The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads, On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; An' Scotland drew her pipe an' blew, "Up, Willie, waur them a', man!" VIII. Behind the throne then Grenville's gone, An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, (Inspired bardies saw, man,) Wi' kindling eyes cry'd," Willie, rise! IX. But, word and blow, North, Fox, and Co. An' Caledon threw by the drone, An' did her whittle draw, man; An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood It was upon a Lammas night, When corn rigs are bonnie, Beneath the moon's unclouded light, I held awa to Annie: The time flew by wi' tentless heed, Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed II. The sky was blue, the wind was still, I ken't her heart was a' my ain; III. I lock'd her in my fond embrace; IV. I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear; I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear; Tho' three times doubl'd fairly, That happy night was worth them a', Amang the rigs o' barley. CHORUS. Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, An' corn rigs are bonnie: SONG, Composed in August. Tune," I had a horse, I had nae mair." I. Now westlin winds, and slaught'ring guns, Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night, II. The partridge loves the fruitful fells; III. Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, The savage and the tender; Some solitary wander; Avaunt, away! the cruel sway, Tyrannic man's dominion; The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, IV. But, Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear, The sky is blue, the fields in view Come let us stray our gladsome way, V. We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, So dear can be as thou to me - SONG. Tune," My Nanie, 0." I. Behind yon hills where Lugar" flows, II. 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 hills to Nanie, O. III, My Nanie's charming, sweet, an' young; May ill befa' the flattering tongue Originally, Stinchar. Her face is fair, her heart is true, V. 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 Nanie, O. VI. 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 Nanie, O. VII. Our auld guidman delights to view VIII. Come weel, come woe, I care na by, Nae ither care in life have I, But live, an' love my Nanie, O. GREEN GROW THE RASHES. A FRAGMENT. CHORUS. Green grow the rashes, O; Green grow the rashes, 0; |