« PreviousContinue »
Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
The hearts o' men adore thee.
The Deil he could na scaith thee,
And say, "I canna wrang thee." The Powers aboon will tent thee; Misfortune sha' na steer thee; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. Return again, fair Lesley,
Return to Caledonie!
TUNE-"Here's a health to them that's awa, hiney."
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear,
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear;
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
Although thou maun never be mine,
I mourn through the gay, gaudy day,
As hopeless I muse on thy charms;
I guess by the dear angel smile,
I guess by the love-rolling e'e;
But why urge the tender confession
'Gainst Fortune's fell cruel decree-Jessy! Here's, &c.
TUNE-"Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey."
Of a' the arts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo'e best:
There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
But day and night my fancy's flight
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air:
GREEN GROW THE RASHES.
Green grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The warly race may riches chace,
But gie me a cannie hour at e'en,
For you sae douse, ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, 0; The wisest man the warl e'er saw, He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. Green grow, &c.
Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, 0: Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, An' then she made the lasses, O. Green grow, &c.
TUNE-"Humours of Glen."
Their groves of sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the per
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan,
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
What are they? The haunt of the tyrant and slave. The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling foun tains,
The brave Caledonian views with disdain; He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean.
JOHN BARLEY CORN.
There was three kings into the east,
They took a plough and plough'd him down,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
But the cheerful spring came kindly on,
The sultry suns of summer came,
And he grew thick and strong,
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
The sober autumn entered mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His colour sicken'd more and more,
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.
They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore; They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.
They filled up a darksome pit
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
They laid him out upon the floor,
They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,
But a miller used him worst of all,
For he crush'd him between two stones.
And they ha' taen his very heart's blood,
John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make a man forget his woe;
Though the tear were in her eye.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand; And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!