INTRODUCTION.
The beautiful and long-contested ballad of "Auld Robin Gray" was well known to the Editor, from a very early period of his life, as the production of Lady Anne Lindsay of Balcarras; in whose name it is now formally claimed. Mrs Russell, wife of Lieutenant-Colonel Russell of Ashesteil, and maternal aunt of the Editor, was upon a visit at the house of Balcarras when it was written; and, as a most intimate friend of the fair Authoress, was admitted to her confidence while it was in the course of being composed. Mrs Russell sang beautifully, and with much feeling; and it may easily be supposed, that "Auld Robin Gray" was often her choice. Whatever secrecy she might at first think proper to observe, the name of the real Authoress was not withheld at a later period, when attempts were made to deprive her friend Lady Anne of her just fame. In fact, most of her domestic circle became acquainted with the particulars, and amongst others the present Editor.
This circumstance, joined, perhaps, to a continuance of regard, which may be termed hereditary, induced Lady Anne to distinguish the Editor by imparting to him the following interesting account of the origin of "Auld Robin Gray," contained in a letter dated July, 1823, in which, after mentioning that the Editor was the first person whom she had favoured with such an explanation, her Ladyship proceeds thus:—
"'Robin Gray,' so called from its being the name of the old herd at Balcarras, was born soon after the close of the year 1771. My sister Margaret had married, and accompanied her husband to London; I was melancholy, and endeavoured to amuse myself by attempting a few poetical trifles. There was an ancient Scotch melody, of which I was passionately fond; , who lived before your day, used to sing it to us at Balcarras. She did not object to its having improper words, though I did. I longed to sing old Sophy's air to different words, and give to its plaintive tones some little history of virtuous distress in humble life, such as might suit it. While attempting to effect this in my closet, I called to my little sister, now Lady Hardwicke, who was the only person near me, 'I have been writing a ballad, my dear; I am oppressing my heroine with many misfortunes. I have already sent her Jamie to sea—and broken her father's arm—and made her mother fall sick—and given her Auld Robin Gray for her lover; but I wish to load her with a fifth sorrow within the four lines, poor thing! Help me to one.'—'Steal the cow, sister Anne,' said the little Elizabeth. The cow was immediately lifted by me, and the song completed. At our fire-side, and amongst our neighbours, 'Auld Robin Gray' was always called for. I was pleased in secret with the approbation it met with; but such was my dread of being suspected of writing anything, perceiving the shyness it created in those who could write nothing, that I carefully kept my own secret.
"Happening to sing it one day at Dalkeith-House, with more feeling perhaps than belonged to a common ballad, our friend Lady Frances Scott smiled, and fixing her eyes on me, said, 'You wrote this song yourself.' The blush that followed confirmed my guilt. Perhaps I blushed the more (being then very young) from the recollection of the coarse words from which I borrowed the tune, and was afraid of the raillery which might have taken place if it had been discovered I had ever heard such. Be that as it may, from one honest man I had an excellent hint. The Laird of Dalziel, after hearing it, broke out into the angry exclamation of, 'O the villain! O the auld rascal! I ken wha stealt the poor lassie's coo—it was Auld Robin Gray himsell.' I thought it a bright idea, and treasured it up for a future occasion. Meantime, little as this matter seems to have been worthy of a dispute, it afterwards became a party question between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries. 'Robin Gray' was either a very very ancient ballad, composed perhaps by David Rizzio, and a great curiosity, or a very very modern matter, and no curiosity at all. I was persecuted to avow whether I had written it or not—where I had got it. Old Sophy kept my counsel, and I kept my own, in spite of the gratification of seeing a reward of twenty guineas offered in the newspapers to the person who should ascertain the point past a doubt, and the still more flattering circumstance of a visit from Mr Jerningham, secretary to the Antiquarian Society, who endeavoured to entrap the truth from me in a manner I took amiss. Had he asked me the question obligingly, I should have told him the fact distinctly and confidentially. The annoyance, however, of this important ambassador from the Antiquaries, was amply repaid to me by the noble exhibition of the 'Ballat of Auld Robin Gray's Courtship,' as performed by dancing-dogs under my window. It proved its popularity from the highest to the lowest, and gave me pleasure while I hugged myself in my obscurity.
"Such was the history of the first part of it. As to the second, it was written many years after, in compliment to my dear old mother, who said, 'Anny, I wish you would tell me how that unlucky business of Jenny and Jamie ended.' To meet her wishes as far as I could, the Second Part was written. It is not so pleasing as the First; the early loves and distresses of youth go more to the heart than the contritions, confessions, and legacies of old age. My dread, however, of being named as an Authoress still remaining, though I sung it to my mother, I gave her no copy of it; but her affection for me impressed it on a memory which retained scarcely anything else. I wrote another version of the Second Part, as coming from Jenny's own lips, which some people may like better, from its being in the same measure.
"I must also mention the Laird of Dalziel's advice, who, in a tête-a-tête, afterwards said, 'My dear, the next time you sing that song, try to change the words a wee bit, and instead of singing, 'To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea,' say, to make it twenty merks, for a Scottish pund is but twenty pence, and Jamie was na such a gowk as to leave Jenny and gang to sea to lessen his gear. It is that line [whispered he] that tells me that sang was written by some bonnie lassie that didna ken the value of the Scots money quite so well as an auld writer in the town of Edinburgh would have kent it,'
"I was delighted with the criticism of old Dalziel; if it had occurred to the Antiquarian Society, it might have saved Mr Jerningham the trouble of his visit. But I have never corrected the error by changing the one pound, which has always passed current in its present state."
The Editor has retained both the copies of the Continuation, the poetical beauty of which cannot be disputed, although some readers may be of opinion, notwithstanding Dalziel's criticism, that taking away Robin Gray's honest fame, rather injures the simplicity of the original tale, where all are rendered miserable by no evil passions or culpable conduct on any side, but by a source of distress arising out of the best and most amiable feelings of all parties.
The Editor also dissents from Dalziel's opinion concerning the amount of the pund mentioned, by Jamie's living in the commercial county of Fife, in which county alone a Scottish peasant would have thought of mending his fortune by going to sea. The poor lover might be acquainted with the pound sterling, and enlarge his views even to the acquisition of that sum.