And sought their haughty lord.
Behind him basely came the Grahame,
And wounded him in the side;
Out spouting came the purple tide,
And all his garments dyed.
Yet of his sword ne’er quit the grip,
Nor dropt he to the ground,
Till through his hateful enemy’s heart
He pierced a mortal wound.
Grahame, like a tree by wind o’erthrown,
Fell lifeless on the clay;
While down beside him sank the Ross,
Who faint and dying lay.
The sad Matilda saw him fall,
Oh. spare his life!” she cried;
Lord Buchan’s daughter craves his life;
Let, her not be denied.”
Her well-known voice the hero heard,
And raised his death-closed eyes;
Then fix’d them on the weeping maid,
And weakly thus replies:
“In vain Matilda begs a life
By death’s arrest denied:
My race is race is run:- Adieu !” he cried,
Then closed his eyes and died.
The sword yet warm from his left side
With frantic hand she drew;
I come! Sir James the Ross!” she cried,
” I come to follow you.”
She lean’d the hilt upon the ground,
And bared her snowy breast,
Then fell upon her lover’s face,
And sank to endless rest.
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O SPEED, LORD NITHSDALE, SPEED YE FAST
O speed, Lord Nithsdale, speed ye fast,
Sin’ ye maun frae your Countrie flee;
Nae mercy mot fa’ to your share;
Nae pity is for thine an’ thee.
Thy Lady sits in lanely bower,
And fast the tear fa’s frae her e’e;
And aye she sighs, “O, blaw ye winds,
And bear Lord Nithsdale far frae me.”
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Her heart, sae wae, was like to break,
While kneeling by the taper bright;
But ae red drap cam tae her cheek,
As shone the morning’s rosy light.
Lord Nithsdale’s Bark she mot na see,
Winds sped it swifty o’er the main:
“O, ill betide,” quoth that fair dame,
“Wha’ sic a comely knight had slain.”
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Lord Nithsdale lov’d wi’ mickle love;
But he thought on his Countrie’s wrang;
And he was deem’d a traitor syne,
And forc’d, frae a’ he lov’d, to gang.
“Oh! I will gae to my lov’d Lord,
He may na smile, I trow bot me;”
But hame, and ha’, and bonnie bowers,
Nae mair will glad Lord Nithsdale’s e’e.
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I was browsing through the Scottish Minstrel collection and found this cracker of a tune, I have given it a medieval tone. The tune called ‘Donald Couper’ is very old, and it can be traced back at least as far as the middle of the 17th century.
Hey, Donald, howe Donald,
Hey Donald Couper!
He’s gane awa’ to seek a wife,
And he’s come hame without her.
O Donald Couper and his man
Held to a Highland fair, man;
And a’ to seek a bonnie lass—
But fient a ane was there, man.
At length he get a carlin gray,
And she’s come hirplin’ hame, man;
And she’s fawn ower the buffet stool,
And brak’ her rumple-bane, man.
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Please Thank Paul for his Contribution to the preservation of Scottish History by
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