Kate of Aberdeen.
["Kate of Aberdeen," says Burns, "is, I believe, the work of poor Cunningham the player; of whom the following anecdote, though told before, deserves a recital. A fat dignitary of the church coming past Cunningham one Sunday, as the poor poet was busy plying a fishing-rod in some stream near Durham, his native county, his reverence reprimanded Cunningham very severely for such an occupation on such a day. The poor poet, with that inoffensive gentleness of manners which was his peculiar characteristic, replied, that he hoped God and his reverence would forgive his seeming profanity of that sacred day, 'as he had no dinner to eat, but what lay at the bottom of that pool!' This, Mr. Woods, the player, who knew Cunningham well, and esteemed him much, assured me was true." John Cunningham was a descendant of the Cunninghams of Euterkine in Ayrshire, and was born in Dublin (not Durham, as Burns has it,) in 1729. His father was an extensive wine-merchant in the Irish capital, but early in life, he abandoned the parental roof, and took to the stage. He was long a performer in the Edinburgh Theatre, under the management of Mr. Digges. Latterly, he was engaged at the theatre in Newcastle, where he died in the year 1773. He was the author of various poetical pieces, and of a drama called "Love in a mist." His "Kate of Aberdeen" appears in the "London Songster," 1767, and was set to music by Jonathan Battishill. It was for several seasons popular at Vauxhall Gardens.]
The silver moon's enamour'd beam
Steals softly through the night,
To wanton with the winding stream,
And kiss reflected light.
To beds of state go, balmy sleep,
('Tis where you've seldom been,)
May's vigils while the shepherds keep
With Kate of Aberdeen.
Upon the green the virgins wait,
In rosy chaplets gay,
Till morn unbar her golden gate,
And give the promised May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare,
The promised May, when seen,
Not half so fragrant or so fair
As Kate of Aberdeen.
Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,
We'll rouse the nodding grove;
The nested birds shall raise their throats,
And hail the maid I love:
And see the matin lark mistakes,
He quits the tufted green;
Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks—
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.
Now lightsome o'er the level mead,
Where midnight fairies rove,
Like them the jocund dance we'll lead,
Or tune the reed to love:
For see the rosy May draws nigh,
She claims a virgin queen;
And hark, the happy shepherd's cry,
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.
Bet of Aberdeen.
[Written by Alexander Rodger. Music by M. Wilson.]
How brightly beams the bonnie moon
Frae out the azure sky,
While ilka little star aboon
Seems sparkling bright wi' joy.
How calm the eve! how blest the hour!
How soft the sylvan scene!
How fit to meet thee, lovely flower!
Sweet Bet of Aberdeen.
Now let us wander through the broom,
And o'er the flowery lea;
While simmer wafts her rich perfume
Frae yonder hawthorn tree,
There on yon mossy bank we'll rest,
Where we've sae aften been,
Clasp'd to each other's throbbing breast,
Sweet Bet of Aberdeen.
How sweet to view that face so meek,
That dark expressive eye;
To kiss that lovely blushing cheek,
Those lips of coral dye;
But oh! to hear thy seraph strains,
Thy maiden sighs between,
Makes rapture thrill through all my vein
Sweet Bet of Aberdeen.
