He sang wi'joy his former day,

If love for love thou wilt na gie, He, weeping, wail'd his latter times;

At least be pity to me shown ! But what he said it was nae play,

A thought ungentle canna be I winna ventur't in my rhymes.

The thought o' Mary Morison.

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John Anderson my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither:
And monie a cantie day, John,

We've had wi' ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,

But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,

John Anderson my jo.


TUNE-" Bide ye yet."
O Mary, at thy window be,

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,

That make the miser's treasure poor:
How blithely wad I bide the stoure,

A weary slave frae sun to sun;
Could I the rich reward secure,

The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen when to the trembling string,

The dance gaed through the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw :
Though this was fair, and that was braw,

And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh’d, and said amang them a',

“ Ye are na Mary Morison.”
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,

Whase only faut is loving thee?

O saw ye bonie Lesley

As she gaed o'er the border ?
She's gane, like Alexander,

To spread her conquests farther.
To see her is to love her,

And love but her for ever;
For nature made her what she is,

And never made anither!

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Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,

Thy subjects we, before thee:



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Green grow,



Thou art divine, fair Lesley,

The hearts o' men adore thee.
The Deil he could na scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee;

Green grow the rashes, O!
He'd look into thy bonie face,

Green grow the rashes, O!
And say, “I canna wrang thee."

The sweetest hours that e'er I spent,
The Powers aboon will tent thee;

Are spent amang the lasses, O!
Misfortune sha'na steer thee;
Thou’rt like themselves sae lovely,

There's nought but care on ev'ry han’
That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

In ev'ry hour that passes, 0;

What signifies the life o' man
Return again, fair Lesley,

An 'twere na for the lasses, 0?
Return to Caledonie!

Green grow, &c,
That we may brag, we hae a lass
There's nane agane sae bonie.

The warly race may riches chace,

An' riches still may fiy them, O;

An' tho' at last they catch them fast,

Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O!
TUNE_" Here's a health to them that's awa, hiney."

Green grow, &c.

But gie me a cannie hour at e'en,
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear,

My arms about my dearie, 0;
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear;

An' warly cars, an’ warly men,
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, May a' gae tapsalteerie, 0!
And soft as their parting tear-Jessy!

&c. Although thou maun never be mine,

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this, Although even hope is denied;

Ye're nought but senseless asses, 0; 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing,

The wisest man the warl e'er saw,
Than aught in the world beside—Jessy!

He dearly lov'd the lasses, 0.
Here's, &c.

Green grow, &c.
I mourn through the gay, gaudy day,

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears As hopeless I muse on thy charms;

Her noblest work she classes, 0: But welcome the dream o'sweet slumber,

Her 'prentice han’ she tried on man,
For then I am lockt in thy arms—Jessy!

An' then she made the lasses, O.
Here's, &c.

Green grow, &c.
I guess by the dear angel smile,

I guess by the love-rolling e'e; But why urge the tender confession

CALEDONIA. 'Gainst Fortune's fell cruel decree-Jessy!

TUNE-" Humours of Glen."
Here's, &c.

Their groves ofsweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the per-

TUNE—“Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey." Far dearer to me yon lone glen o'green breckan,
Of a' the arts the wind can blaw,

Wi’the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom.
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonie lassie lives,

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
The lassie I lo'e best :

Where the blue-beil and gowan lurk lowly unseen: There wild woods grow, and rivers row,

For there lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, And monie a hill between ;

A-listening the linnet aft wanders my Jean. But day and night my fancy's flight

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, Is ever wi' my Jean,

And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave: I see her in the dewy flowers,

Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud I see her sweet and fair:

palace, I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

What are they? The hauntof the tyrant and slave. I hear her charm the air:

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling foun There's not a bonje flower that springs

tains, By fountain, shaw, or green ;

The brave Caledonian views with disdain; There's not a bonie bird that sings,

He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, But minds me o' my Jean.

Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean.






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.

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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.

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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His colour sicken'd more and more,

He faded into age,
And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore,
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar,

There would I weep my woes,
There seek my lost repose,
Till grief my eyes should close,

Ne'er to wake more.

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'a 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.

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare
All thy fond plighted vows fleeting as air?

To thy new lover hie,
Laugh o'er thy perjury,
Then in thy bosom try
What peace

is there.


SONGS, &c.



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