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Thou art divine, fair Lesley,

The hearts o' men adore thee.

The Deil he could na scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee;
He'd look into thy bonie face,

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!
That we may brag, we hae a lass
There's nane agane sae bonie.


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,
And soft as their parting tear-Jessy!

Although thou maun never be mine,
Although even hope is denied;
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing,
Than aught in the world beside-Jessy!
Here's, &c.

I mourn through the gay, gaudy day,

As hopeless I muse on thy charms;
But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber,
For then I am lockt in thy arms-Jessy!
Here's, &c.

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,
And monie a hill between ;

But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

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:
There's not a bonie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green;
There's not a bonie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.




Green grow the rashes, O!

Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e'er I spent,
Are spent amang the lasses, O!
There's nought but care on ev'ry han'
In ev'ry hour that passes, 0;
What signifies the life o' man
An 'twere na for the lasses, O?
Green grow, &c,

The warly race may riches chace,
An' riches still may fly them, O;
An' tho' at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O!
Green grow, &c.

But gie me a cannie hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, O;
An' warly cars, an' warly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!
Green grow,


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,
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom.

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen:
For there lightly tripping amang the wild flowers,
A-listening the linnet aft wanders my Jean.
Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys,
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave:
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud

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.



There was three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high,
An' they ha' sworn a solemn oath,
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down,
Put clods upon his head,

And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on,
And show'rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surpris'd them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,

And he grew thick and strong,

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn entered mild,

When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.

His colour sicken'd more and more,
He faded into age,

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,
Like a rogue for forgerie.

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
With water to the brim,

They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther woe,
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They tossed him to and fro.

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones;

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,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise,

For if you do but taste his blood,
"Twill make your courage rise.

'Twill make a man forget his woe;
"Twill heighten all his joy;
"Twill make the widow's heart to sing,

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!

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SONGS, &c.



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