Who was Kate Dalrymple?
by Finlay Forbes
B&F November 2005
A few years ago, Radio Scotland floated the idea of changing ‘Take the Floor’s’ familiar signature tune of Kate Dalrymple to something that our broadcasting gurus and guardians of public taste considered more appropriate to the spirit of the age. Clearly that well-known but all too often ignored piece of consultant’s wisdom, “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it”, had yet to reach Radio Scotland’s corridors of power. (Or perhaps those who inhabited the corridors subscribed to the normally plausible view that consultant’s wisdom was an oxymoron).
A flood of protests, including threats of a mass listened boycott followed and all thoughts of change were quickly and very publicly abandoned or at least put on hold pending a more opportune moment (such as when the Grim Reaper finally claims the last of the current generation of listeners).
But who was this Kate Dalrymple who over the years has managed to inspire so much loyalty and affection in the hearts of those of us who love Scottish Dance music?
One theory cited in two seemingly separate sources (although it could be the same source in two different places) is that the lady in question was a famous eighteenth century beauty who among other things, was the subject of a portrait by the great English artist Thomas Gainsborough (1727-1788)
One rather large fly in the theoretical ointment is that no authoritative list of Thomas Gainsborough’s works includes a painting of anyone called ‘Kate Dalrymple’. I have no doubt that the proponents of the theory are not going to allow such a minor detail to stand in the way of a good story especially when the more sordid reality emerges. After all, she could have been a famous eighteenth century beauty whom Gainsborough never quite got around to painting.
In reality, what we have here is a serious case of mistaken identity. Gainborough’s subject was not our beloved Kate Dalrymple the notorious and beautiful royal courtesan Grace Dalrymple (Born Edinburgh 1758?, died Ville d’Avray France 1823). The lady, whose conquests included the Prince of Wales, the Duke of Orleans and Napoleon Bonaparte, led a life sufficiently remarkable for it to have been made the subject of a book or a film but which somehow managed to escape the attentions of the Scottish musicians of the period. Perhaps the lady’s time was taken up with weightier matters than the frivolities of ‘Scotch Dancing’.
To set the record straight, Gainsborough made two paintings of Grace Dalrymple. The first, dating from 1778, is a full-length, life-size rendition of her under her short-lived married name of Mrs Grace Dalrymple Elliot. In this case, the choice of name is slightly odd given that her brief marriage to the Scots physician Sir John Elliot had effectively been terminated by an earlier elopement with Lord Valentia in 1774. (She was a bit of a gal was our Grace!)
This painting, which now hangs in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, was commissioned by yet another of her lovers, The First Marquis of Cholmondely. It is a superb piece of work and one that show’s Gainborough’s almost impressionistic handling of paint to excellent effect, particularly in the dress fabric.
Gainsborough’s second depiction of Grace Dalrymple is an oval portrait dated about 1782. Apart from being a fine example of the artiste’s late style, the painting is interesting in that the subject looks considerably older than 24, which would have been her age at the time if her official birth date is accurate.
Fascinating though all this may be, there is no historical evidence to link this fine, if not particularly virtuous lady to the signature tune of ‘Take the Floor’ other than the possibility that she may have danced to it or heard it under a different title.
There is no doubt that the tune existed at the time when Grace Dalrymple’s fame was at its height. It appears in a number of 18th century collections and may even have its origins in a 17th century lute tune.
The most common but by no means the only name for it back then was The New Highland Laddie. Burns perversely called it The Old Highland Laddie when he used it in 1792 for his song Bonnie Laddie, Highland Laddie. (Burns wrote a second version of the same song for the Scots Musical Museum. The tune he used, which he called simply Highland Laddie was neither an earlier incarnation of Kate Dalrymple nor the tune that we now know as Highland Laddie.) There was an epedimic of musical Highland Laddies back then so it is probably just as well that one of them did the decent thing and changed its name.
Somewhere in the first quarter of the 19th century, our tune picked up the alternative title of Jinglin’ Johnnie under which name it was later to resurface in The Atholl Collection of 1884. As far as we know, Jingling Johnnie was not a person but a percussion instrument also known as the Turkish Crescent used in military bands and in some classical 18th century scores such as Mozart’s Die Entfuhrung aus dem Serail to add a Turkish flavour to the music.
So here we are, well into the 19th century with a well-established tune that has been called variously The New Highland Laddie, The Old Highland Laddie, The Highland Laddie of indeterminate vintage and Jinglin’ Johnnie but never in all that time Kate Dalrymple. So how did Kate Dalrymple make her highly successful bid for the title?
Enter William Watt, handloom weaver of East Kilbride (b 1792 d 1859). Besides plying his trade as a weaver, Watt was something of a poet who achieved particular fame in his day as author of the broadside ballad Bob o’ the Bent (published complete with an advert for boot polish at the bottom of the page!) His fame was of little advantage. Like so many poets who lacked independent means, William Watt died in poverty.
Watt had two poetry collections published during his lifetime and another titled ‘Poems on Sacred and Other Subjects, and Songs Humorous and Sentimental’ published posthumously in 1860. His output included an ironically humorous song Kate Dalrymple written to fit a tune he knew as Jinglin’ Johnnie.
Unless the ravages of time were particularly unkind, Watt’s description of Kate puts paid to any theory that she may have been a paragon of pulchritude.
“Her face had a smack o’ the gruesome and grim,
That did frae the fash o’ a wooers defend her,
Her lang Roman nose nearly met wi’ her chin,
And brang folk in mind o’ the Auld Witch o’ Endor”.
Readers who know the song will be aware that Kate’s fortunes change when she becomes heiress to a rich friend’s estate and finds herself courted by suitors who previously would have given her a very wide berth.
In the song, Kate falls eventually for Willie Speedyspool the sarkin’ weaver, a man whose comeliness matches her own and whose physical defects have the added advantage of allowing Watt to indulge in a brilliant piece of assonant rhyming.
“Tho’ his richt e’e doth skellie, an his left leg doth limp ill,
He’s won the heart and got the hand o’ Kate Dalrymple”.
It sounds like the perfect match.
There seems little doubt that the melody owes its current popularity as a dance tune to James S. Kerr, the famous Glasgow music publisher who included it under the name Kate Dalrymple in his second collection of ‘Merry Melodies’ somewhere around 1875. Oddly enough, neither Kerr nor J. S. Robertson (Atholl Collection) classifies it as a reel. Both include it in the ‘Country Dance’ sections of their collections, presumably on the grounds that it did not have the melodic characteristics that distinguished the genuine reels of the time.
When all the pieces fall into place, it appears that far from being an 18th century beauty, Kate Dalrymple was an imaginary 19th century being with a face that made the Medusa look like Helen of Troy.
For all that, there seems little doubt that the strains of this famous and familiar air will continue to herald programme after programme of magnificent dance music for many years to come Here’s hoping that it does.
A flood of protests, including threats of a mass listened boycott followed and all thoughts of change were quickly and very publicly abandoned or at least put on hold pending a more opportune moment (such as when the Grim Reaper finally claims the last of the current generation of listeners).
But who was this Kate Dalrymple who over the years has managed to inspire so much loyalty and affection in the hearts of those of us who love Scottish Dance music?
One theory cited in two seemingly separate sources (although it could be the same source in two different places) is that the lady in question was a famous eighteenth century beauty who among other things, was the subject of a portrait by the great English artist Thomas Gainsborough (1727-1788)
One rather large fly in the theoretical ointment is that no authoritative list of Thomas Gainsborough’s works includes a painting of anyone called ‘Kate Dalrymple’. I have no doubt that the proponents of the theory are not going to allow such a minor detail to stand in the way of a good story especially when the more sordid reality emerges. After all, she could have been a famous eighteenth century beauty whom Gainsborough never quite got around to painting.
In reality, what we have here is a serious case of mistaken identity. Gainborough’s subject was not our beloved Kate Dalrymple the notorious and beautiful royal courtesan Grace Dalrymple (Born Edinburgh 1758?, died Ville d’Avray France 1823). The lady, whose conquests included the Prince of Wales, the Duke of Orleans and Napoleon Bonaparte, led a life sufficiently remarkable for it to have been made the subject of a book or a film but which somehow managed to escape the attentions of the Scottish musicians of the period. Perhaps the lady’s time was taken up with weightier matters than the frivolities of ‘Scotch Dancing’.
To set the record straight, Gainsborough made two paintings of Grace Dalrymple. The first, dating from 1778, is a full-length, life-size rendition of her under her short-lived married name of Mrs Grace Dalrymple Elliot. In this case, the choice of name is slightly odd given that her brief marriage to the Scots physician Sir John Elliot had effectively been terminated by an earlier elopement with Lord Valentia in 1774. (She was a bit of a gal was our Grace!)
This painting, which now hangs in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, was commissioned by yet another of her lovers, The First Marquis of Cholmondely. It is a superb piece of work and one that show’s Gainborough’s almost impressionistic handling of paint to excellent effect, particularly in the dress fabric.
Gainsborough’s second depiction of Grace Dalrymple is an oval portrait dated about 1782. Apart from being a fine example of the artiste’s late style, the painting is interesting in that the subject looks considerably older than 24, which would have been her age at the time if her official birth date is accurate.
Fascinating though all this may be, there is no historical evidence to link this fine, if not particularly virtuous lady to the signature tune of ‘Take the Floor’ other than the possibility that she may have danced to it or heard it under a different title.
There is no doubt that the tune existed at the time when Grace Dalrymple’s fame was at its height. It appears in a number of 18th century collections and may even have its origins in a 17th century lute tune.
The most common but by no means the only name for it back then was The New Highland Laddie. Burns perversely called it The Old Highland Laddie when he used it in 1792 for his song Bonnie Laddie, Highland Laddie. (Burns wrote a second version of the same song for the Scots Musical Museum. The tune he used, which he called simply Highland Laddie was neither an earlier incarnation of Kate Dalrymple nor the tune that we now know as Highland Laddie.) There was an epedimic of musical Highland Laddies back then so it is probably just as well that one of them did the decent thing and changed its name.
Somewhere in the first quarter of the 19th century, our tune picked up the alternative title of Jinglin’ Johnnie under which name it was later to resurface in The Atholl Collection of 1884. As far as we know, Jingling Johnnie was not a person but a percussion instrument also known as the Turkish Crescent used in military bands and in some classical 18th century scores such as Mozart’s Die Entfuhrung aus dem Serail to add a Turkish flavour to the music.
So here we are, well into the 19th century with a well-established tune that has been called variously The New Highland Laddie, The Old Highland Laddie, The Highland Laddie of indeterminate vintage and Jinglin’ Johnnie but never in all that time Kate Dalrymple. So how did Kate Dalrymple make her highly successful bid for the title?
Enter William Watt, handloom weaver of East Kilbride (b 1792 d 1859). Besides plying his trade as a weaver, Watt was something of a poet who achieved particular fame in his day as author of the broadside ballad Bob o’ the Bent (published complete with an advert for boot polish at the bottom of the page!) His fame was of little advantage. Like so many poets who lacked independent means, William Watt died in poverty.
Watt had two poetry collections published during his lifetime and another titled ‘Poems on Sacred and Other Subjects, and Songs Humorous and Sentimental’ published posthumously in 1860. His output included an ironically humorous song Kate Dalrymple written to fit a tune he knew as Jinglin’ Johnnie.
Unless the ravages of time were particularly unkind, Watt’s description of Kate puts paid to any theory that she may have been a paragon of pulchritude.
“Her face had a smack o’ the gruesome and grim,
That did frae the fash o’ a wooers defend her,
Her lang Roman nose nearly met wi’ her chin,
And brang folk in mind o’ the Auld Witch o’ Endor”.
Readers who know the song will be aware that Kate’s fortunes change when she becomes heiress to a rich friend’s estate and finds herself courted by suitors who previously would have given her a very wide berth.
In the song, Kate falls eventually for Willie Speedyspool the sarkin’ weaver, a man whose comeliness matches her own and whose physical defects have the added advantage of allowing Watt to indulge in a brilliant piece of assonant rhyming.
“Tho’ his richt e’e doth skellie, an his left leg doth limp ill,
He’s won the heart and got the hand o’ Kate Dalrymple”.
It sounds like the perfect match.
There seems little doubt that the melody owes its current popularity as a dance tune to James S. Kerr, the famous Glasgow music publisher who included it under the name Kate Dalrymple in his second collection of ‘Merry Melodies’ somewhere around 1875. Oddly enough, neither Kerr nor J. S. Robertson (Atholl Collection) classifies it as a reel. Both include it in the ‘Country Dance’ sections of their collections, presumably on the grounds that it did not have the melodic characteristics that distinguished the genuine reels of the time.
When all the pieces fall into place, it appears that far from being an 18th century beauty, Kate Dalrymple was an imaginary 19th century being with a face that made the Medusa look like Helen of Troy.
For all that, there seems little doubt that the strains of this famous and familiar air will continue to herald programme after programme of magnificent dance music for many years to come Here’s hoping that it does.