Peggy Baun- Maidservant (Aberd) c1803 Scott
[From: Popular Ballads and Songs: From Tradition, Manuscripts and Scarce editions, Volume 1 edited by Robert Jamieson, 1806
From Jim Brown: "Robert Eden Scott (1769-1811), Professor of Moral Philosophy at King's College Aberdeen from 1800, better known in ballad history as the nephew of Anna Gordon and, in or before 1783, the scribe of the first two manuscripts of her ballads. He lent the original of "Jamieson's Brown MS" to Robert Jamieson in 1799."
R. Matteson 2016]
LORD KENNETH
FAIR ELLINOUR.
In August, 1799, the editor, to save the trouble of transcribing, and, at the same time, shew a few of his literary correspondents how he was employing his leisure hours, got a few copies of this little piece printed along with "Donul and Evir," on a sheet of letter-paper, for the convenience of being sent by the post. To that copy was prefixed this short notice: "The author remembers having, when a child, heard a silly ditty of a young man, who, returning homeward from shooting with his gun, saw his sweetheart, and shot her for a swan. This is all he remembers of this piece, of which he has not been able to procure a copy." A considerable time after, he was favoured with the rude original of "Peggy Baun," (i. e. fair-haired Peggy) by his much-valued friend, professor Scott, of King's College, Aberdeen, to whose zeal, industry, and politeness, he owes, either directly or indirectly, the greater part of the best traditionary ballads in this collection. It was taken from the recitation of one of his maidservants; and, indeed, it is fit only for the nursery. In it, the unlucky sportsman runs home to his father, and tells him what he has done, and that he will" run his country."
Out spuk his old father,
(His head it was grey)
"O, keep your am country,
My son," he did say.
"O, keep your ain country
Let your trial come on, &c.
* * * *
She appeared to her uncle,
And to him said she,
"O uncle, dear uncle,
Jamie Warick is free.
"Ye'll neither hang him nor head him,
Nor do him any wrong;
Be kind to my darling.
Now since I am gone.
"For once as I was walking,
It fell a shower of rain;
I went under the hedging,
The rain for to shun.
"As he was a-hunting,
With his dog and his gun,
By my white apron,
He took me for a swan."
This seems to be one of the very lowest description of vulgar modern English ballads, which are sung about the streets in country towns, and sold, four or five for a half penny, to maid-servants and children; and I owe an apology to my readers for attempting to introduce such paltry stuff to their notice; but one of my classical friends, on reading " Lord Kenneth," asked me whether I had not Ovid's beautiful and romantic story of Procris and Aura in my eye, when I wrote it. Had that been the case, I ought certainly to have made something better of it than I have done; but I most assuredly thought as little of Procris and Aura, when I was writing " Lord Kenneth," as did the great author of " Peggy Baun." A lover killing his mistress, a grey-headed old father, and a ghost, seemed very fine things to a child of five or six years old; and I remembered the story long after I had forgot the terms in which it was conveyed.
LORD KENNETH AND FAIR ELLINOUR.
Lord Kenneth, in a gay mornin',
Pat on the goud and green;
And never had a comlier youth
Don, Spey, or Lossie seen.
He's greathit him fu' gallantlie,
Wi' a' his tackle yare;
Syne, like a baron bauld and free,
To gude green wood can fare.
The rae-buck startit frae his lair
The girsie hows amang;
But ne'er his sleekie marrow fand,
An Kenneth's bow mat twang.
Frae out the haslie holt the deer
Sprang glancing thro' the schaw;
But little did their light feet boot,
An he his bow mat draw.
The caiper-caillie and tarmachin
Craw'd crouse on hill and muir;
But mony a gorie wing or e'en
Shaw'd Kenneth's flane was sure.
He shot them east, he shot them west,
The black cock and the brown;
He shot them on hill, moss, and muir,
Till the sun was gangin' down.
He shot them up, he shot them down,
The deer but and the rae;
And he has scour'd the gude green wood
Till to-fall o' the day.
The quarry till his menyie he
Has gie'n herewith to bear;
Syne, lanelie by the lover's lamp,
Thro' frith and fell can fare.
And blythe he fare, and merrilie;
I wate he thocht na lang,
While o' his winsome Ellinour
With lightsome heart he sang.
And weel he mat, for Ellinour
Had set the bride-ale day;
And Ellinour had ne'er a feer
In Bad'nach or Strathspey.
And as he near'd her bigly bower,
The fainer ay he grew;
The primrose bank, the burn, the bield,
Whare they had been to view.
And he had passed the birken heugh,
And dipt and kist the tree,
That heard the blushing Ellinour
Consent his bride to be.
And now he raught the glassie lin,
And thro' the saughs sae grey;
He saw what kidied a milk-white swan,
That there did sport and play.
Fair swelled her bosom o'er the broo,
As driven snaw to see;—
He shot—o'er true to Kenneth's hand,
The deadly flane did flee!
A shriek he heard; and swithe a graen
Sank gugglin in the wave!
Aghast, he ran, he sprang, he wist
Nor what nor wha to save!
But oh! the teen o' Kenneth's heart,
What tongue can mind to tell?
He drew the dead corse to the strand;
Twas Ellinour hersell!