1 lock'd her in my fond embrace;
Her heart was beating rarely;
My blessings on that happy place,
Amang the rigs o' barley!

But by the moon and stars so bright,
That shone that hour so clearly!
She aye shall bliss that happy night
Amang the rigs o' barley.

I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear;
I hae been merry drinkin; -

I hae been joyfu' gath'ring gear;
I hae been happy thinkin:
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,
Tho' three times doubled fairly,
That happy night was worth them a',
Amang the rigs o' barley.

CHORUS.

O, corn rigs, an' barley rigs,
An' corn rigs are bonnie:
I'll ne'er forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

SONG.

COMPOSED IN AUGUST.

TUNE-I had a horse, I had nae mair.

Now westlin winds, and slaught'ring guns
Bring autumn's pleasant weather;
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings,
Amang the blooming heather;

Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,
Delights the weary farmer;

And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night
To muse upon my charmer.

The partridge loves the fruitful fells;
The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells;
The soaring hern the fountains:
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves,
The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine;

Some solitary wander;
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
Tyrannic man's dominion;

The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry,
The flutt'ring, gory pinion!

But Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow;
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow;
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And every happy creature.

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly;
grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee dearly:

I'll

Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs,

Not autumn to the farmer, So dear can be as thou to me, My fair, my lovely charmer!

SONG.

TUNE-My Nannie, O.

BEHIND yon hills where Lugar flows,
'Mang moors and mosses many, 0,
The wintry sun the day has clos'd,
And I'll awa to Nannie, O.

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill;
The night's baith mirk and rainy, O;
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal,
An' owre the hill to Nannie, O,

My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young;
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, 0:
May ill befa' the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nannie, O.

Her face is fair, her heart is true,
As spotless as she's bonnie, O:
The op'ning gowan, wet wi' dew,
Nae purer is than Nannie, O.

A country lad is my degree,

An' few there be that ken me, 0; But what care I how few they be, I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O.

1 Originally, Stinchar.

GREEN GROW THE RASHES.

My riches a's my penny-fee,

An' I maun guide it cannie, O;
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me,
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O.
Our auld Guidman delights to view
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O;
But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh,
An' has nae care but Nannie, O.
Come weel, come woe, I carena by,
I'll tak what Heav'n will send me, O;
Nae ither care in life have I,

But live, an' love my Nannie, O.

163

GREEN GROW THE RASHES.

A Fragment.

CHORUS.

Green grow the rashes, O!

Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e'er I spent,
Were spent amang the lasses, O!

THERE'S nought but care on ev'ry han',
In ev'ry hour that passes, O;
What signifies the life o' man,
An' 'twerena for the lasses, O.

Green grow, &c.

The warly race may riches chase,
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 cares, an' warly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!

Green grow, &c.

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.

SONG.

TUNE-Jockey's Grey Breeks.

AGAIN rejoicing nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hues, Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep'd in morning dews.

CHORUS1.

And maun I still on Menie' doat,

And bear the scorn that's in her ee?
For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk,
An' it winna let a body be!

1 This chorus is part of a song composed by a gentleman in Edinburgh, a particular friend of the author's.

2 Menie is the common abbreviation of Mariamne.