Andrew Lammie, or, Mill of Tiftie's Annie (1820-1830)

Andrew Lammie, or, Mill of Tiftie's Annie  (c. 1820–1830) 

Date is estimated.





Printed and Sold, Wholesale and Retail,

by W. MACNIE, Bookseller.


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 Tifty'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 Tifty's Annie,
His trumpeter rode him before,
Even his same Andrew Lammie.

Her mother called her to the door,
Come here to me my Annie,
Did e'er you see a prettier man
Than the trumpeter of Fyvie.

Nothing she said, but sighing sore,
Alas! for bonny 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 opprest her tender breast,
Thinking on Andrew Lammie.

Love comes in at my bed side,
And love lies down beyond me,
Love so oppress'd 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 oft,
Soon gain'd the heart of Annie.

He call'd me mistress, I said no,
I'm Tifty's bonny Annie,
With apples sweet be did me treat,
And kisses soft and mony.

It's up and down in Tifty'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 Tifty's Annie.

Her father soon a letter wrote,
And sent it on to Fyvie,
To tell the daughter was bewitch'd
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 Tifty's bonny Annie.

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

Where will I find a boy so kind,
That will carry a letter canny,
Who will run to Tifty's town,
Give it to my love, Annie.

Tifty he has daughters three,
Who all are wondrous bonny
But ye'll ken her o'er a' the rest,
Give that to benny Annie.

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

Thou mayst come to the brig of Slugh,
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 e're ye come back,
To see your bonny Annie.

If ye'll be true and constant too,
As I am Andrew Lammie,
I shall thee 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 lock'd the door at night,
Laid by the keys fu' caney,
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 consen t,
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 wonderous 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 stain'd 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 bad given consent,
To wed with Andrew Lammie.

When 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 from my Annie.


This work was published before January 1, 1928, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.